Once again, the top secret seal has been broken here at Popular Irony.  We present to you another of our highly classified, elite, anti-terrorist unit, P.I. JOE.  Below is one of our many fine soldiers.  Give the picture a click to view ManTits in all his full size P.I. JOE glory.

Collect them all!

My father worked hard every day of his life. He never missed work, even when he was coughing up blood, and he wouldn't accept weakness from anyone in the family. He was a harsh disciplinarian that was quick to use the belt, but he always let you know he wasn't mad by laughing maniacally while he laid out the lashes.

 But every Sunday he became a different man. We would come home from church and my father would head into a back room, leaving us all to wait with mounting anticipation as he prepared his weekly outlet, sometimes for hours on end. He would always let us know when he was ready by banging on an old replica goatskin drum that he bought on vacation in Panama, and the room would grow silent.

My father would come running out of a back room in a frenzy, usually naked, wearing some kind of mask fashioned out of notebook paper and duct tape. He would dance stiff-legged like a zombie, moaning a hypnotic speechless drone that had us all mesmerized for hours. It would end as abruptly as it started, father's naked body soaked with sweat and smelling of humid genitals. We watched him collapse onto his stomach and slowly drag himself into a bathroom where he disappeared for the remainder of the evening. He never took off the mask, and he never spoke or broke character.

The next day at breakfast everyone would laugh and tell stories about the previous night's performance, everyone but my father that is. He would quietly read the newspaper and drink his coffee, never looking up to acknowledge our presence. Sunday night were the only time my father wasn't a disturbingly serious figure in the house, and it was 180 degrees from his normal personality. Those times were some of my favorite memories in my youth.

A few months ago my father passed away after a long battle with lung cancer, and for the first time in decades my whole family were reunited to organize the funeral. Everyone decided that I should be the one to eulogize him, probably because no one wanted the responsibility because they didn't know what to say. I stayed up for days trying to think of what to say, but I decided to tell the tale of my father's Sunday performances. I got up to the pulpit and poured out my heart about how my dad became a fantastic lively dervish, so contrary to his normal persona.

I had noticed that everyone remained very somber during my story, and I was disappointed that my mood wasn't more contagious. I had hoped for a more happy ceremony. After everyone left I found myself alone with my mother. She had handled the stress of all this so well. She looked at me and asked "Why did you tell everyone about our Sundays? I am surprised you would want to share those times..." I explained that I loved his alter ego, and he was so free and happy that I always wanted to remember him that way. That is when my mother explained that everyone at the funeral but me knew my father had an alcohol problem, but he was excellent at hiding the symptoms. He was so good at hiding it that most of the family decided that the whole thing was blown out of proportion, and he was probably not an alcoholic. That all changed when I told everyone all about my dad wearing a paper and duct tape mask while moaning and dancing naked for hours every Sunday night.

I love you, dad.

She traded all her future freedom

For just one night of sweaty breedin'

Now a baby's gonna take away her dreams...

It was the drink that dulled her senses

And left her poor uterus defenseless

She's reconsidering her Pro Life stance, it seems...

Get on the A-B-O-R-T-I-O-N train

Do it right and there will be no pain

A crying baby would drive you insane

So let the doctor vacuum out it's brain

Get on the A-B-O-R-T-I-O-N train

Do it right and there will be no pain

A crying baby would drive you insane

So let the doctor vacuum out it's brain

It's been two months since her procedure

And her doctor's come to see her

Making sure she's coping well with all the guilt

He was shocked at what he found there

His recent patient was on the ground bare

Every orifice she had filled to the hilt

Get on the A-B-O-R-T-I-O-N train

Do it right and there will be no pain

A crying baby would drive you insane

So let the doctor vacuum out it's brain

Get on the A-B-O-R-T-I-O-N train

Do it right and there will be no pain

A crying baby would drive you insane

So let the doctor vacuum out it's brain

Some whores will never learn the lesson

It leaves all the rest of us just guessin'

Why she likes the hanger more than closing up her knees

What if she became a teenage mother

A litter of small children there to love her

She'd drown them in the tub before they turned three

Get on the A-B-O-R-T-I-O-N train

Do it right and there will be no pain

A crying baby would drive you insane

So let the doctor vacuum out it's brain

Get on the A-B-O-R-T-I-O-N train

Do it right and there will be no pain

A crying baby would drive you insane

So let the doctor vacuum out it's brain

Disclaimer:  This is, of course, a work of fiction.  This is not an actual interview with Fred Phelps.  If you want to read an actual interview with Fred Phelps then go google that shit or something.

Fred Waldron Phelps Sr. is the head of the Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kansas, which is infamous for the controversial picketing of military funerals to warn of the consequences of a sinful society. He is at the center of a cultural paradigm shift as America grows increasingly progressive with matters of sexuality. He arrives two hours late, with a cowboy hat and enormous wraparound sunglasses. It is dark in the room, but he does not remove the glasses.

PI: Thank you for joining us, Mr. Phelps. We understand that you rarely agree to interviews and we appreciate that you have made an exception for our esteemed publication. To begin, I must know how you came to the realization that you were being called to Church.

FP: Well, this may surprise you, but I wasn't always drawn to the lord. My first love was for art, and at twenty years old I had my dream job of illustrating childrens books for the Louisiana branch of the Ku Klux Klan. It was mostly fun stories that ended with forcible sodomy perpetrated by various minorities. But the Klan don't pay well, and I had to pursue law to make ends meet.

PI: That's fascinating, Susan. Do you think your views on homosexuality were at all molded by your early sodomy-themed artwork?

FP: I admit that I was frequently aroused when I was... Did you just call me Susan? I'm pretty sure you called me Susan.

PI: I'm sorry? I assure you I did no such thing. Please continue.

FP: Yes, where was I... You see, when I was young there was no mention of queerdom in public. It is only natural that a developing boy become intrigued by the taboo, dabble in it, become filled with self loathing, then deny the humanity of anyone else who reminds him of his own shame.

PI: Are you saying what I think you are saying? Did you participate in homosexual activity in your youth?

FP: Heavens no, you pervert. I would never consider joining the sinners in the practice of any faggotry whatsoever! You have offended me, sir.

*Mr. Phelps rises to leave, but after an offering of ribbon candy is convinced to continue*

PI: My apologies for the unpleasantness, Mr. Phelps. You were explaining how your delicious body came to such a passionate position on homosexuality.

FP: After much experimentation I decided that anal sex was not only icky, but also terribly dangerous. I was recovering from a self-inflicted perforated colon when I nearly went septic. There were a few scary nights in the hospital before I turned over my body to the church. It turns out that clergymen have an amazing familiarity with my type of injury, and they were able to nurse me back to health. In repayment I turned my life over to God.

PI: I would be negligent as an interviewer if I didn't point out that a self-inflicted colon injury sounds like homosexual experimentation. Susan, how do you reconcile your aggressive rhetoric about gay culture when you participated in it?

FP: You called me Susan again. You keep trying to portray my youthful indiscretions as queer play, and I will have none of it! Everywhere I look I see the sin of gays! God has cursed me with a total fixation on all things gay, particularly images of aroused male genitailia, in the hopes that I could spread the message of the lord! Heed my words, sinner, lest you be condemed to eternal damnation!

PI: You know, I had friend once that was fixated on all things gay. It turns out he just likes the taste of wieners. I could introduce you two, you know...

FP: You bait me to come here on false pretenses, just so you can do the devil's work? I will suffer no indignity to a wretch such as yourself! You will burn in Hell amongst the mass of queers, all nude and sweating! A throbbing cluster of male ecstacy interwoven, man into man, endlessly fornicating in a commitment-free orgy of anonymous lust! You will drink deep of the male essence, and you will stink of a hard-earned perfume of mixed human excretions!

PI: Wow. That is the gayest thing I have ever heard, and I have attended the Tony Awards twice.

*Pastor Phelps gets up with much assistance from his muscular Italian companion and quickly exited, unashamed of his sizable erection.*

Despite repeated attempts to reach Fred Phelps for additional comments we received no response. Popular Irony does not endorse the views of Fred Phelps or the Westboro Baptist Church, although we do find them to be hilarious.

Me with more teeth than now

Hey there, movie people! It's me, Frisky Pete. Sorry that I wasn't on the internet for bunch of weeks but I was living it up in the jail. They give you lots of food that wasn't even from trash cans, and I got all the methadone I could swallow, but they made me go a week ago because public nakedness is not a big enough crime to stay longer. Since then I was able to go to some more movies, especially since I found a bus pass in the mud.

Just two days ago I went to see a movie called "Footloose" that was a lot like another movie that I saw a long time ago, but I can't remember the name of that movie. There was lots of old people at the movie, and it smelled like popcorn and band-aids in the movie room. I was tired from drinking and I missed a lot of the movie because I was going to the bathroom a lot, and it takes a long time when you have one leg. Then I started going on the floor in the back of the rows of seats, which is ok because there is a slope and the pee goes away from you. The movie was about farming, dancing, and high school. I have never done any of those things. Although it is less ambitious remake than some in recent memory, the overall tone quite capably reflects the rebellious nature of the source material.

Next I went all the way across town to the Mexican's movie house, the one that is cheaper than other ones. That way I can pay for tickets with change, which makes the teenagers at the other movie places look angry at me. I paid for a mexican movie but went into the room for "Real Steel". I like that movie house also because it smells real bad, and nobody looks at me for how bad I smell. This movie had real big robots that punch other robots. I wondered why the robots weren't punching all the people, but I couldn't tell because the movies were in Mexican and I can't hear it good. The film has some exciting boxing scenes that will please the target demographic, but the father-son story feels a little forced and out of place. Overall it will be satisfying only to those with low expectations.

After I saw the first two movies I went to look at the "Paranormal Activity 3" one, mostly because it is the scariest real life movie series in the world. The killing ghosts are back in this movie, and the people still don't believe it right away. I think all people in haunted houses should have video cameras so we can see the ghosts. There is a little kid in this one that the ghosts really like, just like in the movie "Poltergeist". This movie made me so scared that I moved my box under a light so there isn't any dark around me at night. The third installment in the Paranormal Activity franchise remains largely a by-the-numbers thriller, but has some genuine thrills between the movie clichés. Fans will genuinely approve.

I am going to try to see some more movies but I have to find out if I got an old woman that lives in the park pregnant. If I didn't then I can spend all my begging dollars on movies. If I did then I am going to go live in Portland.

Jeremy Moore is a very special person.  He is kind, unassuming, punctual and very good at his job.  He is well liked by his coworkers and neighbors, is physically fit, is kind, generous and he has Down syndrome.

Jeremy has a 24 hour caretaker named Eric, he is Jeremy’s brother and best friend.  Jeremy and Eric both work as custodians at the local chemical plant. Late one evening, they were busy cleaning the production floor when the rear doors burst open.  Several masked and armed men stormed the building. 

The men were surprised to find Jeremy and Eric.  "You said this place would be empty!" Shouted a robber with a beer belly.  The robbers forced them to the ground and told them to be silent or they would be shot.  Jeremy’s caretaker tried reasoning with the robbers while Jeremy blubbered and cried on the floor.  “Shut that idiot up!” shouted one of the robbers.

“You don’t understand, he has…” Eric started to say but his sentence was cut short by a mouthful of pistol butt.

Eric, mouth bloody, spit out several teeth.  Seeing his brother so badly hurt sent Jeremy into a panic.  Jeremy preformed a full body convulse which flipped the robber who was pinning him off of his back.  The robber who was pinning Eric scrambled to his feet to grab Jeremy.  Jeremy shoved him and screamed as he ran through the chemical plant.

One of the robbers took aim with his pistol at Jeremy’s back.  “No!!” screamed Eric as he leapt to his feet and dove in front of the firing gun.  Jeremy turned back to see his brother crumple into a bleeding, unconscious heap on the floor.

“Get him!”  Screamed the lead robber.

The robbers took off on foot after Jeremy.  Jeremy had enough wits to know that he had to hide or he was going to die.  Jeremy rounded a corner and saw a ladder leading up to one of the large chemical vats.  Jeremy quickly climbed to the top of the vat and saw that it was filled with a purple hued liquid that was lightly steaming.  This reminded Jeremy of his nightly baths and how soothing they were.  He thought that there would be no safer place to hide than the large unmarked tub of steaming chemical byproducts.

Jeremy lowered his body into the liquid and dunked under the surface just in time.  The robbers ran right past the vat and did not notice Jeremy hiding.  The liquid was warm and tingly.  It smelled like Vaseline but tasted like almonds and Listerine.  Jeremy liked the taste of almonds and Listerine and did not hesitate to swallow the thick, languid liquid.

 The robbers, unable to find Jeremy, broke into the main office vault, took what they were hired to take and started to leave the building.  As they were passing Jeremy heard one robber say to the other “Mr. Mascarpone is not going to be happy about this fucking botch job.”

“Don’t worry” said a robber. “We took the security footage, and that guy on the floor will be dead any second.  That Tard won’t be able to rat us out.  Nobody will know shit. ”

Jeremy  heard the conversation and for the first time, he really understood.  An ever-present fog had been lifted from Jeremy's brain.  "One more to the face ought to take care of this guy." said a robber as he pointed a handgun at Eric's head.

Jeremy acted without thinking, he vaulted from the vat like a steaming purple polar bear.  Jeremy hit the ground, streams of chemicals pouring off of his skin.  The robbers were frozen in surprised confusion.  Jeremy looked at himself.  He was naked, his skin a deep purple.  He had also grown in size by about 3 feet and 400lbs.  His muscles rippled and underneath that rippling was a large, very smart brain.

"Unhand my comrade you cretins!" Yelled Jeremy as he leapt at the robbers. 

The robbers, panic stricken, opened fire.

Jeremy was completely unsurprised by the bullets bouncing off of his skin.  "Of course that particular amalgamation of chemicals would combine with my unique genomic condition altering my DNA in such a way that I have accelerated intelligence and quasi-invulnerability.  It's all so simple."  Jeremy thought as he single-handedly beat and near-dismembered the almost successful robbers.

Jeremy rushed to his brother.  "Jer... *cough* Jeremy?  Issat?   Iss that  you?"

"Yes Eric, it is I.  Hold still my friend, you have a bullet in your chest."  Said Jeremy.

"Theresss... Theres nothin you *cough* can dooo.... Goodbye.. my brother."  Weezed Eric.

"Ha ha ha!  Don't be fucking stupid Eric.  It is simple."  With that, Jeremy put his mouth to Eric's sucking chest wound and with one loud *SSSHHHLUUURP* he held the bullet in his teeth.  Eric screamed but that did not stop Jeremy.  He quickly and delicately pulled a single string from Eric's sweater.  He wrapped the string around his finger and stuffed his finger in Eric's bullet hole. 

Jeremy wiggled his finger around for several seconds and pulled it out with a *THUCK*

"AAARRRR!! What did you do!" Screamed Eric.

"Oh I just halted the internal hemorrhaging and did a bit of stitch work on your various organ wounds.  They would heal up nicely now without more surgery, but just to be safe my friend, we should probably get you to a hospital."  Explained Jeremy.

Minutes later, the sirens approaching Jeremy felt a strange sensation.  "Ah, it appears my time in this superior form is no longer required at the moment.  I feel myself reverting to my standard appearance and intelligence. Eric, can you please keep my secret?  asked Jeremy.

"Of course. But what are you? What will happen to you?"

"I posit that the chemicals transmorphed all of the goodness and courage inside of Jeremy into another being.  I suppose I am not Jeremy.  The next time I am needed, I ask that you refer to me as RETARD STRONG!"  Bellowed Retard Strong.

"That is horribly fucking offensive Jeremy." said Eric.

"Retard Strong!" said Retard Strong.

"Fine then... That is horribly fucking offensive Retard Strong." said Eric.

"Thank You.  Take care of yourself and I will see you next time innocents are in danger and .. the puppy at the mall is named Bing and he is my fwend." said Retard Strong as he shrunk smaller and smaller, his skin tone reverting.

When the cops and ambulance arrived, they found a naked man with Down syndrome, a man with a well treated chest wound and several piles of unconscious broken men.  "They were robbing the place and they were molesting Jeremy and they beat me until a hero came and saved us!" Eric told the police.

"What hero?" asked the cops.

"Duh bestest mothawfuggin hewo awound, RETAWD STWONG!" shouted Jeremy.

Jeremy and Eric still work at the chemical plant, but now their evenings are a little more exciting.  Criminals across the city fear the pummeling, purple fist of Retard Strong.

Beware his Purple Pummeling Power Punks!

Vic dabbed at his bleeding throat with an old pair of his underwear, making a rare attempt to appear presentable for his upcoming meeting with uncharacteristically esteemed company. He wasn't even drunk. He had downed only enough booze to curb his shaking, and if he hadn't slashed his throat into ribbons while shaving with broken glass he would look almost respectable. There was a big payday coming for him soon, and although every ounce of his being was celebrating the coming excess of women and liquor, there was a place in his mind that thought this was his only chance. What if instead of checking out a fine hotel room for a few months he rented an apartment? What if he kicked the booze habit and bought a suit and a reasonable car? Vic was forty two years old now, but still young enough to have a family of his own someday. And for the first time in his life Vic questioned himself, uncomfortable with the realization that he had outlived his expectations. Maybe he could be normal...

But first he will have to secure his payment by presenting the evidence to his client. Vic grabbed a thick hardbound bible, a small thumb drive, and a filthy folder bursting with torn paper of varying sizes. He then headed out of the Taco Bell bathroom, past a heavyset female employee that had been waiting for him to leave. Vic figured she was the new girl since everyone that works here fears bathroom duty on Wednesdays, when he bathes. But who knows? Maybe this was the last time he will ever wash his balls in a sink. Vic felt confident, well groomed and handsome enough to get a whore on credit.

He stepped out into the familiar street and walked the few blocks to his bus bench. It felt somehow colder and less comfortable than ever, like he didn't belong anymore. After a few minutes Vic noticed a Cadillac making repeated passes, like it was looking for someone. Vic stepped out to the curb and waved the car over, leaning in to speak to the driver.

"Are you lost, stranger?" Vic asked. "I'm not sure, I was told I could find a particular detective around here, but I can't seem to find anyone matching his description..." Vic was smiling. Maybe he still cleans up well. "I'm your man. Name's Vic. I believe you will be escorting me to a meeting of sorts." The man looked surprised. "Mr. Musket, please join me. My name is Mr. Thomas. Mr. Alto is eager to speak with you." That was the first time Vic had heard his client's last name. He had apparently been using an alias in their previous conversations. That made him nervous.

After a rather uneventful drive Vic was led up a flight of stairs to a waiting elevator at a large business complex. In a few short moments he entered a beautiful executive office with a sprawling view of the city, and a solemn looking man with a huge gray mustache sitting at the desk. "Please excuse my bluntness, Mr. Musket, but I am about to pay you a great deal of money for something my security team failed to handle, and I am eager to put or business dealings behind me. Now please convince me I haven't wasted my money." Vic suddenly found himself empathizing with the Cangiani family goons he greased a while ago. This guy was an asshole. "Sure thing, Mr. Alto. Did you want to discuss how I brought you daughter's rapist to justice, or should I skip the details and go over my expenses?" Vic was playing with fire, but he knew he had this bastard by the balls.

"I can appreciate your sarcasm, Mr. Musket, but I assure you that the financial consequences of my daughter's attack were the least of my worries. I love my daughter very much, and it kills me that her innocence was stolen." Vic couldn't help but flash back to the image of his daughter savaging Benny, making him cry. Hopefully Mr. Alto was willing to pay good money to keep his pristine image of his daughter, although at this point Vic wouldn't mind crushing this asshole's world.

Vic tossed the heavy bible on the desk between them. "I believe this is what you are looking for. The proof of justice can be found in psalm 106: 3 Blessed are they who maintain justice, who constantly do what is right."

"I am impressed Mr. Musket. I did not think you to be a man of faith." Mr. Alto stated as he began to thumb through the book. "I'm not." Vic responded. "I was very 'close' with a priest at my Catholic school. Until he went to prison, anyway."

The rich man looked up momentarily, clearly disgusted. "That certainly is unfortunate, Mr. Musket. But I'm sure you can separate the evil of one man from that of the chur... JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!!!" Alto threw the bible forward, letting it tumble to the floor beside a thin strip of dried leather Vic had been using as a bookmark. An uncircumcised bookmark. "Goddamn it, Musket. I wanted proof he had been punished, but I didn't want his SEVERED COCK!"

"I wanted to make sure you were satisfied, considering you were paying me $60K for this." Vic picked up the scattered items and placed them back on the desk. "You could've warned me, I'm an old man you know! And how am I supposed to know it belongs to THE guy, huh? You could have cut that off anyone."

Vic had prepared for his client's doubts. He cut off Benny's lunch, but he let him go. He figured Benny wasn't a threat without his weapon, and he could turn the cock over for proof, but he made him sign a full confession (prior to the castration, of course). Vic pulled out the filthy portfolio and handed it over. "Here's all the evidence I have that I got your man. Now pay me."

After reviewing the documents Mr. Alto seemed both sick and satisfied. He tossed an envelope on the table, where Vic immediately snatched it up. "You've done your dirty work, Mr. Musket. Now leave my life forever. Mr. Thomas will deliver you wherever you wish to go."

"There's one final detail, Mr. Alto. I have more information, and I think it's worth double." Vic pulled a small thumb drive from his pocket and held it up between them. "You are a fool, Mr. Musket. You have shown your cards already. I want nothing else from you. Be gone, sir." The rich old man was losing his patience.

"I am not offering to show you the content of this drive. I am offering to make it disappear forever. I assure you, you don't want to see it." Vic's smile was growing. "Fuck off, you vagrant. I paid you per our arrangement. I didn't become rich by giving away my money." The old man stood up and gestured toward the door, rather rudely.

"Suit yourself. I'll just leave this here..." Vic placed the drive on Mr. Alto's desk. "Mr. Thomas, we are going shopping.". Vic new the old codger wouldn't be able to resist his curiosity for long.

Hours later Vic stood in a brand new suit, arms full of bags from the finest stores in the city. He felt transformed, lifted from his lowly street status and given another chance. He had the means to make a start. "Fuck it." Vic thought. Someone had to keep these poor whores in business. Vic tore the silk tie from around his neck and threw it into the gutter. He would never change, and he accepted it. His only regret is not being present to see the look on Mr. Alto's face when he reviewed the video on the thumb drive. He had it queued up to start with the pristine virgin daughter using a strap on to aggressively violate a sobbing Puerto Rican.

Hobo Justice never tasted so sweet.

The End

Good evening, dear devoted reader. Tonight we take a deviation from the normal everyday Popular Irony drivel, and I share with you a tale of sophistication and exciting chance encounters with people of a specific unfortunate genetic condition, Down Syndrome. Please curb your assumption that this will be a shameful story of ridicule, as I have nothing but reverence for the so afflicted population. I will not be using degrading terminology like retard, dingbat, wacky hump, noodle chaser, or flipper head. And being a man of science, I see great possibilities in the evolution of man into a primate with 47 chromosomes. So enjoy a guilt-free read.

I was coaxed into joining a co worker named Daniel for a much needed lunch break, and with myriad options for casual dining we settled on a staple franchise of the American business elite, Wendy's. The atmosphere was predictably depressing, crowded with people I would rather kill than befriend, and I remember I took note about the number of cowboy hats, which is never a good sign. And after we were served by a transparently gay smiling man with a perm, Daniel and I sat to enjoy our gastronomic discourse.

It was at this early juncture in our meal that we noticed a rather loud entrance of a group of four severely disabled men led by a seemingly outmatched, but clearly persistent man in a blue windbreaker. This pleased me, as a room ALWAYS becomes more exciting with the addition of full grown men that cannot be held accountable for their actions. The sight of these four men reminded me of something a friend once told me. She had worked as a caretaker for disabled people, and she claimed there was a rule when dealing with a group of mentally disabled people: you never mix male and female patients. Apparently if you turn your back for more than thirty seconds they will become locked in semi-consensual fornication. And if you ever want to witness true determination, look no further than the struggle of a 130 pound woman trying to break the rape embrace of a 300 pound virgin with NO potential for alternative mutual sexual opportunity.  But I digress.

The afflicted men noisily took there seats at the table behind me, with gentleman Daniel facing them. We were conversing about how to best subvert authority at our workplace and position ourselves for managerial mutiny, when I heard a loud cough from behind me. My first thought was "I sure hope this man's caretaker knows CPR, because I would rather not watch this simple brute choke to death", but then I realized he was entering the throws of violent regurgitation, the sound of wet splatters on paper burger wrappers with inhibition-free coughing and choking noises echoing through the room, which slowly subsided while I continued to face the opposite direction. I looked at Daniel to share my disgusted expression when he spoke "You're lucky. I watched the whole thing."

My curiosity got the better of me and I turned my attention to the spectacle behind me. The caretaker of the group was calmly mopping up vomit with an armful of napkins (he had apparently prepared for this possibility), entirely ignoring the splash damage to his windbreaker. The man who committed the offence was digging into the rest of his meal with unbroken resolve, and unwashed hands. Daniel abandoned his half eaten chili and watched me finish my burger with an empty stare in his eyes. And this is a man who has seen combat.

We all regard these interactions with the handicapped with complete tolerance, as we are all reminded of our own more fortunate circumstances. For me, I will always remember the amazing man that took vomit at point blank range and responded with compassion. And in exchange for performing this unpleasant but necessary function for us he probably gets paid comparably to the teenage staff of the Wendy's we were in. Thank you, under-appreciated hero.

Some consider suicide the most selfish possible act, and if this is true then one might consider the likelihood of making the national news when selecting a method of ending it all. And if you are not a child or a really attractive white girl, then your only chance for widespread publicity is shock value. Here is one great way to give your obituary dynamite media appeal: The Tight-Rope Terror!

This method would be best achieved by first gathering the raw materials necessary, followed by a rather unpleasant two-day preparation process. You would need 80 feet of strong nylon cord, a bucket filled with cement, and 10 pounds of butter or margarine. I also strongly suggest documenting this with a laptop/webcam, as this will surely go viral. Cut the cord in half and inspect the ends to make sure it will not easily unravel. Melt the ends with a lighter if necessary, then apply butter/margarine to the first ten feet of one of the cords. Over the next two days you will be performing the unpleasant task of swallowing the rope, inch by inch, until you have a couple feet of slack coming out of the anus. You should find that you have roughly 30-35 feet traveling through the labyrinth of your intestines.

The nylon will resist deterioration from your digestive tract and remain very strong. Now channel your inner boyscout and tie the second cord to the loose bit in your trousers. The strength of your knots will mean the difference between a horrifying but quick exit, and a slow, agonizing death from internal bleeding or sepsis. Now checkout a room on at least the 7th floor, and make sure you will have access to a window. Setup the webcam with a clear view, and make sure the audio is on. Tie the cord from your mouth to the bed, and the other to your cement bucket (again, strong knots!) and chuck the bucket out the window.

The webcam should catch the bulk of your insides vacating your backside in about five seconds, creating a Jackson Pollock out of human shit and blood on the wall surrounding the window. The sound would be similar to a massive water balloon filled with thawed ice cream hitting hot pavement, peppered with nonsensical moans if genuine human anguish. But what an act of self-hate! I certainly do not have the minerals or mental disposition to be attempting this for myself any time soon, so I am sharing my creation with you all. See you on the Internet!

Next: Antichrist

I can admit that I am a somewhat picky eater. I like food prepared a certain way and can find myself unwilling to try something new, and if I ever do submit to the unfamiliar I am quick to declare my prior culinary prejudices proven factual. It's the same way with people for me. But I have been noticing a rash of horribly paired flavors being churned out by food manufacturers, and find myself wondering why there is so much experimentation going on in this weak economy, when launching a failed product could spell financial disaster.

Case in point: There is a vending machine at work, in the break room. I rarely purchase anything from it, mostly because there is something hilarious about a fat guy walking around with a half-eaten candybar in his doughy mitts, chocolate smeared across his face like a filthy felching outtake. That would be me, and if I caught anyone (justifiably) laughing at my expense I would beat them and anyone that came to their aid to an unrecognizable mass of battered flesh, broken bones and connective tissue. And I don't want that on my conscience because I AM A GOOD PERSON!... Where was I... Oh yes, in the vending machine I find a whole row of shiny new packages of Honey Barbecue Cheeto Puffs. Just typing it makes me gag a little. I tried to get some strangers that were wandering about to eat them, I even offered to pay, but no takers.

There is one other product that I have seen in tv ads this week that makes me want to throw up. It is the Fiery Pepper Southern Comfort liquor that was recently released. Seriously, was anyone asking for this shit? Now I don't often speak ill of alcohol, and have been known to drink Southern Comfort until about 8 years ago when the stuff made me fuck someone I didn't want to, and ever since when I smell the bottle I can taste sweat and tunafish. But they already fucked up the whiskey by putting molasses in it, now they have to douse it with the most flavor-dominating condiment in history, Tobasco?

These detestable products are a troubling sign of things to come. Considering the barbecue Cheetos and Tabasco booze I will be surprised if we don't see frosting dipped shrimp, or Ketchup flavored ice cream. I know that America is the "home of the free, and land of the morbidly obese mother of eleven with two failed gastric bypass surgeries and a foot that is rotting away from diabeetus, but can't afford to get the amputation until this 2012 Suburban is paid off" but even we have standards. So let me be the fat sage in the desert of comically bad food, leading the bovine masses to their eventual salvation like Moses to the wandering Jews. Don't buy this garbage and it will go away, maybe even before the Europeans get wind of it.