The broncos lost a heartbreaking game tonight, so I have been drinking and stewing in anger. Am I going to ever forget the (at least) five plays that were bullshit calls for the ravens? No. Am I going to forget the 70 yard touchdown pass to tie the game with seconds remaining? No. So I would like to take a moment to list some things I fucking hate.

I hate children. People tell me "Oh, but Hamtackle, the children are the only innocent humans on earth! They are guilty of nothing, and represent the purity of human nature before the corrupting influences of society!" Exactly. That's why I hate them. How fucking boring are children? The have zero insight and are single-minded and selfish. Besides the fact the our faults and mistakes are the only thing that distinguishes us from each other and makes us interesting. Tell a story about the most altruistic thing you have done, or the greatest temptation that you were able to overcome, and watch the room empty. Now tell a fucked up story about when you set you dick on fire during a coke binge. Mr. Popular.

I hate the people I work with. I hate the ones who try to relate to me and be my friend. I hate the ones who try to impress me with their knowledge about work-related subjects. I hate the ones who hate me back, and only wipe the mean look off their faces when they want me to approve time off or help with their time card. And I hate the ones that are always pleasant, who smile and greet me at 6 AM and ask me how my morning is going, the same ones who would judge me if they ever heard five seconds of thought running through my head, even when I am sleeping.

And I hate good weather. I hate the brightness of the sun, the warmth and fresh breezes. I hate how they remind me how much time I spend trapped in rooms that I would rather burn down than continue existing within, but am too cowardly to lite the matches myself. I hate how much others enjoy it, and the way they can't stop talking about it like it somehow enhances their lives when they spend just as much time as I do baking under the florescent bulbs, rotting away in front of a monitor.

And I hate the Baltimore Ravens, the Broncos, and the NFL. Until next season.

It's me, Frisky Pete. I guess it's bin a real long time sense my last internet letter about movies and it is real good to be back in a shelter that has a nearby unprotected wyfy channel. I am writing all you people from my new galaxy tablet that I got from a stranger when he was hit by a bus and got all tangled in the wheels. It is cracked in the corner but it works real good for my 2 favorite things internet and porno. And boy do we have a lot to talk about now, sense they just told us the movies that are fighting each other for the oscar statues! I will give you my picks for a few of the rewards sense I saw so many of the movies.

For best picture I am going to guess that the movie that will win is going to be Lincoln. I saw this one and was scared at all the scary men with wigs and all the talking about politics. I saw it in a good movie house that even sold beer! I got a couple handfulls of the tasty beer to sip from the trashcan and had to yell at a lady that told me to stop digging in their trash. The tall skinny guy was a real good guy, and he gets killed in the head at the end after the war was finished. Ultimately the pairing of directorial hall-of-famer Stephen Spielberg and powerhouse character actor Daniel Day-Lewis made for an engaging and exciting exposé of the inner workings of our national politics at a time when they were under a strain greater than ever before, or indeed, ever since.

For best actor I would guess that the person that should win the little statue is wolverine for the Miserable movie. I just thought that it must have bin real hard for wolverine to not use his claws to kill people that were real mean to him in the movie. And there was a lot of music in the movie that helped me sleep off the tail end of a meth bender that I had bin on. But I was asked to leave because my stinky foot was on the seat in front of me and I guess I was snoring and throwing in in my sleep. The real triumph of Hugh Jackman's performance lies not in his beyond capable portrayal of the beloved Jean Valjean, but in the way he captures the emotion to match the grand scale of his settings, and in his ability to reproduce some of the most iconic musical pieces ever to grace broadway.

For the best woman actor in a movie for the year I have to say I didn't see any of the movies the people were in. I thought maybe the lady that killed Osama Bin Laden in a knife fight should win, but in the end I am pulling for a write-in vote for Bunny Summers in the "Two Holes, Two Poles" porno movie. She was real good at making it seem like she was enjoying stuff that looked like it must have really hurt a lot. And the movie theater I saw it in didn't even care that I was beating off the whole time! I get thrown out and the police are called on me whenever I do that in the other movie rooms at other theaters. Bunny's uncommonly abundant physique and lustful gazes give the viewer an affinity for her that is rarely achieved in the genre. Pornography fanboys and misogynists alike find themselves emotionally attached to her, and share the joy of her shuddering release.

There you have it, internet people. My choices for the winners of the oscars awards. I have to finish my typing now because I need to get over to McDonalds in time to charge my new internet tablet before they close and I run out of power. I need it to watch my sexy movies at night, so I better git a bunch of napkins too. Bye!

There is a reason that the irish called the sweet intoxicating nectar that has dominated their lives for centuries "whiskey", or "water of life" in gaelic. It is because this fluid has the miraculous capacity to make almost everything we love in life like a thousand times better! And unlike that fraudulent gutter-piss they call "holy water", you don't even need to waste your sundays listening to old men lie to you for it to work! So let's take a moment to review some of the wonderful and useful benefits of whiskey that led to the age-old expression "a bottle a day keeps the reaper away"!

Whiskey makes you more attractive to the opposite sex, and makes YOU more attractive to them! That's right, sexual magnetism is 99% confidence, and when are you more confident than when you are slobbering drunk? And combine those effects with the loosening standards that come with drunkenness and you have a perfect storm of baby makin'! Just make sure the object of your desire is likewise imbibing copious amounts of drink or you might find yourself in forcible rape territory. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Whiskey boosts your intelligence to near superhuman levels! Have you ever met a sage individual that was able to add relevance and insight into the most convoluted subject matter with seemingly absent-minded ease? Chances are, that person was blind drunk on whiskey. It is for this reason that I make a concerted effort to drink at least six shots before attending a business meeting, job interview, or parole hearing. Nothing leaves an impression like drunken ramblings.

Whiskey What about medical issues? The public has been misinformed about the health effects of regular whiskey consumption by a campaign from big businesses like the soft drink leaders Coca Cola and Pepsi. Does soda cure your withdrawal symptoms, personality disorders, and halitosis? I think not. Can a liter of Sprite cure a young woman of an unwanted pregnancy? Surely the answer is a resounding "no". Score another point for whiskey.

Whiskey helps you make more sound and well-informed decisions! If there is one thing I could teach all the children that will grow up to be tomorrow's world leaders, it would be "If you are ever faced with a problem that holds you money, relationships, or life in the balance, just resolve to drink on it for a while!" You basically can't go wrong with this advice. Without whiskey we would be without the kind of thinking that ended the second world war, brought on the industrial age, and gave us... Chappaquiddick.

So keep these things in mind before condemning the binge drinking of whiskey that is going on all around you. After all, if it wasn't for whiskey your mother and father might not have ever created you in the back seat of a rusted out buick. And you might not have that lazy eye that gives you so much character!

My personal collection

It hadn't been but thirty minutes or so. There had been no argument, disagreement, or cruel one-way verbal abuse that was so common between us. In fact, when Vanessa shut the door to the bathroom and started running the water the only abnormal thing about it was the door itself, which she so often left unabashedly open to the point that I was certain she would attract a predator other than myself to do her harm, her perfect nudity like blood in the water to dangerous men.

So when the water didn't stop running the bathroom door took on a sinister look that betrayed her wicked plan, and by the time I kicked it in I wasn't surprised to find her dangling there, tip toeing on the tile floor with bent legs like a ballerina frozen in time. She was nude, her dark hair covering her face at the awkward angle that the belt imposed on her neck, and her hands were held together in front of her with elbows bent in a mock prayer that was unnatural looking even to someone that didn't know she discarded her faith as a child. Her pale skin reminded me of my widowed aunt Grace's wedding dress, which hung alone in the guest closet for decades until she passed away. It was even more beautiful there in the darkness, where it's useless futility made the grand garment seem sickeningly sad.

I grabbed her body around the waist and lifted her up, unlatching the belt from the grate in the ceiling, and carried her into the bedroom where I laid her out on the bed. I knew some CPR and had even tried it out on a few drug addict friends when they went bad, but I could tell it was hopeless. She had put on her makeup so carefully, but her lips still seemed dark and blue through the red lipstick, and the shit smeared across my arm proved she had already vacated her bowels. She wouldn't have liked that. She was so clean, and her appearance meant so much to her. There was little doubt that she was very much dead.

I didn't panic. I didn't start wailing and crying, making a racket. People rarely do when there is no one around to impress by it, they just stare silently in mute contemplation. After a couple minutes I went into the bathroom to wash up and I saw it. Vanessa had written in dramatic cliche style in lipstick on the mirror "I am happy". It made me flash back to the first angry message she scrawled across a broken mirror in my old apartment, a distinct contrast to how she had evolved emotionally from when I met her, before I knew her secrets, and long before I slew her demons and took her with me on this long run from our responsibility. She was damaged and volatile then, but became dependent on me in recent months to an extreme that made me feel guilty for fucking her.

In retrospect it was bound to happen. But it still seemed cosmically unfair for her beauty and fragility to be outlasted by my rigid foulness. She rarely drank to excess, almost never swore, and tended to get along with strangers more often than not. And now the only good that was left in my life had slipped through my fingers, leaving the unstompable cockroach to carry on in the filthy gutters alone. I took the time to dress her in one of her favorite cocktail dresses, at least the one I thought she looked best in, but couldn't make it fit right. No doubt they would assume I killed her, and would probably think I kidnapped her after murdering her father. But I was okay with that. She would be exonerated in death, and I would once again shoulder her burdens. I started to pack my things.

I am on my couch watching tv. The computer is in the other room. Shit me sideways, I am feeling fucking lazy. I have received many emails recently accusing me of "phoning in" my posts. In the spirit of that, I am going to construct this entire post with my phone. Something I have never tried. Hmmm. Lets see....

I just bought this phone recently and have very few photos. I am far too lazy to type something of quality with one finger.

Hmmm. I have a photo of a recent breakfast at work. My dog, cat and my current view from the couch. You get to learn a little bit about me. Amazing, I know.

This blogger app is a piece of shit. I have no idea what order my photos will display, i cant change the size and there are no other options for media manipulation. Fudgums!! I guess I will just click "publish" and be done with this mess.

Just another drunken romp through the anonymous chat services on the internet. As always, my responses are in green. First I decided to test the boundaries of decency by challenging a stranger's threshold for offensive commentary. Always a good ice breaker.

Ok. That was a decent start. Next I decided to engage the strangers in a bit of role playing, where I offered some creative punishments for their personal enemies.

So that went... Pretty well I guess. At least I am getting some participation from the online community of lonely drunkards and shut-ins. Finally I got a little vigilante streak and called out a probable internet liar by demanding contextual responses in real time. The results were satisfying.

There you have it, folks. Another hastily and lazily produced post of improvisational comedy with strangers. Hope to see you online! Oh yea, if you do frequent these sites, never start a conversation with "asl" because it makes you seem like a pedophile trolling for children to harass. Unless you ARE such a pedophile, in which case proceed, I guess.

Every once in a while we decide to make some friends on the interwebs, but sometimes it is difficult to establish a genuine human connection. Here are a few failed conversations that demonstrate this problem. As always, we are represented by the green text.

The "very best" accommodations in an indian-themed motel doesn't amount to much, since the room was only large enough for a double bed and a beat up sofa and the walls were thin enough to let the heat in during daytime and out again at night, but we lived like royalty. And with no apparent competition for the luxury suite we were going on two weeks in that place, which suited the manager just fine since we paid every morning in cash.

Vanessa was back to her neurotic self again and I was able to drink myself half to death with complete impunity from her judgement, so long as I went outside to throw up when I had to. The sound of retching made her skin crawl and I was doing it more often now, like some fraternity pledge away from home for the first time in his life. I had a spot near the back of our teepee that was just out of sight from the lobby that I frequented for exactly that purpose, a spot that featured a mummified cat corpse jutting out of the hard, sun-baked earth from some long forgotten flash flood that no doubt ruined this place at one point. Now it collected my sick in stringy strands of mucous and liquor to a depth that had the cat posthumously drowning one last time.


There was a small town a few miles down the road, but there was hardly any reason to go there except for the liquor store or to pick up an overpriced loaf of week old bread and sardines in mustard. Even the bar was off limits to us. We stumbled in that place a day or so after we arrived only to find a game of bingo being played by a group of geriatric alcoholics that were sinful enough to drink, but innocent enough to consider bingo a good way to spend their time. But I sure did enjoy the dichotomy of reactions Vanessa got from the old men and old women with her tits hanging out of a five hundred dollar cocktail dress. The women stared in shocked anger and the men in wide-eyed wonderment. I wanted to hate fuck her in front of them but was dragged out before I could finish dreaming up the fantasy. Vanessa was embarrassed enough to cry. I didn't understand how she could be so ashamed by the very qualities that made me almost love her.


But when we were locked up in the teepee things were different. I wasn't shouting at her or degrading her, I let her take a bath first, decide when and what to eat, went down on her from time to time... we were playing like we were married. I even got blackout drunk one night and wrote a few dozen poems for her, all terrible, derivative, hackey, love-sick bullshit, but Vanessa wouldn't shut up about them. She read them over and over to herself and hid them from me like an overprotective cat with her kittens, like I might stomp the life out of them to hurt her when my mood changed and I wanted her to suffer again. And that's how we lived together out in the desert, always in the moment, just waiting for the other shoe to drop and get back to resenting each other again.


I was sure things were going better. I thought the happiness was going to sustain her. I thought she might be mending from all the badness that she was living through all those years, and that I would be able to keep her at my side for balance like an old bum with a million-dollar cane that he had no fucking business possessing. Maybe I was the naive one the whole time.

HO-HO-HO... Motherfuckers!

Hot damn! What a merry fucking christmas we had this year! The holiday spirit was in full effect, with only a few minor setbacks to the traditional american cheer and goodwill. On the good side, I got everything I wanted and those I love were genuinely moved by my thoughtful and generous gifts. But on the bad side... well, it looks like our president is still in a dick measuring competition with congress that will likely lead us to another credit downgrade, and dozens were murdered in unprecedented acts of terror and cruelty.

I know we should just learn to take the good along with the bad, and I am the type of guy that can see the silver lining in almost any mass killing, but even I choke on the stench of feces when it is close enough for the steam to fog up my glasses. And as an american gun owner (I own a handgun. And a rifle. Okay, it's a semi-automatic rifle. Maybe it looks a little menacing... Alright. It's a fucking AK-74. Full disclosure here.) I am pissed off at the assholes that put my choice to own firearms at risk. They act totally irresponsibly, scare the shit out of the general populace, and make all gun owners look like crazy maniacs. And I'm not talking about the kid that shot up an elementary school, or the nutcase that just killed two firefighters in New York. I'm talking about the NRA spokesperson Wayne LaPierre and the ambulance chasing media.

For the week after the massacre that killed dozens of schoolchildren there was little you could do to escape the media coverage. For fucks sake, I watched a reporter interview a FIVE YEAR OLD that witnessed the killings just a few HOURS after the crime. "Do you remember where the gunfire was coming from, Billy? Did you see any bodies?! Did little Suzy have a sucking chest wound?" Real classy. And what is the response from the NRA about all this madness? Surely they tried to redirect the focus of the argument towards the failings of our mental health infrastructure, or the aptitude for our culture to disregard mental illness as mere eccentricity or perceived weakness, leading those that need help to avoid it for fear of being stigmatized.

Nope. They lead off with the suggestion that we start taking volunteers from within our random, shit-kicking, gun enthusiast populace to stand guard in our public schools with their boom stick of choice. Yeah. That might work. The obvious flaw in this logic is that the LAST person that you should give authority to walk the hallways of our elementary schools armed to the teeth is anyone that would enthusiastically volunteer for the job. So why not cops? Oh yeah, I forgot. The NRA is a conservative organization and any suggestion that might lead to an increase in the tax burden would get you tarred and feathered in their world.

So what's the answer? In my humble opinion the NRA should take every public opportunity to condemn gun violence in all forms, and stop pretending that every asshole with a piece is really just a superhero in waiting, ready to leap to action in their community's time of need and slay the monsters that plague them. And the media needs to report these mass killings from a more practical and responsible mindset instead of turning every sadist coward that tries to kill as many people as he can before shooting himself so as to avoid any consequence whatsoever into an instant celebrity. But that will never happen, so I guess I will have to move to some country that is progressive, pleasant, and free of these kinds of mass shootings by loner psychos. Like Norway. Wait... Fuck.

Wishing you the merriest of fucking Christmases.

From all of us at Popular Irony.

Now go eat some Ham you fat fuck!