Of course, with the ice caps melting faster than butter hurled defiantly at the sun, that prediction may turn out to be accurate. Here’s hoping that’s not the only Escape From Los Angeles-related prediction to come to fruition.

While we’re waiting to see if the Mayans knew what they were talking about, or if Snake Plissken will end up deactivating all of the world’s technology, here’s a preview for a movie that predicts a much more plausible 2012 disaster.

IMPORTANT NOTICE: The thing at the end telling you to google “why is this movie called ‘Bees?’” is not a legitimate instruction, but rather a parody of the nonsensical instruction at the end of the original trailer (linked in the article). Normally I wouldn’t spoon feed my readers, and would instead simply laugh at all the time people wasted searching for something that’s a complete non sequitor, but it was brought to my attention that some malicious Internetters have taken advantage of people searching the term and set up some impromptu malware sites. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

When not inviting international sanctions, Michael serves as head writer for and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

2008 was a year full of surprises. And by that, I am of course referring to the huge number of unplanned pregnancies that graced those twelve calendar pages. But when we weren’t busy accidentally creating human life, we were busy foiling past generations’ expectations of us. From film, to books, to video games, to decorative diner placemats, every manner of media had to have their say about what the people of 2008 would be doing with their time. Well, they were all wrong, and here are the wrongest of the bunch: 8 stories set in the “futuristic” year of 2008 that completely dropped the proverbial ball.

The Source:

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Accuracy: In keeping with their later predictions that Pauly Shore will become a beloved actor and Coolio’s face will be printed on our coins. Again, there have been technological limitations. We could probably make a booth capable of killing someone and disposing of the body, but the Stop N’ Drop level of luxury—eyes scooped out with melon ballers, a helpful, friendly automated voice control—are all beyond our means. Meanwhile, this country’s medieval stance on the individual right to have a machine stab you in the gut keeps us from even making serious progress towards this lofty dream. The best we’ve got at the moment is Dr. Kevorkian, the crude biological equivalent. Normally I’d suggest a mass Krevorkian cloning project at this point, but apparently there’s something wrong with that too. Sorry Futurama writers; it looks like the religious zealots won’t let you have your citywide killing boxes.

The Source:

The Prediction:

Accuracy: Pretty abysmal. The fastest a space ship has ever moved, to date, is roughly 550,000 miles an hour, which, while fast enough to ensure that any potential road kill will be thoroughly smeared across the freeway in a bloody swath miles long, is still pitiful in the face of goddamn light, which averages 300 million miles an hour even when it’s been drinking. Meanwhile, the most exciting scientific development this year was the construction of a giant underground tube for smashing stuff together, and even that was greeted by hordes of people claiming it was witchcraft that’d cause demons to emerge from the Underdark and devour us alive. Let’s face facts: in the larger context of galactic civilization, we’re the guys standing in the corner with no pants on clanking rocks together.

The Source:

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When not taking people too seriously, Michael is head writer for and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

But that’s how it works out here; you’ve got to schmooze. So I decided, what better way to make friends of the other sketch troupes out there than to arbitrarily rank them from worst to best, in an article whose title implies that even the best aren’t nearly as good as my own troupe?

So enjoy losing the next several hours of your life (and possibly weeks, if you bookmark this page).

The Troupe: According to his “Bio” section, “Scott Gairdner is a Los Angeles-based sketch comedy group comprised of Scott Gairdner and Scott Gairdner.” I was first drawn in by his spot-on Michael McDonald impersonation, but quickly grew to love his sharp, caustic wit, ravenous devouring and regurgitation of pop culture, and judicious use of fake facial hair. Seriously, the kid looks like he’s fourteen.

The Sketches: In many ways, Scott is a comedian’s comedian. And by that I don’t mean to imply he has sexual relations with other comedians—although this could certainly be the case—but rather that his funny tends to come from incredible premises and textbook joke deployment. His are the kind of sketches that sound funny just in the video description:

Hey, don’t mess with the classics.

Crude TV Equivalent: If the better SNL writers were given a website and no budget whatsoever.

If You Only Watch One, Watch: I’m going to say “My Super Sweet Funeral,” for two reasons: it shows off what Gairdner can do with some animation work, and it features a dynamite performance from Perry Smith, Gairdner’s own private “that guy.”

Bonus Fun Fact: Scott also produced a series of comics in which he intervenes in Family Circus strips and helpfully tells the children to shut the fuck up.

The Troupe: Derrick is comprised of NYU grads who honed their skills at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre, which is a description you could apply to a startling number of Internet sketch troupes. Skills honed, they proceeded to unleash their hardy, classicist brand of sketch onto the public. The Derricks remain faithful to their UCB roots, and more than any other troupe spawned by the school, their sketches and style stay true to that sensibility. Plus they’ve got Donald Glover, arguably one of the best physical comedians on the web.

The Sketches: The Upright Citizens’ Brigade philosophy is all about throwing one thing in reality out of whack, building upon that impossibility, and exploring from there. With few exceptions, Derrick Comedy sketches do just that with ruthless efficiency. There’s not a lot of meandering or free-flowing artsy crap here. Whether on the topic of bro rape, shitting yourself in class, or a jazz man who farts into his trombone, these gentlemen are here to present sketches in a conservative and professional fashion.

Crude TV Equivalent: As you could have probably predicted, Upright Citizens’ Brigade. But with, I don’t know, a pumpkin I guess.

If You Only Watch One, Watch: After all these years—almost two so far—this sketch remains the most convincing evidence I have that girls are not to be trusted.

Bonus Fun Fact: If you’re wondering why Derrick hasn’t released any new sketches in a while, it’s because they’ve got a full length movie opening at Sundance 2009, Dominic writes for MTV, Fuse, and the Onion News Network, Donald writes for 30 Rock, and DC just finished a novel.

I feel incredibly lazy right now.

The Troupe: Waverly Films is more a collective of filmmakers than a troupe, and they’ve worked on projects as diverse as music videos for The Rapture and Fatboy Slim and commercials for FedEx, McDonald’s and MTV. They’ve even had a failed Comedy Central pilot, something most sketch troupes would shit a kidney for.

The Sketches: Through a somewhat regular series called “Clip Of The Week,” Waverly has put out an astounding number of sketches that, despite being basically side projects, are chock full of filmic know-how and impressive effects. The sketches definitely give the impression of being created rapidly though; most of them are wacky, stream-of-consciousness clips that seem to have evolved out of whatever fun camera trick the guys wanted to play with that week. Then there are COTW’s like “most expensive clip ever,” that make your fanciest After Effect efforts look like a poorly animated bucket of dead carp.

Crude TV Equivalent: If the Channel 101 TV show, Acceptable.tv, had stuck around long enough to get funny.

If You Only Watch One, Watch: Sherlockbot, the sketch that won the Youtube Sketchies II competition, defeating our own entry and making all the Musketeers weep hot, bitter tears.

Bonus Fun Fact: Even though Comedy Central passed on the Waverly pilot, you can check out its various components over at Atom Films. Extra bonus: it’s hosted by Paul F. Tompkin’s, possibly my favorite “that guy” of all time. While you’re over there, be sure to also check out Waverly’s animated series, Stickman Exodus.

The Troupe: A trio of performer/writers and a filmmaker, the blokes at Good Neighbor somehow manage to inject homebrew friendliness into everything they do. Their site features colored pencil work reminiscent of your 8th grade notebook doodles, they call you “friends” at all times, and even their edgier sketches—like the one where a couple of WWII soldiers and a nazi get in a tickle fight on the battlefield—feel like putting on a warm fuzzy sweater of laughs.

The Sketches: If you grew up in the 80’s, Good Neighbor’s penchant for nostalgic humor and synth-driven soundtracks will make you feel right at home. And if you didn’t, they’ve got a sketch where a five-year-old girl plays a freshly impregnated Jamie Lynne Spears being harassed by paparazzi. Add in the fact that they actually care about their cinematography and several near-magical editing tricks, and you’re looking at a group of young filmmakers with skills that can pay the bills (not literally; they’re still miserably poor).

Crude TV Equivalent: If The State only had three guys in it, and their cameraman moved around.

If You Only Watch One, Watch: “Fate of the World” is the perfect appetite whetter: admirable production value, and accomplishes more funny with only three jokes than most of us do armed with an entire Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader.

Bonus Fun Fact: According to a few sporadic blog posts, Good Neighbor have been hard at work on a nominally “secret” project that is quite obviously a web series about a run down Hooters-style bar and grill called Knockers. If it’s anything like their commercial, it’s going to be awesome, and have plenty of parking.

The Troupe: BriTANick, the young pretty boys who have slowly but steadily encroached upon Muskets! territory with their fast-paced sketches and smug, bastardly faces, are…sorry, this sentence kind of got away from me. I meant to say that we’re proud to share the Cracked front page with such talented up-and-comers, even if I have it on good authority that Brian was once arrested on suspicion of paying a homeless guy to drink detergent while he masturbated in an alley. Him, not the homeless guy. That costs extra.

The Sketches: Your average BriTANick sketch features a complex premise, snappy dialogue, and some kind of middle school-ish ska shit at the end. But this is counter-balanced by the kind of awesome two-man chemistry you can usually only get from Abott and Costello or a really good gay porno. Also, if you click out of the page quick enough, you can usually avoid it.

Crude TV Equivalent: If Monty Python had written for Laurel and Hardy and then that got remade years later and updated for today’s streetwise youth.

If You Only Watch One, Watch: Well, if you’re a Cracked fan, you’ve probably seen it. But you know what? I don’t care. The concept of a herpes medication that causes random teleportation deserves a second viewing, dammit.

Bonus Fun Fact: Nick is/was also in the sketch troupe Brave Aunt Beth, which warrants checking out if only for having the indy-est website I’ve ever seen.

The Troupe: POYKPAC’s home site is an abrasive, blocky grid of neon dayglo, and that goes a long way towards acquainting you with their energy. The cast of five Brooklyn-ites produce hip, happy, daring, and often manic sketches that are, above all else, smart. Or maybe funny, then smart. Of everyone on this list, they seem the most like an actual “troupe,” which is to say an abusive, dysfunctional family that you imagine all live together in a gin-soaked circus tent. They also seem to be the most dedicated to producing what they want, how they want. The results are often hilarious, and occasionally bizarre beyond description.

The Sketches: Arguably, POYKPAC’s crown jewel is their Good Morning Internet! series, a morning talk show hosted by people who used to host a TV show and couldn’t be less happy to find themselves on the web. Now that that’s wrapped a glorious 15-episode run, we can hopefully look forward to more sketches like this doo-wop ode to the utility of the blowjob, or this mind-bending sketch about a self-fulfilling eulogy.

Crude TV Equivalent: If The Muppet Show had been live action, and also Rod Serling wrote big hunks of it.

If You Only Watch One, Watch: POYKPAC have several sketches adroitly lampooning the strange relationship between America’s vision of masculinity and attendant homophobia, but Gristlemania ‘87 features by far the most puns and screaming (which is saying more than you’d think).

Bonus Fun Fact: POYKPAC is the only sketch troupe on this list with women in the line-up. There’s two, and they’re both funny enough to make you shoot stuff you drank like four days ago out of your nose. I think the rest of us could learn something from that; namely, to suppress female comedians, lest they rise up and seize the reins of power from the blessed comedy patriarchy.

The Troupe: Fatal Farm strike me as the two weird kids who used to get together every day after school and tool around in one of their basements on something no one was allowed to see. Then they grew up, discovered the Internet, and put those things on public display. Turns out their habit of lavishing massive amounts of time and effort on a two-minute Internet clip makes for some awesome, if mind-fucking results.

The Sketches: Like any true artist, Fatal Farm explores themes more than they produce sketches. Their site is built around several massive sketch projects. There’s Infinite Solutions, the social experiment that convinced thousands of Youtube users they could recharge their dead batteries by taping them together. Then there’s the TV Themes, which are basically re-imaginings of your favorite old shows’ opening sequences, though by “re-imaginings” I actually mean acid-fueled descents into the twisted underbelly of your deepest fears. And, of course, Lasagna Cat. More on that below.

Crude TV Equivalent: Andy Kaufman lives.

If You Only Watch One, Watch: All of Lasagna Cat. It’s one of the more brilliant ends to which the Internet has been put. Plus, I’d like to think Jim Davis will see it one day and realize that his life’s work wasn’t totally without merit. Here’s one of my favorites.

Bonus Fun Fact: Hours and hours of additional fun can be had reading the confused, oblivious, and occasionally enraged comments under the Youtube versions of the Infinite Solutions vids.

The Troupe: Olde English are five guys from Brooklyn boasting probably the widest range of work on this list. One thing that stands out about them is their constant willingness to do tedious, time-consuming work for the sake of a joke. They’ve got stop-motion, computer animation, a plethora of song covers, even a continuous eleven minute shot of them flipping off the camera. Screw firefighters; that’s dedication.

The Sketches: Olde English are the most mature group on this list, both in terms of time spent making videos (in web-land, six years of doing anything is pretty impressive) and in terms of content. They’re a little older, not quite as interested in rebellious subversion, and much less obsessed with dick jokes than the rest of us. This leaves them free to explore such important topics such as what Michel Gondry’s house looks like (Hint: it’s made of dreams), what a date between mathematical concepts would involve, and what Pixar movies would look like if the entire staff of Pixar lost interest in computers. Luckily for us, that will never, ever happen.

Crude TV Equivalent: If the male cast of Friends did a sketch spin-off. In a good way.

If You Only Watch One, Watch: With a backlog a hundred and fifty deep, it’s hard to pick a sketch that encapsulates the troupe. A sampling would give you a better idea of their incredible range, but since that would be patently unfair to the other troupes on this list, I’m just going to go with the one about the machine that turns food into poop.

Bonus Fun Fact: If you dig Olde English and live in New York or own some kind of rapid transport, you can see them perform live at the UCB theatre once a month. In fact, a large percentage of these troupes also do live shows (some, like Good Neighbor, even tour). It’s definitely worth looking into at their various sites, especially if you’ve got a date coming up and very little money.

If you watched all the videos linked in this list so far, you will have successfully wasted roughly six and a half hours of work time (don’t bother checking; I did the math). But what of the next hour and a half, you ask? And what of tomorrow? And are you sure that you don’t want to use this opportunity to suck up to any more people in the industry?

Damn straight. Here are the troupes that would have made the list if only their bribes had been slightly more substantial.

Tremendosaur
The Imponderables
Turkey Neck
Joey and David
Picnicface
Pete and Brian
Awkward Pictures
Quiet Library
Dutch West
Elephant Larry
Barats and Bereta
Evan and Gareth

Comments are below. Enjoy the debate, friends. If you’re trying to think of something terrible to call me and can’t seem to find the words, may I suggest–

When not cementing his standing in the sketch comedy community, Michael serves as head writer and does other stuff for Those Aren’t Muskets!

In all of our lives, there are some inevitable looming tragedies that must be faced: the death of a parent, the end of childhood, and, of course, the end of our Presidential terms. Well, Mr. George W. Bush is facing such a trauma, and there’s no question it’s going to be rough.

After all, of the 42 ex-Presidents of the United States, only four are still alive. That’s over a ninety percent mortality rate. That’s worse than ‘Nam.

And without a doubt, the hardest part of an ex-Presidency is the first hundred days. That period when the country is abuzz over your replacement, yet the office is still so fresh in your mind that you sometimes awake in the middle of the night demanding to speak to the Russian Premiere, or absent-mindedly threaten to have the CIA kill an annoying neighbor before realizing your error and breaking down in a crying jag right there in the jam aisle.

But Mr. Carter’s laughable shortcomings aside, Bush’s recent purchase of a new home in Preston Hollow, Texas, signals the beginning of his grappling with the demon Obscurity.

And because I hate to see a man kicked while he’s down, I’ve decided to put together this little primer to help him through the transition. Will this save us all the heartache of waking one morning to find a senile G.W. running naked through the streets of Dallas? We can only pray.

Coping With Cancellation: A Presidential Primer

Fish vs. Pond: People are judged on a relative scale. When you were the President, the citizenry of the United States (or at least 29% of them) granted you the use of all of their collective balls (and, for the sake of sexual equality, let’s say ovaries). This left you with huge, swinging ovary testicles that you could fluff and sit on and show off basically anywhere you went. Your balls were so stuffed with ovaries that you had to have guys in black suits and plastic wires in their ears with you at all times.

Well, like the aged tend to do, your balls have shrunk. The important thing is to display them in their best light, like how holding a ping-pong ball next to a Monopoly house makes the ping-pong ball look huge by comparison. So let’s look at which neighbors your importance is likely to be measured against.

Notable Preston Hollow residents include:

Ross Perot—You’ve already accomplished something he failed to. Make sure to remind him and others of this by holding regular “ex-President” barbecues and “accidentally” sending him an invite. If he gives you any guff, just tell people you think he might be going insane. It worked on Kucinich, and they’re almost twins.

Tom Hicks—He bought the Texas Rangers from you, which gave you the capitol you needed to launch your political career. In some ways, he could claim to have “made you what you are.” Use this to your advantage, by reminding him of what a crappy President you turned out to be. Try loudly thanking him for the job when you run into him at the corner market. Soon enough, you’ll be chairing the HOA committee on pool maintenance.

Mark Cuban—He’s richer than you, owns several sports teams and an HDTV network, and appeared on Dancing With The Stars. Okay, this one might be tough. You could learn to dance, but that’s just asking for a debilitating injury. Your best bet is to have one of your SS guys run him down in a black sedan. I’m not saying you should do that, I’m just saying it’s your best bet.

Retaining Your Celebrity: Try and keep some of that White House heat going if you can. There’s a long, cold Winter ahead, and nabbing a few headlines in regional papers can go a long way towards keeping you from chowing down on two barrels of sweet, sweet release.

Clinton’s got his wife to lean on, and Carter’s got the whole Habitat for Humanity thing. Even your Dad gets called in to give political advice now and then. Of course, Laura Bush’s political career has about the same outlook as Fergie’s, so no help there. And if someone calls you asking for political advice, just hang up; it’s a prank. I know what you’re thinking, but don’t fret—there’s no need to resort to philanthropy just yet.

Instead, stick to what made you our beloved leader in the first place. Buy a company, run it into the ground. Invite Rove and Cheney over for secret “planning sessions,” even if you just end up watching old tapes of Felicity and talking about boys all night. Maybe even pick up your cocaine habit again (there’s a friend that’ll never abandon you).

In short, just get back to your roots. You’re out of D.C. now, it’s time to let your hair down and party like a largely forgotten rock star. Like, say, a Nugent. That’s you. You’re President Nugent. In fact, asking people to call you that might generate some press of its own.

As Powers Fade: A lot of the perks you’ve grown accustomed to over the last eight years are going to change, and quickly. No longer will it be within your power to call in air strikes, know what the deal is with aliens, or force Emeril to give you his secret gumbo recipe on pain of waterboarding.

The key to coping with this immense and crippling loss of power is to exercise what powers you still retain, and realize that, though in some sense crippled, you remain a self-actualized individual with the ability to affect the world around you. If you’re feeling a little powerless, why not:

• Preemptively trim a neighbor’s encroaching hedges before they can invade your lawnspace.
• Orchestrate a massive surge…of delicious, homemade bean dip!
• Bug the driveway with a concealed baby monitor to find out who keeps swiping your newspaper.
• Use the neighborhood newsletter to leak vital information regarding Laura’s Vagisil prescription.
• Hold an impromptu press conference with the family dog to announce your withdrawal from the yard.
• Watch an old war movie and pretend like you know why the losing side lost.
• Finally get back at that kid who keeps egging your car by violently invading the house of someone who has nothing to do with him, but looks kind of similar.
• Call and demand a recount of your cellular minute overages.
• Veto Laura’s yam casserole. Or, if she topped it with a layer of marshmallow, consider a line-item veto.
• Head on down to the local hardware store and locate the WMD’s (Weapons of Mouse Destruction).
• Beat one of your children, just so they know who’s boss.

Not Being Racist: When trying to maintain the image of dignity and grace, it’s vitally important that you not come off as a racist old coot. The fact that your community’s housing covenant banned black residents “except as servants” until the year 2000 may be a bit of a concern. In fact, now that I think about it, that’s actually a huge problem. Like, super fucked up. Really? 2000? Jesus. Kanye may have something to say about that.

But most importantly of all, welcome your successor with grace and aplomb. Not that he’ll care, but you might guilt him into inviting you to a dinner at the White House, and you can hide in the Lincoln bedroom for a few precious hours.

Change. Hope. A sassy, no-nonsense demeanor that gets the job done. All qualities exhibited by Tony Danza on Who’s The Boss. And, somewhat less importantly, by our President elect, Barack Obama.

What’s that crazy Italian up to now? Why, Mr. Obama is planning a massive economic stimulus package, the largest amount of money spent on the American infrastructure since Eisenhower bought the U.S. highway system from the French (known at the time as “Ike’s folly”).

As someone who plans to live well into his forties, I’m a huge proponent of using green technologies as a way to put Americans to work. Just seems like good sense, as long as the Russians appear bent on keeping our nuclear weapons manufacturing sector limp and lifeless.

But I’ve got to say I’m baffled by the amount of money being discussed here. While Barack hasn’t come up with an official number, Congress has estimated the package will be around 600 billion dollars. That’s a lot of Jack In The Box tacos, my friends. About 1.2 trillion, by my count. Which, coincidentally, is how large the national deficit is (in money, not tacos).

But Obama is unfazed. Just like the nation seemed relatively unfazed when we spent a similar amount on bailing out Wall Street. Just like people are now talking about bailing out the auto makers. Which brings me to my question:

When did money become imaginary?

I know we’ve been headed this way ever since we went off the gold standard, but I seem to have missed the actual point at which the number of zeros on a check lost all real world significance.

I think it has something to do with “borrowing from the future,” which, if true, sounds like a great idea to me. After all, I’m not in the future, and don’t plan to ever be, barring a major breakthrough with my LSD-powered time-mo-gig (patent pending).

So, Mr. Obama (I feel I can safely assume you’re reading this, since your last Youtube address was stolen verbatim from my article on Lindsay Lohan’s gooch and funbags), I’d like to use my superior brain to point out some things we ought to be buying with our imaginary money.

More Spaceships: For decades, NASA has plodded along at a snail’s pace thanks to the exorbitant cost of science molecules. Let’s give them the 90 hojillion dollar shot in the arm they need to get us out there colonizing planets and enslaving alien peoples. After all, when this “save the Earth” thing goes down in flames, we’re going to need a nice terraformed place to put our stuff and/or selves.

Battle Bots: No, not the TV show; that’s stupid. I’m talking about actual robot soldiers. We’re the most highly evolved species on the planet, it’s about time we stopped driving hunks of metal into each other at high velocities. It’s just rude. A small seed investment of 6 megecredits (or even 5.8) would go a long way towards developing battlebot technology. And just think of the televised entertainment revenue! Which reminds me–

If you’d like to order something with our vast build-up of imaginary funds, feel free to post a note to President elect Obama in the comments, which he reads religiously. But please note, these are not imaginary items, just items of possibly infinite cost.

The man’s not a genie for God’s sake.

When not solving world financial crises, Michael serves as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

To the rest of us, it is known simply as the comeback, that divine and tender coincidence of all the universe’s comedic forces at the perfect moment. A truly good comeback can instantly turn tables, elevate the terminally zinged to the status of champion, and reduce the zinger to a stuttering fool.

Sadly, many of us will go our entire lives without scoring a decent comeback, doomed to pause awkwardly and mutter some pathetic variation of “your face” for the rest of our miserable lives. For us, it must be enough simply to marvel at the comebacks of the better equipped, and possibly memorize them for later personal use. After all, you never know when you’re going to have to take that bitch Lady Astor down a peg.

The Players:
Most sources credit this exchange to John Wilkes and John Montagu, the Earl of Sandwich, although occasionally it’s also credited to British Prime Ministers Benjamin Disraeli and William Gladstone. I’m going to assume Sandwich said it, because it’s less satisfying to make fun of a guy who is considered the precursor of the modern politician than a guy who invented putting stuff in bread.

Setting the Scene:

When not revolutionizing the consumption of sliced meats and cheeses, Montagu was known for his incompetence, cruelty, lechery, and Satan-worshipping. The Earl was a member of The Hellfire Club, a “satanic” group dedicated to amoralistic hedonism, which totally explains all the sandwiches. There’s not a lot more seductively evil than a hot pastrami on rye. He was also responsible for commanding the British navy at the time of the American Revolution, and his incompetence at doing so is considered by historians to have been a large deciding factor in the war, so much so that when he died a popular proposed epitaph was “Seldom has any man held so many offices and accomplished so little.” Posthumous zing! Basically, the Earl of Sandwich was exactly like that Jack in the Box commercial made him out to be.

John Wilkes, another politician and member of The Hellfire Club, apparently pointed this out to him at some point, because the two were mortal enemies for most of their lives. Wilkes even famously Punk’d him by releasing a baboon dressed in a cape and horns at a meeting of THC while Sandwich was “invoking Satan.” It’s said to be this incident that inspired Sandwich to clutch his fear-soiled robes about himself and declare–

The Zing:

“Sir, I do not know whether you will die on the gallows or of the pox.” To which Wilkes replied–

The Comeback:

“That will depend, my lord, on whether I embrace your principles or your mistress.”

Then the baboon clawed Sandwich’s face off while the real Satan appeared and congratulated Wilkes on the burn.

What We Would Have Said:

“Well I do know. I will die on the gallows…for murdering thee–in the face!”

The Players:

Winston Churchill, one of Britain’s best-loved Prime Ministers, helped lead the nation to victory in World War II by sitting on his fat ass, smoking cigars, and delivering more quotable lines than an entire staff of Simpsons writers. Churchill was such a powerful force in English politics that his death ensured work for ugly British actors for at least the next millennia. During his time in Parliament, he often had the occasion to square off against the conservative Lady Astor, first female member of Parliament and renowned wit. Whether Astor’s penchant for attacking Churchill was due to his being a heavy drinker, occasionally sexist, or simply a worthy sparring partner, their scuffles proved that if there’s anything politicians do well, it’s talk some serious shit.

Setting the Scene:

I should actually say “scenes.” Astor, who eventually became a Christian Scientist, didn’t much cotton to Churchill’s habit of smoking cigars by the case while double-fisting whiskey sours. Churchill may have started the rivalry when he compared Astor’s election to Parliament to be “like being intruded upon in the bathroom.” To which Astor replied “you’re not handsome enough to have such fears.” Reportedly Churchill then choked on a lungful of cigar smoke, eyed her through the haze, and muttered “it’s on now.” And on it was, with such exchanges as:

Churchill: “What disguise would you recommend I wear to your costume ball?”
Astor: “Why don’t you come sober, Prime Minister?”

Astor: “If you were my husband, I’d poison your tea.”
Churchill: “Madam, if you were my wife, I’d drink it.”

But perhaps the best-loved Astor/Churchill battle is the following, made doubly impressive by the fact that, by the admission of both parties, Churchill was visibly drunk at the time–

The Zing:

“Mr. Churchill, you are drunk!”

The Comeback:

“Yes, and you, Madam, are ugly but tomorrow I shall be sober and you will still be ugly.”

What We Would Have Said:

“I won World War II, Ass-turd, so shut it. You know, Nazis? Hitler? Your face.”

The Players:

Dorothy Parker and Clare Boothe Luce are the type of women destined to make this list. Both were renowned for their incisive wit, both were prolific and award-winning writers, and both loved a good old-fashioned cat fight. Parker was one of the founding members of the Algonquin Roundtable, a group of writers, editors, and intellectuals who met for lunch every day to say quotable things and laugh urbanely about how much smarter than the general public they all were. Luce, aside from being a playwright, served as U.S. Ambassador to Italy and a Congresswoman, thereby posthumously zinging the hell out of Lady Astor.

Setting the Scene:

By the time these two fulfilled their comedic destinies, they had a lot to be pissy about. Parker had become a left-wing activist, picketing for Sacco and Vanzetti, penning the disillusioned Oscar-winner A Star Is Born, and promptly getting blacklisted by the McCarthy machine. Meanwhile, Luce had converted to Roman Catholicism and become more conservative than ever, as well as one of the leading voices against the “growing threat of Communism.” Basically, they did everything they could to become exact opposites of one another, short of Parker getting a sex change. Thus, when they arrived simultaneously at the front door of the Waldorf-Astoria hotel to attend a party, both had to get a dig in. Luce began the proceedings by holding the door for Parker and intoning–

The Zing:

“Age before beauty.”

Parker then ended the proceedings by stepping through the door and shooting back–

The Comeback:

“Pearls before swine.”

Luce’s Bible then burst into flames, burned its way out of her purse onto the ground, and flipped open to that particular verse while the Pope, who had been arguing with the guy at the check-in counter, started to high five Parker repeatedly.

What We Would Have Said:

“More like beauty before age! Which is why I’m going first, because I’m the most beautiful, and also the oldest. So yes, age and beauty both first, together. Fuck you and your stupid face.”

The Players:

Not a lot of religious figureheads are known for their sharp wit. Jesus kind of painted himself into a corner with the whole “turn the other cheek” thing, and Jehovah’s idea of a comeback was killing your entire town in a rain of brimstone and blood. Not exactly Friar’s Club Roast material. Meanwhile, Mohammed’s pathetic attempts at insult are the stuff of legend, and while Joseph Smith once said something about Vishnu winning an “arms race,” the reference was lost on most in attendance.

Yes, in the religious world, Siddhartha “The Buddha” Guatama is the undisputed king of zing. Raised in a palace and educated as a prince, he had the broad knowledge base required for improvisational mockery. And, as a proponent of balance in all things, he’s one of the few religious figures who can justify the use of a withering comeback. After all, what better way to balance out an insult than an insult of equal force in the opposing direction? This concept encompasses all the teachings of Buddhism (there’s some Newtonian physics mixed in there too).

Setting the Scene:

Buddha was meditating beneath a tree, as he is wont to do, and presumably wondering why he found it so difficult to shed those few extra pounds of belly fat (hint: try standing up some time). Naturally, this made The Buddha cranky, so when some random asshole started hurling petty insults at him, he decided to get all Socratic on his ass a full century before Socrates was even born. The lesson goes something like this–

The Zing:

Asshole: “Buddha, you are one fat piece of work. Wow. I hope you eat some bad pork and die.”

Buddha: “If a man offered a gift to another but the gift was declined, to whom would the gift belong?”

Asshole: “To the one who offered it…but I really don’t see where you’re going with—“

The Comeback:

Buddha: “Then I decline to accept your abuse and request that you keep it for yourself.”

The asshole was then spontaneously reincarnated as the lowest form of life, a list-based comedy writer.

What We Would Have Said:

“You’ll be sorry when I’m Enlightened! Then you’ll pay…then you’ll all pay, right through your stupid faces.”

The Players:

Churchill you may remember from several minutes ago. At this point in our story, he’s still the British Prime Minister, still drinks and smokes like a fish’s chimney, and still seems to spout off horrendous burns like some kind of reverse fireman. This time, the target of his fire hose is George Bernard Shaw, Irish playwright, author of Pygmalion, and Socialist extraordinaire. Shaw spent most of his life crusading for the working class, even going so far as to donate the monetary portion of his Nobel Prize in literature to the effort to translate Swedish works of literature into English. This also qualified him for the Nobel Prize in Most Obscure Donation, the financial proceeds of which he used to build a gold statue of himself.

Setting the Scene:

When Shaw’s play Major Barbara went up (or by some accounts Pygmalion), he decided to invite Winston Churchill to the opening via personal telegram. Shaw and Churchill had what could be termed a “friendly rivalry” going on, insofar as both had at one point publicly called the other vastly overrated. But since Nobel Laureates are “above” expressing rivalry by punching each other mercilessly in the shoulder, Shaw’s telegram read–

The Zing:

“Have reserved two tickets for opening night. Come and bring a friend—if you have one.”

Churchill wired back–

The Comeback:

“Impossible to come to first night. Will come to second night—if you have one.”

Churchill then chuckled at his own telegram, rolled over in bed, and helped Lady Astor sneak out the fire escape.

What We Would Have Said:

“Request another ticket, as I am bringing two friends–my balls. Will introduce them to your face.”

The Players:

Calvin Coolidge isn’t known for a lot. He’s one of those Presidents you tend to shuffle into the Pearce/Taylor/Hayes/Garfield category, and even Garfield inspired a fat cartoon cat. Any cartoon character inspired by Coolidge would likely be “cold, distant, silent and detached,” as papers of the day described him. And while I personally would find a cold and detached cartoon cat to be an awesome concept for a comic strip, no brave artist has as yet stepped up to the plate. Until then, we’ll have to satisfy ourselves with this anecdote, which will probably have a more lasting impact on the nation than anything else “Silent Cal” did while in office.

Setting the Scene:

Coolidge earned his reputation for silence at a string of lavish dinner parties thrown by New York and Washington’s high society. When asked why he attended so many of these parties, despite seeming to be a general downer at them, he shrugged and said, “Got to eat somewhere.” So you get an idea of what a great guy he was. At a particular party, Dorothy Parker—the pearls/swine lady from before—decided that devouring the soul of Clare Boothe Luce wasn’t enough; she wanted the President. Turning to him, she said–

The Zing:

“Mr. Coolidge, I’ve made a bet against a fellow who said it was impossible to get more than two words out of you.”

The Comeback:

“You lose.” Coolidge continued staring into his soup, spoon poised, waited for a proper amount of awkward silence to pass, then slurped continuously for upwards of twenty seconds.

Although Parker still got Coolidge in the end, famously responding to the news of his death by asking “How can they tell?” Posthumous zing number two!

What We Would Have Said:

“Your face.”

The Players:

Yes, the estate of Winston Churchill is sponsoring a large portion of this article. In case you’ve forgotten, he’s the UK PM with Hitchcock’s physique and Castro’s capacity for oral tobacco intake. Francis Crick, along with his loyal manservant Watson, sleuthed the basic helical structure of DNA and single-handedly foiled the evil Professor Moriarty.

Setting the Scene:

When Cambridge put in a chapel in the early 60’s, Crick, who at that time was keeping busy nailing the hell out of his bio students and driving around in a Beemer with the vanity plate “ACGT,” became morally outraged and resigned his post. As it is a British the custom to grind salt into the wounds of fellow celebrities by mail, Winston Churchill wasted no time in sending Crick a letter “consoling” him for the loss he suffered due to his stubborn ideals.

The Zing:

Churchill’s letter urged Crick to take back his old job and try not to mind about the church. After all, he argued, “its mere existence should be of no consequence, as no one will be forced into it against his will.”

The Comeback:

“Dear Mr. Churchill. Enclosed are ten guineas towards the construction of a brothel at Cambridge. Its mere existence should be of no consequence, as no one will be required to enter it against his will.”

Crick then performed his patented victory move, “The Helix,” though as the insult had been delivered through the mail, much of the effect was lost.

What We Would Have Said:

“Here’s ten guineas, ugly. Go fix your face.”

The Players:

Oscar Wilde, author of The Importance of Being Earnest and The Picture of Dorian Gray, was a renowned Irish playwright and wit who wore fur coats in public, had catty feuds with other poets, and just went around generally acting so gay that he was ultimately put on trial and imprisoned for his homosexuality. His works and legacy are still going strong, despite tremendous efforts to silence his “indecency” in his own time, although his is still occasionally mistaken for actor Gene Wilder, probably because he’s as close to Willy Wonka as any living human’s ever been.

Lewis Morris was another poet and friend of Oscar’s who wasn’t nearly as gay and has therefore rightly been forgotten.

Setting the Scene:

It seems Mr. Morris was a bit of a Kanye, as one evening found him bitching to his friend Wilde about his narrowly missing being appointed Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom. In fact, as it’s probably his association with Wilde that cost him the appointment, we should imagine the complaints to be suitably passive-aggressive. At the time, Wilde was probably organizing his legal defense, which ended up being so eloquent it was later adapted into a popular play.

The Zing:

More of a whine, actually. But Morris reputedly complained–

“There’s a conspiracy against me, a conspiracy of silence; but what can one do? What should I do?”

Wilde shuffled in his satin robe, roused from a deep Opium dream, and answered–

The Comeback:

“Join it.”

Then came his signature fluting laugh, and the chorus of naked boys burst into scattered applause. Then Calvin Coolidge appeared from beyond the grave to give him a Presidential thumbs up.

What We Would Have Said:

“Here’s a poem, you emo prick: Ace of Base, shut your face.”

The Players:

Albert Einstein, a Nazi defector, is best known for the series of posters he appeared on with his tongue sticking out. He also invented radiation, daily exposure to which tragically caused him to always have “static electricity hair.” This obvious physical defect led to his name becoming synonymous with idiocy or buffoonery (i.e., “great job irradiating my turtles, Einstein; they’ve transformed into man-sized ninja monsters”).

Neils Bohr was a Nobel Laureate physicist with the Manhattan Project who provided powerful insights into atomic structure and early quantum mechanics. His mother was from a wealthy political family, his father had a molecular function named after him (the “Bohr shift”), and his brother was an Olympian. He is considered to be one of the fathers of modern physics, and was considered “adequate” by his parents.

Setting the Scene:

When quantum mechanics first introduced the idea of probability wave functions, a lot of physicists were like “what? I don’t even know what that is.” Then when it was explained that this basically implied a certain amount of indefinable and inscrutable uncertainty on the atomic level, most were still confused, but some started to get pissed off. One of these some was Einstein, a religious man, who proclaimed quantum theory bunk on the grounds that–

The Zing:

“God does not play dice.”

Bohr, being better acquainted with God’s gambling habits, offered the following advice–

The Comeback:

“Don’t tell God what to do with his dice.”

Two large dice then crashed down from the heavens, killing Einstein and proving God’s existence once and for all. The people rejoiced.

What We Would Have Said:

“Yeah he does, ass! That’s exactly what I’m saying!”

The Players:

Keith Moon, of The Who, is one of the greatest drummers and rock stars to ever grace a stage. His unique style of drumming like a goddamned madman and insisting that the drums be treated as a lead instrument paved the way for 32-piece, revolving drum sets everywhere. Further, his habit of utterly trashing hotel rooms, throwing TV sets out of windows, and blowing up toilets got him personally banned from no less than three major hotel chains and basically started the trend. He was a tortured, bizarre little man who hit his women, forced enough drugs through his system to mildly discomfort Keith Richards, and made some of the best noises in the history of rock.

I’d tell you who Jimmy Page is, but that kind of gives away the comeback, so I’ll act like you’ve lived under a rock for forty years and have no idea.

Setting the Scene:

One night, Robert Plant, John Entwhistle, Page and Moon were partying together at Moon’s house. We can safely presume both were high out of their minds, and at this point in the night had wearied of driving cars into pools full of groupies. Plant took the edge off by telling Moon all about his concept for a new rock band of tight-jeaned, open-shirted, long-haired men singing ten minute songs in falsetto about goblins raiding Middle Earth. Shaking off the effects of the horse sedatives he’d just taken rectally, Moon pulled himself out of the haze long enough to analogize–

The Zing:

“That idea will go over like a lead zeppelin.”

The Comeback:

The entire Led Zeppelin discography, not to mention the fact that more people associate Jimmy Page with the hard-rockin’ lifestyle than even know who the hell Keith Moon was.

What We Would Have Said:

“Is that girl’s pubic hair on fire? Seriously, Keith, what the hell is going on man? I’m really worried about you. Also, you’ve got some food on your face.”

When not writing for Cracked, Michael finds it increasingly difficult not to read a Churchill biography as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

As a blogger, one must become sensitively attuned to some very specific phenomenon. News stories involving nudity, stupid criminals, or–preferably–both. Upcoming holidays that could have inspired “novelty items in poor taste.” Websites featuring those items. And, of course, upcoming documentaries about ailing teen pop sensations.

Britney: For the Record follows Brit for three months, and is part of her sweeping “comeback” effort. I guess after all that footage of her shaving her head, dropping her baby, getting stoned with K-Fed, and being bloated and pitchy at the Grammys (and that’s just one clip), her PR team decided the best way to win back the love of the public was to point a camera at her and just let her go.

Big mistake.

Although the numerous leaks and plants that have preceded the movie’s premiere have held off on revealing what career-killing atrocity Brit has planned for the climax, there’s been enough “real Britney” in the air already to convince me this one’s going to be a winner.

Some pearls of wisdom from Spears herself:

This pattern continues until she’s communicating entirely with monosyllabic grunts and lip curls.

I think I’ve already gleaned all the Britney-related information I’m going to get from this documentary. Firstly, that she’s a developmentally stunted woman/girl whose handlers never allowed her to develop a behavioral palette of more than four colors, and secondly, that it’s hilarious to watch her try and express human emotion.

So that you don’t feel the need to actually watch it when it comes out, I’ve taken it upon myself to capture her essence and synthesize what I’m predicting will be the best quotes and moments from For the Record. As an added challenge, I’ve included three real Britney quotes. See if you can sort the fakes from the genuine article.

Britney on the Civil War:

Britney on her comeback:

Britney on Darfur:

Britney on the theories of Sir Isaac Newton:

Britney on her time in the Mouseketeers:

Britney quotes Ralph from The Simpsons:

Britney on Obama’s election:

Britney on the Iraq war:

Britney on (and demonstrating) spouting random gibberish:

Britney on her place in history:

If you guessed 3, 5, and 10, then you were wrong because it was actually 3, 5, and the one about the big train.

God, she loved that big train.

Oh, that reminds me: she dies at the end.

When not writing for Cracked, Michael invites lawsuits as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

The film Ice Age had a production budget of 59 million dollars. A number of well-known geneticists are now seriously talking about being able to clone a mammoth, and any other creature that went extinct within the last 60,000 years, for as little as ten million dollars. That means the principle cast of Ice Age could have been live action for less than the film’s budget, and given Ray Romano one more reason to disappear entirely. Needless to say, I’m all for it.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. After all, there are still some obstacles standing between us and that long-imagined paradise where fleets of mammoths roam the plains and pull our mighty warships. Some of these obstacles are scientific in nature—like how to properly harness a swimming mammoth—and others are ethical, which is to say, religious people will probably get all pissy about it.

But to my mind, another, graver challenge has been presented to us: which animals to clone back into existence, and which to leave in their well-deserved graves. After all, at ten mil a pop, we can’t afford to revive ALL the species we humans may have “nudged” into extinction.

We’ll need to make our selections carefully, cloning only animals that will fit into a current ecological niche, can sustain themselves without human aid, and can be easily trained for circus performance. We have the power to retroactively decide which species live and which die. Think of it like a time-traveling Noah’s Ark, which, incidentally, is the premise of a screenplay I’ve been tinkering with (I’m talking to you, Soderbergh).

But by what rules can we decide which animals to un-kill? Clearly, “survival of the fittest” is out. When pandas, an animal that reproduces only once a year and subsists entirely on a plant that is low in nutrition and poisonous, can outlast the saber-tooth tiger, something has gone horribly awry. That something was us, letting the noble sabre-tooth slide into extinction while spending millions of dollars to protect the panda for the sole reason that we find them adorable and like to show them porno of themselves.

And now that we’ve put the evolutionary system so far out of whack, there’s no real way to even determine which species are fitter, short of pitting them all against each other in some kind of animal battle arena (I’m telling you Soderbergh, this script is gold).

It is for these reasons that I’ve developed a list of criteria I think should be used to determine which species we clone back into life. The criteria are based on the observation that the animals with the best survival rating are those who are somehow pleasant or useful to humans. Take a hint, California Condor.

Using these guidelines, I’ve selected the five animals we should start cloning right away. Take note, science.

Dodos: Dodos have the benefit of being the first extinct animal people think of after dinosaurs. That level of public consciousness is impressive. Sadly, their image is pretty irretrievably one of intense, unrelenting stupidity. If Dodos were alive again, I think we’d almost want them to go extinct if only to prove to ourselves that it was, in fact, their own idiocy that did them in the first time around. On the other hand, until the day the last one chokes to death on it’s own tongue, we’d have a viable alternative to Thanksgiving turkey.

Quagga: Not many people know the name “Quagga.” The last time I thought I heard someone say it it turned out she was choking on a bagel. But damn near everyone is familiar with what the Quagga look like, which is basically a half-zebra half-horse, or “Zorse.” I say bring ‘em on, if only because it would basically eliminate the need for zebras and horses. Replace them with the more efficient Zorse, give it a better name (I suggest “Hebra”), and you’re basically killing two birds with one stone. Except instead of birds, it’s horses and zebras, and instead of stones, it’s poison gas.

Irish Elk: There’s nothing that looks nicer over a fireplace than a rack of deer antlers. Well, imagine if that rack of antlers were twelve feet long. You’d have chicks naked on your bearskin rug, like, all the nights of the week. You’d be a party guy, for real. Of course there is the question of the threat these giant deer could pose to humans. Bambi’s mother may have gone down without a fight, but these guys are used to being kings of the forest, and might not take kindly to awakening to a world under new management. I say clone them, but only for the specific purpose of big game hunting. I don’t want to risk releasing them into the wild. And if environmentalists get all bent out of shape about it, just donate all the Irish Elk meat to an orphanage or something.

Megatherium: The Megatherium is a twenty-foot tall, five-ton sloth. I’m wary about cloning any giant creature, but the name “sloth” tends to put one at ease. Being associated with a deadly sin isn’t going to help its image, but its ability to sit upright and playfully stick out its long tongue just might. It’s also vegetarian, which limits our liability to being accidentally crushed or mistaken for shrubbery. But for the small price of a few (probably stupid) humans, we get back one of earth’s largest land mammals and enough meat to feed the poor of the world and still have some left over for sloth jerky.

Neanderthals: Dare we revive our own ancestors? The cloning of a Neanderthal could provide a window into the physiognomy, behavior, and thought processes of early man. On the other hand, they might want rights or some bullshit. I say clone them, but give them ivory tusks to help make it worth our while.

When not writing for Cracked, Michael is developing clone laser technology as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

Have you ever wanted to write award-winning television, don’t own a computer, typewriter, or pen, and yet are somehow reading this? Well, you’re in luck! Just follow this simple guide, selecting scenes at random from within each section and rearranging them on a big board. Voila! Your very own episode of TV’s House. When finished, simply fold your board up and shove it under the door of a Hollywood Producer; you’ll be rolling in Emmys in no time!*

*WARNING: rolling in Emmys is extremely painful.

When not writing for Cracked, Michael photoshops for Cracked as Head Writer and Co-Founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

As I’m sure you’ve heard by now, Craigslist will henceforth be charging a fee and requiring credit card validation for any posts in the “erotic services” section. At this point I’d usually say something like “well, fuck me,” but I’m afraid THE MAN would want my PIN number first.

I’m firmly convinced that in time, this gross invasion of privacy will be viewed as a travesty on par with the CIA bugs and Japanese internment camps of the 50’s, forcible quartering of British troops in the 1600’s, or theoretical passage of a Patriot Act that also watches you go to the bathroom.

Have you grasped the sheer magnitude of this event? People used to get to post whatever they wanted, offer any kind of depraved, illegal, or animal-related sexual service, and now they can’t. That sacred freedom, guaranteed by the Ninth Article of our Constitution, has been denied them by the powers that be.

Have you read 1984? Because this is a million times worse. And I‘m saying that as someone who hasn’t even read the introductory acknowledgments. All I know is, if it’s anything like that one Apple ad, this has got it beat.

Craigslist, what you are doing is plain wrong. By impinging upon the rights of those of us (not me) who may want to proffer certain erotic talents to the world at large, you are taking away my freedom of speech (although again, not me, but rather a friend of mine).

Worse, you are destroying the fragile psyche of a scared little boy who, raised in a convent by abusive nuns, used to hit himself in the genitals with rulers whenever he had a sexual impulse, and was only able to begin healing upon the discovery of Craigslist and its willingness to cater to any act of perversion, no matter how slathered in cooking lard or likely to result in a lawn dart up the ass.

Again, and I stress this for no particular reason other than the sake of good journalism, I’m referring to a very close friend of mine who is by no means me.

But if I were talking about me, I’d ask for the good and decent people of the world to rise up and demand the maintenance of our rights by the cold, uncaring Craigslist fat cats who want nothing more than money, money, an end to illegal child trafficking and crackdown on Internet sexual predators, and money. You soulless bastards.

Have you forgotten all the good your “erotic services” section has done? Let me remind you with some excerpts from sample posts.

Would you really deny these fairly attractive people and major motion picture executives their chance at true love? Would you have them stand under the interrogation lights, fill out forms, fill cups with liquids, undergo public scrutiny all just for your peace of mind?

After all, who’s business is it if we—and I’m using the abstract, collective “we” here—occasionally like to toss the salads of older women who work in food retail? Is that so wrong? Do we not deserve the privacy afforded every American?

The whole mess is enough to make me wonder if there isn’t a way around this little credit card scheme of theirs. For instance, could one create some sort of dummy account, route it through a joint checking account or Paypal, and post anonymously that way?

Seriously, could they? If anyone knows how to do that, please message me, especially if you are an older woman working in food retail (please, no fatties).

Someone must take a stand against this injustice. What’s wrong, Barack? I thought you were the “change” candidate, the President who would end all the secrecy and Government prying. And yet I haven’t heard a single impassioned speech from you on the plight of the struggling erotic service provider. For shame.

Well, I’ll not stand idle. Until such a time as Craigslist returns the right to privacy to its users, I will no longer be frequenting it, with the possible exception of finding a new couch, which I really need since my current one is covered with lawn dart holes. I suggest you do the same.

The fact is, the totalitarian regime is already faltering. Since Craigslist started their new pay scheme, they’ve gotten eighty percent fewer posters. Clearly, this group of people who refuse to have their names attached to their erotic requests are heroes, unwilling to use a system that denies them their basic freedoms. Kudos, you most silent of majorities.

But we must not remain silent. Write Craigslist, and tell them that you won’t stand for this erosion of the Founders’ principles. Remind them that Jefferson slept with his slaves and Franklin had a thing for spaniels, for the history of this glorious nation was not written under the watchful gaze of a Government satellite, but scrawled in back alleys and shouted amidst golden showers.

And know that hope is not lost. Not every corner of the web has become a panopticum. Here, on this very blog, freedom still reigns. I hereby declare this post Cracked’s own “erotic services” section, and I encourage you to make full use of the comments section for the planning of romantic encounters, boasting of incredible sexual talents, or graphic description of your darkest fetishes.

I rest assured in the knowledge that the slew of classy, respectful, decent comments sure to follow this post will show Craigslist just how truly they have misjudged the people of the Internet.

When not writing for Cracked, Michael is inviting disaster as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!