Racing Toward the Abyss with a Pocketful of Blarney

The horse was foaming at the mouth, wild-eyed and paranoid like a stockbroker who just learned the market was rigged from the start. I held tight to the reins, knowing damn well that capitalism works the same way—always bucking the fool who thought they could tame it.  

Ferries loomed in the distance, a lifeline for the desperate souls fleeing to islands where taxes don’t strangle ambition, where the whiskey flows without remorse, and where a man can peddle blarney without getting called out for it. But even in exile, the game is the same—winners write history, losers drown in cheap gin.

 

 

The trick, of course, is to play along just long enough to grab the cash and bolt before the whole thing collapses like a bad bet at the racetrack. Because sooner or later, the beast gets tired, the river runs dry, and you wake up wondering if you ever stood a chance at all.  

Welcome to the show. Hope you brought a raincoat.