Can you believe it!?  PopularIrony.com is 2 years old, today!  It seems like only yesterday that Hamtackle was released from that State funded "care" facility.  He wandered the streets, opened mouthed and uninspired, until he was able to innocently obtain a lightly blood stained laptop.  The free internet access at the local Carl's Jr granted him access to the world of the internet.

That's when he started http://hamtackle.blogspot.com/.  It was a simple, free Blogger blog, but it brought him purpose and a facsimile of human joy.  Hamtackle slapped his thalidomide flippers against his keyboard, creating poignant observations and wrapping them in utter filth.  After 2 weeks of nonstop blogging, Hamtackle was joined by one other, Terlet.

Terlet, an inherent coward and mysophobe, was forced into blogging via threat of a sharp, poop dripping stick.  One afternoon, Terlet was walking home from work (the bus is too disgusting), making sure not to step on any cracks in the sidewalk, when he was accosted by a drunken, Irish monster.  Hamtackle rushed and cornered Terlet, brandishing his shit stick.  Terlet, eyes already streaming with tears, shrieked and curled into the fetal position.  Instead of the usual "take the money and rape them" maneuver, Hamtackle demanded Terlet's dedication to his blog.  Terlet, piss-stained and weeping, agreed. 

Terlet rushed home and purchased the domain PopularIrony.com.  The blog has been updated daily ever since.  The moist tapping on Terlet's duct tape and sterile plastic covered windows, reminds him of his fear based responsibilities.  The constant terror of retaliation from the shit stained drifter, kept both monster and coward motivated. 

Now, 2 years, 102,000 views and 802 blog posts later, Popular Irony is still going strong!  We now have shitty, Let's Play videos on Youtube at

STEAMING PILE GAMES,

  we started our long promised podcast with fellow deviants, Sir Chapsworth and Ramtang,

MASTER BASTARD PODCAST

and we never lost our focus on the filth.

I guess I am supposed to give a gift for an anniversary.  The googles say that the modern gift for a 2 year anniversary is China.  So here is former president of China, Jiang-Zemin in a very Popular Irony political pose. 

Congratulate us in the comments.  We deserve it.

Happy Fourth of July America!  We here at Popular Irony consider ourselves patriots first, and purveyors of blog-based filth and low-quality let's play videos second.  And to prove just how much we love this amazing fucking country, we have included the below quiz to check just how American you truly are.  But for the few unfortunate foreigners that might try their hand at answering the questions, here is a quick hint:  The answer is always "d".

I think we all know what today is.  Today is the celebration of the formal joining of three colonies under the british empire in 1867 resulting in the formulation of the great country of Canada!  Ok, maybe we didn't all know what today is.  But aside from that fact, we must all admit that without good ol' America Jr up north we would live in a world of dry pancakes, flannel-less winters, and fries bereft of cheese curds and gravy.

So in honor of this wonderful land of frostbacked glory we offer you this... the single most Canadian image ever produced.  Yay Canada!!!

-

I was awake now, but couldn’t open my eyes.  The lids were welded together by some biological glue, and with the dull burning in the back of my head I could tell I had been sleeping for quite some time.  I reached toward my face to open my eyes and pawed at my face with a massive bandage that covered my hands.  Someone said something in spanish and I immediately felt euphoric and dumb, and sank back into blackness.

There was light this time.  My eyes had been freed from their sleepy cage and I could make out some shapes in the brightness.  “Mister, you have been in a horrible accident.  Don’t try to get up, you will feel better in a few minutes.” somebody said to me in a thick mexican accent.  I tried to answer, but all that came out was a wheezing and coughing that seemed to come from my throat.  A hand reached across me from behind and adjusted a tube coming from below my chin, a strange sensation.  A pulling feeling that started at my core.  I could sense some spittle pouring from the corner of my mouth, but when I tried to lick it away I realized there was no tongue.  Or teeth.  But I didn’t care.  Good drugs, whatever they were.

An hour or so later I came to realize the pile of shit I was in.  They tried to be easy on me, breaking the news that I barely survived a car crash and subsequent suicide attempt, but I had no tears to give anymore.  I lost everything back in the desert when I left Vanessa to rot on the bed of a honeymoon suite.  My hands were both badly broken, with one finger amputated on my left.  Most of my teeth and tongue had been blown through a hole in the back of my head, a hole that was now packed with gauze.  They said the tube in my throat was needed for me to breathe normally, that the pressure in my mouth could disrupt the dressings and lead to a possibly fatal infection.  Fuck them for saving me, I kept thinking.  If only I had aimed higher, maybe under the chin, this nightmare would be over.

I was certain that they had amputated my legs, too, but I could see a lumpy form under the blankets.  For the first few hours I was sure that I already was fitted for prosthetic legs until they told me I was paralyzed. I am so fucking stupid.  Through the glass at the end of the bed I could see two uniformed policemen guarding the door.  Mexican policemen.  And without legs, hands, or any way to communicate, I was at their mercy.  I couldn’t write for them with my crippled hands, and trying to lip-synch words to  someone that barely speaks english is tough enough, but trying to do it with swollen, burned lips and no tongue is impossible.  They could tell I was frustrated, and one doctor went into another room to get a keyboard.  He pointed at the keys until I nodded, patiently writing down the letters.

O-D M-E.  D-I-E N-O-W.

It took a while for them to figure it out.  They smiled and shared a laugh and then emptied the room.  I wonder where they send mute paraplegic murderers in this country?

THE END

Hey folks, me and them boys just finished recording a couple more episodes of the Master Bastard Podcast!  Boy am I drunk and sleepy.  With 4 episodes released, I felt it was time for a new logo.  I am still not sure which one to use.  Let's see...

This is the first one I made.  I spent about ten minutes on some old pic and threw some photoshop filters on.  I must say, it is spectacular.

Here is the new one.  I think it is artsy and spiffy. 

Well, there you have it folks.  Time to black out for a few hours.  Why don't you listen to the podcast and leave us a 5 star review on Itunes?  Huh, why not, asshole?

http://www.masterbastard.com/podcast/?format=rss

Hey, internet. It's Hamtackle here. I just wanted to take a few moments to be completely honest with you at one of my weakest moments. The lucky few that are already acquainted with me know that I have mild insomnia, and in the past two nights I managed three hours of sleep two nights ago and zero last night. And I currently have my alarm set to go off in seven hours and I don't have high hopes for getting much needed rest tonight, either.

In my admittedly delusional state I have decided to throw a few basic observations and blanket judgements about you. Not just those of you I have met, but all of you.

Firstly, far too few of you are attractive enough to bother turning my head to make eye contact with. And before you say "But Hamtackle, YOU are just a miserable, ugly fatass yourself!" let me stop you there. This isn't about me, so get your fucking foot off of my soapbox. Anymore, the only people who get my attention are the freakishly obese or disabled, the people that you just know are going to hurt themselves or others at any moment, and I don't want to miss the action.

And the minority that are attractive are only worth looking at, not engaging in any kind of meaningful conversation. I work at a facility with nearly 700 other individuals and the statistically insignificant amount of physically pleasant-looking people are the types that they invented sporks for. They are too dumb to be trusted with anything sharp enough to cause significant injury. So if you consider yourself smart, you are repulsive. And if you consider yourself attractive, you are stupid. And self-absorbed/vain.

And for those that I might encounter one day and regrettably make momentary eye contact with, if I smile at you there is a 100% chance that I already hate you. A smile is my way of dismissing you from further interaction. This should be made more obvious by my immediate effort to find something at hand to pay attention to, thus assuring you will walk away without so much as verbal pleasantries.

So please leave me alone, unless you notice I am actively on fire, in which case I would appreciate a liberal splash of gasoline to put us both out of my misery. Now that I have this off my chest I am going to try to sleep. I have a team of fourteen people to supervise tomorrow, and it is going to take a significant amount of personal effort to maintain the ruse that I don't secretly wish to receive a phone call some day explaining that they will not be returning to work due to personal heartbreak, tragedy, or demise at the hands of ritual-driven urban neo-cannibals.

Laurie the ordinary clown looked down over the railing on her balcony into her neighbor's kiddie pool full of picked assholes and cocktail olives. She was faced with the simple truth that she was a living failure. In a world filled with crazy, wild, and unique clowns she was decidedly regular, a normal person surrounded by abstract fools.

She didn't even have a clown name. Only Laurie.

In school the other clown children laughed at her when she actually ate her pies at lunch instead of throwing them at the other students. And when she graduated they mocked her as she took up accounting at the family circus firm. Accounting was for the mentally disabled clowns, not a twenty-one year old clown college graduate.

She couldn't find any dates, because the boy clowns didn't like a girl who didn't wear makeup or giant shoes. And her figure was average and regular, not freakishly fat or thin, like the rest of the clowns. She didn't fart or fall down stairs on purpose. When she cried there was no theatrical wailing, no projectile tears comically arching over her twisted face, just a hunched sadness and rhythmic sobbing.

She tried to be a proper clown.

One time she wore her underwear on her head, but they didn't laugh. At her brother's wedding she drank a full glass of pig piss, but they seemed disgusted. Maybe she didn't have what it takes to be strange and funny. So she decided the last laugh could be her final act. A suicide worth laughing at.

So she got a giant balloon. And a helium tank. And two hundred feet of plastic tubing. After spending four days slowly working the balloon into her colon, inch by inch, until it was fully insider her, she attached the plastic tubing to the tank nozzle and climbed onto her roof.

"Come one, come all! It's a sight to behold! The most hilarious demise, pure comedy gold!"

She shouted so loudly that her neighbors all came to take in the sight, soon they lined the streets and cheered her on. When the nozzle was turned she grew immediately bloated, her eyes pushing from her sockets, her pants splitting and guts spraying from her exposed buttocks. She grew airborne, ever more spherical, a giant bloody balloon of wasted human life.

But no one was laughing. No one was crying. In fact, no one was even there. Because Laurie the ordinary clown was inside her one bedroom apartment. She wasn't a clown. She wasn't named Laurie. She was actually a he. Gerald was a data entry specialist and part-time bus driver in Maine, and the balloon was a noose tied to the ceiling fan in his living room.

Take insanity seriously, you callous fuck.

Vladmir Putin makes great effort for softening of public image!

Putin not only most excellent leader, but also is adventuring archeaologist making amazing discovery every day!

Of course Putin love all the children.  And the children in return very much love Putin!

Russia is amazing land of wilderness beauty, and father Putin makes personal care of animals!

Powerful man does not mean cannot be sensitive.  Putin has empathy for all suffering in the world!

No man can resist warm love of adorable puppy.  Before teach killing techniques hugging puppy is acceptable behavior!