Today in Arizona a man was put to death.  To say it was botched would be understating things, as it took over two hours of struggling for him to finally expire from the process.  It was a clumsy effort, at best.  This comes only a couple months after a similarly hamfisted attempt at state-sanctioned execution went equally poorly in Oklahoma.  It is truly shameful.

Now before I risk being labeled a "limp-wristed liberal" or "bleeding heart democrat", let me explain myself.  It is shameful because of the utter incompetence the state is showing in their ability to terminate something as fragile as human life.  You hear stories every day about some unfortunate prick tripping while boarding a subway and being dragged to his death, or dropping dead from a heart attack while buying doritos at the supermarket, yet the government has the killing prowess of the bad guys in a G.I. Joe cartoon.  Any five year old with asperger syndrome could tell you how to make significant improvements on the outcomes of executions in america.  "Hey Billy, how do you kill someone?" you would ask.  "Shoot 'em!" would invariably be the response.  I swear, the chinese must be laughing their asses off right now at this rookie display.
 

So why do we insist on using complex cocktails of chemicals to off every run-of-the-mill child rapist/murderer?  For two reasons, which I will discuss in a bit more detail.

Firstly, we have bad beurocracy at dealing death because the real experts in the field of killing people are barred from playing the game.  That's right, the military isn't utilized since the public would find it distasteful, and the medical professionals that routinely end lives on accident by drinking an extra mojito the night before performing a heart transplant aren't allowed to participate in the execution process due to the hippocratic oath and the position the medical bar takes on killing people on purpose.  And for the same reasons the state can't legally obtain the super-lethal injectable goodies the docs get to play with, and it is such a hurdle that some states have taken to lying about their intentions to foreign chemical companies to obtain them.

But why rely on the uber deadly meds  administered by untrained civilians to kill our death row inmates to begin with?  Well that ties into reason number two.  Because the majority of those among us that are bloodthirsty enough to call for capital punishment are too cowardly to face their decision head on.  It's the same as the PETA-supporting hippocritical douchebag hungrily munching on a greasy big mac while condemning the hunter that shoots the poor deer, guts it, then drags it off whatever mountain he hiked up to find the bastard to take it home and eat it.  There is not a single asshole on this earth that would choose the life of a cow in a feed lot over the life of a wild deer, but since they don't have to see the slaughterhouse they feel insulated from responsibility for it.  Mankind used to do it correctly, by firing squad or the guillotine, or any number of bloody and violent ways.  And can you guess the survivability rate of those “barbaric” methods were?  Depending on if you are christian or not, the historic survivors number between one and zero.

So, as is often the case, the answer lies in the most simple and practical option: good old-fashioned bloody violence.  And if that conclusion strikes you as unthinkably cruel, you need to ask yourself if you would rather suffocate while conscious but paralyzed, or be shot through the heart with a 30.06 round fired by a trained expert.  And if your answer is “neither”, then I guess you must be against the death penalty.

                                                                                   Relax... it's a bellybutton.

Debates are fun.  They engage the mind, exercise critical thinking skills, and through empathy they expose people to new ideas.  But too many people try to debate facts.  You don’t get to have opinions on facts, and they aren’t dependent on your “point of view”. 

Now I am a firm believer in freedom of speech, and you can reserve your right to express yourself (no matter how little value that expression has), and I reserve my right to disregard your opinion and declare you to be functionally retarded.  And before you try to defend yourself against this accusation, please recognize that, by arguing yet another obvious fact, you are digging yourself into a deeper hole.

And I must admit that I understand the attraction to arguing against facts.  The position one takes is always to make them feel better, with the exception of the unfortunate crazy conspiracy theorists.  And there is really only one thing that governs the domain of facts.  We call it “science”.  So let’s cover a few of them here, with an explanation of why the position against the facts is so attractive.

“There is no evidence that mankind is causing climate change” translates to “It would be very expensive and inconvenient to change the way we approach energy”.  Next time I hear this argument come up I am going to invite the deniers to spend a night in their garage with the car running.  Necessity is the mother of invention, but in the case of fossil fuels the supply will unfortunately outlive us.  The world used to run on whale oil for a substitute to electricity.  Once we were done destroying the whale populations we came up with an alternative.  We could do it again, but not while we have one side of the debate acting like a fool blistering in the sun while stubbornly insisting he is getting an amazing tan.

“Evolution is a lie.  All life on earth was placed here by a divine being.” Translates to “The thought of life being pointless and uncaring terrifies me.”  Let me reiterate.  I desperately wish these facts were not true.  I am also intimidated by the thought that circumstances beyond my control could end the existence of life as we know it.  I would love to think that someone with an intelligence far greater than I could ever understand designed me to be exactly the way I am (although, if that were true they would have some explaining to do regarding the location and design of the genitals, amongst other things).  But it isn’t so.  Evolution was once a theory, but when that theory coincidentally agrees with the discovery of dna technology, and with observations in single cell organisms, it becomes demonstrable fact.

“The earth is only 6,500 years old” translates to “The earth MUST be only 6,500 years old, or else a good portion of my beliefs will be proven to be bullshit”.  Imagine someone that dedicated their life to the subject of geology, pursued an expensive and difficult to obtain degree, then earned the respect of their colleagues through a career developing evidence to support their final conclusion.  They then share their knowledge, which has already been tested in ways that the general public would never be able to understand, let alone devise, and some asshole stands up to object based on the interpretation of a stone-age book that was forced down their throat by their parents.  Not only does their “opinion” not deserve to be taken seriously, but they should be laughed out of the debate. 

You might notice that these three examples all have something in common.  Faith.  The word is often described as a virtue, but I consider it a cancer.  It is quite literally described as “the purposeful suspension of critical thinking” and discourages the acceptance of new ideas, which by definition means it has no place in debate.

In the end, opinions are like assholes.  If you show yours in public, you risk getting fucked.

An aging farmer and his wife make their way through a crowd of people to get a fair view of the spectacle that is the livestock auction.  Compelled by the urging of his wife, the farmer seeks a mule to take some of the burden off of his daily life, to carry goods, drive his meager plow, and sow his seeds across his farm which seems ever larger by the passing day. 

At the center of the commotion lay several beasts, all equal in size and apparent health, each driving a massive wooden arm attached to a stone mill.  Dangling before them was a large and juicy carrot, cruelly tied to a string, a promise of the fruit of their labor that is deceptively offered by their master to entice them to his bidding.  Their sameness drew attention to the outsider among them.  One mule drives his mill without the carrot, with equal zeal and effort as those transfixed by the orange lie.  The farmer approached the auctioneer.

“Sir, I have questions for you about these beasts.  I have need of an animal to lift my burdens on my farm not far from here, but I have never purchased a mule before.  Which do you suggest?”

The auctioneer turned to the man, and smelling a sale made more lucrative by the farmer’s professed ignorance, lent him his full attention.  “Why sir, you have come to the right place!  You will find any one of these mules fit for the duties of a farm, as you can see.  They will all slave away tirelessly, and for the simple cost of seven gold pieces and a small supply of carrots, they could be easing your work by the end of the day!”

The deal seemed quite good, and for that price the farmer reckoned that he could make up for the cost in short time by the corresponding increase in productivity.  “But sir,” asked the farmer, “what of the mule at the end?  He drives his mill without a carrot.  How much for that beast?”

The auctioneer let out a loud laugh.  “Well if it’s that mule you have your eye on, I have good news for you!  If you’ll take that nag off my hands I’ll give it to you free of charge!”

The farmer staggered back a step.  “Free?  That mule looks every bit as healthy as the rest, and labors with equal effort.  And any man that had that mule in his barn could get the same work done without the added cost of carrots!  Please explain yourself, as I admit my ignorance might lead me to a foolhardy decision!”

Well,” said the auctioneer, “you said you needed a beast to do your bidding throughout your farm, to be the master of the animal and set him to the tasks that need doing, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”  The farmer replied.

“Well you had best look elsewhere, you foolish old man.  Any mule that hasn’t a taste for carrots can’t be made to do any work at all.  That mule has no master, and never will!”

The farmer betrayed his thoughts with a look of distrust.  “Then how sir, do you explain that the mule drags his mill arm just as do the rest of these animals?”

The auctioneer explained that the only thing that drove the mule to carry the mill arm was it’s own will, and that they had been trying to sell it at auction for the better part of a year now.  Sometimes choosing to allow the handlers to harness it, sometimes stubbornly refusing to comply with even the smallest urgings despite great efforts to entice it.  Convinced that the beast was worthless to man such as him, the farmer bought one of the other mules.  But as he led the newly purchased beast down the beaten road to his home, he couldn’t help but think of the carrot-less mule.  And admire it.

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Cyrus T. Gentle

Hey there Scrappy!  Yeah you, the shaggy one.  What's with them hairs there son?  What's the deal?  You tryin' to be a lady?  You got a giny tucked up under them dungarees?  You lookin' forward to the day you sprout them big beautiful breasts?  .... No?  A boy you say?  MHU HA HA HA!  You looks like a girly, son!  A fuckin' girly!

Why don't ya come inside and take a seat.  We'll fix yer gender right quick.  Come on now son... Come on inside, I ain'ta bitecha one bit.  You are makin' an embarassment of yourself son.  What you think people'r gonna say when they see's me, a respectable elder of this here fine town, chattin' it up with a lil' girly like some weirdo?  You gonna ruin my reputation son!  Now get in here and be barbered!

You don't want a haircut?  But it's all uh,... bushy.... you know... like a girly. ......  You don't want to cut it because it's yer look?  .... One Direction?  What's a One Direction? .... Harry Styles?  Son, whoever this Harry Styles is, she must be one hideous fuck.  Now let me slap yer scalp with a classic, a Bogart or a Cary Grant.. Something witha' discernible hairline.

Yer mom likes yer hair you say?  Well, I bet yer dad likes men.  You have intensely assholelish lookin' hair there son.  Now come inside before I start to lose my temper and I pound fifty shades of gay into yer puckered little giny! ....  What did you say ya lil' sumbitch!?  What!!?  I'ma' the one who's confused about my sexuality!?  ME!?  Come ere' ya lil' shit taster!  I'lla' crush ya'! Crush ya and kiss yer shameful face!!  You run like a girly!

Hey you Fatty!  Yeah you, the big fat fuck!  You wanna haircut!?

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We at Popular Irony have been innundated by frantic messages and email wondering what the fuck happened to us, and why we have failed to deliver quality comedic content in the past several months.

There are several answers to these questions, and all of them are complicated.  Terlet opened his home to his friends following a disaster in our local area, and Hamtackle quit his job and grew a hobo beard.  Again.  Now a new year is upon us, and we have decided to each make post of our new year's resolutions.  I, Hamtackle, will start it off.

I have two simple resolutions, the first of which is to gain fifty pounds by the end of the year.  This is hard to do quickly, but I have my methods.  I will post a follow-up when I complete this goal.  The second is much simpler.  Eradicate the hobo beard.

I took to the shears and eliminated three months of growth in one fell swoop, nearly severing my jugular in the process.  I made it out ok, but the beard didn't.  Here it is in all its glory.

I figured this photo didn't do it justice, so here is the beard spread out to show its full girth.

I contacted the good people at Locks Of Love to see if they were interested in a donation.  They said beard hair is not suitable for wigs.  I figured they weren't well-known in the merkin industry, so I tried to change their minds by demonstrating how dashing a beard wig could be.

But they didn't return my email.  I can tell when I'm not wanted, so I had to find another way to dispose of this beard.  Usually your whiskers just wash down the drain when you shave regularly, but a beard this pervasive is a different thing altogether.  You can't just throw something this magnificent away, so I had to get creative.

And so it came to be, that my beard was given a proper viking burial.  A fitting end for a noble ball of human hair.  Be at peace, my friend.  Be at peace…




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I am a Broncos fan. Since I was born. It has not always been easy, we have had some terrible seasons over the years. But I always cheered for them, whether we win or lose. Sometimes I think I care too much about the games, and when they lose it fucking ruins my day. And there are Raiders fans that live in this orange and blue state (for the life of me I couldn't tell you why), and they always get to talk shit when we fail, usually without any repurcussions since their team always sucks ass.

But tomorrow I feast on the tears of the Bronco hating bastards at work. Sure it was the first game of the season. Sure there is a long way to go. But these assholes delighted in their celebration when the Baltimore Ravens stole the superbowl that was rightfully ours last season, and they will hear from me tomorrow. "And by the way," I will tell them, "we play the Raiders in our next home game. Care to make a gentleman's bet?" And they will sheepishly laugh and decline.

In case you don't follow the NFL, tonight the Denver Broncos stomped the superbowl champion Baltimore Ravens 49 - 27, and gave away 7 points on a fumbled punt inside the five, and gave back 7 points on a dropped ball after an interception. Peyton Manning tied an NFL record with 7 touchdowns, a feat that hasn't been done since 1969. And all this without our two best defensive players, Champ Bailey and Von Miller. Joe Flacco earned his 120 million dollar contract the hard way tonight, as he was held down and forced to toss Manning's sweaty salad at altitude, and I loved every minute of it.

I will be honest, though. This post was either going to be an angry rant about the mistakes we made, the bad calls by the refs, and petty name calling directed at Flacco, or it would be this. Now I pursue sleep, dear audience, sleep that will be punctuated by dreams of a Broncos superbowl.

You must be at least this tall to blow me.

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Irony is one of those concepts that is difficult to define. In fact, it is one of the most misunderstood and misused concepts in the english language. Take the title of this blog, for instance. Very little posted here has anything to do with irony, and it certainly isn't popular. Isn't THAT ironic, though?.... Yes. Well, maybe. Ok, probably not. But I digress.

The truth is that this blog is in desperate need of an injection of irony to keep it's name honest and demonstrate that Terlet and I are not complete idiots who can't properly use the word irony. So I bring you a case study in irony tonight, in the form of a news story that captured my heart and demonstrates the concept perfectly.

The title is "Creationist Museum Employee Struck By Lightning".

For those of you unfamiliar with the creationist museum, it is run by a man named Ken Ham (not joking) and is located in the progressive mecca of Kentucky, USA. Their goal is to present a history of earth from a biblically-friendly perspective, complete with a recreation of a young earth style utopia. This means people riding dinosaurs. Seriously. I am not going to get into the simple irony of a "museum", which is a place that promotes art and science, being bastardized to promote the exact opposite. That is an example for another day. This Ham guy was featured in Bill Maher's documentary "Religulous" in which he scolds Bill for mocking the scientific inaccuracies in their exhibits by invoking celestial infallibility. And check him out. He looks like a bowl of laughs.

Well, last week one of his employees was kinda, but not exactly struck by lightning. He was valiantly trying to get museum visitors off of a zip-line ride attraction during a thunderstorm, and was blasted by an electrical charge from a lightning bolt, suffering only minor injuries.

Now, this sort of thing happens from time to time, and while rare, is not unheard of. Especially for those working outdoors on large metallic structures during lightning storms. But being struck by lightning is symbolic of a mortal who is out of favor from a deity, not just in christianity, but all the way back to zeus who wielded bolts of lightning like Phil Specter in a brothel with a revolver. So isn't this evidence of god's disdain for the rejection of reason and science? Isn't he lashing out at these peddlers of pseudo-science who knowingly reject the accumulated knowledge that mankind has painstakingly patched together since the stone age? Not according to Ken Ham.

“Well first of all, we certainly do say that ‘disasters’ and ‘personal tragedies’ are the result of God’s judgment–God’s judgement BECAUSE of our sin in Adam! Romans 8.22 makes it clear the whole world groans because of our sin,” He replied on Monday. “The fact we get sick and die is because of God’s judgment on sin! But praise the Lord, God had a plan from eternity to save us from the consequence of our sin–He paid the penalty for our sin and offers us a free gift of salvation (Romans 10:9).”

So I guess the fact that this accident occurred on their property WAS because they were being punished by god, but not for their half-assed attempt a weaving together science and creationism, but because Adam ate that fucking apple in the beginning of time! Holy fuck. That christian god sure can hold a grudge.

So the next time you are put on the spot to give an example of irony, just remember the story of the false prophet being struck by lightning. And by the way... Were you left wondering why the fuck a creation museum would have a zip-line ride on the premises? Because NO ONE wants to go there.

Indoctrinate them while they're young!

Vic was six hours into his investigation of the dead irish boxer when he visited Dead Dave. Dave got his name from the hundreds of death threats made against him over the years, mostly due to his profession. He was a full-time rat. Not the type that talked to get himself out of trouble, but the kind that stuck his nose into everyones business so he would have info to sell. If you were shady, Dave knew all about you.

"I need info on a boxer's woman. The dead irishman, Feeney." Vic said without wasting breath on pleasantries.

"Mona?" Dave said. "Did she step in shit, Vic? Nice lady, that one. Too good for Feeney."

"Just tell me everything you know about her. It's business, Dave." Vic was already going through the man's cupboards, making himself at home and looking for booze.

Dead Dave knew this gal for years. The way he was speaking, he might even have a thing for her. Apparently she was beautiful, from a good family with a schoolteacher mom that died when she was a kid, and a father who was a chemist with an industrial company nearby. She went to school, paid her taxes, and on Saturdays was usually beaten bloody by her bastard boxer boyfriend. Dave was too weak to stand up to him about it, and Feeney just joked that she saved him gym fees by letting him "work out" on her. Nice guy. Nice enough for this girl to want him dead, Vic thought. He scratched down her address and paid Dave half of what he was asking, since he was out of whiskey.

Vic punched the wooden door to the Feeney home with shaking hands. When Mona answered she was still in a bathrobe despite it being nearly six pm.

"Go away, whoever you are. I am grieving." She said, swinging the door closed and turning before realizing the unwanted guest had his foot in the door.

"You are gonna want to talk with me lady" Vic said, "I know you killed Jack, and I need to know the details." She gasped at the accusation, but didn't deny it as Vic stepped though the doorway and began rifling through her kitchen.

"I don't know who told you I hurt Jack, but they're damn liars!" Mona said through forced sobs. "I loved him. And he died in the ring, for God's sake!"

Vic found a half empty bottle of bourbon and a coffee mug, sat down at the kitchen table and poured to the brim. "Nobody told me anything, miss" Vic said without taking his eyes off the cup as it rose to his lips. "But if I had a daughter who was getting the shit kicked out of her on a regular basis, I would want to kill the man responsible. And if that man was as tough a sonovabitch as Jack was, I would probably shoot the bastard. Unless I had access to thousands of lethal poisons and had the education to use them, that is." He swallowed the contents of the mug in one gulp and placed it back on the table to be filled again. He had her full attention, and she reached for the bottle to fill his cup for him.

I am a member of an oppressed minority. But you can't tell when you see me on the bus. It has nothing to do with my sexual orientation, and likewise nothing to do with my religion. I have a giant cock.

I know what you are probably thinking. "There are people that face serious issues with racism, homophobia, and cultural intolerance. How dare you belittle their plight!" But you clearly must not also have a huge penis, because you just don't understand. Countless times I have gone to a job interview only to be denied because I am "under-qualified", or because "I failed a background check". But I know what happened. My prospective employer caught an eyeful of my massive, swaying member through the thin fabric of my trousers and I never had a chance.

And put yourself in my jockstrap for a moment. Have you ever had to get your trousers tailored to make room for your junk? It's not cheap, my friend. I could easily end up spending triple the value for a pair of bluejeans just to I can walk properly. And imagine this scene: you head out for a fun day taking in the sun at the beach in your new custom speedo, and before you know it some mother is calling the police because your natural body is somehow "indecent".

But the ladies must love it, right? Wrong again. The majority of the women I date get scared right out of my bedroom at the first sight of it. And the few that are still up for the act are no longer in the mood after the twenty or so minutes it takes for my member to become fully erect. Yes sir, having this giant cock is truly a burden, and society needs to recognize the special needs of the bountifully-endowed.

So I suggest we confront this issue as a society, head-on. The rights of men with large penises should be protected, and adjustments should be made in bathrooms, movie theaters, airline seats, and public transportation. And the clothing industry should be required to make off-the-rack selections available for this oppressed minority. It is only fair.

And maybe one day the tides will change, and men with giant cocks will be looked at with integrity by the public. We now have a black president. Maybe one day we will have a president with a massive penis, too.

Being a man of low moral character, Vic Musket enjoyed betting on the occasional prizefight, and the more lopsided the victory, the better. But he rarely had the kind of scratch that would get him into betting on the casino bouts, leaving the weekend drifter matches as his venue. There you could fix a match by buying the loser a few drinks beforehand, unless of course he was irish. Booze was like spinach was to popeye for the micks, and that hard lesson cost him seventy bucks one time. But dry out a hard drunk and he couldn't drive a car, let alone win a fight. So when the papers reported about the in ring death of boxing legend "Green" Jack Feeney as related to a seizure from alcohol withdrawal, everything seemed to add up. Until the mob came knocking at Vic's car door.

The rapping at the window interrupted a pleasant dream about sodomizing a young filipino prostitute, and left Vic wondering if his wet clothes were due to sleeping in a car at noon during a heatwave or the combination of pissing himself and a wet dream. He gathered his senses and noticed a greaseball guido in a suit trying none too hard to disguise his mob connections standing outside. He gathered himself and followed the man into a nearby alleyway that served as Vic's office to either discuss business or get stabbed. Truth be told, Vic would accept either.

"We need you to look into Feeney's death last Saturday, Vic" the man said with a disgusted look on his face, possibly from the stench of the makeshift alleyway latrine. "One of my guys had a deal with him to throw the fight, and we think somebody fucked with our play and took him out."

"But if he was supposed to throw the fight anyways, what was the fix? He lost, didn't he?" Vic asked with a confused look.

"Whatchoo talkin about, Vic? If a guy fuckin dies in the ring it's a no contest. And we lost out on over 50 grand here! Somebody was messing around. We know Feeney wasn't fighting dry. He was shitfaced two nights before the fight at one of our clubs!"

Apparently the rules in sanctioned matches are a bit different than in the drifter bouts. In those fights a win by death paid out double. The guido didn't like being questioned, and was poking his finger in Vic's chest hard. He might be the first guy to get away with that, too.

"Alright, but what's in it for me? There are whores around here that rely on my business."

The man shook his head in disbelief at Vic's statement. "You tryin to be cute, Musket? You owe us over ten grand in bar bills at our clubs! You think we're paying for this job? Consider it a favor that we let you work it off instead of dropping you in a river somewhere!" The guy had a point.

"Alright, alright. I will get to the bottom of this, you know I will. Just clear the debt and open my tab back up in the club and we're square." Vic said as he pushed the man's finger away from his sternum. "Just tell me this, what did the autopsy say?"

"That's whats so fucking fishy. There was no autopsy. Feeney's broad said he was off the booze for a full week, and when they tested his blood he was clean, so the bitch had him cremated."

Well, at least there was somewhere to start. Vic pulled a half-full flask of whiskey from a sopping wet pocket and took a drink. The boxer's wife must have known he was still drinking, so her lies made her a prime suspect. Getting on the wagon certainly could kill a drunk like Feeney, Vic knew that from the way he felt after a long nap, let alone the week of sobriety his wife was claiming. But a hasty cremation was suspicious. Vic knew many dead irishmen, and right now his body should be sitting in a box on a bar somewhere having songs sung over it, not in a fucking jar.

Vic parted ways with the greaseball and headed off to one of his contacts to learn more about this shifty broad.