Diary, I'm not sure who's stupider: me when I'm drunk or our enemy, Queen Medb of Connacht and her husband, Ailill. Rumor has it that she's super-jealous of him just because he has a handsome bull and she doesn't. She, of course, decides she's gotta have one just as pretty. But the one she chose already belonged to somebody, an Ulsterman. He's called the Brown Bull of Cooley.
Now she declared war on our mighty kingdom to get the Brown Bull. Why couldn't she just find her own? Needless to say, my uncle's already drunk while trying to figure it out in council with his advisers.
Women can be such pains. At the moment, I'm cursing a witch who's afflicted pretty much everyone in my town—except me. Why are all the men here so stupid, you ask, diary?
Years ago, a woman named Macha was really angry at her husband when she was popping out twin babies. She was so pissed that she declared that nine generations of Ulstermen would feel birth pangs when they went to war. Because of this, when Medb challenged Ulster, all of my bros couldn't even get out of bed.
Therefore, I've had to use my mighty strength to hold off the armies of Connacht for a few days until everybody's feeling better to help me out. Thankfully, they're out of bed now and not nearly as green around the mouth.
Packing to go to war! I can't figure out which breeches to wear, but my charioteer, Laeg, says just to take my plainest ones. He doesn't understand that when I go berserk in battle, I like to look good while doing it! I've already got the two greatest horses in Ireland to lead my chariot, so shouldn't their owner look just as handsome?
I've already packed away the Gae Bolg. That's the magical spear my Scottish weapons teacher (and lover), Aoife, gave me. I've also got a magical visor that Manannan mac Lir, god of the sea, gave me. I've got some pretty sweet gear: everyone else only has regular smelly leather or metal stuff that reeks like the Bull of Ulster's butt in the sun.
The march is on. All of these young kids make me remember when I was their age. Back then, you had to be pretty buff and really heroic to make yourself known. I was so fit that they called me the "Awesomest in Ulster" for my physique. I even starred in one of those "one-minute abs" commercials that play on TV at two in the morning.
Speaking of girls, I remember having to schlep around a ton before Emer's father would even let me marry her. They called him "Forgall the Wily," but I called him "Forgall the Old Fart." This dude sent me to train in Scotland with some intense warriors—he thought they'd slice me to pieces. Instead, we trained and got jiggy with it. After a ton of work, I finally got my boo, Emer.
Laeg reminded me that my personalized hero handbook has a few rules I can't break. I'm not allowed to get near a cooking fire and take any food from it, which is a pain when all I want is a piece of roast chicken. Also, I can't eat dogs. The last one makes sense. Ever since I killed Culain's hound, they've called me "the Hound of Culain," so eating a dog would be kind of like eating myself.
What is it with women and curses? I was on my way to go to the bathroom when I ran into a really pretty girl. She started making eyes at me, but I really had to go, so I said no. Plus, she had a booger in her nose.
As I ran away, she turned into the Morrigan—goddess of war. Just my luck. She was screeching, "That'll be the end of you, Cúchulainn!" just as I found the toilet.
The Morrigan might've been right. I broke some of my restrictions, which are called gessa. It wasn't my fault—I couldn't avoid some of them. Either way, the end might be near.
Oh well. Even if I do kick the bucket, I'm sure my dad, Lugh, will fly me on up to whatever paradise the gods live in.
Ugh. I'm dead. My enemies got me after weeks of trying.
But I'm having the last laugh. I now get to hang out with the gods in paradise, drinking beer all day, eating roast beef, and sleeping until noon. The rest of them still have to sweat and fight and stuff.
Don't get me wrong—I still keep up my workout regimen up here. But, now that there are only immortals to see me, I like to think I can ease up on the sit-ups every now and then.
In case you're curious, diary, the Connachtmen lost the war. Nice.