At some point in their fledgling career, most rookie journalists working in the local press are asked to do the dreaded "death knock."

It works like this.

A family has lost a son or daughter, father or husband.

The trainee hack is dispatched to the grieving household and ordered to come back with a tearful quote or soundbite and a photograph of the deceased, which is then plastered all over the news media.

It's one of the worst jobs in journalism -- that's why You Blew Me Up You Bastard comes as a godsend.

The site's authors offer to "store a photo of you, giving it large at the terrorists what done you in, and in the event of your body being blown to bits by a suicide bomber, we'll supply your disgusted image to all news services."

Genius.