Ciaran’s Peculier [sic] Blog

A report carried by the BBC on the Africa page of its news website tells how the attorney-general of Guinea-Bisssau has received death-threats in response to his investigations into the discovery of half a kilogram of cocaine on board a plane that landed at Bissau’s international airport. These threats have emanated from senior politicians as well as military and security officials in the West African nation. This points to how far the country’s feeble infrastructure has been infiltrated by international drug smugglers.

Yet we in dear old sleepy Ireland need not be so complacent, especially here in Cavan. Hardly a week has passed since the seizure of a large haul of cocaine near Kilnaleck. As attempts by criminals to infiltrate local government are not unknown here might we see Cavan become a “narco county”?

The latest piece of news from the hole is that there was a serious traffic jam this morning in Ballinag. Such an unwanted aspect of modernity has caused understandable anger and frustration. It is indeed like something from the Prophecy. Next ther4′ll be women going around dressed as men, men dressed as women, blokes holding hands in public ( no that’s Ballyjamesduff), not to mention drugs being handed out to kids. Where is it all going to end? Something’s got to give. (Personally I blame the Pope.)

A persistent rumour about Cavan people revolves around their pathological meanness. Everyone knows that’s crap, but instead of getting worked up about it we in Cavan should turn it to our advantage. Instead of anaemic tourism promotions showing somebody playing golf or fishing, the slogan should be: “Come to (or in) Cavan, but bring your wallet!”

But as an idea from a Cavan person (and dare I also add a Cavan cripple) this has about as much chance of being taken on board as advice from Peter Stringfellow by the Vatican. Of course, if the idea is any good it may well be stolen by the good and the great of Fallshort Ireland, who will use it as evidence that they are worth their gargantuan salaries, while its true author is told to go and piss against the wind.

Inspired by a desire to attract tourists to this area, not as mere cash-cows but because visitors are genuinely good for us, I can’t resist sharing some of my thoughts about Cavan and what it has to offer. I know full well how much it will offend people - Hurrah!

Advice for anyone thinking of visiting Cavan: - Don’t bother; it’s a dive.

Getting there and away.

Myles the Slasher International Airport, to the south of Cavan town, is served by a number of airlines each week, including Swizz-Air, Aerosnot, Tibetan Airlines and the new budge carrier Connors Air. The Percy French Airfield, destined for upgrading to accommodate 747s, has been closed for some years now as a result of security concerns. The main runway has been rendered inoperable by a deep sheugh running at a right-angle, while the site of the passenger terminal remains occupied by disgruntled travellers and their families.

VISAS: To enter Cavan you will need an up-to-date passport with a discretely inserted 50 euro note, as well as a visa. Visas are obtainable from the Bring-A-Bottle / Patriotic Front Headquarters, Church Street, Cavan. Applications must be accompanied by the full application fee of 150 euro, as well as by testimonials from ultra traditional Catholic lay groups or “quiet” paramilitary organisations. Photographs showing the applicant in military fatigues holding assault rifles, or saying the Rosary at Knock or Medjugorje will also help.

Health Issues

Make sure you’ve got all your shots up to date for Verbal Diarrhoea,(VD) which is endemic in Cavan. So too is Bullshititis. Bring as much insect repellent as you can carry, because Cavan is saturated with creepy-crawlies and things that go bite in the night. Readers of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude will recall how Macondo was once afflicted by an epidemic of amnesia. Well amnesia has truly been at pandemic proportions in Cavan for a long time, enabling egregious criminals to walk tall, bathed in the praise of those who are hypnotised by their unique blend of terror and evil, as well as the knowledge that they belong to the lowest Indian caste: they are quite literally untouchable.

The usual form of diarrhoea here is referred to as “The Skitter”. This can vary from an upset stomach (the result of eating dodgy food) to a more unpleasant bout. (I’ve often wondered why the noun “bout” is used to describe an attack of diarrhoea. This is the same word as is used for a round in boxing. It always brings forth pictures of the person affected quite literally having to fight off the diarrhoeal enemy, attempting to give it a left hook etc., whereas the reality is that the sufferer usually feels completely devoid of energy). Interestingly the worst curse that can be laid on anyone here is the benediction that “I hope he gets the skitter for three days”. While this may appear a charming survival of celtic triplism, it may owe a lot to common sense. A three-day bout is more than enough, after which the sufferer should seek medical advice from a practitioner trained to western standards, and not from a native doctor. The curse obviously implies the hope that the person will suffer immense discomfort, but that their life will not be in any danger.  

Sexual Health

Look, if you root a Cavan Sheila, chances are you’ll get a dose. Gonorrhoea (called “runny dick” locally), syphilis, chlamidia, herpes, “brown banana”, “Saigon rose” and “yellow log” are just a sample of the venereal diseases current in Cavan. Furthermore, if you ask a Cavan girl for sex and she refuses, it’s best to take no for an answer, at least until you’ve bought her a few more pernods. But why bother? The vast majority of Cavan women are ugly and unfriendly with as much screw appeal as a haddock.. They wear their clothes as if they have been thrown on in a hurry, no sense of style or eclat. Furthermore they walk along in an ungainly, inelegant shuffle wearing a sour expression implying discomfort (or as a colleague from Trinity and current member of staff there so elegantly put it Period Pain).. Cavan women are amongst the few on the planet with VPL around their eyes. Don’t bother smiling at them fellas because you’ll only get a poisoned glance which says “Don’t try getting into MY scanties” – as if you’d bother! And if you are that desperate for a root why didn’t you go to the Philippines?

Condoms: Best bring your own – you won’t need too many! Local supplies, when available, are overpriced and generally of poor quality. The most widely available type are Hymen Busters, which have ball-bearings at the tip. Vaseline shouldn’t be a problem, but give the locally-produced Lavey Lube a wide berth, because it contains grit and is too harsh for more delicate areas.

Toilets and Hygiene can be a problem especially in out of the way areas, as the Public Toilets defy description. Plans to open the county’s first official cottage at Maudabawn had to be dropped because of local opposition. It was then turned into a Heritage/Cuntural [sic] centre offering punters the opportunity to listen to and pay for “lectures” about local history. Amongst this season’s offerings was a controversial talk by that thundering gobshite Simple Simon (the centre’s permanent Twit-in-Residence) whose talk concerned the Scour Lakes Erections, a little-known event in which a group of local lads were caught jerking off into a holy water font by the local parish priest and who were sexually decommissioned on the spot with a rather blunt saw. The speaker claimed to have the preserved penis of one of the victims, PaJo Smith, but when he produced this by way of illustration to his talk a member of the audience (who claimed to be a descendant of PaJo’s) objected loudly, saying that his family had PaJo’s member preserved in an old YR sauce bottle, which he subsequently produced from a Dunnes’ Stores bag. This led to rowdy scenes, in which the “lecturer” became visibly upset, bawling that what the audience member had exhibited must have been a prick that grew on after the initial castration took place.

The more off the beaten track you are the more Blair toilets become the rule rather than the exception. Some have been known to exude a violent volcanic froth when urine is inserted, and there have been reports of nasty penile burns. Toilet paper can also be hard to get in the Cavan bush, so stock up on copies of the local paper before any expeditions. This is what the locals use and let’s face it, it’s all it’s good for. If there is a toilet, for Heaven’s sake use it. Turn a blind eye to the multi-coloured dunnie budgies, and don’t just do it in a stream. Much of the area’s fish have been killed as a result of poisoning by human and animal effluent getting into watercourses. This had occurred for generations without harmful results, but greater consumption of hamburgers and chips introduced a new and lethal component to the food chain. Efforts to deal with the problem through improved sanitation floundered on faulty installation by cowboy contractors, poor maintenance and the area’s innate conservatism. If you can’t find a dunny or a Blair, and you’ve gotta go, you should bury it in a deep hole, away from human habitation. Alternatively, put it in a bag. The local authority have set up collection bins for human waste throughout the county, including one at their headquarters in Cavan town.

Personal hygiene is a persistent problem for Cavanmen, for whom bathing is viewed as an oddity. In fact, hygiene is considered a weird and fanciful introduction from the outside world along with notions like justice and religious tolerance. A number of Cavan fellows who were known to be taking regular showers were considered to be showing aspirations of being middle-class. This has serious problems for food hygiene, as Cavan people rarely wash their hands before preparing food. I once saw a chef in a local restaurant nip out the back for a “yoke”, and, after pulling up his flies, he thrust his hand into a sack and extracted a “lock” of carrots. Whoever got them certainly would have been able to see in the dark!

Food & Drink.

The traditional “mayl” in Cavan consists of spuds – big, flowery, carbohydrate-inflated tasteless spheres lovingly referred to as “balls of flour”. Cavan people, when abroad, have been known to become distressed and emotional when denied their potato fix. Indeed there were distressing scenes in the famous Les Quattres Saisons restaurant when a Cavan man looked at his plate of oysters and foie gras and asked “Where’s the fuckin’ spuds”. Now while a wide range of cuisines are now nominally on offer, Cavan is THE place to try authentic bog tucker like “Tomregan Truffles” – actually small pieces of bleached cow-dung soaked in cooking oil; Molly worms (delicious when fried with bark and powdered slug); and Turdburgers topped with blue-moulded cheese. These are best washed down with a proprietary anti-diarrhoeal like Immodium, or with a “bad” pint enhanced with cigarette ash. Poitin may also be found either in “shake-shake” cartons or in plastic Cola bottles known alternatively as Exocets or Scuds. The Cocktail of Choice for Cavan’s Beautiful People is Red Biddy. When in the Cavan Bush it may be possible to find some outlets for another unique Cavan tipple: Scour.

Stubbs (the who’s who of Irish Business) is full of restaranteurs who have attempted to make a living here offering good, decent and even innovative food who have eventually had to throw in the towel. It’s not a cost thing. In fact, attract the right band of upstarts and members of the local  gombeen bourgeoisie, have the right links with “THE” people, and you can serve shite (with spuds of course) every night of the week for 100 euro a trick.

Gay & Lesbian travellers

Cavan is still dominated by conservative “values”, which means Gay and Lesbian visitors should not act ostentatiously or otherwise “camp it up”. The sight of two blokes walking hand-in-hand will possibly raise a few eye-brows, though funnily enough nobody passes any remarks at two sheilas dancing together, especially if they are over 50. There is also a very vibrant Closet Pride scene with its own discrete dress code, which we can’t describe. The best advice is: keep your eyes and ears open, ask the right questions to the right people, and you’ll soon make lots of new friends. And because they still bend the knee to druids, you’d be amazed the doors (and flies) that open to you when you wear a collar. One of the highlights of the social calendar is the annual Closet Pride shindig, usually featuring the Fab-Freddy lookalike competition.

Disabled Travellers

If you are disabled you should NOT come to Cavan town, as it is definitely disability unfriendly. The vast majority of roads and thoroughfares cannot be crossed unless you are an athletic sprinter. Cars come from two directions at whatever velocity they like as the speed limits are an unenforced joke. Pedestrian crossings are few and far between and traffic lights have traditionally been viewed as hostile intrusions of the modern world by the car-driving local councillors, who only go on foot when they seek re-election. They might then observe the status of some of the footpaths, which, in places are truly like a lunar landscape. When this is brought to the attention of the local authority they cite lack of money to fill in the craters …lack of money! Pull the other one! So the fresh tarmacadam applied in certain choice locations in the vicinity of the homes of senior Council staff was a free gift eh? Or maybe it fell off the back of a lorry on the town’s bypass. And then at a time of cutbacks how can the council fund a conference in the county museum which is most definitely not for the unwashed of Cavan and can serve no other purpose than helping the Research Officer get a better job (and that’s the kindest interpretation that can be put on it)? This is not what county councils are for.

A further example of hostility (yes, I said hostility and I’m not exaggerating) to those with disabilities is provided by a local restaurant; the food is good, the prices reasonable and the staff friendly and helpful – once you get to the dining area, a feat which involves a journey over a ramp-less, uneven surface and up two flights of narrow, steep stairs. Since first writing this I have become more or less completely confined to a wheel-chair, and so access is completely impossible for me. I have heard that a leading figure in the local Wheelchair organisation went there and was content to be served downstairs in the bar when she could not gain access to the upstairs restaurant. She made no complaint. She’s the type of cripple public bodies love – nice and compliant and humble, someone who knows that she’s not as good as a “normal” person and is content. I’m not so humble, and if the same thing had happened to me I would have raised one hell of a stink. I might very well have eaten the meal and then left without paying – as I believe I would be within my legal rights to do.

Now public places (including restaurants) are under a statutory duty to make their premises accessible to those with disabilities. Admittedly, this may be problematic for an old building, but the one of which I write was constructed afresh. Was the absence of access not noted during the application for planning permission? Why did the relevant authorities allow this, and moreover, why do they allow it to continue? One answer might be that these miserable cowards “get off” in a perverted way by being crass to cripples. Overly cynical? Maybe, but then maybe I know the bastards too well. Access for the disabled is a right which developers are under a duty to provide; it is not an optional extra, to be installed when and if budgetary considerations permit. The costs of installation and maintenance should be an integral part of the accounting from the beginning. This can and should be enforced, but then, if you’re a developer with links to the rusty circle, you can get away with anything. 

Drugs

There is no shortage of shit in Cavan, but it is not always good gear. There is a tendency for some heads to mix it with silage first. Then there is the rather disgusting habit in east Cavan of inserting dope fags into people’s back passages before smoking.

Sexual Tourism

County Cavan is to the fore in the erection of Ireland as a sex tourism destination to rival south-east Asia. After all its denizens have never allowed moral scruples to stand in the way of making a few bob. One project mooted for The Lakeland Region which combines sex, heritage, religion and traditional activities like angling will see punters brought out fishing on a boat. If they are skillful enough with their rods they will catch small leather pouches containing a packet of condoms and a key. The boat will then sail to an island with a reconstructed phallic round tower surrounded by bee-hive huts, each of which can be opened by one of the keys. Each cell has mirrored interiors, and is looked after by a different girl, dressed as a nun, offering a range of sexual services. 

Post & communications

Postal services and deliveries in the Bush tend to be less reliable than in the more European areas. Any package which seems to contain a check or postal order runs the risk of disappearing. In some outlying areas parcels containing books have been opened to see whether they contain “immoral” publications. While the days of the local postmistress listening in to ‘phone calls so as to pick up tasty morsels of gossip are over, ‘phone calls can be and are monitored by Catholic lay groups, so best to mind what you say. Those speaking in a foreign language always attract suspicion.

Annoyances and personal security

The overall security situation in the area has disimproved with the advent of bog seizures by Jimurenga (War of Masturbation) veterans. There are also wide areas, such as the vicinity of Belturbet, Cootehill, Shercock and Kingscourt, still under the control of petty warlords. It is vital to get their permission before entering zones under their control but this can usually be acquired, albeit at a price.

Roadblocks and check-points often materialise on roads away from the main thoroughfares. These are usually manned by Chimurenga veterans or off-duty policemen who often target foreign-registered vehicles. They are usually satisfied with gifts of cash, cigarettes and tubes of Preparation H. However, if stopped at a check-point always be polite and never adopt a haughty tone or demeanour.

When it comes to personal security the best advice is: remember where you are. Be sensible. That bird in the pub with the big smile flashing her teeth and her tits at you may be a bloke in drag, ready to knife you the minute you drop your pants. Keep your eyes peeled, your foreskin (if you’ve still got one) forward, take normal precautions, keep your wits about you and you will have no problems. It’s best to always sleep with the lights on and one eye open. Put valuables in a safe place. Don’t insert them up your anus, as this is the first place they’ll look. Female visitors to the west Cavan panhandle should not be surprised if they are visited at night in their rooms by amorous males who often climb into their beds and fondle their breasts. This is only a relatively harmless local custom and it represents the nearest most of them will ever come to a real sheila. Don’t make any “baa-baa” sounds as this turns them wild with excitement.

Nocturnal travel is always risky, even on main roads, and the old cliche about safety in numbers applies even in broad daylight. There have been reports of travellers being set upon by bears and gorillas in the “never-never” of the National Park area south of Shercock, though observers believe that some of these accounts are fanciful and are designed to conceal activity by disgruntled Sendirastas and War of Masturbation veterans, some of whom have powerful connections. The Sendirastas are now, oddly, respectable.

There have also been reports from the bush north of the Bailieborough mission of a shadowy group called “Team Turlough”. Very little is known about them, as most members appear to be illiterate. However, those who have escaped point to a small and fanatical group of desperadoes influenced by the Peruvian Shining Path and the Lord’s Resistance Army of Uganda. They were formed in the late summer of 2004 by a former member of Cavan County Council who was unsuccessful in the elections of that year. He announced the formation of his squad on local radio, stating in an emotional voice: “… the hoors forget who their friends are.” A youth who managed, at great personal risk, to make his way from a Team Turlough training camp, has related that the leadership wants to make Cavan an independent republic ruled by a “county manager” with beatific powers of life and death. Another bizarre feature of the group’s philosophy is that all people with full heads of hair should be scalped and their hair given to bald people.

Many unsealed roads are seriously impassable to all but the most sturdy 4WD or Backie. A rumour has been put about that all Cavan’s potholes have been filled in. Don’t believe it! Some of the bigger craters were filled but were immediately excavated again by residents who threatened Council staff with castration if they attempted to fill them in again. Cars and trucks frequently get stuck in these holes, providing local unemployed youths with money for extricating the vehicles. With each car or lorry that goes in, the hole gets deeper and a traffic tailback grows up, offering commercial opportunities for those selling knick-knacks, rosary beads, lucky charms and pirated videos and DVDs. More importantly, the excitement generated is more than welcome in parts of the Cavan bush where, let’s face it, nothing much ever happens.

Hitch-hiking is definitely Not Recommended: even if you do find a driver willing to give you a lift, who doesn’t try to roger or rob you, he’ll more than likely seek payment.

Read it and retch….

… But you know I sometimes ask myself why the fuck do I bother saying anything about this arsehole? I’m not doing it to entertain anyone: I’m doing it to annoy the piss out of the cock-sucking holy joes, the closet queers, the wife-beaters, the cowards basically who walk tall in this little backwater. They think they own the place, and they forget that Cavan is not the world – it’s not even the Sunday World. I like to visualise these people as they read my stuff, holding their big fat paunches as they throw up with horror. Somebody once wrote to me to express outrage and displeasure over what I said about Cavan. I was so glad – that really made it worthwhile. They tried to trick me by saying they knew I could write “so much better”. Well fuck them. I’m not interested in producing prissy prose that might win competitions. And anyway, if it was good there would be a queue of creepy-crawlies wanting to steal it or share the limelight.

Coming soon, Ciaran talks about Cavan Town …

I am delighted to announce the arrival on the Cyberian super-bypass of a new website showcasing the work of two of my very dear friends, Maria Gkinala and Micheal O Raghallaigh. The Wood & Icon site ishows the creativity and craftsmanship of this amazing couple. It is heartening that Cavan can stil provide a fertile soil for such genius. Best of luck!

The GAA must be congratulated on the swift action taken in response to the racial abuse directed against an African player in Carlow. Such bigotry and racism is entirely foreign to the founding principlaes of the organisation.

Prekudice is all too prevalent in Ireland today, whether it is racism, or hostility to sexual minorities, the disabled or members of the Travelling Community.

I’m not a psychologist but I believe that racism and prejudice are  a form of psychosis or neurosis, often associated with other conditions like alcoholism. It is also often rooted in fear and deep-seated feelings of inadequacy. While racism needs the condemnation of all right-thinking people and should be criminalised by our country’s laws, but individual racists need treatment and therapy. I very much doubt whether any of our judiciary would impose a spell of treatment by a psychotherapist to those engaged in racial abuse. Let’s face it quite a number of them are racists themselves.

If prejudice could be put down to the gasps of the gutter we might all feel reassured, but unfortunately it exists amongst the highest levels of our public service - often those who are supposed to counter it.

The republic of Guinea-Bissau is one of Africa’s smallest countries, counched between Senegal to its north and Guinea to the south. Its one-and-a-half million people are also amongst the world’s poorest.  When God was dealing out cards to countries he gave Guinea-Bissau a really rotten hand. Nevertheless its people fought a violent independence war for over a decade against the Portuguese, which resulted in Independence in 1974. This struggle joined the liberation movement in Guinea-Bissau with that in the other Portuguese colony of West Africa, the Cape Verde Islands, which gained independence at the same time. It was intended that both countries should eventually unite, but after a military coup in Guinea-Bissau in 1980 the two countries went their separate ways. The Cape  Verde Islands are among Africa’s most stable nations, and in the past few years properties there have attracted well-heeled investors from Ireland. In contract Guinea-Bissau’s history since 1980 has been marred by military dictatorship, coups, mutinies and three civil wars.

The country is not resource-rich by traditional economic factor; its exports are largely agricultural. But recently it has been shown that geographical location can make up for a dearth of national riches.

The country lies about half-way between Latin America and Europe. Its infrastructure is basic to say the least, manned by dirt-poor officials who are easily bribed. As a result it has become an important staging post for the transhipment of Latin American cocaine into Europe. Those who might wish to stop this in the country find that they are stymied by lack of resources. One of those charged with fighting illegal narcotics doesn’t even have a telephone in his office, while those who are more vocal in their opposition to what is going on find themselves victimised by members of the military who are on the drug-shippers’ payroll, and are often forced into hiding.

Over a year ago a leading UN anti-narcotics official said that Guinea-Bissau was in danger of becoming a narco-state. Its ruling elite can easily be persuaded  to turn the other cheek with offers of cash and weapons. The country’s president, Nino Vieira, won a surprise victory in 2005 amid claims of intimidation and massive imports of arms for his supporters.

Recently, though, a large consignment of narcotics was seized at the country’s sole international airport. Interestingly, the airport’s chief executive was arrested, while the plane was only seized after a gun battle between police and the military, who were keen to protect the plane, its contents and its crew.

In the era of globalisation when traditional resource endowments are less important than possession of advantantages such as geographical location, it is a pity that Guinea-Bissau cannot find a more worthy economic niche than supplying an airport for use by drug-traffickers whose bribes only enrich a small number of local people.

Of course, it can also be said that cocaine trafficking is but a response to demand for the drug, and that it will only stop when those over-paid professionals in the developed world  learn to grow up and kick the habit.

People interested in TV trivia will recall the famous episode of University Challenge featuring a team from Manchester who answered every question posed by Bamber Gasscoin with the name “Trotsky”.

Recently I told an old friend of mine about how I’d been snubbed by the organisers of the conference in Cavan County Museum. He replied “Surely you must realise by now that you’re like Trotsky when it comes to the Cavan establishment.” True, but I had thought things might have changed a bit and that the insecure group who sit astride the heights of Cavan’s social framework might have started to become a little less frightened of me. Obviously not. Plus ca change … There are still those who cannot hear my name without reaching for the ice pick.

The arrest of that swine Radovan Karadzic must make the heart of every civilized human being burst with something like happiness. He may get his come-uppance now, confined to a nice comfortable Dutch cell with a TV and 24-hour access to soft drinks, unlike his victims. But the equestion is now being asked with unceasing vigour; where are the remaining war criminals, such as Ratko Mladic?

I can reveal that the Bosnian butcher is not in Belgrade or Belarus, but living as happy as Larrty in Cavan in the Irish Republic. True, he has assumed the name “Paddy Reilly” to blend in with the locals, but apart from occasionally wearing shades he has not bothered to change his appearance. He has been spotted at a number of local football matches, as well as some lectures on local history. In fact he seems to court publicity, appearing regularly in the local newspaper and even having a requests show on Northern Sound Radio. Since coming to Cavan he has joined a prominent political party and a very influential Catholic lay group, both of which are fully aware of his past. A spokesman for one has said: “Sure wasn’t he only doin’ what George Bush wants? killing them fuckin’ Muslims.” His friendship with local big-wigs has been repair with a nice job with Cavan County Council as Ethnic Control Officer. He has joined the local elite, knowing all “the right people”. He is untouchable, and the International Criminal Court will have the devil’s own job if it tries to extradite him.

Floyd works hard at the plant and spends two nights each week bowling and plays golf every Saturday

.
   His wife thinks he’s pushing himself too hard, so for his birthday she takes him to a local strip club.

   The doorman at the club greets them and says, ‘Hey, Floyd! How ya doin?’

   His wife is puzzled and asks if he’s been to this club before.

   ‘Oh no,’ says Floyd.  ‘He’s in my bowling league.
   When they are seated, a waitress asks Floyd if he’d like his usual and brings over a Budweiser.
   His wife is becoming increasingly  uncomfortable and says,

 ’How did she know that you drink Budweiser?’

   ‘I recognize her, she’s the waitress from the golf club.   I always have a Bud at the end of the 1st nine, honey.‘
   A stripper then comes over to their table, throws her arms around Floyd and, starts to rub herself all over him and says,

   ‘Hi Floyd. Want your usual table dance, big boy?’
   Floyd’s wife, now furious, grabs her purse and storms out of the club.

 Floyd follows and spots her getting into a cab.  Before she can slam the door, he  jumps in beside her.
  

 Floyd tries desperately to explain how the stripper must have mistaken him for someone else, but his wife is having none of it .

   She is screaming at him at the top of her lungs, calling him every 4  letter word in the book. 

   The cabby turns around and says, 

‘Geez Floyd, you picked up a real bitch this time.’

    Floyd’s funeral will be on Friday.