"Ye know what i hate?" Seamus asked me one cooling evening in our favorite publick house.
"Everything," i answered with the full weight of assurance.
"Now that's a lie you could'a-"
"Oh well, then aye. Pretty much," he admitted. Small victories. "So to be perfectly clear then, do ye know what's particularly chafing this week?"
"No, but i'm sure it's epic."
"Completely overused descriptor, lad, it's this generation's 'awesome."
"Better," he took a swig of his beer, "it's this whole business of being holier-than-thou."
"Run into that a lot do we?"
"More'n ye c'n know nor likely guess."
"Never ye mind, it's moot."
"How so? Cuz it's not true?"
"Ach no! It's dead nuts!"
"So your annoyed that your better than everyone or that they notice it?"
"Not better, ho-li-er," he drew out the key word.
"Ah well, we can't all be saints as righteous as you."
He slammed his hand down on the bar, startling me and not a few others. "A fookin' cannibal pimp with blood on his fookin' lips could be as righteous as I fookin' am!"
"Right. Yet it's accurate to label you holier-than-thou?"
"And that annoys you."
"Fook no," he took another sip, as if i didn't know it was for dramatic pause and effect. "It annoys me that ..," he swept the entire pub and by extension, society at large in a roll of his eyes, "they..think the problem lies with me!"