I Tell Ya—It’s All but Lies

About the Book

There is nothing better than a road trip—well, maybe if you are staying overnight for more than a night. Although it was our first real trip away from home for any length of time, it was going to be a road trip that would be remembered for the rest of our lives. We were going to be away for only half a fortnight. How would we cope with being away from home for that length of time? There were not going to be any wives, girlfriends, or even mummies to look after us. Would we survive, or could we even survive? I’m sure our livers would not have lasted much more than the seven days of heavy drinking that we did. This trip was going to be the start of the rest of our lives. It was going to be the ultimate road trip … It was going to be eight guys looking to play a little golf, eight guys looking for a little love, and eight guys trying to figure out who was going to be able to drink the most. The thing is, I thought I had it all wrapped up before we had even left Canada. The eight of us who came to party were as follows: Theodore the farmer, who was supposed to be our designated driver for the week, but he became our designated drunk. We had Pudden, who was the only sensible one in the bunch. His brother-in-law Kevin also came. I think he came; well, they told me he came. My best friend, Stewart came; but all he wanted to do was fight me for all the girlies that we encountered. Johnny, my twin brother, who could do no wrong, also came. Of course, we had gullible Paulie, who acted like an eight-year-old all the time. Then, there was Buddy, who was easily tricked into doing just about anything that we wanted him to do. And then there was me; I’m pretty sure that all I did the whole trip was drink and listen to some loud rock and roll music. As you come across each little incident, you will likely figure out that it was not all about me. It’s just that I had to write it that way to protect all the guilty participants.

About the Author

Shannon Paddy O’Malley is a true Irishman, through and through. He has to be; hell, he was born on St. Patrick’s Day. Or is he a Scotchman, like his family has led him to believe? They are the ones who are confused, as they have added the Mc or Mac to their last names on more than one occasion. Is he a Mc, Mac or an O’Malley? They say that the Mc and the Mac is more of a religious thing than a nationality. Seeing he has not found God as of yet, we are going with an O’Malley and that he is an Irishman. We might never know till he takes one of those newfangled DNA tests. You will see by his writing that he has failed every English course that he has ever taken, but he has surely mastered O’Malleyish. His homeschooling sure didn’t help either; if anything, it just made his O’Malleyish a little more pronounced. He was born in Pantsdown, Canada, which borders with the United States. Since Pantsdown was a tourist town, residents either worked in a kitchen or made up beds for a living. His choice was chefing over chamberbabing. Good choice, because he sure could cook, and he sure as hell didn’t have the legs for a maid’s uniform. He was married young and early and had two beautiful girls. They are his everything. His marriage didn’t last because of all his shenanigans; he still wonders why his ex-wife put up with him as long as she did. She had the patience of a saint; that’s why she became known as Saint-Sandy.