Despite being a great patriot, I'm also sure I'll be sued by several Americans by the time I finish typing about how porky and fat they all are right here in this very sentence*. So many of my countrymen are pansies that the US puts more safety guidelines on a waterslide than Japan does on a nuclear fuel rod. That's why I do my part every year by celebrating our nation's birthday barbarically and unsafely with Homemade Fireworks.
*I've been accused of "fatphobia" by seven different sources, which only makes me wonder why fat people invented a word that's so impossible to say during a cheeseburger.
I've done several articles here at Cracked about the importance of kicking ass like 10 Traits You Need for Any Apocalypse and 5 Things God Damn Aliens Should Think About Before They Invade Us. I've also discussed sensitive issues Americans face like Torture (As a Batman Comic), Immigration (As a Man Comic), and Jumping Jacks (As a Bikini Tribute to the Troops). Foreign people, I know you godless savages are just seeing lines of strange shapes right now, but you should really be terrified of how much my articles have strengthened us as a nation.
I've found that nothing causes a nerd to lose interest faster than sports. And as everyone knows, when a nerd starts to lose interest, all that space where the interest was turns into rage. For instance, when I wrote this admittedly strange article about bad pedestrians entirely in NBA metaphors, many angry commenters informed me that it fell outside their area of interest and therefore had no place on Cracked. I heard the same thing in this article about Crazy Athletes. And while I thank these commenters for magically doing all that marketing research in their own heads, I'm worried they might have a dangerous condition originally discovered by corrections officers called "Too Rapeable."
I've had three non-comedy jobs in my life: stunt man, pro wrestler, and UFC: Undisputed writer. I'm nerdy as shit, but I also think all men should live their life like they might need to break a 2x4 with any or every part of their body at any time. Kicking the fuck out of someone is the purest form of expression we have in this morally ambiguous society, and I try to share that joy with the world in articles like The Top 8 OH SHIT Moments in MMA, The 10 Worst MMA Fights, 7 Fighters Who Lied Their Way to Legendary, 10 Ragdoll KOs, The 6 Least Sportsmanlike Moments in MMA, The Ultimate Fighter Book of Josh Koscheck Insults, The 10 Ass Kickest Moments in Kickboxing, and Worst Life Ever: The Story of Kazuyuki Fujita's Skull. Oh, and remember earlier when I mentioned that people on the Internet accuse everyone of stealing things inappropriately? That Kazuyuki Fujita article is about actual events that took place on a human head and I got at least 200 hate mails saying that I stole it from an episode of "The Simpsons."
MMA isn't for everyone. In fact, once every 3 seconds someone observes that it's just two shirtless homosexuals hugging each other on the floor. Now I'm not in charge of defending combat against homosexuality critics, but I think a childlike observation without a joke degrades both jokes and children. So here's my solution: if you enjoy MMA and someone tells you that stuff's just gay fellas fuckin', take their cell phone and smash it. Because what are they going to do, fight you? That'd make them the gay! Call the cops? How? You just smashed their phone! And what are they going to tell AppleCare? "Sorry my phone broke, but when my friends are discussing sports I simply cannot stop bringing up gay sex." That completely voids an iPhone's warranty!
I like to think that most people are smart. That's why there are only 73 successful businesses that let you to trade in old gold for whatever amount of cash they feel like sending you. But despite our savviness, most people still think 80 pound ladies can fend off multiple attackers with karate chops and nerve pinches. I do what I can to debunk these kinds of martial arts myths in articles like 5 Self Defense Books for Women Who Want to Lose Fights, 4 Survival Guides for Wildly Improbable Situations, and How to Win a Bar Fight. Karate masters put out books way faster than I can debunk them, though, so I'll probably still be writing these articles when I'm in a wheelchair. Speaking of, I already own 7 books and 3 videos explaining how to kill a mugger from one of those.
A lot of my articles are based on the extensive research I've done in trying to understand women. I've played the The Ni***r N*g**r N**g*r N***er Dr. Laura Board Game, studied books on Fucking Like a Librarian, examined Every Religion's Sex Practices and looked at over 92,000 drawings of Kim Cattrall's mon pubis in 4 Sex Books for People Who Hate Sex. I've read so many books about sex that sometimes gynecologists send me pictures of weird fleshy things to see if they've discovered an unnamed vagina part.
While I was buying all these books on romance and wheelchair karate, I learned two important things: One, it's totally possible to give the Amazon.com recommendation robot an emotional breakdown. And two, there are bestselling authors out there whose idea of romantic advice is to offer them a coupon for free pizza and then stick your dick in them. These romantic visionaries inspired articles like 1516 Ways to Kill Romance and 11,201 More Pieces of Terrible Advice.
At first, my only goal was to make some classy, highbrow jokes about these simple-minded authors, but soon I realized that most of these simple-minded authors were Gregory JP Godek. Now I have a new goal. I'm going to keep writing about this stupid fucker until all the Google results for his name are my jokes about his fat, pizza-filled wife. And in that tradition, you can avoid up to 280 calories of saturated fat if you dab Godek's wife with a napkin before making love.
It may seem strange that only 6% of my columns are about poontang and 90% of my brain's chemicals are devoted to hunting it. That's because writing about your sex life is for self destructive assholes like that lady from the TV show about hot flashes. Even on a terrible first date, I'm probably going to get far enough into a conversation to tell the girl what I do for a living. And wouldn't that be a great idea to send her to a column about me boning all the other women I'm seeing... she'd either have a huge problem with that or I'm going to die if I fuck her. Plus, women hold you responsible for every girl you've ever gone out with, even if it was before you met her. I've dated enough in the information age to know that when a woman looks at my Facebook photos, these are the only pictures she clicks on:
Also, although women are the natural enemy of women, they are always on each other's team when you're telling a story about how insane one of them is. So if I'm dating an insane one, and dear God how I have, I try to bear that burden myself. Though I have noticed that when I'm enduring a lady's hormonal frenzy, my articles tend to be less philosophical (See: Giant Dong Comics Vol. I, Kick to the Groin Comics, or Giant Dong Comics Vol. II), and more about how I hate every single thing (See: 8 Douchebags Who Found This Article by Googling Themselves). These almost always receive less hate mail because the angsty commenters recognize me as one of their own. In fact, that article about douchebags was barely intended to be funny. I wrote it so that if Spencer Pratt or his Frankenstein's monster of a woman ever meet me it will be culturally impossible for them not to attack me.
My favorite bands are Poison, Michael Jackson, and Milli Vanilli. When I go to Coachella I miss every act because if I don't keep drinking the sun boils away all my $12 beers before they can get me drunk. Plus, I only go to concerts in the first place if I'm dating a girl smart enough to see through my excuses to miss it. I seriously can't hold a conversation with anyone about music. Still, I wrote What are Your Top 5 Crime Scene Albums?, Su-Su-Science: Using Pandora as Phil Collins Gaydar, and The Numerically Bootiest Songs of All Time. I now see that We Are the World 2 was right about music being able to make a difference.
Back when there were book stores, I used to love to shop in the self-help section. Unfortunately, I never found a book called How to Hide Your Laughter From the Emotionally Fragile Person Reading the Same Self-Help Book as You. Here's what I did find, though: 4 Supremely Depressing Books About Happiness and 24,504 Reasons to Burn Books. And since my dream book was never written, I wrote it myself: Gary Busey's 3rd Grade Science Textbook.
One of the saddest moments of my career came after writing Tits For Men, a savage annihilation of Maxim magazine's drooling, date-rapey editorial direction. A few days later, Maxim Online posted this, a limp-dicked response that proved they even write jokes like date rapists. I've been looking for a proper nemesis my whole career and here I find out I was picking a comedy fight with a magazine whose humor staff couldn't suck a joke out of a rowboat full of diverse religious viewpoints. Fuck you and your weakness, Maxim. You've added to a string of disappointing possible nemeses. I gave it a shot with Carlos Mencia, The Competitive Eating Industry, and once I thought I really had something with Uwe Boll when I was scheduled to box him, he backed out, and I retaliated by painstakingly attacking everything he's ever done. But look at us now:
Best Freunds! He never even took a swing at me!
Maybe I shouldn't talk too much shit about Maxim because my second issue of Tits For Men was a battle between the Surgeon General and Big Tobacco that took place entirely in cigarette ads and most people either didn't get it, hated it, or both. Luckily, my magazine career got back on track with another attack on Maxim in my quiz Is it Gay? Or is it Maxim? and the Tits for Men spinoff, Penis for Women. Where I'm from, we have a word for that kind of wordplay: amazing.
I mock the stupid, but that's only because I can be pretty stupid myself. For instance, I barely scored "not color blind" on these 6 IQ Tests Created by Complete Morons. I once spent almost 10 hours watching dog shows for an article I was going to call Eukanuba Nosferatu. I decided that every fifth person in the crowd at dog shows looked like a vampire. Eukanuba Nosferatu is something an idiot spirit shit in my brain, and it still holds the number one spot on my idea board (See Figure 34HHH). I write articles about how Mayonnaise Lies To Us or how Airlines Should Hire Pantied Bears as Stewardesses. And yet I'm constantly inventing new ways to mock my stupid brothers and sisters like suggesting Jobs for the Exceptionally Dumb or writing this article that I wasn't clever enough to figure out a category for. Real Talk.
In the past, people have suggested I'm a monster, and I don't always argue that. But normally I turn my hate on people who have some sort of success in life. If I say that Spencer Pratt is such a pussy that when he gets a haircut they charge him for a bikini wax, I know he can at least jerk off to the fact that someone typed his name. When I discredit every stupid book that Gregory JP Godek wrote, he can at least sit in his running car in his closed garage and intellectualize that thousands of people bought them. And for the opposite reason, I don't like to mess with people who write me hate mail-- because even if they hurt my delicate feelings, those poor angry children have nothing. What kind of man would I be if I used my Maxim-crushing wit against an unarmed child? Don't answer please, because I broke the rules of engagement on two different occasions: The Only 10 Angry Commenters To Ever Exist and When Scrapbookers Attack. Sometimes you have to tell haters which of their brothers' cocks they can suck.
I love all the funny people here at Cracked, Real Talk. Every weekend I make charcoal drawings of Soren Bowie's naked torso that we donate to zoos to encourage their animals to breed. I once stacked Fightin' DOB and Kvetchin' Gladstone on top of me in a trenchcoat to trick our way into the WNBA. It led to the league's first in-game unwanted pregnancy. Robert Brockway lets me store beer and soup in his moustache, and in one of my favorite Cracked articles, he swapped intellectual properties with me to simultaneously create Brockway's Seanbaby's Man Comics and Seanbaby's Brockway's Choose Your Own Drug-Fueled Misadventure. These are people I, sniff, would be happy to spend another 100 articles with.
Starting with The 24,504 Worst Pieces of Advice Ever Published, Sean's reviews of self-help literature exposed me to the dark underside of books I had always trusted to guide me through life. His The 10 Most Butt References in the History of Rap Music gave me the guidance I needed to carry on without them.
8 Douchebags Who Found This Article by Googling Themselves gave me an epiphany. I realized that the sacred blade of mockery was forged by evolution so that it, and the masters who wield it, would be humanity's only defense against the complete Spencer Prattification of the species.
Man, where to start singing Sean's praises? I mean, before he started writing for Cracked, I had no idea you could just Photoshop dirty things into the conversation bubbles of old comics and call that a column. I thought you had to like string sentences together into paragraphs in support of an idea. But then again I'm pretty unsophisticated. Like I never even knew you could cure your chlamydia by having unprotected sex with three girls who didn't have chlamydia. Seriously, the dude has taught me so much.
But if I had to point to one thing he's written here that fills me with the most joy, it would be the following line from his column about the Power Lord -- that 80s action figure featuring a dude with a blue face on the back of his head:
"My own son asked me if I made this toy so that He-Man could have a face-to-face conversation with the guy he's fucking."
Gets me every time.
I love gay jokes, but I hate homophobia, so why do I love this? Because it's not homophobic. While it presumes that He-man is gay, it doesn't deride him for that lifestyle. Furthermore, the Power Lord's sexual orientation is not even at issue. That's what kills me. Instead, he's so pathetic, he exists in his hideously tortured, two-faced state solely for He-man's sexual and verbal gratification. Great stuff. Also, he Photoshopped it like totally perfectly and stuff.
There are people we each encounter in our lives who are not meant for the banality of this world. Not meant to separate darks from lights or stare at numbered screens in DMVs. They ought to be riding on hunks of magma and iron hurtling through space and destroying moons. Seanbaby, I suspect, is one of these people. I don't know because I've never met him; he was supposed to visit once but suddenly couldn't because he was having sex with a girl in Portland. My only point of reference is his non-fiction piece, "How to Show America You Care With Homemade Fireworks," which probably deserves to be included in the canon of American Literature, or at the very least, laminated by someone.
The night after reading it I had a dream that he and I were on safari together, hunting game cats with loosely nailed two-by-fours. Sitting over the campfire, he confided in me that he had two dicks, one on each hip like guns, and one of them could pee sand. To date, that remains - in my mind - the pinnacle of masculinity toward which all men struggle.
On March 4th, 2011, Phil Collins officially retired from music. I don't know if this article had anything to do with it, but I'm positive that it had everything to do with it.
This was the first of Seanbaby's Cracked articles to make me laugh so hard that I got kind of mad at my computer for embarrassing me in public. It was comedy without dead spots, just pure rapid-fire madness - from Spontaneo: The Dog who Just Doesn't Give a Fuck's chain of reasoning being simply "Meat! Fucking!" to the Punchmaster's first line being "wait...you're not the real Chewbacca!" - that never let up. But the thing that stuck with me the most was this page:
The text is brilliantly dark and hilarious, but a lot of people might've missed the punchline there: There is no way out of the maze. Sean added a single line, right at the start, sealing off all exit. He just executed a perfect child-murder joke with one single, 1/4" straight black line. If brevity is the soul of wit, Seanbaby makes Mark Twain look like Dennis Miller.