DUBLIN — Pogues frontman Shane MacGowan passed away after a lengthy illness at age 65, or 112 when converted to Irish Poet years, according to sodden pub patrons doing the math on Smithwick’s coasters.
“MacGowan is another in the long line of Irish men of letters who were fond of a drop now and again,” said drinking buddy and poet Liam O’Clery. “We live hard, we love hard and aye, we drink hard. It comes with the territory. Thusly, our bodies take such a toll that we age at an entirely different rate than your average teatotalling dryshite. How old d’ye think I am? I’d forgive ye for thinkin’ me to be in my seventies—but I’m forty fuckin’ three.”
Those who were close to MacGowan suspected early on that he was not long for this world.
“I’ve served Mr. MacGowan at my pub going back decades,” said bartender Robbie Walsh, spitting into a pint glass and polishing it with a filthy rag. “I saw the damage the drink and the lifestyle was doin’ to him, prematurely aging him and whatnot, but he told me I didna need to be concerned. ‘Don’t worry ‘bout me, Robbie,’ Shane would say. ‘I’ve lived four or five lives’ worth already.’ That’s just the cost of being a brilliant Irish writer, as I understand it. I honestly never thought Shane would make it past 50, much less live to the ripe old age of 65—or 112, rather.”
Dr. Roisin O’Shaughnessy of Dublin’ St. Vincent’s Hospital confirms the combination of alcohol abuse and the specific conditions of an Irish writer’s life can have a peculiar effect on the rate of aging.
“Excess consumption of alcohol often goes hand in hand with being a creative genius like MacGowan,” said Dr. O’Shaughnessy as she wrote a prescription for Guinness. “Something about the Irish singer-poet lifestyle, coupled with that tendency to over-imbibe, seems to produce the alternate aging rate that we’ve observed. The current model shows the conversion from normal age to Irish Poet age as a multiplier of 1.72 or so. Some studies point to Irish cuisine being a factor. Others cite something specific to the soil or even the ink that many Irish authors write with.”
At press time, the Irish State Pension realized they’d been mistakenly sending checks to hard-drinking writer Finn Doyle, who was revealed to be only 32 years old.
This practically goes without saying, but Vanity Smurf, perhaps the most conceited being in the universe, will never, ever be given permission to enter Heaven. His entire being is centered on the seventh deadly sin, known as Vanagloria. Due to his insistence on carrying a mirror everywhere he goes and definitely not because he’s coded in any other way, Vanity will burn in Hell forever.
Much like his compatriot (or maybe brother or cousin? It’s hard to tell) Vanity, Greedy’s existence is based on one of the capital vices, and he will not be safe in Heaven when the Apocalypse comes, and all is razed in fire and water. Surprisingly, his sin is not actually greed but instead gluttony. Little motherfucker loves to eat.
Brainy Smurf wears glasses, and that alone should cast him down to the Pit with the fallen and the nosepickers. But he also teems with arrogance, sure that his delvings into the pathetic “scientific” workings of the known world will somehow save him from damnation. They will not. You have only learned what you must be afraid of, Brainy.
Scaredy Smurf is a gutless coward, much like the traitor Judas or Luigi from the Super Mario games. God likes courage. God demands courage. He will not suffer those who are scared of a mere volcano, as Scaredy was in “The Sky Is Smurfing! The Sky Is Smurfing!” In fact, God is in favor of volcanos. When you toss stuff in one, it totally belongs to God after that.
Try to raise an imitation of the Lord’s creation through mere inks and canvas, will you? Saint Peter shall never call you a friend, Painter Smurf, and your name will be forgotten along with so-called artists like Michelangelo, Thomas Kinkade, and what’s-his-name. You know, the guy who always liked drawing things and stuff? Anyway, he’s in Hell now.
Smurfette is not a true Smurf. That is actually a couple of points in her favor, as being one of those blue weirdos starts you out behind. However, she has blonde hair, and as we all know, blondes have more fun. Fun leads to Hell. If you go to Hell, you don’t get into Heaven. See how that works?
You’d think that being Grouchy is a sin, but it’s really not. As far as God is concerned, you can get into Heaven even if cows, rotten smurfistroni, and gold all make you grouchy, much as they do to this particular unhappy entity. However, Grouchy Smurf once drowned a man because he was feeling annoyed. He’s a straight-up murderer.
Azrael the cat was named after the Angel of Death, who bears the scroll of the Living and the Dead and will someday bring us all from this benighted world into what comes after. This cat is kind of a little bitch, though, and makes fun of his owner, so he’s getting the same treatment as Garfield: straight to Hell!
Alchemy is forbidden by God, as are all forms of witchcraft, sorcery, and baseball. This Smurf has spent his entire life trying to become like unto the Lord, able to transmute dross matter to gold and other dumb shit like that. It hasn’t given him a lot of time to sin, though, so he might glimpse the hem of an angel’s robe before he’s torn apart by demons.
Clockwork Smurf is basically a robot created to do chores for his creator, Handy Smurf, which is totally God’s thing, and he doesn’t like it when people muscle in on his turf. Regardless of that, Clockwork has no soul and never shall have one. Even the concept of Heaven is alien to this aberration of Divine law.
The Submariner Date 116619 wristwatch is actually just nicknamed “the Smurf” because of its blue Cerachrom bezel, a fine piece of craftsmanship by the good people at Rolex. However, watches don’t get to go to Heaven. They have a separate afterlife, which you will never know more of. Let’s move on.
To dream is to doubt reality, the very fabric of God’s creation. Thus, Dreamy Smurf will never truly be able to enter the Kingdom of Heaven, but paradoxically, his ability to fantasize about things he will never do makes him closer than many others of his cursed species to be able to imagine eternal paradise. Sucks for you, Dreamy.
Scruple, the apprentice magician, will never know the peace of God’s Kingdom because of the whole magic thing. However, he’s double screwed because he’s from New York, and it’s extra difficult for New Yorkers to get into Heaven. It has something to do with the water there, we don’t really know why it’s such a big deal.
The only way Nosey will kneel before the throne of the Almighty is if he finds some really, really good dirt on his fellow Smurfs and snitches on them. Heaven isn’t like prison, if you find out some nice juicy gossip, you gotta tell God first thing. He really doesn’t like being the last to know.
Bigmouth the Ogre doesn’t have any friends, and you need to have friends to get into Heaven. It’s a buddy system thing.
Somehow, the sexually charged vocals of the human embodiment of a beige swatch from Lowe’s still make you think about your college girlfriend. Maybe Janelle will take you back if you call and apologize for throwing up at her sister’s wedding. She’s been married to your cousin for fourteen years, but it’s worth a shot! If you daydream about the life you would’ve built with Janelle and her family in upper Maine for too long, you’ll probably clip several people using Bird scooters in the bike lane. Thankfully, you’ll be so emotionally available, you’ll cry with them!
If the intro track to this EP doesn’t make everyone think you have a dude trapped in your trunk, every second of “Entombment of a Machine” will. Whatever you do, don’t ask why you placed this album on the same page as The Roots’ “Things Fall Apart” and Savage Garden’s 1997 self-titled album until you’ve safely rear-ended the Honda Civic in front of you.
Everybody loves “White Pony,” but what about the album you lost your makeout virginity to? This was the album that made you a love-drunk sicko that abandoned skateboarding and childhood friends for any girl in the mall food court that looked at you right. So, jam “Be Quiet and Drive (Far Away)” and have an extra-sweaty dry-humping session with the cop that will inevitably pull you over for being too horny.
The lyrics to this album will let everyone in the Target parking lot know your BAC is above .08. So don’t break it out until you’ve finished the open container in your front seat. Also, hang onto that hitchhiker for a while because you need an alibi more than you need a drinking buddy.
This album is as terrible as it is fun which makes it the perfect CD to listen to while pulling into your old elementary school. No teacher thought you were old enough to listen to Limp Bizkit in ‘01, so it’s time to prove what a big, strong man you became by blaring “Rollin’” while picking up your girlfriend’s son thirty minutes before dismissal. Jaydain Murphy doesn’t need social-emotional learning any more than you need to turn down the Limp B-I-Z-K-I-T.
