The highest court in the land decide against those thieving losers in Delaware (the owners and operators of MoneyGram) that decided unilaterally, mind you, that they would appropriate hundreds of millions of dollars that they had no claim to. Since money, greed, and avarice are the only things these criminals understand, I hope they tack on hefty fines to go along with the humiliation and shame those fuckwads have brought on themselves.
Call it what you want. Fraud, grand larceny, whatever.
It is a very American crime; we’re known for it.
When I lived in the United Kingdom, I enjoyed much fluidity in that I was able to travel (and did so) everywhere on the island as well as the continent. On one such trip to Dublin, I had just started drinking in the pubs in England and was looking forward to our trip to the legendary city where we were promised by some older kids at school that we were going to be knee-deep in Guinness stout and Irish whiskey.
They didn’t scare me at all.
I ended up befriending Shannon, the daughter of the owner of the Three Swans pub on a winding cobblestone street so small I thought it was an alley. As soon as you opened the door, you were hit with a greeting from everyone there. I was the first and only American anyone had ever met.
I became best friends with everyone there in a matter of minutes.
I don’t recall paying for anything all night.
You were also hit with a wall of pipe and cigarette smoke that stayed with you all night and went home with you on your clothes and skin.
But I don’t remember making it back to my hotel room at all.
I stopped counting at nine (or was it ten?) pints of Guinness and six (or was it ten?) glasses of some private stock of whiskey. There was no measuring cup; just the unsteady hand of the generous owner. The last things I remembered were the raucous sing-a-longs of songs like Cockles and Mussels and Dear Old Donegal.
Drunk does not do the word justice.
It was very early in my drinking career, but I still think it ranked in my top three ALL-TIME.
I came over to the pub as soon as I woke up which was about eight o’clock.
My head was pounding, my mouth was dry, my lips cracked, and the next thing you know, I am sitting at the kitchen table with a big bowl of bacon, sausages, baked beans, potatoes, corn pudding, and soda bread.
As bad as I felt, I was hungry.
Her father, Tom, handed me a mug of hot coffee with “the hair of the dog” perquisite splash of the Good Stuff.
This was a critical learning point in my life, and I stood at the juncture where I could grow up and learn from the pain of a devastating hangover, or say “fucksakes I’m going for it.”
Guess which one I chose?
Stay well.
Mark's Playhouse 