Around a month ago I took a short weekend vacation to Estes Park, Colorado and stayed in the historic Stanley Hotel. For those unfamiliar, the Stanley Hotel is the inspiration for the Overlook in Stephen King's classic horror novel, The Shining. It is also home to hundreds of tales of hauntings and attracted the esteemed scientific powerhouse, The Ghosthunters show on FX, who declared the Stanley to be the most haunted location in America. I ponied up extra cash to stay in a "guaranteed haunted room", and was assigned room 418. No joke. Here are some photos of my midnight whiskey-fueled ghost hunt. Spoiler alert: no ghosts.

This is a shot of the hallway outside of my room. The fourth floor is the "haunted" floor, with the exception of room 217. The first night I didn't sleep a wink, and only heard the occasional emo teenage girls doing makeshift seances in the hallway. I shit you not. It's not surprising that I didn't sleep well, since I NEVER do, and since the hotel has no air conditioning to preserve the "historical" and conveniently cheap nature of the property. This night I noticed something on the floor, which you can see at the bottom right...

HOLY SHIT! Wait.. Sorry folks. False alarm. Just some emo art depicting bloody mary. Close one, though. Let's continue the tour.

This is the door to "haunted" room number 428. The floor was creaking so badly that I am pretty sure we scared the ghosts away, so nothing happened. Moving on...

This is the door for room 401, where staff will tell you they don't even rent the room anymore, and the maid service refuses to enter. This is the room where one of the Ghosthunters castmembers reported a glass being broken in the night, and the closet door was caught on camera opening and closing multiple times. Sounds like non-bullshit to me.

Heading to room 217, the most famous haunted room from The Shining. Seems convenient that the most haunted room also just happens to be the room from the book where Danny gets molested by the decaying, nude old woman.

On the way to 217 you pass the grand staircase. It is gorgeous and in the day gives you a wonderful view of the mountainside. At night it is just kind of creepy with mildly disturbing portraiture.

An example of the totally not-creepy portraits in the grand staircase.

When I finally made it to the famed room 217- past midnight, mind you, I was delighted to see that the people that rented the room decided to watch tv with the lights off and the door open! They probably got sick of assholes like me creeping up to the door and trying to peer through the peep hole. So I snapped a flash photo that surely lit up their room and disturbed their peaceful night and, I won't lie here, ran away like a teenage shoplifter.

So there you have it. A pretty thorough paranormal investigation that was just like the rest of them, completely fruitless. I plan on staying at the Stanley again soon, just because I feel like maybe I missed something. Like a good night's sleep.

Hi again there, internet people!  Frisky Pete here with all new reviews for the newest big movies at the theaters!  It has been a long time sence I have been able to write things about the movies, and that is because I have been in rehab for snorting the powder that builds up on car batteries.  But I am really better now, and I am back on the booze insted.

The transformers and godzilla one

I saw three movies this month, and I want to tell you about the one that I thought was real, real good.  There was a very loud movie that was called Specific Rim, and it was about the time in the early ‘60s when godzillas got into fights with transformers.  Most was dark an there were babies that were crying because of the loudness.  I liked the theater though, I think they play pornos here because it always smells like public toilets.  I had a relapse that day and had to lay down in the aisle from the battery powder, so I missed the ending, but I thought it was a good movie to see.  The overlying commentary of human perseverance seemed forced throughout, and a thin reasoning for overblown cinematic action that leaves most moviegoers dizzied, save the desensitized adolescent mind.

Two guns movie (left one is fake I think)

After that one I slept next to a mailbox, then went on the mexican bus (the dangerous one) and went to the moviehouse that they built to replace the hotel that burned down.  I decided to see the movie called 2 Guns.  It was a remake of the lethal weapon movies without Danny Glover and Braveheart in it because they got too old.  I missed the first ten minutes because the people in line were too cheap to buy my pencils, so I had to steal a ticket from a guy in a wheelchair.  I didn’t feel bad because he had both of his legs, even though they didn’t work.  I thought the movie was a big lie.  There were WAY more than 2 guns in it, I would say like at least a hundred.  2 Guns is a shining example of how casting can make or break a film, where the winding plotline and exaggerated shootouts would blend in to a cinematic landscape rife with likeminded titles.  But the charisma of two of actings finest specimens makes the routine quite special, and takes no small benefit from actors that are equally at home in drama as they are in action.

This thing with knives and ninjas

And then last friday I fell down and landed on a fork in an alley, so I had to go to the free clinic.  They gave me a pretty good pain killer for the stitches, so I decided not to waste it and go to see another movie.  The place next to billboard that has a picture of a fat guy holding donuts on it was showing The Wolverine, and I knew it would be about a guy with claws cutting up people.  I even got in free because I was showing everybody my stitches and they didn’t like me scaring them away.  And can you imagine something better than a guy with knife hands murdering superheroes?  How about a guy with knife hands killing ninjas!  The only thing I would say was bad was that for as many knives as this movie has there is very little disemboweling and choking on blood and vomit.  I saw Gutter Greg get stabbed about a month ago and he couldn’t stop throwing up blood until he died.  It is refreshing to see a film recognize it’s niche and stick to it, and also see it helmed by an actor that is now comfortable in this well-worn skin.  Jackman satisfies in this solo outing that shows Worlverine is not just a member of the X-Men franchise, he is the main show.

Well, that is pretty much all I can write about movies right now, since the library is going to close soon and I still need to take a shower in the sink.  I have to hop up like seven stairs to get to the nice bathroom, too, since I don’t feel like bathing in the bathroom with the glory hole in stall number three.  And if you know the library I am talking about, don’t go to the glory hole on tuesdays.  I have seen the tuesday guy bite them sometimes.  Weirdo.

What are you looking at? It's my hair isn't it.

I have very healthy hair. Definitely not a wig.

What, are you crazy? It's all real up there, baby!

Come on, man! I would never wear a piece! What kind of guy do you take me for?

There you have it, folks. Not a wig.

Excuses are like assholes. Everybody's got one. But when it comes to powerful men lying about sex, their excuses are giant, bloody prolapses that they drag around like bulbous vestigial tails. And when such powerful men want their name cleared they pay men like Vic Musket. A private detective with ethics as questionable as his choice of street whores.

Senator Jim Gallant of the garden state of New Jersey was facing serious allegations of illicit sex with some high-end escort, the kind of scandal that has been overcome by countless politicians and would seem to pose no threat beyond the cost of a skillful PR representative and an embarrassing news interview or two. But there had to be more to it, considering the serious look on the face of the staffer sitting across the table from him.

"Before we begin, detective Musket, I want your assurance that anything we discuss with you will not leave this room. We are willing to pay you quite handsomely for your discretion..." the well-dressed man looked shocked when Vic interrupted him.

"I won't tell about your dirty secrets if you don't tell about the mess I am about to make in that executive bathroom, mister." Vic Musket stood up and began marching toward the slightly ajar door at the back of the conference room.

"But detective, I will have to show you to another restroom, that toilet is out of order." the man said with a slightly panicked look on his face.

"No problem. I can use the sink." was the unwelcome response, Vic not even slowing his stride.

The man darted in front of him before he could touch the doorknob. "Excuse me, sir, but I will have to insist! I cannot allow you to defecate in the Senator's bathroom sink!"

"Do I look like the kind of animal that would shit in a sink?" Vic asked, leaning in to make a point. "It's 10:30 in the morning, and I haven't thrown up all the whiskey from last night. I haven't eaten in two days, so I assure you there won't be any plumbing problems. Now step aside!"

The sweet stench of booze was all the evidence the man needed to apologize and step aside. And after a few minutes of loud retching with the door wide open, Vic returned to the table. "Like I was saying, we can pay you handsomely for any information that might clear the Senator's good name in this matter. $20,000 if the evidence is good enough to make the problem go away."

The figure had Vic's full attention. "Give me the details" he said, "and get the money ready. I don't take checks."

The well-dressed man ran through a powerpoint presentation that explained everything. The Senator was accused of patronizing an escort service, and the glorified prostitute didn't have the good sense to keep with the age-old tradition of amnesia concerning her clientele. She was threatening to come forward with a story of receiving three full hours of cunnilingus from Gallant's famous silver tongue just three days ago, and wanted a sizable portion of the Senator's upcoming campaign fund or else she was talking. The voters wouldn't find this so unpalatable, pun intended, except for one fact. The escort was a hermaphrodite. The thought of a political candidate going down on a whore was one thing, but they wouldn't be able to shake the image of him wearing a flaccid penis on his face like groucho glasses in time to vote for him. Not even in Jersey.

"Do you have a picture of the whore?" The man called for a secretary to bring in a laptop, and upon delivery brought up an old mugshot of the culprit. A grin widened across Vic's face.  "Can I meet with the Senator? Is he here?" Vic asked.

The man was perplexed and it showed on his face. "Detective, the Senator is a very busy man, and I am not..." but he was cut off for the second time by a voice from the doorway.

"I am here, Musket. Whatever I can do to clear my name, just ask." The tall, gray haired Senator seemed sincere. And cleanly shaven.

"Well I have only one question for you. Do you shave with a blade or an electric razor?" Vic asked.

The two men in suits shared a confused glance. "A blade, every morning. It's the only way to maintain a clean appearance now, with the high definition cameras, and such." Said the Senator.

Vic stood up. "Then I know you are innocent. Pay me and I will be on my way."

"Not so fast, detective. We need irrefutable proof to keep this woman from speaking up. You aren't getting a dime until our lawyers are satisfied there is no further political threat here." The well dressed man remained unconvinced.

"It's quite simple," Vic began "the good Senator is clean shaven, not a blemish on his face, the picture of trustworthy modern American politics. He shaves with a razor daily, a clean shave that leaves his facial pores open and exposed, yet he bears no sores on his lips. Get that 'woman' tested, sir. 'She' has a bad case of herpes, and any man freshly shaven with a blade would look like we went down on a wasp's nest after pleasuring her."

"But I don't understand," the Senator muttered, "how can you tell she has herpes from the picture on the laptop?"

"Simple." Vic replied, taking a flask out of his inside pocket. "Because I gave them to her six weeks ago." By the time the lawyers had contacted the woman and explained the new developments, she recanted her story and Vic's briefcase full of cash was prepared. Plenty of money afford any number of exotic escorts, even one born with the kind of tackle that gave men like him plenty of options.



The End.

Holy shit it finally happened!  I am sure you will all remember where you were when you heard about the glorious coming of a baby with a higher birth than anyone in your lineage will ever achieve!  I know what I was doing, reading an essay on the state of islam by the late Christopher Hitchens and breathing shallowly in eager anticipation of the news on the next royal heir.  And we here at Popular Irony have the exclusive first pic of the baby prince!

As any other americans can probably relate, I had a hard time understanding how a newborn baby could hold the attention of the international media for so long.  It seemed trivial, like maybe the world had serious doubts about the working order of the prince’s royal member.  But then I realized why this is such a big deal.  I mean, it’s not everyday that every living human on earth takes a step backwards in overall rank to someone who is only hours old.  Just think of all the starving peasants he will step over on his way to a caviar and fois gras breakfast over the course of his lifetime!  It really gives you perspective.

It is easy to see why the british people are so excited to add another person to the long list of royals that will forever gorge themselves on the teats of the collective taxpayer.  And in return for the lifetime of support in their excessive lifestyle, the new addition to the royal family will spend the rest of his days contemplating difficult decisions, like whether or not to read the newspaper for information on political policy making, or if he will attend public events in lavish clothes that are covered by enormous unearned medals and ribbons.

The whole spectacle really puts our political system to shame.  In the states you must spend your early years educating yourself and participating in public or private affairs to make a name for yourself, then appeal to the community you live in for support in your election to public office, followed by years of diligent service to allow you to climb the ranks to the eventual pinnacle of your chosen field of government.  Only then are you allowed to rape the taxpayer.  Our whole system fails to take advantage of the easy selection process inherent in a birthright system.  Here you have to earn your way unless your surname is Kennedy.  Or Clinton.  Or Bush.  Or your family has generational wealth.  Ok, maybe I should shut up now.  YAY MONARCHY!!

Sweat Laddie here, ready to spread cheer!  Line up folks and grab yer rags, it's almost sweatin' time!  Everyone from Tuscucola all the way down to North Wallahasee knows that my sweats is the cure to almost all yer ills. 

All ya' need is a good soppin' rag, you know the type, twelve dollars in quarters and a bit o' patience.  I promise ya' won't be disappointed.   It's cures all yer household ailments; Gamey Toe, Crispy Lobe, Drippy Tip, Sluice Bottom, Soppin' Chums, Fever Anus, Rape Dreams and it even fixes Farmer's Handshake.

Once yer rag has reached saturation, all ya need do is place it in yer mouth and suckle.  You know how to suckle, don't ya?  Put yer gums together and *schluck*.  My body drainin's fillin' yer mouth will fill you with the healin' power of Jesus!  Now you know it's true.  Jesus don't lie.

Now start soppin' me.  I'ma more sweaty n' usual.

As some avid readers/listeners of the podcast may have already devised, Terlet and myself reside in Colorado. There are two things our state has that bring in the hippies, one is pot, and the other is an amazing mountain landscape. Well, I decided to make my way back to the stomping grounds of my youth by traveling up to the Rocky Mountain National Park, and I decided that despite it's natural beauty and fresh alpine air, I fucking hate nature. Allow me to explain.

Upon entering the park I took this photo of the wonderful valley surrounded by massive and ancient mountains. What is wrong with that, you ask? Look closer. Some retarded tourist snuck into frame and I didn't notice. If only my camera was a 30.06 scope...

And after climbing the steep and winding roads of Trail Ridge, you come upon the delicate tundra environment. Here life clings to the rocks and not even trees can withstand the thin air and high winds. It was there that I took this photo, and then promptly got a vicious outbreak of hayfever. Having trouble breathing up there? Now try it with a running nose and constant sneezing.

At the summit of Trail Ridge Road is a hiking trail that promises enchanting vistas and natural beauty that will never be forgotten. What they don't tell you is that the half mile or so trail looks so relaxing, until your fat ass realizes that you are at 12,000 feet above sea level and all the huffing and puffing that would get you up a few hundred stairs in the city only gives you a headache, not any life-giving oxygen. Oh yes, and the views? Mostly just rocks and sky.

But surely it would all be worth it for this amazing shot of a bull elk in its natural habitat, right? Not so much. These dirty beasts will forever be associated with endless summers spent fixing barbed wire fences in my youth. And here in the park they don't even let you kill and eat them. What was the entry fee for, again?

But I must admit, the peaceful solitude of this amazing flower, heavy with a hungry bee, lounging at the banks of a babbling mountain stream had me at the most relaxed state I had been in in literally years. And it was at the exact moment that I snapped this shot that I realized the thin atmosphere paired with my lilly-white, shut-in complexion had left me with severe sunburn on my face, neck, and arms. I am still suffering.

So there you have it. A few reasons why I can justify hiding in the basement of my home and avoiding the natural playground at my doorstep. Toodles!

I am craving for something quite filthy

A device that the devil might build me

A dong at one end

A long shaft with a bend

That when fondled spits out something milky

You should never make love to a puppet

No matter how well the maker does stuff it

Its mouth might look sweet

But every one lacks their feet

And the end with hand's where you'd fuck it

A priest is a leader of people

A guide bringing masses from evil

But some go astray

And claim they're not gay

But rape scores of young boys in the steeple

An abortion is tragic two ways

Once for the toll a mom pays

But also the waste

They're not converted to paste

And served to the starving on trays

I've got a small broken phallus

A member that's been treated with malice

It's been beaten and burned

But one thing I've learned

Is I can strike a match on the callus

“When interrogating someone, they say you can tell if a person is lying to you by how they look into your eyes.  A good liar makes deliberate contact, thinking that an unflinching willingness to expose themselves to scrutiny lends them credibility.  But someone who is truthful is desperate for you to believe, and it shows.  The one trying too hard is the one you should trust, and the ambivalent subject is almost always deceiving you.”

A pale, sweating man in a bathrobe sat at card table in a smoke-filled and light-deprived room.  His nervous breathing was the only sound audible over the ringing of ice in a whiskey glass, dancing from the unsteady hand that held it.

“I think it’s all bullshit.”  He began again after a deep drink.  “There are no tricks of the trade, and the great detective doesn’t have some super-human insight to impress the studio audience with.  I get my answers every time, the old fashioned way.  With a promise of violence.  And I always keep my promises.”

Detective Vic Musket drank the last from the glass, then dumped the two ice cubes on the table between them.  “Take the ice.  You’re gonna need it.”  He said, pulling a small claw hammer out of the left front pocket of his filthy overcoat.

“For fuck’s sake, Vic.  I’m not the one who shit on your car.  My dumps come out of tubes these days.  I couldn’t make a proper log like that if I tried.”  The sweating man swung open his bathrobe to expose a small, crooked penis and a colostomy bag strapped to his leg.  Looks like this bitch isn’t in heat after all, thought Vic.  There were only so many people it could be.  Someone young and slim enough to climb atop his vehicle without denting the hood, but someone large enough to leave an NFL sized shit draped across the seam between the roof and the windshield.

“Sorry, Bill.  I haven’t done you right in the past, and you seemed like the logical culprit.  And, uh... sorry about the problems with your shitter.”  The man relaxed and swung his robes shut, albeit a little too slowly.  “No worries, Vic.  Help yourself to another glass of my whiskey, then get the fuck out.”

“I’m not done with you yet, Bill.”  Vic said, pouring himself another glass.  “When I walked through your kitchen I noticed two empty cans of creamed corn.  The same kind of corn that peppered the length of that log on my car.  But you couldn’t have left it there... Or could you have?”  Vic stepped closer to the man, yanking his bathrobe open again.  “But when you showed me the bag I noticed it had been leaking.  I thought the odor was due to your poor housekeeping, maybe a dead pet, but the small brown stain on the inside of your white bathrobe told another story.  A colostomy bag is a disposable item, for obvious reasons, and if used properly is a clean receptacle.  But yours has been tampered with.  And as a man who spent a lifetime as a plumber, you seem to be the type who doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty.  Come on Bill, what kind of depraved fool hand-forms his own diseased shit into a makeshift log just to vandalize another man’s car?”  He held up the claw hammer once again.  “A very sorry man, indeed.”

Vic Musket climbed into his car with a whiskey glass, but no hammer.  Whatever he left in Bill’s apartment was evidence now, but he had been careful not to leave any prints.  Some might call his actions overkill, but his car was his home.  He ate there, drank there, and slept there, and any man who would desecrate his only possession deserved the harshest punishment.  He drank the last of the booze and tossed the glass over his shoulder into the backseat, where it landed without a sound.  How strange, Vic thought.  As far as he could remember, his backseat was always filled with empty bottles.  But where he expected a crash, he heard nothing.

Striking a match, Vic leaned into his backseat to see.  But where last night there were only bottles, there now laid a bedding of discarded corn husks.  Then it came flooding back.  The tequila, the drunken driving on the countryside, the cornfield he raided before making his way back to the city with an overwhelming pressure in his guts...

Vic was two blocks away before he heard the ambulance arrive.