I have no idea where this came from, I wrote it out of boredom and thought it was pretty funny. I'm Irish, and thought it'd be funny to write something quite stupid with that in mind. I'm not expecting much in the way of criticism.
There never was a Catholic versus Protestant debate in Ireland. This is what really happened all those years ago. Back in 1914, there was only one war that mattered to the Irish factions: The Potato War. T’was a war, granted, of massive casualties—All without the use of firearms, because the Irish know well enough, that potatoes truly are, God one and only creation, used for mass destruction.
Upon Galway Hilltop, the potatoes had been raining down all day—The Irish trenches were filled to the brim with mash, and the hill had been a feckin’ bastard of a position to reclaim. Many spuds had been used up in the offense. It was up to Guinness Team, as Bravo had been wiped out following a potato-bush down within Belfast. Paddy had remarked the poor bastards had never seen those spuds comin’—Especially cuz the f*ckers had peeled em, making their velocity much smoother. Jones was dead within seconds, and eventually so was his whole team. Guinness team were supposed to hold the ridge, and they consisted of Paddy, Mickey, Roony, Greeny, Orangey, and Irish Phil, who was Scottish.
“They’re firing white mortars, fer feck sake!” screamed Paddy as a barrage of white potatoes hit the East side, spraying dirt and mash remnants into the trenches.
“Oi’m fockin sick of this barrage, Sarge—We’ve got ta be lookin’ for a defense!” yelled Mick towards Paddy, who grabbed his mash-stained uniform and screamed, inches close to his face.
“PULL YA FOCKIN’ SELF T’GEVA LAD. OI’VE NO TIME FOR PANIC. THE TATAS ARE COMIN’ IN HOT—AND
I NEED ME FELLOW FOCKIN’ MEN READY, YA UNDERSTAND SONNY?”
“AYE, SARGE!” Paddy loosened up on Mick’s uniform, and his platoon stood in line.
“Oi’m not gonna lie to ya, boys. We’re probably not makin’ it outta dis one,” he spoke quickly, eyeing the gray horizon. The storm was coming close, and the rain was going to help their defense against the 56th Battalion which wanted Galway Hill back. The stench of mood and starch filled Paddy’s nostrils, but the smell had come and gone since the start of this fockin’ damn war. The Guinness squad remained still as the sound of distant explosions echoed. This war was being fought on all fronts.
“Pray not to win, lads—Pray, for the other focker to drop his f*ckin’ paddy-os. Now,” Paddy strolled back and forth as his men remained strong, “we’re gonna hold this hill until there’s nuttin’ left but p’tatos and mash. If any a ya fookin’ nonces wish to desert us, do so now.”
Irish Phil stood tall, “A dinne f*ckin’ want te run, Sarge,” he picked up a sack of reds close by and swung them over his shoulder, “Ah jus’ winne f*ckin’ kill as many as these coonts as I cayn!” he strolled off.
“TO ARMS, YE f*ckERS!” screamed Paddy as he rubbed his orange and brown beard. T’was a war of the Hill that would be the end of Guinness team alright! Irish Phil would see that the North flank would be dealt with accordingly. It was the others now, who would need help. The rain began to patter down into the mud, slowly, and then all at once, spraying thick globules of water which instantly turned all mud into a thicker, more monstrous liquid. “ORANGY!” the tall, Orange-colored Irishman saluted and held his slingshot. “Aye, sir?”
“D’ya think you can hold the West?”
“Oh, aye, sir—As long as we can. We’ve got enough paddy-os to last us a feckin’ lifetime! In our case, tat’s not gonna be fockin long eh?” he said this with a smile and launched another half-peeled white. It exploded down the hill with a massive white flare, and then suddenly distant screams yellow out in the dark, wet, cold of the night. “I’VE LOST ME FOCKIN’ LEGS!” screamed one o’ the Catholic cretins!
Paddy nodded, patted Orangy on the shoulder and turned over to Greeny who had his spud-gun in hand, ready to fire them atop the hilltop. “Good choice, Greeny!”
“Aye, thanks, Sarge—Oi’m gonna fockin’ potatobliterate dem focks!” This moment had been in their minds now, for the better part of a week, when the Irish Army had managed to keep reinforcements to take the place, but now, now there were only these people left. Paddy had felt proud to serve with them all, and maybe he’d felt a little too close to Irish Phil. It wasn’t gay, to want to feel the strong, warm embrace of another man in the heat of battle. It was normal, just like wanting to make love to a baby goat, or drink warm milk while wearing a pink nightgown, and sucking your thumb.
No—No time for those naughty, sinful, kinky, somewhat erotic thoughts! Now was a time for action!
Soon—Sooner, they would be upon Guinness team! Our hour of fockin’ reckoning will be here soon. In a few hours maybe, maybe sooner. I don’t know—Oi’m not a fockin’ watch.
“MICK! Ya silly cont! Are ya manning ya own spud-pistol?”
“AYE! Visuals are on the f*ckin’ f*ckity f*cks down the hill—They’ve got a spud cannon—“ Something pierced the air, and Mick was blown back as dirt sprayed from the sandbags. They’d shot the spud-cannon and just missed Mickey who was on the floor, mash potato in his hair. “MICKEY!” Sound disappeared and only Paddy could hear the faint, glaring buzz in his head as he wrapped his arms around Mick, his eyes wide open, not life remained in them. He had finally moved on to that large potato in the sky. “Sleep well, brave soldier—You fought well.” Paddy scooped up a white-tater and a spud-gun. Screams came from over the barbed-wire. A kamikaze spudsman! He had reds strapped to him. NO TIME!
Paddy aimed, closed an eye, and fired. The spullet (spud-bullet) hit the kamikaze masher in the eye, knocking him backwards violently. Seconds later there was a white, hot flash, and the man was no more. Spudshots went all around, but dirt found its way into Paddy’s eyes and he rubbed at them heavily as he dipped his gun into his potato again, reloading. “GREENY! SITREP!”
“TOO MANY COMIN’ STRAIGHT NORTH—TAKE THAT YA FOCKS!” he fired the spud-cannon, it pierced the air loudly and ended with a sequence of screams. Greeny gave a finger and laughed as more reds flew over, spraying more mud and mash! Paddy stumbled away with his pistol, several more men scrambled over barbed-wire. “FIRE, ORANGY!” Orangy threw more white-peelers, they hit the mood, smoked, and then exploded rapidly with white light, eviscerating the men that turns to smoke. Good Lawd, they’re upon us!
“FIGHT, GENTLEMEN. FIGHT TO THE STARCHY END!” screamed Paddy as he fired at numerous targets, appearing from the darkness. “PHIL! THROW ME PEELER!” Phil obliged, and Paddy threw it through one of the trench-hallways to the North, destroying it as an entrance-point, and blocking in any new soldiers along the way.
Paddy turned back to Orangy, who was stumbling about. His shorts got tighter as Orangy turned to face him. “HOW’S ORANGY,” screamed Phil.
Orangy’s head was a crater, and where it once stood was a smoking, red potato—He stumbled for a few seconds and then fell into the mood, as fresh blood seeped from the gaping, mushy, hole where his neck once was. “ORANGY’S HEAD’S NOTHIN BUT SPUD! It’s down to me, you, Greeny, and Roony!”
“Roony’s dead!” yelled Greeny as he stood next to Paddy.
“Oy mean, it’s down ta fockin me, you, and Greeny!”
“Sarge, they’re gonna overtake the f*ckin’ West in a moment,” another explosion rocketed, knocking back Phil into Greeny and Paddy. “We’ve gotta ignite the planted spuds!”
“Good lawd—Let’s do that before it’s too late, maybe we’ll buy some time!” said Greeny.
“Where’s the detonator!?”
“MICK HAD IT.”
“JESUS FOCKIN’ CHRIST!” screamed Paddy.
Reds rained in, exploding, tearing apart the already destroyed hilltop barricade. “I’ve got ta get it!” screamed Paddy as a loud explosion went off to the right. Paddy fell backwards, turned onto his stomach and began to crawl. “BUY ME SOME TIME, LADS!” he yelled back, both of the survivors began firing of spullets on the West. The detonator! Mick’s body laid ahead…