An Irishman walks into a pub, ' she begins and the bar went silent. 'The bartender asks him, 'What'll you have?'' Her Irish accent was spot on. 'The man says, 'Give me three pints of Guinness, please.' The bartender brings him three pints and the man proceeds to alternately sip one, then the other, then the third until they're gone. He then orders three more. 'The bartender says, 'Sir, no need to order as many at a time. I'll keep an eye on it and when you get low, I'll bring you a fresh one.' The man replies, 'You don't understand. I have two brothers, one in Australia and one in the States. We made a vow to each other that every Saturday night we'd still drink together. So right now, me brothers have three Guinness stouts too, and we're drinking together.' 'The bartender thought this a wonderful tradition and every week the man came in and ordered three beers.' January's playing and voice became more solemn, dramatic. 'But one week, he ordered only two.' The crowd oohed and ahhed. 'He slowly drank them, ' she continued darkly, 'and then ordered two more. The bartender looked at him sadly. 'Sir, I know your tradition, and, agh, I'd just like to say that I'm sorry for your loss.' 'The man looked on him strangely before it finally dawned on him. 'Oh, me brothers are fine - I just quit drinking.
As a very young writer - kindergarten through about fifth grade - I most often wrote about black characters. My very early stories were science fiction and fantasy, with kids stowing away on spaceships and a girl named Tilly who was trying to get into the 'Guinness Book of World Records.'
There's no question that the next generation of terrorists, rather than going for small, little dramas, will go for the big one. They now understand that the way to get the world's attention is not strapping bombs to themselves in a pizza parlour, but to do something so horrific it gets you into the Guinness Book of World Records for terrorism.
I had a day off, and I was walking down the street one day, and this Mercedes pulls up alongside me, and Alec Guinness leaned out and said, 'What are you doing, Kenny?' I said, 'I'm just walking around,' and he said, 'Do you want to come and see an oasis with my wife and I?' There was nothing arrogant or flash about him at all.
It sounds blase but there is a certain amount of luck. We'd all like to take a certain amount of credit for Kevin Doyle... But I can't really remember what it was I particularly liked about Kevin when I watched him in Ireland. I had five pints of Guinness in the afternoon and it was all a bit blurred.
The 1/1 cut signatures are going to make some very lucky collectors very, very happy. Since actors Alec Guinness and Peter Cushing have both passed on, and George Lucas never signs, these are once-in-a-lifetime opportunities to have the one-and-only signed cards from them ever. Can you imagine the excitement of opening packs and pulling one of these out? For the fan and collector in me, I can't image anything better.
Many years ago I sent an old, beloved jacket to a cleaner, the Sycamore Cleaners. It was a leather jacket covered in Guinness and blood and marmalade, one of those jobs... and it came back with a little note pinned to it, and on the note it said, 'It distresses us to return work which is not perfect.' So that will do for me. That can go on my tombstone.
We're not ignored by The Guinness Book Of Records, but we've been largely ignored by the media during our lifetime. If you read any article, no mention is ever made of Pink Floyd. We're never included in the same sentences as The Beatles, The Rolling Stones and The Who. I wrote 'The Wall' as an attack on stadium rock - and there's Pink Floyd making money out of it by playing it in stadiums! Pathetic. They spoiled my creations.
Rosy ferried the drinks back to the table, slid the Guinness his way. 'You said you have a show. Is it a comedy?' 'No, but you will laugh, I hope, after hearing my qualifications.' His eyes glittered. 'I do magic, with a twist. The twist is, my clothes are the first thing to disappear.' Rosy gaped. 'Yes. I do magic... naked. I not only have a big ego.' Marek wiggled his middle finger. 'I have a big wand.
PLUS, FOR THE CREW LIKE COOLY FOLK MIXING UP THE GUINNESS WITH THE RAW EGG YOLK COS IT'S ALL ABOUT STRENGTH WHILE WE WALK THROUGH THE VALLEY OF THE SNIPE, HEATHENS GET THEE FROM MY SIGHT, YOU CATS IS EVER EAGER TO PREACH UP IN MY FACE WHEN YOU JUST ABOUT SCRAPE TO KNOW ALL THAT IS HOW THE HELL YOU TRY TO TELL ME COCA-COLA GOT FIZZ? I READ YOUR PAMPHLET FOUR TIMES, IT DON'T MAKE SENSE YOU FRONT LIKE URI SCHOLAR, SHIT SMELLS PRETENCE YOUS BEST GET OFF YOUR HORSE, DRINK YOUR MILK, GET THE FRIG OUT IT GOES
Rowena Clark and I had met on the first day of our mixed media class. I'd sat down at her table and said, 'Mind if I join you? Figure the best way to learn about art is to sit with a masterpiece.' Maybe I was in love, but I was still Adrian Ivashkov. Rowena had fixed me with a flat look. 'Let's get one thing straight. I can see through crap a mile away, and I like girls, not guys, so if you can't handle me telling you what's what, then you'd better take your one-liners and hair gel somewhere else. I don't go to this school to put up with pretty boys like you. I'm here to face dubious employment options with a painting degree and then go get a Guinness after class.' I'd scooted my chair closer to the table. 'You and I are going to get along just fine.
A Letter to Andre Breton, Originally Composed on a Leaf of Lettuce With an Ink-dipped Carrot On my bed, my green comforter draped over my knees like a lumpy turtle, I think about the Berlin Wall of years that separates us. In my own life, the years are beginning to stack up like a Guinness World Record's pile of pancakes, yet I'm still searching for some kind of syrup to believe in. In the shadows of my pink sheet, I see your face, Desnos' face, and two clock faces staring at each other. I see a gaping wound that ebbs rose petals, while a sweaty armpit holds an orchestra. Beethoven, maybe. A lover sings a capella, with the frothiness of a cappuccino. Starbucks, maybe. There's an hourglass, too, and beneath the sands lie untapped oil reserves. I see Dali's mustache, Magritte's pipe, and bowling shoes, which leaves the question- If you could time travel through a trumpet, would you find today and tomorrow too loud?