I decided to take the easy way out on my post for tonight, so I whipped up some shitty presidential photoshop images for you!  I sure do hope you enjoy them, but if not, well fuck you!

Here we have the standard tiny face Obama.  It isn't very offensive, but if you want to get all political I guess you could say he has an inflated head to match the bloated deficit that he is drowning this country in!  Drill baby drill!  Go back to Kenya!  We DID build that! blah blah blah

And here we have the famous old photo of Mitt Romney in France professing his love for... ANAL?  Oh my gosh, what would the almighty Jesus think from atop his throne on the planet Kolob?  Mittens looks awkward just kissing his wife, so I can only imagine the scene of him jamming his pale, turgid member into her pooper!

And here we have the gaffmeister himself, smokin' Joe Biden!  He is well known for doing the most inappropriate things... like EATING BABIES!  Oh, dear lord!  What has Joe done this time?  For god's sake, this will certainly cost him the election!

And finally we have sweet little Paul Ryan.  He is so precious in his little hat, showing off his muscles!  But this one is absolutely ridiculous.  I mean, who would believe that a vice presidential running mate would EVER take these kinds of hilarious glamour shots and allow them to see the light of day!  Come on, no self respecting full grown man would pose for these shitty pictures.  Oh, wait.  I didn't photoshop these...

It was roughly 7 am when I realized my "fully furnished" room came without curtains or blinds, and I staggered still drunk to the toilet and emptied myself, the fresh wound in my bicep burning like the knife was still there. I love waking up in an unfamiliar place. It gives me brief optimism that maybe I got laid last night and was in some anonymous woman's apartment. But no such luck. As I walked into the bedroom I focused my attention on Vanessa's purse, curious about what else was in there other than the money I already plundered. I dumped the whole bag of shit on the bed and wondered at the piles of candies, breath mints, tubes of lipstick, scraps of paper, and assorted jewelry that I didn't remember ever seeing her wear. She even had a pair of panties in there, I shit you not.

But after separating the jewelry from the garbage I noticed a thick envelope that had fallen to the ground, and recognized it as the letter that she had to sign for the other night. Normally I would never violate a person's privacy by opening their mail, but fuck it. The bitch stabbed me. So I tore it open. My eyes lit up when I saw the stack of 100 dollar bills tucked inside a one page letter. This must be it, the source of Vanessa's never-ending wads of cash!


 

My dearest Vanessa,

I suppose you will be wondering why I am including only two thousand in this month's letter. The short answer is that I don't trust that you went through with it this time. I sent Bartley over to your home and discovered that you no longer lived there, and it took some time and effort to find you in this new apartment. I give you more than enough money to afford a place in a much nicer neighborhood, so I can only assume you are "shacked up" with another hopeless vagrant.
I have no intention of rubbing salt in a sensitive wound, but must I remind you of our arrangement? You are living well on no small amount of my money, and I ask only for your discretion in return. I understand the physical and emotional toll that you are subjected to whenever you visit Dr. Paige, but that is why I have been sending an extra thousand for the last two months despite not hearing a word from you. And God help us both if you didn't go through with it this time.
Please drop by Bartley's offices to clear this matter up, and I assure you I will pay the extra thousand once he assures me you have been keeping up your end of the bargain.

P.S. I know you don't want to hear this, but I still love you.

Dad

"Jesus fucking Christ" I whispered as I read the last line. I may be an uneducated and drunken degenerate, but I could read between these lines. Vanessa wasn't a mother. She wasn't a formerly successful business woman. She wasn't even a fallen socialite widow. She was a three-time abortion patient with an incestuous past. Well, I guess this explained why she never showed me pictures of her kids...

There seems to be some confusion about how a man reaches orgasm when copulating with a significant (or insignificant) other. But I have some valuable information to help clear up the situation. By my calculation there are four elements that, when mixed in equal proportions, lead to a prompt and satisfying male orgasm. So take a few moments to review and improve your sex life.

Friction

- Never to be underestimated, friction is the most important of the four components to a perfect male orgasm. In fact, this element alone is responsible for 90% of all male orgasms as a whole! The focus of the friction effort should be dedicated to the tip of the man meat, but some shaft pressure makes a welcome accompaniment to the experience. But we aim for a higher standard, a ball-rattling geyser of manjoyment. So read on, because there is so much more to learn.

Pain

- Ask any man if he enjoys a little pain in his sex life and you will learn a lot about him from the response. If he says yes, then he is a road hardened traveler, an orifice-spelunker of considerable experience, and a man who has crossed the line of vanilla sexual action, marked his territory, and returned for seconds. If he says no, then you can be assured he is a virginal and boring character, perhaps in the grip of a guilt-laden religious prison, and almost certainly an unadventurous lover. To the ladies, consider this question when speed dating to weed out the boys from the men. In application the method of pain is limited only by your imagination. But the scale of safety goes like this: leather>wood>steel>fire.

Humiliation

- Perhaps even darker territory than pain, humiliation ups the ante of sexual transgression by including elements such as diapers, leashes, and cross-dressing to increase testicular tension and ensure a forceful release. There methods are in seldom traveled territory, and when considering a partner there are two schools of thought: someone you know and trust with your life, the type of person you love and will keep a secret, or a complete stranger that you will never see again. Personally I prefer the latter.

Emotion

- I consider this the "retarded half-brother" of the orgasm formula. This element matters more for some than for others, and usually takes the form of love and affection. But a cheaper and often overlooked alternative is gut-wrenching sadness! It is my opinion that you haven't experienced a truly satisfying orgasm until you have ejaculated while dual streams of snot and tears burn trails down your face. But to each his own!

I drove myself to the emergency room and they gave me the second set of stitches I had received in two months. Luckily they already had me on the books as indigent, so there was little argument about the bill. I told them I was stabbed by a mugger in the street, and they started to call the cops. I assured them I wanted nothing to do with filing a police report and checked myself out without incident. After the blood was cleaned off it didn't look so bad, and the bandages fit out of sight under my shirt. They said I was lucky the knife didn't sever any arteries or tendons, but I wasn't feeling very lucky as I left the hospital.

With my newfound freedom I immediately drove two towns over, found the most dangerous and offensive-looking ghetto, and checked into the first motel with weekly rates that featured a bar on the same block. The Burgess Motel was the kind of place that had seen more than a few bodies stashed in its walls, and judging by the crowd that seemed to perpetually play dice and dominoes next to the staircase it would see many more. They tried to set me up in a place on the second floor but I argued until they relented and offered me something on the ground floor. When they opened the door it was filled with garbage and dirty clothes, and clearly hadn't been touched since they booted out whatever deadbeat didn't pay the bill. I wasn't in a rush so I agreed to give them a few hours to clear it out. I could tell the guy was happy to clear a vacancy but pissed that he had to clean it up.


I left the car parked in front of my new place and walked over to the black guys that stared at me while playing three man on the concrete. "Can I leave my car here?" I asked. "Free country, man." The one with the biggest afro said. Maybe the size of your hair had something to do with your alpha status with these guys. "You know what I mean. Will I have problems?" I pulled a twenty out of my pocket and dropped it into the pile of ones he had collected in front of him. He grinned, showing off his gold tooth and said "Naw, man. You alright. Welcome to the Burgess!"


With some time to kill I decided to introduce myself to the bartender down the street. The bar door had a bell tied to it that rang when I entered, giving everyone inside a chance to look up from the horse races on tv to see who the intruder was. I had never been there before, but it was a familiar place. Lost souls and rust bucket poets lined the bar, and stale smoke filled the air. I ordered a well whiskey and drank it quickly out of a dirty glass. I gestured to the barman and told him my name. "Can I start a tab?" I asked. "A tab?" He laughed. "Mister, I never even fuckkin' SEEN you before! And you want a tab after your first drink?" I pulled a fifty dollar bill out of the roll I had gathered from Vanessa's purse and handed it to him. "I'm gonna be here a lot. This will cover tonight, but I'd be a damn fool to walk this street with enough cash to quench my thirst every night. Give me another." He knew better than to argue a cash deal with an obvious alcoholic and nodded while he opened a weathered bar book and scratched down my name.


After drinking myself into partial blindness I decided I had enough, and staggered back to the motel. My car was untouched and I nodded my thanks to the guys by the stairs before turning the key and entering my new home. I guess the owner's idea of "clean" had less to do with brooms and mops and more to do with shovels and garbage bags. But I didn't mind. After all, it saved me the time of trashing the place myself.

Hello, daily Popular Irony readers!  Tonight we are revisiting one of our most notorious and successful posts, where we make brand new connect-the-dot games for you all to enjoy.  These next three are particularly difficult, so  you may have trouble guessing the picture until every dot has been connected!  But I'm here to offer some hints and guesses, so don't get discouraged, I promise they are worth all the effort!

Here is our first puzzle.  We left some of the image visible to keep the difficulty level down a bit, so we see there is a woman operating some sort of machinery.  Is it a giant drill press?  Maybe some sort of industrial lathe?  Either way she looks like she is proving that a little elbow grease builds character!

And here we have a lady that is clearly very pleased with herself...  I am not sure what is going on here, but it looks like she might be doing some instructional food preparation.  My guess is that she is stuffing a big old thanksgiving turkey!  You know the holidays are right around the corner, so maybe she is giving us all some tips to make the season an extra-special one!

Hmmm... This one is a real puzzler!  Clearly this lady is enjoying some refreshing beverage.  Boy, she looks thirsty!  Perhaps she just finished a vigorous workout and is demonstrating the importance of proper hydration.  You know, dehydration is a serious danger when you are physically active, so you should always take her lead and make regular trips to the drinking fountain at the gym!

On my way home from work today, I stopped by my local butcher.  I just started frequenting this butcher.  I had no idea how bad the chain grocery store lunch meat was until I had the butcher's delicate delicacies. 

My local butcher has a very friendly, small town feel about it.  They are polite and accommodating.  At least the employees are... The customers are a bunch of hideous fucks.  Today there was a dirty, obese woman coughing constantly into her jacket... Her filthy, filthy jacket.  There was the crazy, loud, legless man, I think he just rolls in there to talk.  Then there was the mother and her brats. 

Though the dirty, obese woman stank, the brats were the worst of all.  There was a young mother and her two blond terrors.  Both kids were under five and over-sugared.  The little shits were running full speed throughout the butcher shop, even venturing behind the counter several times to the employee's annoyance.  They were opening the sliding door freezers, pulling items off the shelf, opening packages, disrobing and flinging clothing everywhere, squishing the fresh baked bread, screaming and ignoring the desperate pleading of their mother.

The mother was trying but I think she really gave up months ago.  Her kids are fucking monsters.  She kept threatening the kids with "their father".  Their father this, their father that, just wait until I tell your father.  After several minutes of idle threats, I learned that "their father" was actually in the car in the parking lot the whole time.  Why did she just not leave the kids in the car with him and spare me and my fellow customers the torment of her loin beasts?  With how terrible those kids were acting, I can assume he hates them more than I do and treasures the few moments he gets to be alone.

I wanted to grab one of the kids and scream "Listen to your fucking mother!  Stop running and shut the fuck up!".  I obviously can't shake and scream at a stranger's small child.  But I could do something.  An intentional accident.

I watched the little monsters running their laps for several minutes.  I decided that the next time the loudest brat swung around the corner by me, I would casually step out in front of him.  A lesson needed to be taught and learned.  I in no way wanted to hurt the kid, at least not permanently.  I timed it perfectly, as the little shit shot around the freezer I was standing by, I stepped forward to ask the butcher a question about their delicious pastrami.  The kid slammed face first, full speed into my legs and fell down.

Much to my chagrin, the kid was not phased.  He got right back up and started running again.  But his collision with me was the last that his mother could handle.  I was delighted to see her drag her putrid progeny out to the car to sit with dad.  HA!  They did not like that and I'm sure he fucking hated it.  When I got into my car to leave, they were still screaming like tortured animals in a sedan with their very depressed looking father blankly staring forward, dead inside.

Before I left, the guy who was cutting my lunch meat glanced at the mother standing across the store and whispered to me "thanks".  You know, it feels good to do good.

I hated being in places like the parody club. I was uncomfortable in my smoking jacket and couldn't properly enjoy the drinking because all I kept thinking about was the forty goddamn minutes drive back to my apartment in a few hours. And everyone was so friendly... I guess they had to be since they had nothing worth talking about. I was the opposite. I am entirely unlikable to everyone except those who hadn't grown the balls to live their lives with passion. To a fistfighting drunkard I was a common nuisance, but to an accountant I was exciting. A dangerous animal to poke and prod that was a thrill to encounter without the safety of the circus cage, but would be left chained up in his wild paradise tomorrow, far from the civil world of the office life. So I got along fine. I told my stories and the clean-shaven stiffs bought the drinks. Vanessa loved this kind of shit. She tried desperately to blend in with the snobbish ladies, and would almost fit in if it weren't for her excessive cleavage and weary eyes. We played different games, me being the foul mouthed beast and her pretending not to be the kind of lady that would be sucking the cock of a bastard like me later this evening.

We danced a little, Vanessa drank too much wine and champagne, and at the end of the night I was left with cleanup duty. I dragged her down to the beat up chevy which was a pain in the ass since Vanessa insisted we park three blocks away to avoid the shame of driving it, and I hit the road. "They loved me in there" she kept saying. "Those were my people, I belong with them. You don't appreciate being with a real lady, you just use me up whenever the booze runs dry and you can get hard again." I didn't disagree with her. She was better than me, and any stranger on the street could tell just by watching us walk around together.


"I didn't ask for you." I said. "You crawled on top of me, remember? I tried to get rid of you. Remember that." The words cut deep and she began her sloppy sobbing, probably because it was the truth. We sat in silence for the rest of the ride since the radio was broken, and when I got home I went up to the apartment without her.


It took her twenty minutes to make it up the stairs, and she barged in with mascara running down her face and her heels in her hands. She was an unsteady drunk, both mentally and physically. I had the advantage now. I had sturdy sea legs from all the regular whiskey. She marched past me and slammed the bedroom door behind her, so I kicked my shoes off with indifference and stretched out on the couch.


I must have drifted off because a bit later I awoke with a sharp pain in my left arm. It was dark as hell and I felt a great weight on my chest. I was certain I was having a heart attack until I heard her voice. "You fucking son of a bitch! You don't care about me! You don't even appreciate what I do for you!" Vanessa thought she had me pinned down like I did to her when I was fucking her but I bucked her off onto the floor with ease. I was disoriented and still drunk as I marched into the kitchen to turn on the light, and once it was on I started laughing.


Sticking out of my left bicep like a teenager's hardon was a steak knife, pouring blood on my kitchen floor in the same spot that Vanessa's blood stained the tiles months ago. The crazy cunt had stabbed me, but clearly didn't have the heart to do the job correctly since she didn't go for my stomach or neck. I pulled the knife out quickly and immediately regretted it as my blood spilled like a faucet now, so I grabbed a used napkin off the table and shoved it into the wound with my fingers.


Vanessa was screaming bloody murder now, either frightened at the sight of blood or by the impending consequence. "Get the fuck out of my apartment!" She yelled. "Get out and never come back!" I didn't hit her. I didn't even consider it. This was my opportunity. She was right, you know. It was her place now, she was paying the rent.


I grabbed an armful of clothes from the hamper and checked my pockets for keys and wallet. Check. I snagged the half drunk bottle of whiskey from the table and practically ran out the door. As I was getting into the car I could hear her calling from the window. "Where the hell are you going?! Come back, you son of a bitch! I love you!!" I started the car and screeched the tires on the way out of the lot, sparks spitting up behind me as I bottomed out on the gutter.


I decided that I needed some capable medical attention now that the blood running down my arm cooled and made it's presence known, but I had some unexpected luck. Vanessa's purse lay discarded in the foot well of the passenger street, and it was sure to be brimming with cash. I guess if good guys always finished last, then assholes always win.

You probably don't remember, since you were sleeping at the time. But he was there. Actually he has seen you naked a bunch of times, but this time was different because he was in your home instead of just looking through a telescope from across the street. Don't worry, he means you no harm.

In fact, he didn't even want to wake you up so he let himself in really quietly. And what a considerate guy he is... he spent weeks casing your house to find out where you hide your spare key just so he wouldn't have to break a window. Now that is an intruder you can trust. He even put the key back afterwards so you wouldn't lose it.

And Oscar knows how camera shy you are, so he avoided any flash photography and instead opted for a simple infrared setup for night photography. That's right, Oscar is truly a man of the 21st century. I mean, you wouldn't want some two-bit home invasion hack taking nude photos of you and selling them to an internet pornography business, would you? No way.

Guess what? Oscar knows how to make you look good, too. Your left side is your good side, and he makes sure you look your best when the covers are off. But he needs a little help to ensure the highest quality photos. And you want to look as good as possible for the internet folks, right? Of course you do. Oscar needs you to go to sleep in your finest lingerie going forward. The lacy blue number you keep in the top left of your closet should do fine, but if you really want to step up your game then go shopping and diversify your sleepwear.

But don't you worry your pretty head about the rest. Oscar will be there to worry about the details. And check under your pillow... he left you a little gift. Some ambien sleeping pills to keep you in the deepest, most relaxing sleep possible. Because next week we are adding some performance elements to your lineup. And believe me, you wont want to remember them.

Sometimes you just don't want to write anything.  That's how I feel today.  I threw a few items from my heavily cluttered computer desk onto the scanner and voila!  A waste of your time.  -Enjoy!

I know that you are lusting for that cloisonné, DC Comics Starman pin.  Are you as surprised as I am that there's not an old taco or photos of burly sailors? 

Fuuuuck.. This is a bad post.  I just can't think of anything.... hmmmm...  Well, fuck.  Time for Borderlands 2. 

I was growing to be convinced that Vanessa is a cruel, morbid bitch, keeping me drunk to satisfy her curiosity and watch a sore loser die. I felt less like she was my lover and more like she was simply funding a sick social experiment. There could be no other explanation. Whenever I thought I ran the bottles dry in the apartment she appeared with fresh whiskey, and although I deeply needed the drink it was getting suspicious.

So I watched her clean the apartment through untrusting eyes day after day, wondering why she didn't just plunge a knife deep in my belly while I slept. But there was nothing I could do about it. If I instigated a fight she just deflected the attacks, and whatever I wanted she gave without complaint. Come to think of it, it was unclear which of us was living with the monster.


I also started stealing money from her. I'm not sure why, because she gave it away like a miser dying of cancer and trying to buy his way into heaven. I think I just wanted to find the end of her seemingly infinite pocketbook. Where did the money come from? I assumed it must be some inheritance, since she never mentioned ever having a job in her life and didn't seem to have the mind for business. I knew she had kids, but never so much as saw a picture of them, let alone heard their names mentioned. For a man with so much miserable history behind him I sure found a gal that was even more mysterious than me.


I always jumped when there was a knock at the door, probably because I had no friends to bring pleasant news, and many enemies eager to settle unremembered scores from drunken antics. It was the mailman, weary from walking up the steps to my apartment. He had a letter that he needed a signature for, something too important to leave in the mailbox downstairs, and when I offered to sign he pulled away. The letter was for Vanessa. She took the man's pen, showed her ID and wrote her name for him. When the door closed she was looking very pale and started her pathetic sobbing. She was passionate as hell, and could unleash hell when she was in the mood, but could turn on the waterworks just as suddenly. And when she read the header on the envelope she immediately folded it in half and stashed it in her purse. I knew better than to pry, but goddamn, I wanted to read that letter. If not to gain an understanding of this stranger I was living with, then to gain some leverage over her. As it was all the power was on her side, and I dangled like a drunken marionette from the strings tied to her fingers.


"Let's go out" she said. "I want to go drinking and dancing tonight, down at the parody club!" The thought lit her up and she went into the bedroom to gather up all her dresses, holding them up to her chest in the mirror one by one. I didn't argue. A night out would do me some good, and I hadn't gotten drunk in public since I was arrested.


Vanessa was stripped down to her underwear, trying on a series of dresses and asking my opinion. I always told her she looked great, and caught myself staring at her ass while she looked in the mirror. I wan't lying, you know. She always looked fantastic, even when she had that freshly fucked look on her early in the morning. I excused myself and went to the kitchen to pour a drink and start the night off. While I was sipping my drink I looked over at her purse, the unguarded envelope peeking out of the top. It was bothering me... how did they get this address?