Tuesday, January 21, 2014

The Free Mule

An aging farmer and his wife make their way through a crowd of people to get a fair view of the spectacle that is the livestock auction.  Compelled by the urging of his wife, the farmer seeks a mule to take some of the burden off of his daily life, to carry goods, drive his meager plow, and sow his seeds across his farm which seems ever larger by the passing day. 

At the center of the commotion lay several beasts, all equal in size and apparent health, each driving a massive wooden arm attached to a stone mill.  Dangling before them was a large and juicy carrot, cruelly tied to a string, a promise of the fruit of their labor that is deceptively offered by their master to entice them to his bidding.  Their sameness drew attention to the outsider among them.  One mule drives his mill without the carrot, with equal zeal and effort as those transfixed by the orange lie.  The farmer approached the auctioneer.

“Sir, I have questions for you about these beasts.  I have need of an animal to lift my burdens on my farm not far from here, but I have never purchased a mule before.  Which do you suggest?”

The auctioneer turned to the man, and smelling a sale made more lucrative by the farmer’s professed ignorance, lent him his full attention.  “Why sir, you have come to the right place!  You will find any one of these mules fit for the duties of a farm, as you can see.  They will all slave away tirelessly, and for the simple cost of seven gold pieces and a small supply of carrots, they could be easing your work by the end of the day!”

The deal seemed quite good, and for that price the farmer reckoned that he could make up for the cost in short time by the corresponding increase in productivity.  “But sir,” asked the farmer, “what of the mule at the end?  He drives his mill without a carrot.  How much for that beast?”

The auctioneer let out a loud laugh.  “Well if it’s that mule you have your eye on, I have good news for you!  If you’ll take that nag off my hands I’ll give it to you free of charge!”

The farmer staggered back a step.  “Free?  That mule looks every bit as healthy as the rest, and labors with equal effort.  And any man that had that mule in his barn could get the same work done without the added cost of carrots!  Please explain yourself, as I admit my ignorance might lead me to a foolhardy decision!”

Well,” said the auctioneer, “you said you needed a beast to do your bidding throughout your farm, to be the master of the animal and set him to the tasks that need doing, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”  The farmer replied.

“Well you had best look elsewhere, you foolish old man.  Any mule that hasn’t a taste for carrots can’t be made to do any work at all.  That mule has no master, and never will!”

The farmer betrayed his thoughts with a look of distrust.  “Then how sir, do you explain that the mule drags his mill arm just as do the rest of these animals?”

The auctioneer explained that the only thing that drove the mule to carry the mill arm was it’s own will, and that they had been trying to sell it at auction for the better part of a year now.  Sometimes choosing to allow the handlers to harness it, sometimes stubbornly refusing to comply with even the smallest urgings despite great efforts to entice it.  Convinced that the beast was worthless to man such as him, the farmer bought one of the other mules.  But as he led the newly purchased beast down the beaten road to his home, he couldn’t help but think of the carrot-less mule.  And admire it.

Friday, January 10, 2014

Support Your Local Businesses

Cyrus T. Gentle
Hey there Scrappy!  Yeah you, the shaggy one.  What's with them hairs there son?  What's the deal?  You tryin' to be a lady?  You got a giny tucked up under them dungarees?  You lookin' forward to the day you sprout them big beautiful breasts?  .... No?  A boy you say?  MHU HA HA HA!  You looks like a girly, son!  A fuckin' girly!

Why don't ya come inside and take a seat.  We'll fix yer gender right quick.  Come on now son... Come on inside, I ain'ta bitecha one bit.  You are makin' an embarassment of yourself son.  What you think people'r gonna say when they see's me, a respectable elder of this here fine town, chattin' it up with a lil' girly like some weirdo?  You gonna ruin my reputation son!  Now get in here and be barbered!

You don't want a haircut?  But it's all uh,... bushy.... you know... like a girly. ......  You don't want to cut it because it's yer look?  .... One Direction?  What's a One Direction? .... Harry Styles?  Son, whoever this Harry Styles is, she must be one hideous fuck.  Now let me slap yer scalp with a classic, a Bogart or a Cary Grant.. Something witha' discernible hairline.

Yer mom likes yer hair you say?  Well, I bet yer dad likes men.  You have intensely assholelish lookin' hair there son.  Now come inside before I start to lose my temper and I pound fifty shades of gay into yer puckered little giny! ....  What did you say ya lil' sumbitch!?  What!!?  I'ma' the one who's confused about my sexuality!?  ME!?  Come ere' ya lil' shit taster!  I'lla' crush ya'! Crush ya and kiss yer shameful face!!  You run like a girly!

Hey you Fatty!  Yeah you, the big fat fuck!  You wanna haircut!?


Thursday, January 2, 2014

Happy New Beard!

We at Popular Irony have been innundated by frantic messages and email wondering what the fuck happened to us, and why we have failed to deliver quality comedic content in the past several months.

There are several answers to these questions, and all of them are complicated.  Terlet opened his home to his friends following a disaster in our local area, and Hamtackle quit his job and grew a hobo beard.  Again.  Now a new year is upon us, and we have decided to each make post of our new year's resolutions.  I, Hamtackle, will start it off.

I have two simple resolutions, the first of which is to gain fifty pounds by the end of the year.  This is hard to do quickly, but I have my methods.  I will post a follow-up when I complete this goal.  The second is much simpler.  Eradicate the hobo beard.

I took to the shears and eliminated three months of growth in one fell swoop, nearly severing my jugular in the process.  I made it out ok, but the beard didn't.  Here it is in all its glory.

I figured this photo didn't do it justice, so here is the beard spread out to show its full girth.

I contacted the good people at Locks Of Love to see if they were interested in a donation.  They said beard hair is not suitable for wigs.  I figured they weren't well-known in the merkin industry, so I tried to change their minds by demonstrating how dashing a beard wig could be.

But they didn't return my email.  I can tell when I'm not wanted, so I had to find another way to dispose of this beard.  Usually your whiskers just wash down the drain when you shave regularly, but a beard this pervasive is a different thing altogether.  You can't just throw something this magnificent away, so I had to get creative.

And so it came to be, that my beard was given a proper viking burial.  A fitting end for a noble ball of human hair.  Be at peace, my friend.  Be at peace…