Got that? Open your brain-eyes. My question is…

Do you fuck or fight yourself?

Now, that might seem like a false dichotomy, but I promise you it isn’t. Further, I’m not trying to force the fight-or-fuck response simply because it happens to be the way I personally handle absolutely ever social situation, that’s just a coincidence. And, to be clear, Fighting or Fucking aren’t the most intriguing possibilities, they’re the only possibilities, and I need you to understand that before we can get into the pros and cons of each.

Understanding The Fight-or-Fuck Response
When I bring this hypothetical up with people, I’m consistently shocked when some say they would just “talk” to themselves. If you’re curious what you sound like, buy a tape recorder. If you’re hoping to have a genuinely stimulating conversation, why have it with yourself? What value can be found conversing with someone who knows no more than you and can offer no fresh perspective on things you do know? There is nothing to be learned from someone who thinks exactly like you, you’d spend an hour just bullshitting and agreeing with yourself. Two people in a room with identical ideas who sit around confirming each other’s opinions and beliefs is basically a circle jerk anyway, so why not go all out? [See: Clone-Fucking and You]

You may agree, but you may still think you don’t need to do something as drastic as fighting or porking, but I don’t think you’re really seeing the big picture. The bottom line is no one else in the world will ever have this opportunity, and it is impossible to recreate the experience. It’s just you who has been given this chance. You have an hour in a locked room with a clone of yourself. One hour and that clone disappears. Gone. If you’re the only person in history with the opportunity to do whatever you want with a clone for an hour with no consequences, do you really want to waste it having a conversation that is inherently designed to go nowhere? That would be pointless, it’s out of the question.

When we agree that “chatting” is taken off the table, we see that there’s very little else left to do. There’s nothing in the room to play with or watch or read. You can’t go out and play pranks on people, you’re locked in. As I see it, you only have two options if you want this experience to matter at all…

Clone-Fucking And You

For some people, brake lights are immediately thrown on at the prospect of having sex with a clone, simply because the clone is of the same sex.¹ That’s an understandable knee-jerk reaction, but I wouldn’t say it’s the full story. I’m going to ask you, as I do at the beginning of every column, to think about masturbating. You masturbate with your own hand or foot (if you’re flexible) or tail (if you’re a mutant). If the clone is you, then it is, theoretically, a physical manifestation of masturbation. This is just you and you, working towards your pleasure.

And here’s something you should know about your clone up front. It has all of your memories, up to and including your decision to clone yourself for the purpose of fucking yourself. By making this decision, you’re basically creating an inner contract with your clone going into the experiment. Your clone knows it has an hour left, and it knows why you cloned it and, hey, it’s cool with it. It will have gone in with an internal resolve to let you do this because it is you, and is taking one for the team so you can experience something nobody else in the world will have ever experienced. That is one noble cause and, in fact, you should all follow this clone’s example. Right now, make a deal with yourself. Agree with yourself to let yourself have sex with yourself, if you ever clone you.

Which reminds me: Clone-boning should, theoretically, be the most pleasurable experience you will ever have. Because this clone is working for you, and who knows you better than you? You know all of your complex turn-ons², your favorite spots³ and your ideal sexual execution, (”sexecution”). Every weird thing you’ve ever been too ashamed to admit to another person, it’s all fair game in the temporary clone brothel. Nothing is off limits. Two Yous, with an expertly-detailed map of your sexual preferences and nothing on their minds except pleasure for You, locked in a room for an hour.

It can be also be learning experience for all of you shy, awkward folks out there. Are you a good kisser? Is what you think of as “gentle caressing” more like “clumsy pawing”? Some people have a trusting enough relationship with their partners that they can ask these questions openly, and some people are just naturally gifted (Booyah). But you? This is how you find out.

The hang up that a lot of people have here is this: “Yes, my clone would theoretically know all of my turn-ons, but you know what probably my biggest turn on is? Women, and that’s something the clone just can’t provide.”

This is true, but shouldn’t put the veto on the whole clone-boning outright, because it overlooks the big, sweeping PRO in the clone-fucking camp.
Namely, the point is that, Hey, this clone disappears in an hour. You will never, and I repeat, never have the chance to full-on fuck yourself again. The experience, whether ultimately good or bad, is still an experience that you can only have this on time. And, as I said before, remember that you’re the only one. The only one in history who could potentially know what it feels like to fuck yourself. Only one person in the entire world, in the whole spectrum of time can have this exact experience, that person is you. And you’re going to pass? When I visited South Africa to find myself spiritually and lay low from some cops for a while, I made sure I sampled all of the local cuisine, no matter how smelly or clearly-made-out-of-monkey-brains some of it was because, shit, when would I be back to South Africa? Might as well slurp those brains while the chance presents itself, right? You probably regret certain actions you didn’t take, trips you didn’t go on, crushes you never talked to; do you really need another regret?
Because on your death bed, you will regret the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity you passed up. Count on it.

Go ahead and get your clone-bone on!

But, while you’re doing that, I did want to run one more thing by you. It’s true that the clone is an exact replica of you and, theoretically, an extension of you (which is what makes the masturbation angle sound), however, you’re not sharing a mind or, to be slightly more abstract, a soul, with your clone, not in the present, anyway. So, while he was at one point a perfect copy of you, the instant he came into existence, he started developing his own memories, separate from yours. By virtue of the very fact that he knows he’s a clone should tell you that you’re already different people. He’s in the room with you experiencing life in a completely different way, interpreting the surroundings in a way that’s specific to him. After even a few seconds of being alive, he’s no longer your clone, he’s got his own memories and experiences and opinions and everything else that informs someone’s unique personality. He looks exactly like you, yes, and shares all of your previous memories, but he’s not you, not anymore. He’s just some guy.

And you’re fucking him.

Clone-Fighting and You

I like the New York Giants. Sometimes they lose. (Off the top of my head, like the last four consecutive games, for example.) However, even when they do lose (four straight games, Manning), I’m often happy if the game is close, or if it’s a good match up. If the game’s compelling to watch. Sure, it’d be great if the Giants won every game (or even if they just beat the goddamned Eagles), but as long as it’s an exciting and entertaining game, I can consider it worth my time.

To put it in boxing terms, I don’t want to watch Tyson mow down opponents a quarter of the way into the first round. Or, to put it in late 90s World Championship Wrestling terms, I’d rather watch Dean Malenko and Chris Benoit grapple and wristlock for 85 minutes than Goldberg spear through the competition in 13 seconds.

I’m a person who likes close, even matches, is my point.

Now, there is no closer, more evenly matched fight imaginable than the one you fight against yourself. No one knows your intricate fighting style⁴ better than you; no one knows your weaknesses⁵ better than you; and no one is as intimately familiar with all of the shitty things you’ve done in your life –anything that might warrant a punch in the mouth– as you are. And I’m a competitive guy as, I imagine, my clone would be, so this would just be a high-octane, non-stop, hate-fueled-thrill-ride of knuckles and cursewords that rocks all hour long. This would be the best fight ever. We might spend the entire time expertly blocking each other’s moves like a couple of well-trained ninjas, or maybe we’ll spend it alternating between groin kicks and recovering (from groin kicks), like a couple of really bad ninjas. I don’t have to worry about the cops being called, or his friends showing up; we’re just a couple of Daniels, doing some fucking deathmatching. And, at the end of the hour, I ultimately win, because he disappears. (Also because I’m so much stronger.)

Also, like clone-fucking, clone-fighting is a terrific learning experience, if you want to improve as a fighter. You’ll spot all of your flaws and the weaknesses in your attacks and you’ll learn what to avoid in future fights.

Further, the clone-version of you is basically a crash-test dummy. All of the anger that you bottle up inside –whether the anger is directed at you or the government or your Editor or whomever– all of that anger is just boiling inside you, and you can’t let it out day-to-day because man is a socialized animal. Well, here’s your chance. Work out all of your aggressions, the door’s open. No consequences, let loose and resort to common, street-rat savagery, guilt -free. It’s been a while since I ignored Philosophy, but I’m almost positive there’s nothing morally, ethically or legally wrong with murdering your clone that’s going to be dead in an hour anyway. So, really, you know. Go to town. This could be the most well-fought and satisfying moment of your entire life. Plus, I think that motherfucker just looked at you funny. What are you waiting for, take him down!

Of course, while you’re fighting him, I would like to call one quick thing to your attention. He’s a clone and is in as good physical condition as you are, so you’re a match there. But here’s the glaring problem: He knows he’s a clone. He knows it’s only a matter of time until he disappears. You know how action movies make a big deal out of the tough hero “with nothing to lose”? That’s your clone. He’s the guy with nothing to lose. He’s you, but with no strings, no concern for the future, and with a death sentence dangling right above his head. He’s you at maximum capacity, accessing the kind of emergency reserve strength and speed that makes itself visible when the adrenaline that only accompanies desperation kicks in. He’s you at your most brutal, thoughtless and primal.

Can you take that guy? Subquestion: Wouldn’t it be easier just to fuck him?

Conclusion

The conclusion isn’t mine to write, it’s yours. What do you do? In all of my studies with this hypothetical, women are overwhelmingly more likely to have sex with their clone than men are, a statistic that is as interesting as it is totally fucking hot. I’d be curious to see if that holds true with our audience, or if I just happen to surround myself with the coolest women on the planet.

So how about it? You’re locked in a room with your clone, who, if he’s anything like my clone, is smirking like an asshole.

Do you fuck or fight yourself?

_________________
¹ Interesting sidebar: Whenever I bring this hypothetical up in real life, if someone’s on the fence, their deciding factor is always wrapped up in the same-sex aspect of the situation. In fact, the people who wouldn’t have sex with a clone almost invariably WOULD if the clone was, somehow, the opposite sex. Exactly like you, but the opposite gender. No one, without exception, gives any pause to the fact that they’re fucking an exact replica of themselves, the whole freak-of-nature aspect never registers as a possible concern.
²Having sex with a breathing human.
³The genitals.
⁴Punching, not getting punched.
⁵The genitals.

Lots of people check out the contest, that’s no surprise. We have a ton of talented people in these forums (also one time the prompt was just “Put Boobs On Things That Wouldn’t Ordinarily Have Boobs.”)

What you don’t know is that anyone can enter anything into this contest. And while we feature the top10 or 20, there’s a brilliant and beautiful kind of additional contest happening just beneath the surface, one that you won’t see. But these entries are special.

These aren’t necessarily about weak Photoshop skills, in fact they’re awesome, in some cases. And this isn’t really about weak jokes. These are about entries that have so profoundly missed the point that they transcend the contest. Sometimes I can tell where an entry went off the rails, or where a joke fell flat.

But sometimes, it’s impossible to spot what the poster was going for and, as a result, I’m not quick to call the entries weak. These are just flat out baffling, but why? Just because I don’t understand them doesn’t mean they don’t make sense on some level. Unless, of course, they don’t. Which brings me to the point. Are the ’shoppers behind these entries lunatics, or geniuses?

The Prompt:

If Sex Education Was Actually Useful

The Entry:

If He’s a Genius…

…then it’s a brilliant satire on our education system. He’s not necessarily saying that this image is a completely useful visual aid, he’s just saying that it’s more useful than whatever is currently being taught in schools. He’s saying, “Sure, this image is absurd, but not as absurd as the abstinence-only horseshit they’re trying to sell kids these days, amiright?”
It’s subtle, but it’s there.

If He’s a Lunatic…

…he thought his sexual discovery would’ve been better if the unexplainable lesson represented by this image was taught to him at an early age.

The Prompt:

Show Us How to REALLY Scare People This Halloween

The Entry:

If He’s a Genius…

…then this must translate to a very specific nightmare. That button, is that from an XBox? That’s an XBox power button, right? Alright, if he’s a genius, it means that we’ve come home to find our girlfriend has merged with our XBox, but in a way that renders both useless. The Box, without a screen or controllers is unplayable and meanwhile the, uh, box, now blocked by the power button, is equally unusable, despite the lady’s perplexing eagerness to show it off. If that was the intention, it is a nightmare, as it takes away boning and the escapist fare of gaming in one fell swoop. That would be one frightening Halloween, sure.
Also Gordon Ramsay is there, screaming. Look at him, he’s probably yelling, “Boo.” That is spooky.

If He’s a Lunatic…

…then that particular image represents his biggest fear. Not cancer, or war, or bees. XBox Vagina and Gordon Ramsay is a fear that this person genuinely deals with every day.

The Prompt:

Why I Was Late For Work Today

The Entry:

If He’s a Genius…

…then he’s making a commentary on the staleness of both the contest and the responses that contest received. Here’s how. Jerry Seinfeld, as classic and timeless as he is, has sort of become with synonymous with hacky, stale comedians. Think about it: Whenever you hear someone doing an impression of a deliberately terrible stand up comedian, they inevitably start with “And what is the DEAL with…,” and then they describe some object, event or scenario wherein the accompanying deal is questionable. That go-to impression of a hack comedian? That’s Seinfeld, for some reason. Most people even use the Seinfeld voice when doing it.
And there’s another layer of staleness to this picture. Jerry’s doing the universal gesture for “I caught a fish THIS BIG,” an old, tired phrase that always gets an eye roll.
The Photoshopper is trying to say that the contest and all of the contestants are stuck recycling lame, outdated jokes. It’s a commentary on the state of Internet comedy and, by association, me. Fuck you, guy.

If He’s A Lunatic…

…he thinks Jerry Seinfeld works for Conan O’Brien and that people talk in fish.

The Prompt:

April Fool’s Pranks We WISH Happened

The Entry:

Let’s really look at this for a second. The prompt is an April Fool’s prank We–the collective, “Non Shit-Eating-Crazy” We–wish happened. The setup to this imaginary prank is incredible. You’ve got a grinning idiot in a banana suit who’s coming home to an aerial primate assault, courtesy of the most patient eight-year-old on the planet, who also happens to be dressed in darkness. The monkey would be dropped and attempt to eat the man. As a prank.

If He’s a Genius…

…Dammit, he’s right, I do want that prank to happen. Fucking desperately. I’d ask my boss if we could make this image our president, if I wasn’t so busy buying a carrot suit and rigging a giant rabbit over his office door.

If He’s a Lunatic…

…All the great ones are.

The Prompt:

If Schools Were Truthful

The Entry:

In case you can’t read that, the building says “Milwaukie High Cruel.”

If He’s a Genius…

…then the joke is on you. And, really, me. If you’re anything like me, your immediate response upon looking at this entry was “Cruel. I get it. But why did he change the spelling of Milwaukee? What an idiot!” Then, because I’m a responsible Cracked Editor, I did some light Googling and, it turns out, Milwaukie High is actually a place. It’s in Oregon. Here I was, talking about what an idiot this Photoshopper was and it turns out I was an idiot.

The lesson here is that if schools were truthful, they’d tell me how much of an idiot I am. You got me.

If He’s a Lunatic…

…then he’s an uncreative one. Nothing changes the fact that he changed the word “School” to “Cruel” as the entirety of his joke.

The Prompt:

Historical Moments Ruined By Modern Technology

The Entry:

If He’s a Genius…

…the hell do you mean “if”? You see those glasses? That’s comedy gold.

If He’s a Lunatic…

…then he thinks the Biblical Story of Adam, Eve and the talking snake was a historical moment, he thinks glasses with a rubber nose is modern technology and he thinks wearing them would ruin history, even though funny noses are fucking hilarious.

The Prompt:

I could tell you, but it honestly won’t make a difference.

The Entry:

If He’s a Genius…

He’s not.

If He’s a Lunatic…

He is.

The Prompt:

When Superpowers Go Wrong

The Entry:

If He’s a Genius…

…he’s represented everything that’s truly difficult about being the Hulk into a single, poignant image. When we consider problems that face the Hulk, we think “Oh, gosh, SUPERVILLAINS are ATTACKING,” or “Oh, no, the GOVERNMENT wants to DISSECT and STUDY ME,” or “FUCK ME, I can NOT AFFORD ANY MORE PANTS.”
But that’s because we don’t think outside the box.

What is really tragic about the Hulk is that, regardless of supervillains, government, pants, the simple truth of the matter is that Bruce “David” Banner, former scientist, will never truly be normal again. From the moment he was hit with radiation, his life changed in profound ways, ways that separated him from everyone he knew and loved. No one knows what it’s like to be the Hulk, so he can’t relate to or share with anyone. Similarly, he can never go back to the normal life he once had.

That’s what this Photoshopper calls attention to. It’s not the obvious supervillains that cause problems for the Hulk, it’s the fact that all of the simplicity inherent to living a normal life is gone, and Hulk can never get it back. The fact that a task as normal and simple as getting jelly from a jelly jar (with your, uh, fingers) is impossible for the Hulk perfectly illustrates that his problems are different from the problems that normal people face. Because he’s not normal, not anymore. The comfortable reliability of a mundane life is a thing of the past, for Hulk. You may wish that you had super strength, but all Hulk wants is the delicate simplicity in making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with his fingers. But he can’t have that life anymore.
Just look at that picture. He’s not at a party, or in a kitchen; he’s surrounded by total blackness.
He’s alone.

If He’s a Lunatic…

…he honestly thought “not being able to insert your giant fingers into a jelly jar” was the hardest thing about being a green, screaming monster.

-April 19th, 2009-

DOB: Hello?

Iger: Is this Dan O’Brien? This is Roger Iger.

DOB: …Uh huh.

Iger: I’m the Chief Executive of the Disney Corporation.

DOB: Oh.

[A brief pause, wherein I consider the dozen or so articles I wrote verbally defecating all over Disney Darling Hannah Montana.]

DOB: Oh, fuck me, OK, this… wow this looks bad, I can… in no way explain, it is precisely what it looks like. Do your guys just come and shoot me now, or what?

Iger: Daniel, I’m the Chief Executive of Walt Disney. If I wanted you dead I’d have exploded your heart remotely a year ago.

DOB: Yeah I figured. So what’s this call about then?

Iger then went on to explain Disney’s concern for Mickey’s harmless, white-bread image problem. I maintained that Mickey was plenty creepy enough because, as I recall correctly, Fantasia was fucking terrifying, but Iger disagreed.

Fantasia, as it exists in my memory.

DOB:-and one of the frog’s has a knife and, fuckin’, there’s blood everywhere, like, everywhere and Mickey’s still smiling like he didn’t just help mow down that entire family of brooms.

Iger: No, I got it, Dan, but that didn’t happen, that’s not how that movie went.

DOB: I’m almost positive it is.

Iger: It’s not fu- Forget it, we’re getting off topic here. The point is, we’re rebooting Mickey, and I want you to be the man to help us do it.

Apparently, Iger was impressed with my gritty, in-your-mouth writing style and wanted me to take a swipe at the Mickey reboot. Even though I was kind of busy, both with the site and Agents of Cracked a hot new web series that’s going to debut all over your face this Monday, November 9, 2009, I decided to take him up on his offer. The prospect of reinterpreting one of pop culture’s most endearing figures was too enticing to pass up. Plus, that whole heart exploding, thing. I got right to work.

Sketches

My rough draft of “New Mickey” possibilities didn’t exactly resonate with Iger in the way I hoped it would.

-May 3rd, 2009-

Iger: No. No, no, absolutely not.

DOB: No to what? The Hitler one? Is your frozen boss still sensitive about that?

Iger: Those are just rumors, and “No” to all of it.

DOB: There’s really a lot of good stuff on that page, I think if you’ll take a second and just stop being such a giant puss-

Iger: “A lot of good stuff”? To what does that refer, exactly? The barely legible scribbling or the completely unusable character sketches? Am I to understand that you thought you could reboot the Mickey franchise simply by drawing Mickey Mouse naked?

DOB: You don’t like Steamboat HugeCock? Man, I thought that was a homerun. He tested really well with people who weren’t dripping, close-minded puss-

Iger: And what is this? Is this “Mickey Fucks a Horse”?

DOB: Did I write that? Oh ho, man, I’m the best.

Iger: You are not the best.

DOB: Bullshit, name one thing that’s better than me.

Iger: Shut up.

[I felt a mild rumbling in my heart and decided to comply.]

Iger: Daniel, I want you to start from scratch.

DOB: From scratch? Look, I don’t know how they do things over in The Republic of Puss-

Iger: From scratch, O’Brien, no excuses. And, for future reference, we’re fucking Disney. Don’t send us squiggles on a piece of loose leaf paper, alright?

DOB: Fine. And might I add that throughout this entire ordeal you’ve been nothing but a grotesque, man-sized…

[Dialtone]

DOB: Hel- You still there? Hello? You’re a pussy, hello? Like a gaping, pulsing, ah goddammit. Next time.

I went back to the drawing board and, a little while later, had something at least a little more realized.

The Show

CSI: Magic Kingdom follows Mick, the Magic Kingdom’s toughest but most tortured criminologist as he solves crimes that usually involve brutal violence and an aggressive amount of semen. Follow Mick as he tracks down rapists and does mostly nothing else with his time.
Sample Scenes

EXT. THE DOCKS BEHIND THE MAGIC KINGDOM- DAY

MINNIE, taking photographs of the crime scene, is the image of professionalism, her and that big ole’ ass of hers. There are several corpses strewn about, all male, all liberally glazed with WHAT IS PROBABLY SEMEN. MINNIE deftly sidesteps a corpse as MICK approaches, a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

MINNIE

It’s about time. We’ve got 10 bodies here and-

MICK

Hold it, Min- I haven’t even had my first cup of coffee yet.

MINNIE

Better take it to go, Mick. This looks bad.

MICK

I can see that. Or should I say, I can see… [Removes sunglasses]… men?

ROCK AND ROLL

INT. DONALD DUCK’S STUDIO APARTMENT - NIGHT

DONNIE has been drinking- No surprises there. The floor is littered with bottles. In fact, the only thing in the apartment that isn’t a half-empty bottle of booze is a broken picture of Daisy Duck, which DONNIE clutches. MICK walks in.

MICK

Looks like you’ve seen better days, Donnie.

DONALD

[Unintelligible gibberish.] [Unintelligible gibberish.]

MICK

I hear you, old friend. I hear you.

DONALD

[Unintelligible gibberish.] [The "N" word] [Unintelligible gibberish.]

MICK

You may have a point. But, Donnie, listen to me. We found him. The guy who killed Daisy… we found him.

DONALD

[Unintelligible gibberish.]?

MICK

That’s right. He slipped up and accidentally masturbated all over Pluto’s dog house. When we tested the semen, we found it was a perfect match for the stuff found on Daisy.

DONALD

[Unintelligible gibberish.] Semen, [Unintelligible gibberish.]

MICK

I’m not sure that’s totally necessary. I took him down with my pistol already, because he pulled a gun on Minnie.

DONALD

[Unintelligible gibberish.]?

MICK

That’s right. [Removes Sunglasses] Looks like this pervert’s load isn’t the only thing that was… shot.

ROCK AND ROLL

INT. INSIDE THE ‘IT’S A SMALL WORLD’ RIDE - NIGHT

Goofy is just knee-deep in semen, like, you can’t even believe there’s so much, where did it even come from?

Iger: I can read Daniel.

DOB: Really? Huh. You said you didn’t like it, so I just assumed it was because, instead of eyes, your sockets were full of two, eye-shaped puss-

Iger: I didn’t like it because it was bad. It was repetitive, vulgar, obsessed with semen-

DOB: Who did you think you were hiring?

Iger: -irresponsible, disrespectful to women and stands in complete contrast with everything Disney stands for.

DOB: No, I had that one scene, where the Nazis displayed superior skills, that seems to be pretty in keeping with the-

Iger: Those are just rumors!

DOB: Alright, yikes… So you have nothing constructive or supportive to say?

Iger: Ugh. OK… I guess the fireworks look… nice.

DOB: Fire- What fireworks? Oh, that’s supposed to be splotches of semen, was that not clear? I knew I should’ve made them drippier. See, now that is a good note, thank you. “Make semen drippier,” got it.

Iger: Start over. This your last chance. Come at me with a variety of ideas, hit me with all you’ve got and if it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out.

DOB: That sounds fair. Before I go, I’d like to leave you with one of my favorite poems: You are a giant puss-
[Dialtone]

DOB: DAMMIT.

This Other Thing

Somehow, I felt like this was my last chance. Call it intuition or how smart I am, but I could feel it. I thought back to my own childhood. I’d never really connected to Mickey in a big way (probably because he baptized himself in the blood of that broom family he slaughtered), but I did know what it felt like to be caught up in the magic of fantasy. And, as corny as Mickey might be, we need him right now. The children of the world, some of whom may even be mine, need him. This is a world where the economy is in shambles, the country is divided, wars without thought are being waged and parents are abandoning their (alleged) children. We’re all growing up a little too fast. We need that corny, black-hole-eyed bastard to tell our kids “It’s OK.”

November 6, 2009

[Ring.]

DOB: Hello?

[Faint sound of heart exploding.]

Leroy Brown wasn’t like your average fifth grader. As a result of a childhood spent reading and absorbing knowledge, he had a substantial amount of information at his disposal and a knack for cracking mysteries. That’s why only his parents and teachers called him “Leroy” and everyone else called him “Encyclopedia.” At the dinner table every night, he’d help his father, the chief of police, solve tough cases, usually getting all of the information he needed after asking a single question. During the day, he set up his own detective agency and helped out the neighborhood kids with their mysteries.
Daniel O’Brien wasn’t like your average fifth grader either, but mostly because he was 23-years old.

The Encyclopedia Brown Detective Agency operated out of Brown’s garage. There was a table set up as Encyclopedia’s desk and two milk crates–one for Encyclopedia and one for his assistant, Sally Kimball–to use as chairs. Daniel often slept in the corner sometimes and Encyclopedia suspected he had nowhere else to go. Daniel woke up with a groan and a slurred “fuck me,” in accordance with his standard morning ritual.

“Morning, assholes. Thanks for waking me up, Lady Parts. You too, Sally.”

“That’s not his name,” Sally said.

“What? It’s better than ‘Encyclopedia.’ Jesus.”

“His real name is Leroy,” Sally offered. “We just call him that because he’s so knowledgeable, like an Encyclopedia.”

“Well, excuse me, we can’t all be named after books that appropriately tie into our personalities. I guess I’m just stuck with my own name. Till someone makes a novelization of me plowing the shit out of Brown’s Mom, that is.” Brown stared at the floor, his usually focused eyes drifting now.

“His mom’s dead,” Sally said quietly.

“Yeah. Dead fucked. Ah ha, no, but I’m really sorry for your loss.”
The tragically awkward silence was interrupted when Marty Darticle, a neighborhood boy, knocked on the garage door.

“Is this the Encyclopedia Brown Detective Agency,” Marty asked, “because I’ve got a Halloween mystery.”

“Oh, wow, man, I am completely tired of your shit, already, like no joke. Like, literally the instant I’m meeting you right now, I hate you forever. You are the worst. ” Daniel’s standard greeting.

“A Halloween mystery, eh,” Encyclopedia said, rubbing his chin. “This certainly is SPOOKTACULAR,” Brown remarked. Daniel spit on the floor in disgust. Brown shook his head and looked back to the would-be client. “We’ll take the case!”

Marty quickly deposited his quarter in the tin can that sat on Encyclopedia’s desk and Daniel, just as quickly, hopped up and snatched it out. He then took the tin can and loaded it up with homemade toilet wine, like they make in prison.

“Why don’t you tell us a little bit about this mystery,” Sally offered.

“Well,” Marty began, “I work at my Dad’s farm. We grow a lot but, mostly, we make our money from pumpkins. Halloween’s great for us, it’s our busiest time of the year. Normally we’re the only pumpkin-sellers in town, but this year, Bugs Meany, the neighborhood bully, started competing with us. We hold no claim to pumpkins, anyone’s allowed to grow and sell them, obviously, but we like going the extra mile. We sell pumpkin pie, pumpkin seeds, pumpkin wine, you name it. The thing about pumpkins-”

“Holy shit, there’s no way you have more to say about pumpkins. No fucking way.”

“It’s fine,” Encyclopedia said. “Go on.”

“Anyway, our finances really depend on selling a whole lot of pumpkins and for a while we were doing well, like we do every year. Bugs Meany and his Tiger Gang couldn’t really compete with our service and experience. But, recently, someone stole all of our pumpkins, and I just don’t-”

“It was Bugs Meany,” Daniel said.

“-understand who would do that. Or why, for that matter. The season is almost over, no one will even be thinking of buying pumpkins this time next week. Who would do that?”

“Bugs, it was Bugs, it’s always Bugs. Can anyone hear me?”

“What do you think, Encyclopedia?” Sally asked.

“It certainly is a curious mystery. You say all of the pumpkins were stolen? It would need to be someone with access to a truck, a large truck, large enough to fit all of those pumpkins. Who could it have been?”

“Fucking, Bugs.”

“There’s more,” Marty said.

“Oh, hold up, are you saying someone did something with these pumpkins,” Daniel asked. Marty nodded. “Word? OK, now this is interesting. If someone, for example, is stealing and fucking holes in these pumpkins, there’s a mystery. Probably wasn’t Bugs if these pumpkins gotta buncha holes porked in him. It was probably… let’s be honest, here, me.”

“What? Oh, no, it was nothing like that. Some pumpkins were stolen, and the rest were bashed in.” Daniel’s shoulders sank, his interest gone. “You don’t understand, they were destroyed. Like, by a monster!”

“Or a werewolf,” Sally chimed in.

“Or fucking Bugs with a hammer, what is wrong with this town?”

“So,” Encyclopedia said, “it would need to be someone with a truck and access to blunt objects.”

Encyclopedia Brown took out his notebook and wrote “investigate ice cream man.” Daniel took out his and scribbled “make a novelization of that time I plowed the shit out of Brown’s mom; make nickname out of book title.”

“I bet we can get to the bottom of this,” Sally said.

“Totes. And, I bet that whoever’s responsible for stealing these raped pumpkins, is the same guy who spray-painted all those sexy drawings of my junk all over the children’s hospital. I, of course, have a number of reliable alibis that would explain-”

“I hadn’t actually heard about that,” Encyclopedia interrupted.

“Oh no? Oh. Then forget I said anything, it’s probably not even a mystery at all.”

“We should really focus on the mystery at hand,” Sally said. “What do you suppose happened, Encyclopedia? I bet you can crack it in one guess, on account of how smart you are.”

Brown smiled.

“Why, if I didn’t know any better, Sally, I’d guess you got into your Mother’s Halloween candy early. How else could I explain how sweet you are?” Sally suppressed a grin, her freckles disappearing behind her blushing cheeks. Daniel glared and cleared his throat a few times.

“Whoa, well, uh, Sally,” he said, “your Dad musta been a boner salesman, because when… Because one look- Because I’m looking at you and I have a boner.” Sally cried a little bit.

Encyclopedia had closed his eyes. He always closed his eyes when he did his deepest thinking on a case. DOB reached into Brown’s back pocket and deftly swiped his wallet. He always steals things when people close their eyes.

“I’ve got it,” Encyclopedia said after a moment. “I’ve solved the case!”

Turn to page 72 to find out who stole the pumpkins!
(It was Bugs.)

Encyclopedia Brown, Mr. Brown and Daniel were all gathered around the Brown’s table for dinner. Mr. Brown was weary from a particularly trouble day at work. As Idaville’s chief of police, he sees a lot of days like this. He rubbed his eyes with his palms for a few moments, muttering to himself.

“What’s wrong, Dad,” Encyclopedia asked. Daniel jumped in immediately.

“Kid, I don’t mean to speak on your Dad’s behalf or anything but shut the hell up for a few minutes, he’s clearly had a rough day.”

“I think I know my own Dad, Daniel.”

“No, no, he’s right, shut your mouth. I just got off a 21-hour shift, I have to go back in about five hours, I still have the blood of the Idaville Butcher’s latest victim on my clothes and I really don’t need your shit right now.”

“A new victim! Interesting! Perhaps I can take a look at this mystery, Father! It sounds positively spooktacular!” Mr. Brown sighed and put his head in his hands. He was not used to seeing so many exclamation marks, and also he hated his son.

“Jesus Christ, this kid.”

“Right? So it’s not just me then, OK, good. Yeah, this kid’s a real tool,” Daniel said, filling his pockets with scraps from the table.

“Such a tool,” Mr. Brown agreed. Leroy shrunk in his seat.

“I thought you liked it when I helped with mysteries, Dad.” Mr. Brown turned to Daniel and threw his hands in the air in a what-am-I-going-to-do-with-this-kid sort of way.

“Leroy,” he said, “I’m the fucking chief of fucking police and you’re like, eight, which, by the way, is a billion in retarded years-”

“They’re like dog years,” Daniel clarified quickly.

“-what could you possibly add to my actual investigations?”

“Like dog years, but for idiots, and the number’s higher because you’re getting exponentially dumber each year.”

“Day after day I deal with total bedlam at work because this is the worst town in America, and then I come home to you, smirking like the fucking tiniest fucking know-it-all, acting like everything’s so simple and you can solve the whole world’s problems. That you can do my job better than me.”

“You’re retarded, is his point.”

“What do you think, Leroy, you think I’m gonna come home one day all ‘Oh, Leroy, gosh this case is tough, I sure could use someone who’s an expert in disappointing me and shitting himself-’

“That was only the one time,” Leroy offered meekly.

“I deal with hookers and murderers, Leroy, for Christ’s sake, and you don’t know anything about anything. Why are you even here all the time? Shouldn’t you be out chasing girls?”

“…I’m 11.”

“Yeah. That’s the reason,” Mr. Brown said, taking a long swig straight from his bottle of whiskey. He mumbled something that was either “worthless” or “abortion” and, in either case, it made Encyclopedia Brown feel about two-feet tall.

“Man, when I was !!,” Daniel chimed in, “I was swimming in preadolescents. Still am, in fact.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Mr. Brown said, punctuating the exchange with a fist bump.

“I’m sorry, Dad. I thought I was helping…”

“Well, you weren’t. When I get a case that requires somebody who’s proficient at driving his father to alcoholism, I’ll give you a call. I won’t, though.” There was a long pause, during which Encyclopedia sobbed softly and Daniel took pictures. Finally, Encyclopedia spoke, his eyes lighting up.

“Dad, I’ve got it! I know who the Idaville Butcher is!”

Turn to page 73 to find out if Encyclopedia was right!

(He wasn’t. His supper was thrown out as punishment.)

Have a Spooktacular Halloween!

As you can imagine, a ton of Erotic Fiction Manuscripts (EroFicMan) have come across my desk over the years, some of it great, some of it not so great. To answer some of the questions I get regularly, and to make my job easier, I’m going to list all the important steps to writing great Erotic Fiction, everything that separates the un-publishable from the publishable. Follow these instructions and, in no time, you’ll write something so great it’ll make The Way of a Man with a Maid look like The Lustful Turk!

Be Original, People!

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve rejected the same, stale Erotic Fiction premises (EroFicPre). A pizza delivery guy enters and seduces with a housewife. A rich prince sweeps a poor, delicate woman off of her feet and into his bed. A painter is so overcome with the beauty of his model that he abruptly stops his work and romances her/masturbates in front of her. A vampire and the twins from that Harry Potter movie fuck in a cave, somewhere. A stale premise won’t get your foot in the door, which is why originality is the single most important part of Erotic Fiction.

The Erotic Fiction Community (EroFicCom) is overrun with these premises. Surprise us! Show us something we haven’t seen before, or your Erotic Fiction will live at the bottom of the bargain bucket with the rest of the literary world’s excrement. It’s easy and lazy to say that all of the good premises have been taken. True, the remaining premises don’t immediately lend themselves to Erotic Fiction, but with some creativity, I’m confident that you can make anything sexy!

At the zoo!

Pizza REMOVAL Guy!

(What a twist!)

Erotic Historical Fiction

Erotic SCIENCE Fiction?

Wish Fulfillment

When people buy Erotic Fiction, they’re doing so to live out their sexual fantasies, the kind of fantasies they’re too nervous to ask their real-life partner about. This bears repeating: Erotic Fiction is what the reader cannot get in real life. Understanding this is the key to unlocking success in the publishing world and is, without a doubt, the most important part of Erotic Fiction. So don’t give them what they can get at home, give them something fantastical and amazing, fulfill all of their wildest desires. In the following sample (Autobiography: My Life in Six Butts), we see what, according to my best guess, every average woman craves but doesn’t get at home.

Sample:

Details, People!

While it’s stupid to deny that Erotic Fiction is chiefly about fornicating, it would be dismissive -not to mention detrimental to your writing- to say that it is only about fornicating. Think of Erotic Fiction as a Tootsie Pop. Fornicating is certainly the rich chocolate center that everyone craves, but we still need that thick, delicious shell of candy that accompanies the chocolate/fornicating. And what hides in that shell? Details.
Nobody wants to read about just “two bodies fucking,” they want to know that those two fucking-bodies are attached to fucking-people with hearts and souls (that fuck each other). The reader wants their characters to be real and human which is why details are, hands down, the most important part of Erotic Fiction. Give your characters lives. Who are they? What do they look like? How do they dress? There are only two and a half ways to have sex, and there’s nothing you can do about that. It is in the details where you can get creative and separate your piece of Erotic Fiction from all other competing titles.

Dialogue, People!

Dialogue is the most important part of Erotic Fiction. I know, you want to just rush into the fornicating, but dialogue helps round out your characters and establish the mood. Also, don’t miss an opportunity to have fun! Dialogue is your chance to get creative, get silly, get naughty.
I’ve included several samples from my own work. What follows are a number of lines of dialogue for which I’ve received much critical praise.

“Did somebody order a boner?”
-From A Fistful of Seduction

“Is it me or did it just get boner in here?”
-From The Thunder Strikes 12 at Midnight

“Boner? I barely know her! And, yes, I have a boner.”
-From The Great Gatsby II: Gats ta Git Dat Booty

“On your mark. Bone set. Boner!”
-From Fucked at the Olympics!

“…Yeah? More like ‘Bonercane Katrina,’ and instead of your house I’m going to utterly destroy that vag!”
-From Love in the Time of Post-Disaster New Orleans: A Memoir

Also, let double entendres be your friend. A Double Entendre is when you say one thing but you really mean fucking. Double entendre-laden dialogue, in fiction and in life, is like verbal foreplay and an excellent way to build sexual tension in Erotic Fiction (SexTenEroFic). In the below example from A Sex Day at the Fuck Races, see how Mary and Bort, two relative strangers, speak indirectly about sex through the use of running-themed double entendres.

When In Doubt, Just Write About Two Bodies Fucking

That’s honestly all people want. It’s both the most important and the only essential part of Erotic Fiction.

Sample:

Look, I’ve seen the cookbooks on the market today. They’re OK, but you know what the problem is? They are all for people who already know how to cook, basically, or at the very least having a functioning kitchen. (A “rolling pin?” Fuck you, Julia Childs.) No one has made any cookbooks that cater to regular folks and your average Joe who would only cook when he’s absolutely forced to. I’m here to corner that market.

The Index

Sample Recipe

It’s 2011 or thereabouts. The men of yesteryear–men of steak, and beer, men of calloused hands–are dead. Modern women want sensitive, caring men. Since, at my best guest, modern women are the only people who buy books, it follows that the book-o-sphere needs sensitive, caring books. And I’m, like, eight different kinds of sensitive, like, you don’t even know. To prove it, I’ve written a series of love poems. *

From Page 3

From Page 22, Three Poems About Butts

From Page 117

I haven’t actually been to a bookstore since 1992, and even then I was lost. Are Hardy Boy mysteries still popular?

From Chapter One

It was foggy. Lightning struck the road about 100 yards ahead. DOB thought he could almost sense reluctance oozing from his old Ford Pickup. But of course that didn’t make any sense. Reluctance is an emotion, and his old Ford Pickup doesn’t have any feelings.

Or does it?
(It doesn’t.)

Lightning struck again, horizontally this time forming a smile in the dark clouds and there was a hearty guffaw of thunder to accompany.

Dark-haired Frank Hardy sat in the passenger seat, idly twirling his magnifying glass in his hands. There was plenty of room up front for a third or even a fourth person, but blond Joe Hardy rode outside in the bed of the pickup truck, because fuck that guy.

Frank rolled down the passenger-side window to let some air in. Both boys seemed to sense it: It was getting foreshadowingly uncomfortable inside. It smelled like murder outside. The fog poured in the open window, settling in between DOB and Frank, occupying the spot on the bench seat that perhaps Joe would’ve occupied, were he not such a stupid fucker.

“That fog out there sure is thick,” Frank remarked with characteristic over-excitement.

“Uh huh. And talking about it sure makes it easier to drive through. Dipshit.”

“Sorry,” Frank said quietly, and he went back to messing with his microscope, or whatever I said it was.

He was right though. You could just barely make out the rain through the fog; it was so thick. And you could just barely make out the lighting through the rain; it was so dense. And the lightning was so heavy DOB didn’t even see the ominous “DANGER AHEAD” sign on the site of the road.

“Where do you suppose this road leads, Mr. DOB? I sure hope the next stop is a mystery for us to solve!”

“I thought we said we weren’t going to talk unless there was an emergency. We had a whole conversation about it. Remember that? It was your ability to grasp the No-Talking-Unless-Something’s-on-Fire concept that got you a seat up front and What’s-His-Name a cold spot in the truck-bed.”

“Joe,” Frank offered, “is his name.” DOB pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, like his thumb was thunder and the lightning was his forefinger and they were both hitting… the… the bridge of the sky’s nose, I guess, I don’t know. Shit.

“I don’t want to know his name, Frank, I’m selling him as soon as we get to Mexico. If I learn his name, I run the risk of getting attached. Fuck, you’re thick.” Thick as thunder. Ooohhhh.

“You’re gonna sell my brother!?”

“Yeah, figured we’d go halfsies on it, maybe see some sights while we’re in town. If the policia are preoccupied, maybe we can go ahead and solve the mystery of ‘The Two Guys Who Ordered a Bunch of Mexican Hookers And Never Paid,’ if you catch my drift.”

“Oh… OK, yes, I would like that.” DOB patted Frank on the shoulder affectionately. Then slapped him a few times.

“Atta boy. But keep in mind, I am not against turning that mystery into a solo adventure, if you follow. So just keep quiet.”

“Sorry. I’m doing my best.”

Magnifying glass, that’s what it was. Well, fuck me.

“Well, I did my best not to have sex with your sister, you know? Sometimes our best just isn’t good enough.”

“…Are you saying-”

“Hey, is that lightning? Oohwee, we’re having a time here. Aren’t we having a time?” Before Frank could respond, the boys were interrupted by the sound of hard, intense banging on the back window of the old Ford Pickup. At first they thought it was thunder inside the car, but it turned out to be Joe, from the bed, pounding his fists into the glass. Frank reached to slide open the window to see what Joe had to say. DOB raised his voice.

“No no no no no no don’t- Ooohhh, you fucker, I hate you. You’re the worst.” Joe poked his stupid face through the open window.

“Guy’s, I don’t mean to be a bother,” he began, bothering, “but the storm’s getting pretty intense out here. I was just thinking that maybe we could-” Suddenly, and without warning,  every passenger in the car felt and heard the unmistakable thud of an old Ford Pickup slamming into a human body. The next sound anyone heard was of the three boys shouting in unison

“Golly,” Joe yelped.

“Goodness,” Frank called.

“Fuck me,” DOB screamed, slamming on the brakes. When the old Ford Pickup finally screeched to a halt, DOB reached under his seat to retrieve his shotgun. He then grabbed the backpack the boys brought along, the backpack that was filled with a first aid kid, some food, all of their collective savings and, for reasons that were never clear to Frank and Joe, jars of urine that DOB demanded they each fill.

“Idiots,” he said, addressing the Hardy Boys. “Stay in the car and don’t come out for any reason. I don’t care if there’s a storm, or a fire or if Dipshit back there only has 20 minutes to take his birth control pills and he’s out of water- you do not get out of this car, is that clear?”

“Clear as lightning,” Frank said.

“I don’t take birth control pills,” Joe said. Frank and DOB sighed in unison.

“This fuckin’ guy. OK, Frank, do me a favor and slap the shit out of your brother for 20 minutes or so while I tend to this situation.”

“On it,” Frank said, unbuckling his seat belt and warming up his slapping hand, just like DOB taught him.

DOB walked through the mysterious rain, the feeling of lightning pumping through his veins. The thunder was blinding out here. He followed a trail of fresh blood. It was hard to follow, because of all the fog, you see. But he followed it anyway and it led right to a crumpled mess of a man on the ground.

“Fuck,” he said. “Fuck fuck fuck, oh man. OK. Fuck. Alright, this is fine. Fuck, OK. We know what to do here.” There was so much lightning around it’s not even funny.

***

Back in the car, having exhausted himself slapping the shit out of What’s-His-Name, Frank was content to sit and speculate as to what DOB was doing.

“What do you suppose he’s doing, Joe? It’s been a little over an hour.”

“I don’t know, but I know we won’t find out sitting in this car!”

“DOB told us to stay in the car, Joe, no matter what.”

“But what if it’s a mystery!”

“Settle down, Joe.”

“If Dad were around, he’d encourage us to investigate and look for clues,” Joe said. And then lightning.

“DOB said you’re the reason Dad died.”

“It was a heart attack!”

“Yeah. Brought on by your cowardice and how fat you are, DOB suspects. He’s great.” A few minutes passed, silent but for Joe’s soft weeping, tears dropping down his face like rain, which was also dropping, and also on Joe’s face.

Finally, the Hardy Boys decided to get out of the truck to investigate. As they slowly approached the body, the thunder started its crescendo. Frank’s heart beat with no discernible consistency, no rhythm. Joe screamed a minor chord. The whole ordeal was very atonal and dissonant, come to think of it.

“It’s a body,” Joe yelled.

“Yeah, I got that,” Frank said. “God, I am so sick of your shit.” But who wouldn’t be, am I right?

“I wonder where DOB is,” Joe wondered. He was nowhere in sight. “And… hey, is it just me or does this corpse smell like it was doused in my urine?” That’s a weird thing to notice.

“Hey, you’re right, Joe!” What?

“And look- he’s holding a picture of me. Is… Yeah, it looks like there’s a lock of my hair in his teeth, too. Golly, if some cop stopped by, with my DNA and picture all over this corpse, they just might think I had something to-” The boys turned, startled by the sound of the old Ford Pickup starting up and immediately speeding away. The otherwise deafening thunder seemed to cease briefly, leaving only enough time for the boys to hear DOB yell “Eat shit!” out the window as he sped on by.

As Joe, still not totally up to speed on what was happening, watched the truck drive off, Frank sprinted away into the woods. A stream of lightning got struck by lightning in the distance. The fog was deafening. Then more lightning happened. Or did it? It was all so thundery, out here, Joe wasn’t certain. Maybe he’d never be certain of anything in his life again, ever.

What an asshole.

There is a book of random tweets. A book about cats with stuff misspelled. A book about that F My Life Trend. AND there’s going to be a Look At This Fucking Hipster book (which I’m actually OK with). If you go to a bookstore and see one book based on a quick-hitting, viral blog, you’ll see a hundred books based on quick-hitting, viral blogs. And I’m not whining, or lamenting the downfall of literature or anything. I want in. All I need is a hook. So, America, you like weird animal stuff and making fun of hipsters. Alright. I’m on this.

Really, this one’s so self-explanatory I don’t even need to show any sample chapters.
But, OK.

Walk into any bookstore right now. Go ahead, pick up your computer, continue reading this and walk into a bookstore. I guarantee that you’ll find a table just loaded with the word versions of movies. Sometimes it’s a re-release of a book upon which a new movie has been based, and sometimes it’s a brand new novelization of an about-to-be-released movie. It’s like there’s an entire publishing house dedicated to making novelized versions of every movie that comes out. To speak to the demand, I’ve taken to writing the novelization of one of the most popular movies of all time.

Chapter 1

Lost Love, Serendipity and Titties

Cancun, Mexico. 1997 Spring Break.

Joe Francis sat alone in the dark, a cigarette dangling unenthusiastically from his lips. The cigarette was more ash than cigarette at this point, but Joe Francis didn’t have the energy or spirit to give it the simple flick required to send the ash sinking to the floor of his van. It was like a last-man-standing match now; the ash was building up and building up, waiting for Joe to give up and snap it away, and Joe Francis, with his stoic, bitter indifference, was content to sit and wait for the ash to abandon the cigarette as a result of its own weight. Whether the ash fell of its own accord or if Joe Francis actively flicked it away, sooner or later, someone had to win. Regardless of the outcome, Joe Francis knew he certainly wouldn’t feel like a winner.

If anyone ever thought to put words to it, and if he’d ever allow anyone to see him in this state, people might say that Joe Francis most closely resembled a broken down carousel: It was clear that, at one point, he was capable of great joy and energy and light, but all that remained now was the shell, and the memory, the idea that, once upon a time, Joe Francis had within himself the potential for brilliance.

The van of the door slid open, the Mexican air warming everything in the van except Joe. Joe’s cameraman, Randy, stood in the open doorway, his hands full of camera equipment, his pockets full of contracts and his eyes full of concern.

“Joe, man, you OK? We’re ready to shoot out here.” Randy indicated the scene behind him: thumping bass, tiki torch fires and dancing twentysomethings, the ink on their tattoos still fresh, practically dripping. Joe thought it looked more like some kind of ancient ritual than a party. And, he supposed, in a way it was.
Spring Break, that is.

“I’ll be ready in a second,” Joe said into the floor of the van.

“You know, Joe… We don’t have to do this…”Joe let out a soft, empty chuckle. Yes we do, he thought, and you know it. He took one last drag, not concerning himself with the fact that he was down to the filter at this point. Let it burn, he thought. Let me feel something.
Joe raised his eyes to Randy for the first time and stood up.

“Let’s do this.”

The ash floated lazily down to the floor.

***

The Joe Francis that strutted down the beach was a different animal from the Joe Francis who sat borderline catatonic in the official Girls Gone Wild minivan. Confident, cocky, he had a presence that demanded your attention. If the Joe Francis in the van was a broken down carousel, the Joe Francis that stormed the sand was a new rollercoaster; you knew at a look that he was dangerous, but you also knew that maybe you liked it. This was how Joe Francis found his participants.

His victims.

At the sound of some not-too-distant nervous and excited giggling, Joe Francis turned to Randy, who, professional that he is, already had his camera at the ready. The gentlemen nodded to each other and, by the time he’d turned to face the source of the giggling, Joe Francis was already armed with his charming, Cheshire Cat Grin.

Caption: Joe Francis, concealing years of inner turmoil.

It used to surprise him how quickly and effortlessly he could “turn it on.” Nothing surprises him anymore. Joe licked his lips, flipped on his microphone and made a silent prayer to coax the lump in his throat back from whence it came. Had to be a quick prayer. The victims were approaching. Time to go to work.

“Ladies, ladies, ladies,” Joe called to the excitable young women. “I must be in Anaheim or heaven; either way, all I see are angels!” The girls laughed enthusiastically and Joe Francis felt sick to his stomach. “What are you ladies here for?” He already knew the answer he was just trying to gauge their level of intoxication.

“Sprling Breeaaak,” the girls slurred in unison.

“Oh yeah? You girls lookin’ to have some fun?” Say ‘no,’ Joe Francis willed silently, say ‘no,’ and leave. End the cycle.

“Whooooo,” they answered, a universal and resounding ‘yes.’

“Alright, now that’s what I’m talking about. We’ve been looking for some party girls, we were wondering where they were hiding.”

“Right here,” the tallest of the three said. She tried adjusting the already crooked tiara in her knotted hair. She just made it worse. Her eyes were familiar. She reminded Joe Francis of Noelle.
But, then, everything reminded Joe Francis of Noelle.

“Where are you girls from,” Randy asked.

“Glassboro University,” the brunette answered. Her breath was thick with tequila, she wore a too-tight shirt that read ‘Yo quiero BEER!’ and featured a little Chihuahua with exaggerated features. Noelle loved dogs.

“Glassboro,” Joe Francis said derisively. “Forget it, Randy, turn the camera off. Glassboro girls don’t know how to party.” The three girls simultaneously attempted to slur an argument to the contrary. Randy, knowing his part, lowered the camera.

“Nah, you girls got nothing on some of the other chicks out here. We’re looking for some real party girls. Some…” He paused to let Joe finish. Joe obliged.

“Some wild girls.”

“We’re wild,” said the tall one. She was the most sober but that was by no means an endorsement. It simply meant that, if there was a bonfire, she was the least likely of the three to burst into flames as a result of her blood alcohol level.

“How wild,” Joe Francis asked, his eyes narrowing as his grin spread.

“So wild,” the girls said. Randy’s camera was already back on his shoulder. Such a professional. Noelle would’ve really liked Randy.

“Oh yeah? Prove it.” The girls looked to one another, brilliantly playing the part of the sorority sisters who didn’t know. As if they didn’t know what the camera was for. As if they hadn’t seen the unmistakable Girls Gone Wild van pull up. As if this wasn’t the moment they’d been waiting for all night. We all have a part to play, Joe thought.

“How about you show us a little skin,” Joe asked. When the girls responded according to the unwritten, unofficial script, which is to say, with mock shock and exaggerated outrage, Joe Francis a veteran performer in this particular play, shrugged his shoulders.

“I told you they weren’t party girls, Randy. They weren’t ready to go wild. I guess… ” Joe paused before going on. He knew what was going to come next, what had to come next. He knew that the events had already been set in motion, that the outcome of this night had already been decided, and that he couldn’t stop it. That didn’t mean he couldn’t delay it. Several seconds passed. “I guess these girls don’t want some free t-shirts.”

The sorority sisters shrieked and drunkenly lifted their tops before Joe Francis had even finished speaking. Cameras flashed, any bystanders still sober enough to see straight cheered, the rhythm of the flopping titties syncing up with the rhythm of the distant dance music. The sorority sisters wiggled their young bodies like seasoned professionals, like they were born for this exact purpose and, in a way, they were. It was serendipity that brought them here, serendipity that arranged conditions so perfectly such that these women were destined to end up shaking their breasts on camera, for a VHS tape to be sold to millions of men across America for $12.99. Serendipity that put these women in front of Joe Francis and Randy’s camera at this exact moment. The same serendipity that felt it necessary to separate Joe Francis and Noelle forever.

With the focus of a sniper, Joe Francis quickly scanned the exposed bodies of the young women. He clapped his hands and screamed “Wild!” but, make no mistake, Joe Francis was studying and looking for a unique birthmark. Noelle’s birthmark. He didn’t find it.
On some level, he knew he never would.

“Oh my God, so wild,” Joe said as he tossed three t-shirts to the still-shrieking women. Joe looked up briefly. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky but, to Joe Francis, it was always raining.

“Let’s keep going,” Randy said. “It’s going to be a long night.”

They all are, thought Joe. They all are.

“No doubt,” Joe Francis replied. “Waazzzzzuuuuuuppppp?!”

Now, if you’re like me, whenever you’re watching something that isn’t A) funny B) porn or C) The Dark Knight, you have no idea what to do with yourself. I mean, the rules for how to watch most comedy shows are pretty simple (”laugh”) but The Jay Leno Show isn’t like most comedies, and it certainly isn’t The Dark Knight, and I’m almost positive it’s not porn. So, if you are for some reason forced to watch The Jay Leno Show, how do you do it? Well, here are a few ways.

The Jay Leno Show Drinking Game

There’s really one rule for The Jay Leno Show Drinking Game.

Honestly I don’t know what could possibly even be in that box, but there you go, it’s a game. I tried it out last Tuesday with the intention of documenting my experience for you, the Cracked audience. I was found by my landlord Wednesday morning, absolutely destroyed by alcohol poisoning (the paramedics said there was more Jameson than blood in my veins). Apparently I passed out around 10:08pm and when I blew into a breathalyzer I got an infinity symbol, even though it was the next morning.

Don’t play The Jay Leno Show Drinking Game, is my point.

The Puppy Torture/Mindwipe Showdown

The Puppy Torture/Mindwipe Showdown is a method I’ve personally employed for a while now. It is, to date, the most effective way to evaluate the merits of jokes, regardless of how unorthodox it may at first seem. The way it works is simple: Consider this puppy.

What a tired little man you are!

Think about that puppy. Really take him in, he’s got a whole life ahead of himself. Hopes, dreams. For the sake of argument, let’s say that he coos when he gets his belly rubbed and that he loves you unconditionally.
Good.
Now, whenever you hear a crappy “joke,” consider what terrible, heinous and previously unthinkable violent crimes you’d commit on that puppy if it meant that you could un-know the joke, as if the joke was wiped from your mind completely. Some jokes are bad, but not so bad that you’d strangle this puppy if it meant un-knowing them. Other jokes, conversely, are. Make sense? Great.

Using the Puppy Torture/Mindwipe Showdown Method during The Jay Leno Show is a nice way to pass the time while you’re not laughing.

Huh. I guess that’s a joke. Sort of calls out Obama for his use of social networking and new technology. Doesn’t totally make me laugh in any way, and it’s particularly disappointing that he gets paid millions of dollars, has a staff of writers and he opened the show with this joke.
I guess I’d probably let that puppy go a day without food, if it meant the mark of that joke was stripped from my memory.

This is such a typical Leno thing to do, and it’s so aggravating. That’s not a joke. It’s not a joke, it’s just an observation, and it isn’t even a sharp observation. Pointing out that people would lie to the DEA about drug use is exactly the observation that any moron off the street would make, that’s the immediate reaction. There’s no effort in that, no work, no thought, no connection is made. The audience is only clapping because Leno’s echoing their immediate, knee-jerk primate response to the set up. They’re just letting their hands shout “I ALSO THOUGHT THAT.”

I might be OK with breaking at least two of that puppy’s legs.

Well that was pretty awful. But something stuck out to me, the whole scene felt very familiar. I thought back to the night before, my most recent run in with near-death with The Jay Leno Drinking Game. Something about this joke felt vaguely reminiscent. So I went to NBC.com and rewatched Tuesday night’s episode. Check out this joke from Tuesday’s monologue.

Same headline, same weak-ass butt jokes. Goddammit, if you’re going to spend two days milking the same freaking news story, at least make decent jokes out of it. I can understand resurrecting a headline for the sake of making an awesome joke, but “Ass Qaeda”? Really? You just had to get that out of your system. You finished Tuesday night’s show and then thought “Oh, shit, I should have said Ass Qaeda. We’ve got to go back!” Your show is on daily. What’s the logic in being out-of-touch and a day behind?

And, Jesus, Kevin, what the hell’s the matter with you? You almost never talk and, when you do, you only want to talk about ass bombs. Seriously, those were like the only times Kevin really wanted to speak up, and those were the only things he said. What the hell, man?

Anyway, that joke was a shithouse. I shaved the puppy bald and shoved it into traffic.

Yeah, give me the gun, or the shovel or a scorpion or whatever. Whatever it takes, I will end that puppy. I’ll make it slow and I will feel nothing.

Speaking of milking a headline, Leno’s crammed a minimum of three Polanski jokes into every single monologue every day this week, and they’re typically just as strong as the one above. My problem with his Polanski jokes is that there’s just no thought to them. It’s like he gets a Google News Alert every time the words “sex offender” are used, reads whatever headline pops up out loud and then mumbles “Roman Polanski,” as if saying two vaguely related things near each other in a sentence is the same as saying a joke.
-”Have you heard this, have you seen this? I read that a convicted pedophile in Detroit hung himself in his cell. I wonder how Roman Polanski feels about that!”
-”Oh this is interesting, true story. The world’s fattest sexual predator was released from prison today. But not the world’s Roman Polanskiest predator!”
-”Mumblemumble child pornography grumblegrumble POLANSKI, amiright?!”

The puppy in this imaginary joke showdown took its own life in the hopes that all of Leno’s Polanksi jokes would be wiped from the world’s memory.

Useless Daydreaming

Oddly enough, the Useless Daydreaming Method of watching The Jay Leno Show is actually more depressing than the puppy torture thing. With Useless Daydreaming, you get to sit back and think about how great it would be if someone else had Jay’s job…

You know who’d make a great talk show host? Norm MacDonald. If someone gave Norm an hour-long talk show every night, I guarantee you he’d make straight-up magic.

No one is more aware of cliches than Norm MacDonald, and no one is better at flipping and deconstructing them. He’d mess with all the stale conventions that modern late night talk show hosts for some reason feel forced to use, he’d have the best guests, because everyone in comedy loves him, and I bet he could put on some decent skits, too. He wouldn’t let a bunch of celebrities pointlessly and heartlessly plug whatever project they were working on, he just wouldn’t allow it, because he can’t even give a shit. So many late night hosts try to ape a late night host of the past, like they’re afraid of doing something new. But Norm MacDonald, man, he would tear shit up. Everyone just think about it, right now, think about what a Norm MacDonald-hosted talk show would be like.
Yeah.

Ooh, also I’d love it if Bob Newhart had a talk show.

Sigh.

Oh, also, speaking of things that are better than Jay Leno, I’d like to point something out. Let’s imagine, for a moment, that The Jay Leno Show always occupied the 10pm-11pm timeslot. Let’s just pretend that, for a second. If NBC had always devoted an hour every weekday at 10:00pm (and this is just a small sample), the following shows would not have aired:
Medium
Life
Law and Order
Law and Order: SVU
Friday Night Lights
ER

Makes you think about what shows today aren’t getting a chance while we make room for Leno.

Watch Something Else

Yo, on Wednesday, they were doing an encore of Dexter’s season premier and even though I already saw it, I totally watched it again instead of Leno. Have you seen it yet? OhmyGodSoGood. There were more shots of John Lithgow’s ass than I think I was really ready to see, but I do feel those shots resolved a lot of questions raised by Harry and the Hendersons.

Speaking of John Lithgow’s ass, the fact that I re-watched the season premier of Dexter instead of Leno is very, very telling. It means that I, as a pop culture-consuming human being, would rather watch a repeat of a show that I already know features gratuitous shots of John Lithgow’s ass than I would a new episode of The Jay Leno Show.

God. Damn.

“Please state for the record your name.”

“Sure. D to the-”

“Into the microphone, please.” I leaned forward and tapped the small microphone a few times.

“Check. Check. Can you hear me in the back? One. Two.”

“Yes, that’s fine, now-”

“Three and to the four, Snoop D-O-B and Brockter Dre is at the door.”

“Just your name, please,” the prosecutor said.

“Ready to make an entrance, so back on up.”

“That’s plenty.” The prosecutor again. Brockway stood up from his seat at the
defense table.

“‘Cause you know we ’bout to rip shit up.”

“Order,” the judge shouted, banging his gavel. For real, judges still use gavels. It’ll always amaze me that, in 2009, where we have the Internet and indoor plumbing and spaceships, it’s still acceptable for a respected official to express his opinion by bashing a giant, wooden hammer over and over again. It’s not like I wave a giant sword around my head whenever I’m bored. I mean, I might now. I’m just saying if hammer-smashing is so socially acceptable, I should be able to swing a sword around or chuck some grenades when the mood strikes me.

“What do you have to say for yourself, Mr. O’Brien,” the prosecutor asked. I paused thoughtfully.

“Mr. Prosecutor, Dr. Judge, members of the jury: I’m just saying if hammer-smashing is so socially acceptable, I should be able to swing a sword around or chuck some grenades when the mood strikes me.” The courtroom was completely silent, except for Brockway who immediately chimed in with, “Seconded.”

“Mr. O’Brien,” the prosecutor began, “your time may be utterly worthless but, please keep in mind, the jury’s time is not. You and Mr. Brockway have a lot to answer for. So? Start talking.” I was at a loss. My entire strategy hinged on the fact that the prosecuting attorney would be a decent-to-attractive chick, so I could say, “More like proseCUTEST” as my opening and closing statements, with some very convincing push-ups thrown in between.

Since the prosecutor was, in fact, a man, my whole defense strategy was pretty much shot right to shit. I looked to Robert Brockway, the co-defendant in this case, and Michael Swaim, who was acting as our lawyer. They both looked very optimistic, so I got myself started.

“I guess I’ll begin with the truth,” I said.

“OBJECTION,” Swaim shouted. Brockway shook his head violently.

“No,” the judge said, “I’m… I’m going to allow the truth.”

“Thank you, your honor-I-barely-know-her. So, it’s like this. We’ve got this United States president elected, right? Tall guy. Hampton something-or-other. ”

“Barack Obama,” the prosecutor offered. I looked to Swaim and Brockway, who both shook their heads, agreeing with me that the prosecutor’s clearly made-up name was some kind of trap.

“No, I think you’re wrong about that. I’m pretty sure it’s Hampton something. Anyway, he’s elected president, and you know what that means.”

“Why don’t you elaborate, Mr. O’Brien.”

“If, as you so kindly pointed out, Mr. Prosecutor, the jury’s time is so important, I think I’d rather not waste it by saying what everyone’s thinking. We all know what an Obama presidency means. The first year is almost up, so… you know.” I lowered my head and raised my eyebrows, as if to say ‘So… you know.‘ The prosecutor was not impressed.

“So, Obama is president. Is that why you and Mr. Robert Brockway stockpiled 800 firearms and 65,000 rounds of ammunition in the Cracked headquarters?”

“Well… well, yeah,” I said. “But it’s not like I’m the only one. According to that article that I somehow linked to in this spoken conversation, sales of guns and bullets have gone up considerably ever since Obama took office. Americans purchased two billion more rounds of ammunition than we normally do and, currently, gun sellers can’t even produce enough ammo to meet the demand. We the people are literally buying bullets faster than bullets can be made.”

“Yes, I understand that,” the prosecutor said. “I clicked that link, same as everyone in this courtroom. I’m still a little confused.”

“How can you be? Look, Prosecutor Face, the times are changing. This new world requires fast moves and bold actions. And sometimes that involves buying all the bullets.”

“And what,” the prosecutor began, spinning on his heels and pointing at me, “are you going to do with these bullets?” He smiled, shark-like. Like a shark prosecutor who just cornered some other fish in Ocean Court, and like the shark was real proud of itself, because it was a lawyer. This seemed like a big moment for him, but, honestly, I hadn’t really thought of what I planned on doing with the bullets. I hope his case wasn’t built on me having an answer. I looked to Brockway, and it appeared that he too was considering this for the first time. After some thought, he shook his head. I looked to Swaim, who was taking this opportunity of introspective thoughtfulness to rob Brockway.

“I guess nothing, really,” I said, finally. The prosecutor froze, like an ice shark.

“What? You don’t have any plan?”

“Narp. But, you know, it’s good to be prepared. With a buncha bullets, that is. I mean, you see where the world is going. It’s a world that requires me to have bullets. Socialism. Health Care. Social Care. Gay-Sex-Marriage-But-Not-The-Good-Kind. The Economy. Uh… Hy… Hybrid cars, is that one of the things we’re mad at?” I looked to Swaim, who shook his head while holding up a hastily made sign that read ‘Immigrants.’ “Oh, right, that’s it. Hybrid Immigrants, we’re pissed at that, too. So, you know, we bought all those bullets.” My stance on immigrants that run on peanut oil is well-documented, so I didn’t think I needed to elaborate.

“You have no idea why you’re buying bullets, do you?”

“All the bullets,” I corrected.

“Objection,” Swaim yelled. “What if my client is buying bullets in anticipation of laws that would take away guns and bullets from America? If, for example, we were suddenly forbidden from buying bullets because of Soc… Socialist Health Gay Care,” he said with a wink, “then we’d be utterly defenseless against outside forces.”

“Overruled,” I said. “There haven’t been any bills or laws restricting gun ownership. In fact, the opposite is true. We’re legally permitted to carry guns in more places today than we have been in years. Nice try, asshole.” Swaim slammed his fist on the table. Brockway took some vicodin.

“So, as I understand it,” the prosecutor said, “no one is trying to take your guns or bullets away. You have no intention of using them any time soon, but you’re still buying them by the caseload and stockpiling them in your office. In fact, you’re wearing three bandoliers of bullets right now, at this second, while you’re on the witness stand.”

“Uh huh.”

“And you still maintain this has something to do with Obama?”

“More like Nobama,” I said, slyly.

“OBUMa,” Brockway added.

“OBOMBa,” Swaim said.

“Obam…GAY,” I concluded. Swaim and Brockway nodded their approval.

“Look,” I said, “I’m just a regular guy. I put my pants on one leg at a time, just like you, and I hate doing it, just like you. I don’t want the government to have my money. I don’t want death panels to murder my grandparents until they start smelling bad. I want to be able to say what I want, when I want to. I want to be able to make all the money in all the world, forever, all the time. And if I feel like any of these freedoms are even vaguely threatened, I want to, you know, buy a shitload of bullets.”

“But why?” the prosecutor whined. “What are you going to do with them? It’s just so confusing, Mr. O’Brien. You worry that taxes will raise the price of ammunition, but in obsessively buying it every time you get a paycheck, you, along with other people in similar mindsets, are effectively forcing the price up on your own, because you’re manufacturing a higher demand. And you understand that, when someone writes an article about kidnapping the president’s daughters and then starts hoarding thousands of rounds of ammunition, it’s enough to give us pause, right? Look! Look at you, you’re buying bullets off of co-defendant Robert Brockway, right now!”

“Can you blame me? Look, your screaming is just scaring the shit out of me, and this is what I do when I’m scared.”

“Ditto,” said Brockway, as he repurchased the bullets he’d just sold to me (at a substantial price increase).

Here, the judge interjected. “I’m starting to wonder why I called this trial in the first place, and further agreed to suspend the laws that typically govern court rooms in this country.”

The prosecutor started: “Your honor, this is not an isolated incident. There are people across America just like Mr. O’Brien…,” he paused here, probably because he was impressed with how many bullets I can fit in my mouth (so many),”…almost exactly like Mr. O’Brien. It’s not just this court room, it’s the nation, your honor!”

“Get to the point councilor!” the judge bellowed, his hammer poised.

“It’s just,” the prosecutor said, faltering. “It’s just all so retarded.“

When considering the plots of comedy movies, fellow Cracked columnist and comedy professor at Internet University Seanbaby advocates a policy of “Defending the Movie to Aliens,” whereby the ridiculously shitty nature of the movie is deconstructed and revealed in the process of having to explain it to an outsider.
Similarly, when looking at the state of current events, I like to employ the “What Would this Look Like in a History Text Book?” method (because I’m nerdier than the rest of the Cracked staff in just about every conceivable way). Consider your high school history text (see?) and imagine where today’s events would fit in. In the future, when my bastard children are reading about what life was like in their alleged father’s time, what are they going to see? Take right now, for example, where there are hundreds of news articles dedicated to who tweeted about what the president said about Kanye West (who, I’d like to point out, might be retarded). How’s that going to look in a history book?

It helps to do this sometimes, to say, “Hey, people just might be reading about this 40 years down the line, and what we do today might be used as barometer that determines what kind of people we were. So let’s try not to be such assholes.”