You know the first presidential debate is tonight, don't you? I love debates, all sorts of debates. Debates are great to watch and a lot of fun to participate in. There is no more patriotic and civil form of discourse than the debate. Even though I love debates, the presidential debates tend to be pretty boring. With only two people debating, you only get to hear two points of view. I prefer to hold debates with multiple people, from all walks of life. A large mass of enthusiastic people all debating their ideas at the same time. A Mass Debate.
Every year in my home town, we hold the annual Mass Debating Festival. We invite participants from around the world all with differing points of view and get them all debating at once. I just love watching all the dozens of men passionately mass debating in front of everyone. I always make sure to bring the kids, they can really learn something from watching so many people mass debating. Last year, old Mr. Jenkins felt well enough to leave the hospital and join us for a good old mass debate. He's been mass debating for almost 80 years!
Everybody mass debates differently. Personally, I can't mass debate very well if nobody is paying attention to me. I like it when all eyes are on me when I mass debate or I can't perform. I also grant that courtesy to my fellow mass debaters when it is their turn to mass debate. Civil mass debating is very important, I always encourage all the mass debaters to be polite and courteous to their fellow mass debaters. That way we can all mass debate without fear of frustration or embarrassment.
When planning to mass debate, pick your topics carefully. Tempers can flare when certain issues are raised whiled mass debating. Religion and abortion can always cause problems for mass debaters. Nothing can stop a good mass debating session than talking about abortion. Also, make sure to have a selection of beverages available. A vigorous mass debate can really make people thirsty.
It's never too late to mass debate. Call all your closest friends now and ask them if they would like to mass debate with you and some other curious mass debaters. With all the fun to be had, how could they say no?
Good luck Mass Debaters!!
Application for Employment
Position: Boyfriend
Job Description:
Seeking giving and emotionally/financially stable male to provide personal support and occasional sexual gratification. Good physical and dental health a plus, must be at least 5'10" tall. Drug addicts, smokers, and alcoholics need not apply. Please include up to date photograph and detailed references with contact information.
Name:
Chad Tuddy
Date:
Oct 2 2012
DOB:
June 25 1952
References:
- That girl in the photo developing store with the neck tattoo at the nicer Walmart here in town, available on facebook/Walmart
- Jean Givens, available for limited phone contact with Tennessee state department of corrections, 615-741-0000 ext. 8095
- Ellen Warner, no available phone, can be contacted in person at the corner of 35th and Venture, Cleveland OH
Education and Certifications:
Seven years of Jr./Sr. highschool education, awarded GED on Nov 9 2010, completed 20 hrs drug and alcohol classes, formally licensed for motor vehicle operation, certified mentally fit to stand trial by the state of Tennessee
Qualifications:
I am a currently single, unattached father of five and FORMER addict and alcoholic. But do not worry about any complicated stepmother-type attachments, as I am not permitted contact with my children as a condition of my parole and am functionally estranged from them. I am living proof that nice guys finish last unless they take things by force, in which case nice guys serve comparably stiff criminal sentences. I like dogs, cats, fine dining, all sorts of music, long walks on the beach, and pretty much anything else that will improve my chances of getting laid. I am easy going and am able to laugh at myself, but I don't take no shit from people who think they are better than me.
Additional Skills and Considerations:
I am a technically proficient banjo player, and have ample experience as a homemade tattoo artist. I am most comfortable when shirtless and shoeless, and can run on bare feet for miles. If you get a chance to meet me, I will show you my "flaccid helicopter" trick. I would prefer a mate with already arranged living accommodations, unless you are prepared to crash in the passenger seat of my pickup. I am a romantic at heart and will frequently insist on driving drunk, because my baby ALWAYS rides shotgun. I'm just a gentleman like that.
Seven hours into my incarceration I started sobering up, which was unfortunate. Just about the worst place in the world was in jail and sober, where the bars obstruct enough of your view for the eyes that are always watching to remain unseen but not enough to hide from them. At least I had drowned out a brief visit to the emergency room where I received a few dozen stitches and some bandages to tidy up my severed wrist from when the off duty cop tackled me onto my whiskey glass. I wanted to tear off my bandages and chew through the sutures like a freshly neutered dog. Laying next to me on the bench was a snoring drunk, one of those old men that have been in here enough times to feel comfortable enough to sleep. I envied him for his persistence, mostly because I planned to be long dead before counted as many miles as him.
The cops told me the man I hit was an off duty officer taking his daughter out for a drink on her day off from university. I guess young girls these days all dress like whores, but I wasn't sure I believed them. Cops always cover for each other. But regardless I was looking at a handful of serious charges that would probably grow by the time I saw a judge. They gave me a chance to make a phone call and I thought about giving Vanessa a ring, but I just told them to fuck off. Maybe she would assume I was screwing around on her and leave me.
I wasn't even able to finish my thought before the taller cop was opening the loud gate, causing the sleeping drunk to wake abruptly and grab my leg for balance. The cop gestured for me and I rose, expecting their unseen eyes had noticed the pinkness on my bandages and were getting me fresh dressings. It doesn't look good if a guy bleeds out in a jail cell. Too much paperwork. They didn't say a word as they cuffed me, led me through two doors, then unexpectedly took the cuffs off before turning around and leaving the room. Vanessa was there.
She drove me home in my own fucking car, crying the whole damn way. She told me she called the hospital and confirmed I was admitted to the emergency room, and threw a fit when they didn't buy her lie about being my wife and refused to give her details about me without ID. She assumed I was in jail. Lucky guess, I suppose. I asked how she got me released but she didn't give a clear answer, just assured me I didn't ever have to go back, that it was all a misunderstanding and there would be no trial. I didn't argue.
When we got home to my apartment there was a fresh bottle waiting for me, and I appreciated it. After pouring and emptying a glass I got up and turned the radio on for her. Vanessa cried and I held her in my arms until I was too drunk to feel her there.
This morning I received a text message from my dearest co-blogger, Terlet. This message gave me the title of my next post as dictated by yesterday's announcement of our newest challenge, Blog Buddies! so I have written a short story to fit the title he gave me, "Molestros The Monster Rider". Now I need to think up an equally absurd topic for him tomorrow, as it will be his turn to answer the Blog Buddies Challenge! I do hope you enjoy...
The night was quiet except for the breathing of the tentacle beast that served as a trusty mount, and in the mind of Molestros, it was sorely missing the screams of forcibly manhandled children. There was a time that Molestros was known simply as Sullivan the bone carver, but those days ended when he accepted the mighty "Gloves of Inappropriate Fondling" as payment for the carving of a particularly intricate bone whistle. The elf that traded the gloves with him seemed eager to be rid of them, and now it was clear why.
When Sullivan the bone carver slid the gloves onto his calloused hands he was transformed into a man possessed of an insatiable urge to molest children, which quickly earned him the contemptible moniker "Molestros". After being run out of dozens of small villages in the area, many of them nearly leading to his involuntary castration, he decided that he needed to gain a swift and terrifying mount to dissuade his future pursuers.
That decision led him to undertake a dangerous quest to tame the feared swamp tentacle beast using a large quantity of hypnotic drugs which broke the wild will of the creature until it was accepting of a saddle and rider. Now he was considered the most fearsome child molester in the land, eclipsing even Gerald "Stinkfinger" McCallister and "Quelas of the Penetrating Tongue" as most prolific threat to the purity of children.
But despite his near constant stream of youthful victims, Molestros was unable to quench his considerable thirst for them. And his urges stood little chance of ever being satisfied while the most sexually desirable child in the realm remained unfondled. The boy's name was Darrien Toberra, the son of duke Toberra the pure. The entire realm knew the boy would face the threat of every pedophile within range of the duke's hilltop fortress when he was born. There was none who laid eyes on him that could deny his sexiness, and even the most chaste priest had to avert their eyes to suppress their evil desires.
Many had tried to defeat the defenses of the duke's fortress just to be repelled by the high walls and plentiful archer support, but Molestros held an undeniable edge. The tentacles of his fearsome mount could scale any wall with ease, and it's tough hide would protect them from the piercing arrows of many volleys. It was time for him to strike and claim his prize, and he was eager to lay siege as soon as the next dawn broke.
At first light Molestros struck. With the ease of a lubricated member unto an unwilling orifice he penetrated the fortress walls and fell on the vulnerable living quarters of the duke and his son. But unable to define a recognizable entrance to their domicile, and driven by the call of the Gloves of Inappropriate Fondling, Molestros abandoned the tentacle beast and tumbled through a small window, ready to face any challenge. But once he rounded the first corner he saw a room dimly lit with a small fireplace, with a small but luxurious bed at it's center. And in that bed laid a child so perfect, so clean, and so pure, that Molestros was shocked into a tunnel vision of lust, the only object of his desire within the reach of his hungry, unholy gloves.
And there he paced forward silently with outstretched arms, careful not to wake the sweet, sleeping babe, when he saw a glimmer at the periphery of his vision. It was the duke, laying in wait to protect his undeniably sexy spawn. His broadsword split the air, cleaving Molestro's hands at the forearms and sending them tumbling across the floor into the waiting fire. No longer under the control of the gloves, it was Sullivan the bone carver, not Molestros the Monster Rider, that screamed in pain at his newly bloodied stumps. And looking into his welling eyes, duke Toberra the pure saw the change in this man's eyes. It was clear that it was the evil gloves that drove this victim to force himself upon countless children in the realm, and he laid before the duke as a helpless man in dire need of his mercy.
It was this thought that traveled through the mind of the duke as he swung the blade of his broadsword once more, separating Sullivan's head from his body, leaving a quivering mass of redeemed pedophile bathing in the soft light of the fire. And so it ended, with duke Toberra staking the head of the feared Molestros at the gates of his fortress for all to see, and as testament to the will of this father to protect his still very, very sexy young boy from any unwelcome buggering.
THE END
Holy Fuck! I can't believe they are going to do Name That Post! This is soooo epic! You are in for a fucking treat, bitches! Terlet is going to name a post title for Hamtackle to write about, and fucking vice versa!! Can you fucking believe that shit!?
Tomorrow's post will be written by Hamtackle, but he will have to come up with something based off of whatever bullshit Terlet spits out. The day after that, Terlet steps up to the fucking plate to riff off of Hamtackle's brain baby. If Hamtackle comes up with "How My Love of Hitler Made Me a Better Pedophile", Terlet would have to write a whole post about it. Classy concept, yes?
I can't wait to see what they fucking come up with! Tune in for the next two days to find out! Have we ever disappointed you before? Bon Voyage, bitches!
Having another person in your bed every morning is a change for the average promiscuous bachelor, and was disturbing my sleep habits. I was sleeping three or four hours a night despite drinking six hours a day, and often woke up in that delirious state between inebriation and coherence, crowded in the corner of a bed that was once my personal pasture. But things were getting more tolerable with Vanessa backing off my less desirable habits and not hassling me about my lack of employment ambitions. The money still poured freely from her pockets and showed no sign of slowing, so I had every opportunity to channel my drunken thoughts into writing.
I wrote about the homeless, the hopeless, and the disenfranchised, stories about loss, lust, and violence. All things close to my heart. But my apartment felt as confined as my bed did now, so I started spending more time at the bar. I was in the middle of writing a paragraph that afternoon that featured a teenage runaway being raped by her former schoolteacher when I abruptly stopped and marched out the door, looking for a bar stool to warm up. I went two blocks west, across the empty lot near the pawn shop to the nameless bar that was known only by the neon white pony out front.
The place was as familiar with me as I was with it now, although not a single soul knew my name. They had the good sense not to ask around here. It was the kind of bar that was popular with anonymous strangers that wanted to stay that way, a windowless refuge with few patrons and fewer lights, where the flash of a cigarette lighter gave birth to long shadows that briefly populated the lonely corners. A great place to do some serious mid-day drinking.
The door squealed it's alarm and unwelcome light flooded in as I was finishing another whiskey and in walked a bald old man with a young whore in tow. It was only when the sunlight came in that you realized how thick the smoke was and it was revolting to me. I had almost every bad habit imaginable but I never understood cigarettes, even thought I tried hard to get hooked on them when I was a kid. The pair sat at a table behind me and loudly ordered a beer and a soda, then discussed how much nicer the bar would be if they added some more lamps and a jukebox. I was physically biting my tongue to avoid regurgitating obscenities all over them. So I decided to distract my mind with an ambitious amount of hard drink.
I had turned slightly on my stool to keep an eye on them, but couldn't hear a word they were saying now that they acclimated their volume to the silence around them. All I heard was whispers and the clinking of ice cubes from the girl's straw as she playfully swirled it around the glass. I wondered how young she was. She looked like a kid, and he was old enough to be her father. Or her schoolteacher.
They dominated my thoughts for the better part of an hour as I grew drunker, dwelling on his grinning face and her reciprocal half-hearted smile as this asshole made incoherent small talk. Before I knew it I was standing over him, looking down on his bald crown. I'm not sure what I said, but they both looked startled until the guy stood up and defensively put his open hands out between us. He was over six feet tall, not quite my height but tall enough that we would look like an even match if we ended up explaining ourselves to the police.
The already quiet room became noticeably more silent until the bartender grabbed me by the shoulders and said something that sounded to me like he was speaking underwater, and I momentarily lost my balance before regaining my full height. Then I hit the guy, sending him falling across the table in a symphony of crashing glasses punctuated by the wailing of his younger companion. I looked down and saw that I miraculously still had my drink in my hand, unspilled, and took a sip while I watched the young whore go to his aid. It was a good clean hit but I hadn't expected such a chaotic result, and was surprised when he started to get back up. But before he got upright he lunged into my hips and I crashed to the ground, a flash crossing my vision as the back of my head bounced off the wet concrete. Before I regained my composure I realized I was in handcuffs, and my attacker was pulling a long shard of glass out of my wrist from the whiskey glass I had been holding. And he was reading me my rights.
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We can all breathe a sigh of relief now that we know that the potential next first lady, Ann Romney, is safe and sound after her flight had an emergency landing in Denver after some elecronic difficulty. I'm sure we can all agree that situation would shake even the strongest among us, and I wouldn't wish that kind of stress on anyone. But now that the crisis is over we have a new statement from Mitt Romney that raises a very serious question about airline safety that has been somehow overlooked since the advent of commercial air travel. Could it be that our next president may have saved countless lives by raising concern about a glaring oversight in airplane design? Read his remarks below to decide for yourself.
"I appreciate the fact that she is on the ground, safe and sound. And I don’t think she knows just how worried some of us were. When you have a fire in an aircraft, there’s no place to go, exactly, there’s no — and you can’t find any oxygen from outside the aircraft to get in the aircraft, because the windows don’t open. I don’t know why they don’t do that. It’s a real problem." - Willard Mitt Romney
Son of a bitch! He is right! All this time I have been flying in planes and I never once noticed that the windows don't open! I mean, what if we needed more oxygen? Maybe some terrorist releases sarin gas in the bathroom and we need to renew our clean air supply, then what? And what the fuck are those stupid oxygen masks for that the flight attendant goes on about before takeoff? Did they seriously put oxygen masks in the plane and STILL not realize that all our problems could be solved with a simple latch, or maybe even a screen door?
Wait a second... I'm starting to remember something else the flight attendant was talking about... Didn't she mention that the oxygen masks would self deploy in the instance of a dramatic decrease of pressure in the cabin? And come to think of it, I'm pretty sure that the air is kinda thin at the cruising altitude of over 30,000 feet. Hold off on the medal ceremony for single-handedly saving lives by revolutionizing aeronautical design, folks. It appears Mitt Romney hasn't demonstrated his qualifications as an engineer, but may have just pointed out that he is retarded.
How could it be that a harvard-educated, bilingual, wildly successful businessman doesn't know that airplanes must maintain cabin pressure to prevent the loss of oxygen? He attended public high school for years before going to private schools, and is young enough to have been exposed to the concept of commercial flight for his whole life. And any high school student will tell you that opening a window on a moving plane is a fucking horrible idea. But I don't buy that Romney is THIS stupid.
Perhaps he has always lived with incredible wealth, and never was exposed to commercial flight where the attendant clearly explains all about cabin pressure. Think about it... He might only know air travel from the perspective of a private jet owner, where the in-flight staff don't interrupt your caviar brunch with silly safety announcements. Is he that far removed from the average person that he just hasn't shared such a basic experience with the rest of us? I think so. Either that, or he really is a robot with no need for silly human things like air.
Hi folks, sorry it's been a while since we answered any fan-mail. We have been extremely busy, as you can imagine. I had a bit of down time today, so I decided to rummage through the mail bag a bit. Normally it's just a bunch of asskissery and bullshit, but today I noticed something special. Something I just had to share with our dedicated audience.
"Anonymous" left this comment today on the post entitled "Time For Beanylon 5".
First, thanks for watching "Time For Beanylon 5". I thought it was a piece of shit, but I'll accept any compliment. I would just like to say, thank you Anonymous. Really, I do appreciate the encouragement. I am proud that you think we are the easiest thing to be aware of on the net. That is a big accomplishment. You seem to really understand what we are going for, we really get irked while people think about worries that they just do not know about, too. I mean, it's infuriating, right?
We strive for quality here at Popular Irony, It's nice to hear that we managed to hit the nail upon the top with our content. I agree, people can take a signal. I hope you do come back for more, Anonymous. I will surely check out your website "Penis Advantage Scam". It sounds intoxicating.
Keep that fan-mail comin', folks!
It hadn't even been two full weeks since Vanessa moved in and already I was trying to lose her. She had cleaned the apartment from top to bottom, starting with the mess she left me in the kitchen and only ending after every trace of my existence was scrubbed from the yellowed wallpaper. I felt a sense of loss like I had been robbed of my filth.
So I sat alone in the living room and drank up all her money, speaking only when I needed something from her, sex or money. Her bounds were being tested and she reacted as if she knew this game, like an old boxer that doesn't flinch the feint anymore. She made my meals, restocked my liquor supply, and even sent off my bills for me without asking. I became dependent on her for my daily life and I suspected that was how she wanted it all along.
Vanessa loved my music. At first I played it loudly to drown her out of my life, but now I forced her to sit with me in silence out of spite. I told her I had headaches and it felt good to regurgitate the lie I heard so often from other women looking to weasel out of fucking. I needed distance so I told her I was going to look for a job, something I had abandoned as soon as she walked into my life, and filled my wallet with her money. She offered to drive me because I was drunk but I got angry and tried to start a fight over the issue, but she gave up so easily that it frustrated me.
So to the bar I went, already drunk, and bought a round for the lonesome strangers that were propped on the stools next to me. It was easy to throw around money when it wasn't yours, and I wanted nothing more than to find the bottom of Vanessa's pocketbook. After a couple hard drinks I was approached by two lovely ladies that turned out to be one rather tired looking broad named 'Destiny' once my vision straightened, and after some discussion we found out that we shared some common interests, mainly Vanessa's money and fornication, which we decided to spend the rest of the evening enjoying together. I'm not sure when it happened, but I emerged from my stupor with a second wind and ended up dragging this inebriated bitch around like a peg leg until I found my car parked out in the street.
On the way home I wondered silently how this would play out, fully aware that Vanessa was laying on my bed worrying that I was dead in a ditch or in jail, but I wanted to bring this whole bullshit situation to a head. Either she was going to accept me despite my foulness or she would leave, and I wasn't sure which I preferred. Destiny was trying hard to make with the sexy talk but she was terrible about it. She said she liked it rough but struck me as the type to cry uncle just when you had a fistful of her hair, so I told her to shut the fuck up and kept driving home in silence.
Walking up the stairwell I could hear the radio playing, Vanessa getting a fill of music before I brought my sad silence back into her life, and calmly walked through the door dragging Destiny behind me. It all happened so fast. Vanessa rushed at me and beat a closed fist against my face like she was stabbing me with an invisible knife. I took three or four licks until she focused her anger on Destiny, who had already turned to open the door, fumbling clumsily with the knob like an ape with a rubik's cube.
I didn't watch as the two fought savagely behind me, but both of them were audibly crying as I poured a fresh whiskey and drank deep. I could tell, however, that Vanessa cried from fury and Destiny from pain. Soon I heard the door slam and a muffled whimpering fade down the hallway as the victor gave the intruder a merciful escape. I turned around expecting to face another beating to find Vanessa bleeding mascara tears, her broken fingernails tangled with long blond hair, and I never wanted a woman so badly. Without speaking a word we attacked each other's tongues and shuffled into the bedroom where we fucked for hours. It was fantastic.