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By Smaktakula

"Oim Broke? Say Daht Agin Ye Wee Fooker, Un Ye'll Be Feelin' Me Shillelagh Cross Yer Gob."

The recent news that the Irish Republic would be requesting a bailout from the EU came as a shock to many observers.  As recently as ten days ago the government of Brian Cowen had strongly denied the need to take bailout money.

Herein Is Contained The Lifeblood Of The Irish People.

Why the swift reversal?  Was the government lying?  Although it initially appeared that the government was being dishonest and merely stalling for time, Promethean Times has uncovered a memo which suggests that the government in fact had every confidence of being able to extricate itself from its precarious financial position without resorting to a bailout.  The memo details the government’s secret plan for restoring financial well-being to the Emerald Isle: Operation Lucky Charms.

Government Ministers Had A Hard Time Agreeing On A Plan.

According to unnamed sources high in the Irish government, the plan was simple: Leprechauns.  If enough of the wee tricksters could be caught and made to reveal the location of their gold, the Irish financial crisis could be solved internally.  “The PM was mad for the plan,” said the source.

To American Children This Represents Sugary Goodness. To The Irish, It's An Actual Plan.

‘Madness’ may have been the right word for it.  It was soon evident that Operation Lucky Charms was untenable, and on Sunday morning a penitent PM addressed European officials, hat in hand.  When reminded of both his pledge not to ask for bailout money and his asinine plan for raising the funds, the minister said:

“Ah, Jaysus, did Ah say ull daht?  Sairry, lads–Ah wis piss-drunk when Ah teld ye daht.  Me fookin ed urts lahk ta thu bawlin beebee Chroist.  Sure un aw, but we’ll still be needin daht munney.”

When The Beleaguered Government Needed A Sober Head, They Called Upon Poet Shane MacGowan.

For now the Irish people are still in shock.  In pubs, Jameson and Guinness are quaffed without enthusiasm, and fist fights have become desultory, routine affairs.  A sudden, terrible sobriety has gripped the island, one that no amount of the brown can quench; in Ireland the party’s over.  It may be some time before Irish eyes are smiling once more.

"Fookitall, Lads. Oive Hud Me Fill Uh This Shamrock-Choked Hell Hole. Fare Thee Well, Boys--It's Off Ta Amerikay!"

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