Doyle Cavanaugh

OH, AYE, EVERYONE ELSE WAKES UP WITH TITS OR A COCK TO HAVE A TIME WITH, AND I END UP LOOKIN' LIKE MY TWIN SISTER.

FUCK GENETICS. I'm never looking in the mirror again. Ever. SHAINA, DON'T YOU FUCKING TRIM MY PUBIC HAIR.

Alright. Gus won't give me back my pants until I show you all the underwear I bought yesterday. So, in the interest of not being arrested for public indecency when I go down to the corner store for orange juice...

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Be thankful that I haven't posed in them. My legs are pale enough to make you colorblind. But now I have delightful Ireland to mask my hairy bum. Who needs Christmas presents? I've already got everything I need.

Say what you will about Spencer The Human Chode LaRoux, but he doesn't always get it wrong. The shark attack nonsense was sadly true, which isn't something I was going to bother bringing up, but I'm so tired of telling the story that I figured setting the story straight would be worth it. Shark attack: yes. Alive: yes. All limbs intact: yes. Heroic rescue from O'Kearney: yes.

Two weeks on, my scabs are starting to itch like fucking madness, and I'm getting restless in the house but feel like too much shit to leave. So! Isn't that exciting. I'm holed up for another month at the least, but I'm stretching out my internets-claws beseechingly. Entertain a sad bedridden bastard. I think I've actually run out of youtube to watch, god help me.

Cheers to everyone auditioning! May you avoid falling sandbags and other dangers of the phantom of the opera ghost.

So, I guess when the grocery store puts out Halloween candy, that means it's actually the end of summer. Most Europeans make a massive stink about how Trick or Treating is solely an American thing and would they please shut up about it already, but you'll be pleased to know that the costumes, the candy, and the jack o'lanterns are from Ireland. (Anything with an "O'" in it, kids. This should be common sense.)

Of course, they started out as turnips instead of pumpkins, and the costumes are mostly witches and fairies to scare the real things back to the moor, and my Uncle Davey annoints the sheep with holy water every year to keep the Devil away, but still. We consider this donation to your national holidays a kindness, as being Irish once a year at March is not enough for any human soul, and clearly you need a spot of Blarney at October as well.

If anyone's asking, my favorites are the mini Snickers.

Guess who just booked Cirque du Soleil. No, go on. Guess. Three tries, the first two don't count.

I went down to rehearsals today and nearly got hauled onto the fucking trapeze. Clowns have always scared the piss out of me (you can thank one Augustus O'Kearney for sitting on me when I was a mite of five and making me watch all seventeen hours of 'It') but I can fucking get behind this kind of thing, you know? It's amazing what these people can do with their bodies. There were these four Indian contortionist girls, and I'm pretty sure anyone who managed to coax that into their bed would be one lucky bastard. They've got to rehearse for about three months before we're ready to go live, but Shane's already chewing my ear off with wanting to come down to the theater. Also, we're proud to announce that this is the first mixed-genetics troupe for Cirque, so when blokes start firebreathing, they're actually, you know. Firebreathing.

I'm not supposed to give out any details on which show we've bought the rights to, but let's just say that all you need is love suddenly seems a whole lot more poignant. ;D

A website that needs no introduction.

The Stupidest Haircuts on the Internets.

Nothing to make an old man feel older like seeing all you young hoodlums talking about. Serves me right for checking this thing after so long. Now who the hell are all of you, and what embarrassing stories can I tell you about your parents?

It worries me when the masses are silent like this. Isn't that when the Armageddon comes? Dibs on Ben Affleck walking animal crackers across my stomach.

In the midst of all your sorrows and anger, I thought you might like to know that a woman gave birth to a little girl in my office this afternoon. Her water broke playing the slots, and instead of leaving (these people, I swear) continued to work through her chips. By then, of course, it was too late to do anything, and the ambulance drivers ended up carrying out a successful natural birth on my sofa. She named the girl Clover.

It's all incredibly touching, until you start calling furniture reupholsters and tell them you need new leather because your old stuff is afterbirth-damaged.

Things that I woke up to*.

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That's my high school yearbook photo, kids. The one my da keeps on the wall by the stairs.

Suppose it could be worse. Shane's five. And even louder than I remembered her at that age. What the FUCK is going on? Did one of the lads in the Complex fall asleep with the radiation machine on again?





*Wet dreams, things I did not miss.

Kiddies, I know you might think you have plans for 4 July, but let me tell you, you do not. Fireworks and charred hot dogs on the barbeque burned by daddy is not nearly as much fun as coming out and getting shitfaced with me and Shazzers. We're turning 28 (me about eight minutes before her) and the festivities will begin at Fallon's Public House in Lansdowne, Dublin. For those of you who attended the insanity that was darling Augustus' birthday, same location.

Everyone put on their drinking shoes and bring their extra livers, because this party isn't just stopping in Dublin - we'll jump time zones to keep it 4 July for as long as we can. So if you can't meet us in Dublin, keep your eye out for Boom Town, or Vegas, or LA, or Sydney... You haven't gotten shitefaced until you've woken up in Auckland with your nose pierced.

And that, my friends, is FAR better than fireworks.

Settle a family argument, please.

The better mesh of adorable + awesome is:

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OR.

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Discuss.

Ah, June. My favorite month. (And, incidentally, favorite Playboy Bunny.) The birds are out chirping, small children start running around with ice cream on their shirts, flight-bound heroes get written up for crossing air traffic lanes. How can you go wrong?

Quite easily, as it turns out. I'm not sure if any of you have ever seen a pale irishman in short pants, but let me tell you, it is not a pretty thing. I am never, ever going outside again. I'm Valentine's pink from the kneecap down. On my front. Not on the back, mind, just the front. Like someone dipped me in cake frosting. The worst part is that it hurts too much to put on trousers, so I'm either stuck wearing a toga, or answering the doorbell naked.

...oh, stop laughing.

RIGHT. Hello! My name, for those of you I haven't harangued in some way yet, is Doyle Cavanaugh, and I will be your host for the charity event in about two weeks time. For those of you who are new to the city and have not yet explored our fantastic metropolis, the downtown area is a booming (no pun intended) place to be on a Saturday night. If you've been down there, you've seen the Four Leaf Clover - that's my dive. My little nod of the hat toward humanity. My little multi-million dollar institution. Come in, drop in a few nickels, walk out with a lighter spirit. Or lighter pockets.

Anyroad. I just wanted to formally extend an invite to anybody who can read this for the gig in a few weeks. Music, dancing, auctions. The tickets are pretty affordable, so if you're not of the suspender-tugging sort, you can still come and rub elbows. For those of you who are looking to buy a little slice of heaven, there will be straight up donations.

And I expect all the good looking ladies to save me a dance. This means you.