i knelt at the stone that c chulainn stood and died at, and i made a vow that i would see this country through, for better or worse. this land is truly beautiful. it provides everything we could have ever needed, and it has the blood of our ancestors in nearly every square inch of it. i swear, there are moments, at some site where men fought and bled, that you can feel their presence, their will, their very life energy. and yet the common irishman does not give one thought to it. he thinks only of drink, drugs, and easy sex. he cares nothing if every green field, every forest, every parcel of land is bought up by a mohammedan or a hindu. he is a wastrel, the wastrel of all wastrels. he has no idea of the thousands of years of war and struggle that course through his veins. he deserves whatever he gets.
Ireland