Given my recent campaign against serial abortionist/poorly-disguised Snake Monster Hannah Montana, I’ve been getting a whole lot of letters. Not just from Hannah’s managers and lawyers and the FBI demanding that I stop harassing her, but from you, the Cracked readers and writers. Gladstone, for example, sent along this helpful article wherein Hannah is described as a juggernaut for her trampling of U2, the Super Bowl and the movie theater industry at large. In this article, sent by JoJo, Hannah Montana claims that she will not turn out to be the next Britney Spears but, suspiciously, she doesn’t say anything about not turning out to be the next Pol Pot. Eric 616 sent along this uncomfortable article including scandalous photos that may or may not be of the 15 year old, totally-illegal-and-as-a-result-totally-hideous Hannah Montana, scantily clad and covered in some of that middle-school-dance-sweat we all remember. Also, someone sent a package to the Cracked House that just contained a lock of Cyrus’s hair and what I think was one of her toenails. While I appreciate your dedication and resourcefulness, whoever you are, (let’s face it: Swaim), I can’t in good conscience condone this sort of behavior.
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Well… That’s Horrible.

I’ll admit it: Sometimes I like to just hang out in the bathroom until well after the… err… how do I put this? Until after the… umm… proceedings have commenced. I don’t know if that’s supposed to be embarrassing or what, but there it is. When it comes to matters of the bathroom I’m usually not in any particular hurry.

Sometimes I’ll send out some text messages letting friends know what I’m doing. “LETZ DOOK IT OUT,” “DOOKLEAR EXPLOSION” and “ARCHDOOK FRANZ FERDINAND JUST GOT SHOT” are all popular ones, not to mention “DOOK THE RIGHT THING” and “PLAY ANOTHER SONG ON THE DOOKBOX.” When all else fails I’ll just go through the contents of my wallet or read the ingredients list on the back of a shampoo bottle. I do all kinds of things when I’m in the bathroom, but here’s the important part: eventually I get up and leave. I have other things to do on a daily basis that require leaving the bathroom, and to be honest, as much as I love sitting on the toilet I seriously doubt I’d want to do it all day.

Which is why when I read this article about a woman hanging out in the bathroom for TWO YEARS I was like “whoa.” What was she doing in there? Did her boyfriend bring her Sudoku puzzles to solve? If he was a good boyfriend he’d get her a Nintendo DS, or maybe move a TV in there or something. Oh wait - no, that’s wrong. If he was a good boyfriend he probably would’ve been like “Hey, uhh, you’ve been in the bathroom for a really long time. Maybe you should get off the toilet so the seat doesn’t become fused to your body.”

I could probably make a joke here about how women always take forever in the bathroom to get ready, but that’s kind of a tired and obvious joke, and I don’t know how to work the whole skin-growing-over-the-toilet-seat part into it, so I guess I’ll just skip that one altogether. Instead, I’m going to end with a question: Do you think the seat was padded? I sure hope so.

This week’s Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony accomplished two important feats: giving Justin Timberlake a forum for responding to Gladstone’s hateful comments about him, and bringing the debate as to whether Madonna or Leonard Cohen is a more important musical figure into the public consciousness where it belongs.

Concerning the former revelation, I’ll let J.T. speak for himself. During his speech honoring Madonna, he said “she has still found time to kiss someone I may or may not have publicly kissed myself while I was in the audience,” and “the world has always been full of Madonna wannabes, and I might have even dated a couple.”

Well, I think we all recall last Summer, when reports of “Gladstimberlake” and their late nights clubbing clogged every national news outlet. And who could forget their famous “coming out” appearance at the MTV Movie Awards?

But enough’s enough, Gladstone. We know you’re lonely, and bitter, and that you’ve gained an enormous amount of weight since the break-up, but get over it! He’s too much man for you, okay? Moving on.

I’ve always wondered about who was the most relevant, enduring, and important musician in Rock. Naturally, after long nights of flipping through my record collection and marveling at my own retro hipness, it always came down to two clear contenders: Leonard Cohen and Madonna.

I even made this chart to try and decide:

It seemed like Cohen was winning, but then I remembered that although his songs “read” very well, most of them sound like this (wait for 1:50). Plus, I saw this headline about Madonna that really worked in her favor.

Frankly, I was so turned around about the whole thing I nearly had one of my servants commit poignant suicide on a white duvee.

But, thanks to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Inducting Committee (comprised of Ace Frehly, Nigel Parry and Janis Joplin’s old pot dealer), this pressing issue may finally be dragged out into the open and, hopefully, resolved in some sort of violent deathmatch.

My thanks to you, Misters Frehly, Parry, and “Gizmo.” You have given all us music buffs some hope, and quite possibly saved my chambermaid’s life.

Vote for Michael’s entry in the YOUTUBE SKETCHIES II Semi-Finals by clicking this link, then “next video” on the randomizer until you see his (”The Hot Farts”), then on the thumbs up. Complicated, isn’t it? Well, do it once per day per registered youtube account.

When you stop and think about it, a large part of our daily existence is filth-encrusted. You’re reading this on a computer, so chances are you’ve picked up thousands of bacteria just from touching the keys. Ditto if your bathroom door has a doorknob, and if it’s a curtain instead like mine, it’s filthy for a whole new set of reasons.

At the end of the day, we humans are basically huge, lumbering apartment complexes for hordes of microbes warring to be the first to get us to choke to death on our own vomit.

But never in my wildest flights of germophobic fantasy did I imagine it would come to this. Ladies and gentlemen, the snow is no longer trustworthy.

Snowflakes can only form when ice crystals have some material to cling to and grow on, and a new study has shown that about 85% of the time, that “material” is bacteria. That means catching snowflakes on your tongue is basically like enjoying a tootsie pop whose center is a deadly contagion.

Admittedly the bacteria the study found was one that harms only plants, but let’s not kid ourselves; it’s only a matter of time before the Ebola virus hitches a ride on some “white death” and cripples our nation’s most precocious, innocent, and precious resource: comedy bloggers.

Well, no thank you Jack Frost. Next Winter I’ll be staying in a dark, unventilated room stocked with plenty of my favorite meal: open dishes of chicken broth.

And you want to know something I won’t be doing in that room? Having sex with teen girls. And it has nothing to do with the fact that I’m not allowed near them. Rather, I cite this recent study showing that 1 in 4 teen girls in the US have an STD.

Statistically, that means that after an average night “on the town,” I stand to contract no less than 1/16th of a venereal disease! Well, that’s just a chance I’m not willing to take.

Women, stop spreading and start drinking tap water. Why, you ask? Because if you’re not going to treat your STD’s, maybe some of the prescription drug cocktail coming out of your faucet will knock the sucker out.

Once again, the tampering of mankind puts aright what nature set awrong. That old guy that wrote Frankenstein sure was ignorant.

When not blogging for Cracked, Michael designs sanitary bunkers as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

Elmo, North Philly Style

Being a costumed entertainer seems like a great gig, doesn’t it? You get to wear whatever you want under your suit, you don’t have to bathe, and the hours are probably pretty flexible. What do you really have to do? Jump around a little bit, dance with some kids for an hour or two, then collect your paycheck? Sounds pretty easy, right?

Wrong. True, personal hygiene is not a top priority for a costumed entertainer, but that’s because they have so much more to worry about. Try to understand: If a costumed entertainer gets called out to a Bar Mitzvah he has to speak at least a little bit of Yiddish. If a costumed entertainer gets hired to perform at a birthday party for the Mafia, he needs to know that they believe loyalty is very important. And if a costumed entertainer gets called out to a wicked block party in North Philly, he better come correct with some wicked-sick dance moves. The name of the game is versatility, and most people aren’t willing or able to provide that for minimum wage. That’s why you don’t see very many costumed entertainers these days. Unless you spend a lot of time at theme parks, I guess, but if you’re spending all of your time at theme parks, then you probably have bigger problems to concern yourself with. Stop worrying so much about the state of the costumed entertainment industry and go get yourself into therapy. Take care of yourself - you’re worth it.

On a related note, when did this become a thing? Why are there like 1,000 videos on YouTube of people dancing in Elmo costumes? How did I miss that?

Oh yeah - by being the whitest person on the face of the planet.

Well folks, Spring is here which, for most people means love is in the air. For the nerdy, pasty, internet obsessed tech crowd, however, (that’s you, Cracked.com readers!), it means one thing: South by Southwest. That’s right, the 22nd Annual South by Southwest Festival, a celebration of music, movies, technology and the internet, is going on all this week. Bloggers, pseudo-celebrities and nerds everywhere are flocking to Texas for a week of boner-inducing inter-news, and as an incredibly important and influential Cracked Blogger, it’s only natural that I should be in attendance.

I don’t mean to brag, but as an experienced journalist, I have somewhat of a knack for sensing when something huge is about to happen and, let me tell you, I had one hell of a hunch that this particular SXSW festival was going to be different. Something big was going to go down, and I wanted to be there when it happened. If my hunch was accurate, (and they always are), this story could almost guarantee me a Pulitzer. Alternately, I heard Jenna Fischer was going to be there, and I’ve always kind of wanted to ask her if she’s ever seriously considered taking a shower with me.

I went to visit Cracked’s Head Editor Jack O’Brien last week to see about getting a plane ticket to the event…

“Let me ask you something, Jack Rabbit-” I began
“Don’t call me that” he interrupted.

“What if I was to tell you that I’m planning an article so controversial, so inspirational, so fucking life-changing that, after you read it, your head will literally spit your eyes right off your god damn face because your brain would realize that there’s no point in reading anything else ever. Got that? Your brain says you don’t even need eyes anymore because you already read the most important article ever conceived. That’s how fucking Ninja Turtles this article is.” I paused to let my words sink in, and because I accidentally spit all over myself in my excitement. “If I told you I could write that article and get it up on Cracked by the end of the week, would you just shit your pants, or what?” I could tell I had him.
“Probably not, no,” he answered. “But I’ll admit it, you’ve got my attention.” I also had his wallet, but he didn’t need to know that.
“You can have that article, Jack to the Future-”
“Don’t call me that.”
“-and all it would take on your part is a plane ticket to Austin. One little plane ticket, and you’ll have the article that’ll change the world. One plane ticket … and a few other incidental expenses,” I mumbled as I pulled out my expense proposal.
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Every once in awhile the media exalts some random celebrity to renaissance man status. Right now, that man is Justin Timberlake.

First, he was a successful boybander. Then, a hit solo artist. Then he turned up in a movie. It doesn’t matter that it was a rape fantasy soft core midget porn movie; it was still a movie!!

And now the Grammy winner is executive producer on a new show called My Problems With Women.

Wow. Is there anything this annoying, no-talent, scrawny piece of a shit can’t do?

He’s really got it all:

• Crying like a little bitch on Punk’d? Check!
• Satisfying his older lady fantasies with the only “beautiful” woman who bears a resemblance to Max Schmelling? Check!!
• Somehow capturing the look of BOTH redneck white trash and Orthodox Jew? Check!!!

Seriously, enough with this guy. Men will admit that Brad Pitt and George Clooney are attractive. Men don’t even mind that their girlfriends openly masturbate during Oceans 11. But I have yet to meet one dude who looked in the mirror and said, “Damn, I wish I looked more like the sniveling little brother of a bayou serial rapist.”

I’m not buying it. Timberlake is not Da Vinci. He’s just some dude. If he were taking your order at the McDonalds Drive Thru, you’d definitely double-check the bag before driving away. And you just KNOW, he’d totally forget the Sweet N’ Sour sauce you clearly asked for.

Am I wrong?

Fred and Sharon Want to Know: Who Needs A Movie?

Fred and Sharon might pretend like there’s some question involved here, but the truth of the matter is that YOU need a movie. Let’s face the facts: a video movie could improve pretty much all of our lives. Who do you think you are? You think you don’t need a video movie to documenting your last wedding, stage production or Quinceañera? You think Fred and Sharon don’t know what’s best for you?

Wrong on both counts, bucko.

Think about all those recent events you’ve had. Remember that birthday party? Remember how your buddy Abe kept doing his hilarious Borat impression? What about your great aunt’s funeral? Remember how Abe was doing the Borat impression at that one, too? Well let me tell you something about memories: they fade. You might remember your friend Abe screaming “Eez nice! I like!” at various inapproriate events today, but what about tomorrow? Will you remember his dated pop culture references in a few years? Will you even remember Borat at all? You might read a passing reference to Borat in some general interest magazine ten years from now and be like, “That reminds me of something, but I can’t remember what.” Then your friend Abe will be like, “I from Kazakhstan! I have sex with my sister!” and you’ll be like “WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE!?”

Eez nice.

Well, it’s been on the minds and in the sweaty, chapped-from-manual-stimulation hands of most of this blog’s readers for nearly four days now, so let’s discuss it. The Brawl, what with the Donkeys and the Squirtles. What do we think? Well, since they pay me to, I’ll tell you what I think, and we’ll move forward from there.

There’s a lot of them, so that’s good. They didn’t lose anyone I loved, and it’s a Genesis-boy’s wet dream to see Sonic tearing up Green Hill Zone on a next-gen system. I mean for the love of Prower, why the hell did Sega ever abandon the sure-fire “Sonic moves quickly to the right” scenario?

Some of the newbies are pretty pathetic in my hands (Pokemon trainer, don’t quit your day job at the Evergrande City Starbucks). But as my buddy Steve routinely handing me my ass with the Ice Climbers and Jigglypuff proves, Smash is a game where enough practice can allow you to piss off your friends with nearly any character.

And now, watch me garner the combined hatred of thousands of Internet fanboys with no more than two syllables: Snake? Meh.

Maybe it’s because at my house we play with items turned off (and the loser has to spend the night outside; we’re pretty intense), but fuck Nintendogs. Little motorcycle guys, you’re cool.

As for the rest, let’s not kid ourselves: they’re basically Pokeballs. Which isn’t bad, it’s just surprising that Nintendo found a way to cram even more first-party characters into what is essentially a huge circle jerk. A circle jerk with, you know, fighting and stuff. Like High School gym.

In case you hadn’t gathered, I used a forged doctor’s note to get out of High School gym.

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La Pequeña Amy Winehouse

In case you haven’t heard, the Catholic Church has announced that some new sins have been added to the list. No joke. If you are a practicing Catholic, you now have seven additional “social sins” to worry about: everything from polluting the environment to using birth control to “excessive wealth” now constitutes a “social sin” and will totally make you go to hell forever.

What does this mean to you? Probably not a whole lot (unless you were about to throw a used condom off the side of your yacht), but I think there are a few more that need to be tacked onto the list:

I’m sure there are plenty more that I’m forgetting… anyone have any ideas?