The Brother

A couple of years ago I had the honor of writing an introduction to the Novels of Flann O’Brien.  The only regret is leaving out the Best of Myles.

Flann and Myles are the same guy.  His name was Brian O’Nolan, and he lived and wrote in Ireland during the 1930s through the mid-1960s, and by any name, he is one of the funniest writers going.  As Myles na gCopaleen, he wrote a daily humor column called “Cruishkeen Lawn” for the Irish Times.  One of the funniest running bits was the encounter at the bus stop between a kind of sophisticated gent and a talkative Dubliner, who always has a quick story about his brother.  In honor of St. Patrick’s Day, a little intro to The Brother.  We play the part of the man in italics.

The brother can’t look at an egg.
Is that so?
Can’t stand the sight of an egg at all.  Rashers, ham, fish, anything you like to mention—he’ll eat them all and ask for more.  But he can’t go the egg.  Thanks very much all the same but no eggs.  The egg is barred.
I see.
I do often hear him talking about the danger of eggs.  You can get all classes of diseases from eggs, so the brother says.
That is disturbing news.
The trouble is that the egg never dies.  It is full of all classes of microbes and once the egg is down below in your bag, they do start moving around and eating things, delighted with themselves.  No trouble to them to start some class of ulcer on the sides of the bag.
I see.
Just imagine all your men down there walking up and down your stomach and maybe breeding families, chawing and drinking and feeding away there, it’s a wonder we’re not all in our graves man, with all them hens in the country.
I must remember to avoid eggs.
I chance an odd one meself but one of these days I’ll be a sorry man.  Here’s me bus, I’ll have to lave yeh, don’t do anything when your uncle’s with you, as the man said.
Good bye.