WE'VE MOVED TO MASTERBASTARD.COM!!! Shit! Hurry up and get there!
I am a Broncos fan. Since I was born. It has not always been easy, we have had some terrible seasons over the years. But I always cheered for them, whether we win or lose. Sometimes I think I care too much about the games, and when they lose it fucking ruins my day. And there are Raiders fans that live in this orange and blue state (for the life of me I couldn't tell you why), and they always get to talk shit when we fail, usually without any repurcussions since their team always sucks ass.
But tomorrow I feast on the tears of the Bronco hating bastards at work. Sure it was the first game of the season. Sure there is a long way to go. But these assholes delighted in their celebration when the Baltimore Ravens stole the superbowl that was rightfully ours last season, and they will hear from me tomorrow. "And by the way," I will tell them, "we play the Raiders in our next home game. Care to make a gentleman's bet?" And they will sheepishly laugh and decline.
In case you don't follow the NFL, tonight the Denver Broncos stomped the superbowl champion Baltimore Ravens 49 - 27, and gave away 7 points on a fumbled punt inside the five, and gave back 7 points on a dropped ball after an interception. Peyton Manning tied an NFL record with 7 touchdowns, a feat that hasn't been done since 1969. And all this without our two best defensive players, Champ Bailey and Von Miller. Joe Flacco earned his 120 million dollar contract the hard way tonight, as he was held down and forced to toss Manning's sweaty salad at altitude, and I loved every minute of it.
I will be honest, though. This post was either going to be an angry rant about the mistakes we made, the bad calls by the refs, and petty name calling directed at Flacco, or it would be this. Now I pursue sleep, dear audience, sleep that will be punctuated by dreams of a Broncos superbowl.
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| You must be at least this tall to blow me. |
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Irony is one of those concepts that is difficult to define. In fact, it is one of the most misunderstood and misused concepts in the english language. Take the title of this blog, for instance. Very little posted here has anything to do with irony, and it certainly isn't popular. Isn't THAT ironic, though?.... Yes. Well, maybe. Ok, probably not. But I digress.
The truth is that this blog is in desperate need of an injection of irony to keep it's name honest and demonstrate that Terlet and I are not complete idiots who can't properly use the word irony. So I bring you a case study in irony tonight, in the form of a news story that captured my heart and demonstrates the concept perfectly.
The title is "Creationist Museum Employee Struck By Lightning".
For those of you unfamiliar with the creationist museum, it is run by a man named Ken Ham (not joking) and is located in the progressive mecca of Kentucky, USA. Their goal is to present a history of earth from a biblically-friendly perspective, complete with a recreation of a young earth style utopia. This means people riding dinosaurs. Seriously. I am not going to get into the simple irony of a "museum", which is a place that promotes art and science, being bastardized to promote the exact opposite. That is an example for another day. This Ham guy was featured in Bill Maher's documentary "Religulous" in which he scolds Bill for mocking the scientific inaccuracies in their exhibits by invoking celestial infallibility. And check him out. He looks like a bowl of laughs.
Well, last week one of his employees was kinda, but not exactly struck by lightning. He was valiantly trying to get museum visitors off of a zip-line ride attraction during a thunderstorm, and was blasted by an electrical charge from a lightning bolt, suffering only minor injuries.
Now, this sort of thing happens from time to time, and while rare, is not unheard of. Especially for those working outdoors on large metallic structures during lightning storms. But being struck by lightning is symbolic of a mortal who is out of favor from a deity, not just in christianity, but all the way back to zeus who wielded bolts of lightning like Phil Specter in a brothel with a revolver. So isn't this evidence of god's disdain for the rejection of reason and science? Isn't he lashing out at these peddlers of pseudo-science who knowingly reject the accumulated knowledge that mankind has painstakingly patched together since the stone age? Not according to Ken Ham.
“Well first of all, we certainly do say that ‘disasters’ and ‘personal tragedies’ are the result of God’s judgment–God’s judgement BECAUSE of our sin in Adam! Romans 8.22 makes it clear the whole world groans because of our sin,” He replied on Monday. “The fact we get sick and die is because of God’s judgment on sin! But praise the Lord, God had a plan from eternity to save us from the consequence of our sin–He paid the penalty for our sin and offers us a free gift of salvation (Romans 10:9).”
So I guess the fact that this accident occurred on their property WAS because they were being punished by god, but not for their half-assed attempt a weaving together science and creationism, but because Adam ate that fucking apple in the beginning of time! Holy fuck. That christian god sure can hold a grudge.
So the next time you are put on the spot to give an example of irony, just remember the story of the false prophet being struck by lightning. And by the way... Were you left wondering why the fuck a creation museum would have a zip-line ride on the premises? Because NO ONE wants to go there.
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| Indoctrinate them while they're young! |
Vic was six hours into his investigation of the dead irish boxer when he visited Dead Dave. Dave got his name from the hundreds of death threats made against him over the years, mostly due to his profession. He was a full-time rat. Not the type that talked to get himself out of trouble, but the kind that stuck his nose into everyones business so he would have info to sell. If you were shady, Dave knew all about you.
"I need info on a boxer's woman. The dead irishman, Feeney." Vic said without wasting breath on pleasantries.
"Mona?" Dave said. "Did she step in shit, Vic? Nice lady, that one. Too good for Feeney."
"Just tell me everything you know about her. It's business, Dave." Vic was already going through the man's cupboards, making himself at home and looking for booze.
Dead Dave knew this gal for years. The way he was speaking, he might even have a thing for her. Apparently she was beautiful, from a good family with a schoolteacher mom that died when she was a kid, and a father who was a chemist with an industrial company nearby. She went to school, paid her taxes, and on Saturdays was usually beaten bloody by her bastard boxer boyfriend. Dave was too weak to stand up to him about it, and Feeney just joked that she saved him gym fees by letting him "work out" on her. Nice guy. Nice enough for this girl to want him dead, Vic thought. He scratched down her address and paid Dave half of what he was asking, since he was out of whiskey.
Vic punched the wooden door to the Feeney home with shaking hands. When Mona answered she was still in a bathrobe despite it being nearly six pm.
"Go away, whoever you are. I am grieving." She said, swinging the door closed and turning before realizing the unwanted guest had his foot in the door.
"You are gonna want to talk with me lady" Vic said, "I know you killed Jack, and I need to know the details." She gasped at the accusation, but didn't deny it as Vic stepped though the doorway and began rifling through her kitchen.
"I don't know who told you I hurt Jack, but they're damn liars!" Mona said through forced sobs. "I loved him. And he died in the ring, for God's sake!"
Vic found a half empty bottle of bourbon and a coffee mug, sat down at the kitchen table and poured to the brim. "Nobody told me anything, miss" Vic said without taking his eyes off the cup as it rose to his lips. "But if I had a daughter who was getting the shit kicked out of her on a regular basis, I would want to kill the man responsible. And if that man was as tough a sonovabitch as Jack was, I would probably shoot the bastard. Unless I had access to thousands of lethal poisons and had the education to use them, that is." He swallowed the contents of the mug in one gulp and placed it back on the table to be filled again. He had her full attention, and she reached for the bottle to fill his cup for him.
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I am a member of an oppressed minority. But you can't tell when you see me on the bus. It has nothing to do with my sexual orientation, and likewise nothing to do with my religion. I have a giant cock.
I know what you are probably thinking. "There are people that face serious issues with racism, homophobia, and cultural intolerance. How dare you belittle their plight!" But you clearly must not also have a huge penis, because you just don't understand. Countless times I have gone to a job interview only to be denied because I am "under-qualified", or because "I failed a background check". But I know what happened. My prospective employer caught an eyeful of my massive, swaying member through the thin fabric of my trousers and I never had a chance.
And put yourself in my jockstrap for a moment. Have you ever had to get your trousers tailored to make room for your junk? It's not cheap, my friend. I could easily end up spending triple the value for a pair of bluejeans just to I can walk properly. And imagine this scene: you head out for a fun day taking in the sun at the beach in your new custom speedo, and before you know it some mother is calling the police because your natural body is somehow "indecent".
But the ladies must love it, right? Wrong again. The majority of the women I date get scared right out of my bedroom at the first sight of it. And the few that are still up for the act are no longer in the mood after the twenty or so minutes it takes for my member to become fully erect. Yes sir, having this giant cock is truly a burden, and society needs to recognize the special needs of the bountifully-endowed.
So I suggest we confront this issue as a society, head-on. The rights of men with large penises should be protected, and adjustments should be made in bathrooms, movie theaters, airline seats, and public transportation. And the clothing industry should be required to make off-the-rack selections available for this oppressed minority. It is only fair.
And maybe one day the tides will change, and men with giant cocks will be looked at with integrity by the public. We now have a black president. Maybe one day we will have a president with a massive penis, too.
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Being a man of low moral character, Vic Musket enjoyed betting on the occasional prizefight, and the more lopsided the victory, the better. But he rarely had the kind of scratch that would get him into betting on the casino bouts, leaving the weekend drifter matches as his venue. There you could fix a match by buying the loser a few drinks beforehand, unless of course he was irish. Booze was like spinach was to popeye for the micks, and that hard lesson cost him seventy bucks one time. But dry out a hard drunk and he couldn't drive a car, let alone win a fight. So when the papers reported about the in ring death of boxing legend "Green" Jack Feeney as related to a seizure from alcohol withdrawal, everything seemed to add up. Until the mob came knocking at Vic's car door.
The rapping at the window interrupted a pleasant dream about sodomizing a young filipino prostitute, and left Vic wondering if his wet clothes were due to sleeping in a car at noon during a heatwave or the combination of pissing himself and a wet dream. He gathered his senses and noticed a greaseball guido in a suit trying none too hard to disguise his mob connections standing outside. He gathered himself and followed the man into a nearby alleyway that served as Vic's office to either discuss business or get stabbed. Truth be told, Vic would accept either.
"We need you to look into Feeney's death last Saturday, Vic" the man said with a disgusted look on his face, possibly from the stench of the makeshift alleyway latrine. "One of my guys had a deal with him to throw the fight, and we think somebody fucked with our play and took him out."
"But if he was supposed to throw the fight anyways, what was the fix? He lost, didn't he?" Vic asked with a confused look.
"Whatchoo talkin about, Vic? If a guy fuckin dies in the ring it's a no contest. And we lost out on over 50 grand here! Somebody was messing around. We know Feeney wasn't fighting dry. He was shitfaced two nights before the fight at one of our clubs!"
Apparently the rules in sanctioned matches are a bit different than in the drifter bouts. In those fights a win by death paid out double. The guido didn't like being questioned, and was poking his finger in Vic's chest hard. He might be the first guy to get away with that, too.
"Alright, but what's in it for me? There are whores around here that rely on my business."
The man shook his head in disbelief at Vic's statement. "You tryin to be cute, Musket? You owe us over ten grand in bar bills at our clubs! You think we're paying for this job? Consider it a favor that we let you work it off instead of dropping you in a river somewhere!" The guy had a point.
"Alright, alright. I will get to the bottom of this, you know I will. Just clear the debt and open my tab back up in the club and we're square." Vic said as he pushed the man's finger away from his sternum. "Just tell me this, what did the autopsy say?"
"That's whats so fucking fishy. There was no autopsy. Feeney's broad said he was off the booze for a full week, and when they tested his blood he was clean, so the bitch had him cremated."
Well, at least there was somewhere to start. Vic pulled a half-full flask of whiskey from a sopping wet pocket and took a drink. The boxer's wife must have known he was still drinking, so her lies made her a prime suspect. Getting on the wagon certainly could kill a drunk like Feeney, Vic knew that from the way he felt after a long nap, let alone the week of sobriety his wife was claiming. But a hasty cremation was suspicious. Vic knew many dead irishmen, and right now his body should be sitting in a box on a bar somewhere having songs sung over it, not in a fucking jar.
Vic parted ways with the greaseball and headed off to one of his contacts to learn more about this shifty broad.
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| The transformers and godzilla one |
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| Two guns movie (left one is fake I think) |
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| This thing with knives and ninjas |
What are you looking at? It's my hair isn't it.
I have very healthy hair. Definitely not a wig.
What, are you crazy? It's all real up there, baby!
Come on, man! I would never wear a piece! What kind of guy do you take me for?
There you have it, folks. Not a wig.
As some avid readers/listeners of the podcast may have already devised, Terlet and myself reside in Colorado. There are two things our state has that bring in the hippies, one is pot, and the other is an amazing mountain landscape. Well, I decided to make my way back to the stomping grounds of my youth by traveling up to the Rocky Mountain National Park, and I decided that despite it's natural beauty and fresh alpine air, I fucking hate nature. Allow me to explain.
Upon entering the park I took this photo of the wonderful valley surrounded by massive and ancient mountains. What is wrong with that, you ask? Look closer. Some retarded tourist snuck into frame and I didn't notice. If only my camera was a 30.06 scope...
And after climbing the steep and winding roads of Trail Ridge, you come upon the delicate tundra environment. Here life clings to the rocks and not even trees can withstand the thin air and high winds. It was there that I took this photo, and then promptly got a vicious outbreak of hayfever. Having trouble breathing up there? Now try it with a running nose and constant sneezing.
At the summit of Trail Ridge Road is a hiking trail that promises enchanting vistas and natural beauty that will never be forgotten. What they don't tell you is that the half mile or so trail looks so relaxing, until your fat ass realizes that you are at 12,000 feet above sea level and all the huffing and puffing that would get you up a few hundred stairs in the city only gives you a headache, not any life-giving oxygen. Oh yes, and the views? Mostly just rocks and sky.
But surely it would all be worth it for this amazing shot of a bull elk in its natural habitat, right? Not so much. These dirty beasts will forever be associated with endless summers spent fixing barbed wire fences in my youth. And here in the park they don't even let you kill and eat them. What was the entry fee for, again?
But I must admit, the peaceful solitude of this amazing flower, heavy with a hungry bee, lounging at the banks of a babbling mountain stream had me at the most relaxed state I had been in in literally years. And it was at the exact moment that I snapped this shot that I realized the thin atmosphere paired with my lilly-white, shut-in complexion had left me with severe sunburn on my face, neck, and arms. I am still suffering.
So there you have it. A few reasons why I can justify hiding in the basement of my home and avoiding the natural playground at my doorstep. Toodles!
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I am craving for something quite filthy
A device that the devil might build me
A dong at one end
A long shaft with a bend
That when fondled spits out something milky
You should never make love to a puppet
No matter how well the maker does stuff it
Its mouth might look sweet
But every one lacks their feet
And the end with hand's where you'd fuck it
A priest is a leader of people
A guide bringing masses from evil
But some go astray
And claim they're not gay
But rape scores of young boys in the steeple
An abortion is tragic two ways
Once for the toll a mom pays
But also the waste
They're not converted to paste
And served to the starving on trays
I've got a small broken phallus
A member that's been treated with malice
It's been beaten and burned
But one thing I've learned
Is I can strike a match on the callus
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