“You’re through, Gladstone.”

“Like the new Hate By Numbers. Like… a virgin. Where’s my pacifier? My jaw hurts.”

But this email was no mere rambling. It showed a dark certainty that Jack had not exhibited since mandating ass-less chaps Fridays at the Cracked offices.

Gladstone turned from the screen and looked for comfort in his normal routine. But things had changed. Now when Gladstone shaved closely around his sideburns, a few gray hairs appeared. His navy blue suit, which had once been his HBN armor, showed fraying at the cuffs. And the leather-masked gimp in his basement revealed a zipper mouth of sadness (although, Bucholz might have just been in one of his moods).

Through a Byzantine labyrinth of corridors and passageways, Gladstone found the Cracked offices, but was greeted only by Seanbaby and a closed door.

“None shall pass,” he said, and Gladstone was struck that Seanbaby spoke like he wrote: with little cartoon bubbles appearing above his head.

“Please,” Gladstone urged. “I seek admittance. I’ve been the victim of a conspiracy.”

Seanbaby sighed.

“Gladstone, behind this door, there is another. And another. Each with a guard bigger than the last. Each with instructions to deny your entry. Penis, penis, boner.”

(Contractually, all Cracked columnists were obligated to go no longer than five sentences without a dick joke or penis reference. Gladstone, however, had negotiated for a one per 25 sentence quota, knowing full well that no one at Demand Media could count that high.)

“If you like,” Seanbaby offered, “you may have a seat and ask again in awhile.”

Gladstone turned to see two seats beside the door. One occupied by Robert Brockway.

“Robert, are you also here to fight some unjust indignity that has befallen you?”

“Nope. Just waiting out the effects of last night’s peyote party. I’m still trippin’ balls.”

“I see,” Gladstone said and cursed himself for thinking, however, briefly, that he could have an ally in this struggle.

“Furthermore,” Brockway added, “penis, penis, boner.”

Just as all seemed lost, Seanbaby left his post to go Photoshop dirty things into a 1950s brochure about bomb shelters, and Gladstone seized the moment to step inside. There before him, stood a giant insect.

“Dan O’Brien? Is that you?” he asked.

The insect raised human eyes up to the ceiling. Its twitching antennae forming accents of confusion. And despite the gross spectacle, Gladstone could still discern a trace of humanity in the creature’s struggle to sit in an office chair when its hard shell dictated a less evolved posture. The insect opened its mandibles, craning its neck to generate some semblance of human speech. Part human, maybe, but was this monstrosity Dan O’Brien?

“Penis, penis, boner.”

Yeah, it was Dan. His sticky claws began clacking away on the keyboard, filling the screen with “penis, penis, boner” hundreds of times.

“Dan!” Gladstone cried. “What metamorphosis has deprived you of your knack for comedic prose? What can we do?”

Dan popped the insect mask off his costume and replied, “Whaddya mean? Just givin’ the people what they want. I found the one-to-five ratio too confining anyway.”

Gladstone recoiled in horror. All his perceptions unreliable. All painful.

“But why are you dressed as…”

“For Brockway’s costume party. Well, it was a peyote party, but, y’know, what fun are psychedelics without costumes? Sorry, I’m still tripping balls.”

“AAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

A blood curdling scream filled the offices and Gladstone ran to find its source. Still, even as he dodged through cubicles and corridors he wondered what he could do. And was he running to help, or to find another who shared his impending sense of dread?

There, behind a door marked “Not Torture” was a bearded man strapped face down and shirtless to a table. Over the man’s back hung a large device most notable for an appendage containing a razor sharp writing implement. There was a rhythm to the arm’s movements and as Gladstone approached he realized the razor pen was carving the same sentence into the victim’s skin, over and over, with increasingly deeper penetrations.

Gladstone could now see the bloody writing hundreds of times across the man’s back:

“I will not defy readers’ expectations. I will not defy readers’ expectations.”

“Oh! You must be Cody, the new guy! Like your stuff.”

But Cody did not greet the kind words with the kind of appreciation Gladstone expected. In fairness, it might have been because a surgically sharp blade was carving an “x” into Cody’s deepest layer of flesh at that very moment, but Gladstone still couldn’t help but be appalled by the manners of kids today. He left Cody in the care of the device, confident all lessons that needed to be learned would be. Besides, the guy’s voice was really annoying.

Now Gladstone had examined almost every crevice of the Cracked offices and still he was no closer to understanding why he was no longer part of this family. Why he had been cast out.

Gladstone let loose the scream that had been building since morning, “WHY JACK? WHY?!”

“It wasn’t me,” Jack whispered. Apparently, he had been standing next to Gladstone the whole time, and now he was pointing. “I take my orders from him.”

Jack led Gladstone down a hall that seemed both intimately familiar and somehow unknown until they reached an office door.

“Whose office is this?” Gladstone asked, but Jack was gone.

Gladstone held the doorknob for a moment, fearing a truth worse than his paranoia. But, ultimately, he realized that whoever was on the other side of that door still worked for Cracked and, therefore, was likely functionally retarded. Gladstone opened the door, revealing the office to be his own, but now, Michael Swaim was sitting behind his desk.

“Swaim!”

“Wayne! Come in. Have a seat.”

“Please, Michael. Call me Gladstone.”

Swaim smiled warmly. “Fine, if you prefer, Gladstone. But why all the animosity?”

“Don’t pretend, Michael. Jack told me everything. You’re behind my termination. Look at you. You’re already sitting behind my desk.”

“Of course, I am. But Wayne, that’s because if you’re searching for who’s responsible, it’s you.”

Gladstone looked closer. Swaim was wearing a navy blue jacket much like Gladstone’s–only new. His hair was coarser and wavier than usual. And the part in his dress shirt revealed some sprouts of chest hair whereas Gladstone had recalled Swaim normally being smooth like a pubescent boy with a testosterone deficiency.

“Wait,” Gladstone murmured, “you’re… me?”

“Of course, I am. You don’t think one website would actually have two numbered video shows do you? I’m just a product of your twisted imagination. I mean,‘Swaim’? Who’s ever heard of such a ridiculous name? Think about it, Wayne. I keep giving you clues, but you know what those letters stand for:

Secretive
Wayne’s
Alternate
Identity
Michael.

“No, it can’t be!” Gladstone protested.

“In your heart you know it’s true,” Swaim insisted. “Why else would no one call me out on stealing your jokes?”

“But even if what you say is true. I’m not self-destructive?”

“Oh, really? You’re not?”

“No.”

“So you think it’s a good idea for your future at Cracked.com to write a 1,000 word column, mocking your boss and colleagues while making allusions to a Czech writer from 100-years ago?”

“I see your point.”

“Of course, you do. It’s yours.”

Gladstone shut the door behind him and headed home. The next morning, his landlady would find him dead at his computer with the cursor still blinking at the end of one solitary and incomplete sentence:
“Penis, penis, bon. . .

How are you? I know how hard this global recession has been on everyone, so I thought I’d check in on an old friend. We have had a professional relationship for over ten years.

Me? Well, I’m getting by. Several months ago, I was laid off with millions of other people. I had to take a job at half my prior salary and sell my house. But what am I saying? You know all this! That’s right. After you saw that my credit report showed a sudden three month hiccup in my otherwise flawless finances, you called to see how I was doing. No wait. Not to see how I was doing. To unilaterally cut my credit limit from $25,000 to $1,000. Oh, and you didn’t actually call. But that post card was nice.

Needless to say, this rift in our friendship left me spinning with questions. Mostly, I just want to know why. I was so good to you. I mean, yes I stopped paying my mortgage, (for the house already on the market) but I paid every single other bill. I paid all YOUR bills. Remember the good times? You were my friend … with benefits. What happened to the American Express I knew? The one who thanked me for my prompt payments and kept raising my credit limit? I got a new job. Is it my ass? It’s not me. It’s these new jeans. Ask Capital One, they’re totally into what I got going on. It just seemed like someone over there had made a grievous error.

So I decided to call because that’s what friends do, right? They don’t jump to conclusions and take rash actions without the facts. But, apparently, it wasn’t an error. One of your employees –let’s call her BitchFace— conveyed the sentiment in a subtle way:

“It’s not an error, Mr. Gladstone,” she said, twisting her heel into the larynx of a baby chihuahua. As I bent over to see if I could find what was left of my self worth and dignity rolling away on the floor, she upped the ante:

“We have you right where we want you.”

Yeah, I’m not joking. Who says that? I think she meant Amex had me at their desired credit limit, but seriously? “We have you right where we want you” is third on the list of evil phrases right behind “we have ways of making you talk,” and “we’re going to revoke your Facebook account if you keep harassing teens.”

I’m not going to lie to you American Express. This was a serious test of our friendship. But once my credit report was updated it showed no mortgage debt. Indeed, I had a credit rating of over 700. I faxed you the new information, proudly. Glad that we’d be able to put all this nonsense behind us, and you’d be able to return my credit limit to a point higher than let’s say … the cost of a high def TV or 8 nice dinners? I mean, c’mon, with a $1,000 credit limit, how was I going to afford a quality hit man to kill each and every one of the miserable bastards I’d spoken to at your company? I’d have to use some untested soldier of fortune off craigslist and he might not be any good. He might not slice your carotid artery clean enough and you’d have to die slowly over a long period of time while he did unspeakably perverted things to your increasingly lifeless corpse. None of us wanted that. So I submitted hard evidence and waited for you to do the right thing.

Well guess what? For a cynical guy who does a web series about hating things that suck, I am surprisingly optimistic and naive. Two weeks after my financial care package you sent another post card (I guess BitchFace couldn’t come to the phone) informing me that you were keeping my credit limit at $1,000.

One thing did make me feel a little better, though. No, not the new friend I found online who is willing to torture/murder creditors for half his normal rates (although that does help) but finding out that I’m not alone. American Express and other credit card companies have been up to all sorts of mindless shenanigans, making draconian decisions based more on the appearances of cutting costs than actually understanding which clients present unreasonable risks.

But hey, these are tough times. I get it. And I think it’s completely fair that you safeguard yourself against greed and carelessness. Even if it was your greed and carelessness that put you in this situation in the first place. If making my life more difficult helps you sleep at night, then, hey, I guess that’s what friends are for.

Besides, I’m very much into the idea of you sleeping soundly. My new friend tells me he works best at night.

Wishing you every success.

Your pal,

Gladstone

Hate By Numbers will return. And likely on Cracked.com (Negotiations proceeding…)

So anyway, it seems the feud started when Aiken decided to blog about just how much he didn’t like Lambert’s rendition of Johnny Cash’s Ring of Fire:

This year, I happened to turn it during the minute that Adam Lambert was singing ‘Ring of Fire’ and, at that moment, thought my ears would bleed. Contrived, awful, and slightly frightening!

That’s right. Someone who completely sucks trashed someone who completely blows. Hard to comprehend. Anyway, Aiken’s blog post led to a barrage of “meows,” “hisses” and other swishy animal noises, so he decided to “apologize” by issuing this statement:

I hope no one actually believed that blood truly poured forth from my ears when I heard him. I obviously meant it as a colorful statement to imply that I did not enjoy what I heard.

Well, as contrite and heartfelt as that apology was, the story’s still not over (at least not in my own pathetic imagination).  Here, for the first time, are the e-mail exchanges that followed

*****

Dear Clay,

I must admit that when I first read what you wrote about my singing causing your ears to bleed, I was a little offended. I mean, damn. I imagine it takes some pretty awful screeching to actually produce blood in the aural cavity. But now that I understand you didn’t actually bleed, everything’s a whole lot better.

I mean, your words carry weight with me. I’ve learned so much from you: how to perfect the least masculine hairstyles possible, how to sing in a way that appeals only to 14-year-old girls and middle aged women and, most of all, how to position my career so that I will work steadily in musical theater revivals for the next 20 years.

So with that backdrop let me just say that while listening to your last album, I thought someone with oversized hands had reached into me and forcibly removed feces from my bowels before shoving it into my ears.

In any event, thanks for the apology.

Maybe we’ll work together in the Des Moines Community Theater’s production of Cats next year. Fingers crossed!

Adam.

P.S. I hope you understand. It’s not like I ACTUALLY thought someone was reaching into me anally for real. I mean, my birthday’s not til January.  It’s just a colorful expression to describe the listening experience.

*****

Dearest Adam,

Thank you for your kind words and for understanding my expressive way of speaking.  Since first blogging about you, I’ve come to get better acquainted with your material and I think I misspoke. Listening to you sing reminds me more of having sex with women. I mean, everyone says it’s great. People can’t get enough of it, but every time I try, it’s just an awful experience that leaves me feeling violated and unloved.

Oh, don’t take offense. I’m not saying I actually sit in a fetal position, crying to Jesus and shivering the way I did after prom, it’s just my colorful phrasing at work again.

Best of luck.

Clay

P.S. Spamalot is hiring. Would you like me to float your name for the position of understudy to the go-fer?

*****

Clay,

Thanks for the Spamalot offer, but I’m afraid, I’m going to be too busy banging your mom for the next three weeks to come in for an audition.  Oh, and I don’t mean actually banging  your mom.

Best,

Adam

*****

Adam,

I hope you choke to death on your emo bangs you talentless, closeted, theater queen.

Clay

*****

I am so hot for you right now.

*****

Really?

*****

No, Clay. Not really. I mean it’s true that I’m secretly gay, but c’mon now. You’re Clay Aiken. The coyote ugliest American Idol contestant of all time. Oh, and when I say “coyote ugly,” I don’t actually mean that if I woke up with you I’d chew my own arm off rather than wake you by moving it. I just mean you’re really, really unattractive.

Good luck,

Adam

So for the last month, I’ve been learning all I can about sexting from today’s youth in the hopes of applying what I call my “Sexting Technique”™ to every aspect of life. I couldn’t have done it without the help of my young and nubile Facebook friends who were a huge help. For example, did you know that you don’t need to type the word “breasts” or even “boobs” because you can substitute “(.)(.)” Isn’t that sexy? Sure it is, and the world of sexting is filled with fun and wonderful surprises just like that!

But for those of you brave enough, sexting offers more than mere graphic, written and photographic titillation. And it doesn’t have to be limited to high school buddies or significant others, either. As I will show you, there is hardly an interaction in our daily lives that could not be made better with the addition of sexting.

In today’s economy, job applicants need every advantage they can get to secure a job. That means learning everything you can about your interviewer: his experiences with the company, his accomplishments and, of course, his cell phone number. An applicant serious about securing a job through my Sexting Technique™ will do whatever necessary–including going through the interviewer’s old discarded billing statements–to get this vital information. Only then can you have experiences such as these:

INTERVIEWER
So I see you’ve freelanced at Cracked.com for almost three years. Tell me, what part of that qualifies you to work here at Union Carbide?

GLADSTONE
Well, hmm… I wrote an article about Jessica Simpson being fat that got a lot of Diggs.

INTERVIEWER
Yeah, that’s not really what we’re looking for in an industrial chemist. I’m sorry, I just-

Interviewer’s cell phone vibrates

INTERVIEWER
Excuse me, I’m expecting a call from the EPA. Hello? Oh, it’s not a phone call. It’s just a text. That’s odd.

GLADSTONE
What is?

INTERVIEWER
Oh nothing. Just a weird emoticon type thing from some unknown caller.

GLADSTONE
Is it breasts?

INTERVIEWER
Excuse me?

GLADSTONE
The text. Is it breasts? I bet it’s breasts, isn’t it?

Interviewer looks at cell phone.

INTERVIEWER
Well, it’s an open paren, period, closed paren, and then the series of symbols is repeated again. Oh hey! I guess that does look like breasts. Neat…  But how did you know that?

GLADSTONE
Perhaps, I could answer you best in this way….

Gladstone pushes a few buttons on his cell phone. Interviewer’s cell phone vibrates.

INTERVIEWER
Why did you just forward me a picture of a dude in a shower? Wait. Is that you? And if so, you might want to consider waxing….

GLADSTONE
(coyly)
I don’t know. Is it me? It could be….

INTERVIEWER
You realize I’m not gay, right? And even if I were, what you’re doing is wildly inappropriate.

GLADSTONE
Sir, I assure you. I’m not gay either. But that’s how serious I am about working here at Union Carbide.

INTERVIEWER
So serious that you’d pretend to be gay to straight man in a way that is unacceptable regardless of sexual orientation?

GLADSTONE
That’s one way to say it. Here’s another.

Gladstone sexts furiously on his cell. Interviewer’s phone vibrates again.

INTERVIEWER
(reading)
U R Hawt? What does that even mean?

GLADSTONE
It’s text-speak or sext-speak. All the kids are doing it, old timer! So do I get the job?

INTERVIEWER
Mr. Gladstone, I want you to listen closely. I’m going to do two things: First I’m going to drop my phone into the vat of hydrochloric acid we keep in Sector C. And then, I’m going to call security.

GLADSTONE
Security? I would think my job orientation would start with Human Resources?

INTERVIEWER
I didn’t offer you the job.

GLADSTONE
OK. Not yet. But call me. I know you have the number. . .

Gladstone texts. Interviewer’s phone buzzes.

INTERVIEWER
(reading text)
A semi colon followed by a closed parenthetical? You’re standing right there. Why didn’t you just wink at me for real?!

GLADSTONE
Would you like me to wink at you, sir? Is that what you’re saying? Sssh. Don’t answer. I’ll go. I’ll wait for your offer… by text message.

Ever notice how hard it is to get good service at a McDonald’s drive-thru? To the minimum wage employee inside, you’re just another faceless customer, soliciting the fast food conglomerate’s pre-molded culinary wares. A cold impersonal experience. But it doesn’t have to be. After all, a drive-thru menu is actually a lot like a cell phone! I mean, it has a camera, a microphone for talking and a speaker for listening. And when Apple unrolls its Big Mac application in 2010, there will hardly be any difference between the devices at all. So why not apply my Sexting Technique™ to your advantage?

EMPLOYEE
Welcome to McDonald’s. May I take your order?

GLADSTONE
Can you see me?

EMPLOYEE
What?

GLADSTONE
Can you see me?

EMPLOYEE
Yes?

GLADSTONE
Good then let me open my car door and ask you a question: What kind of pants am I wearing?

EMPLOYEE
What kind of pants? I don’t- oh, dear God! You’re not wearing pants.

GLADSTONE
That’s right, baby. Why don’t you take off that headset and come supersize me?

EMPLOYEE
Please sir, I’ll be forced to get my manager.

GLADSTONE
Oh, no can do, baby. I want you all to myself… unless–how sexist of me–is your manager… a lady?

EMPLOYEE
Please just order something, sir. You must see something you want.

GLADSTONE
Oh, I do. What’s your cell phone number?

EMPLOYEE
Look, if I just give you a Big Mac, will you please go away?

GLADSTONE
I think you’ve already given me a Big Mac, if you know what I mean.

EMPLOYEE
Ugh. Gross.

GLADSTONE
I mean my penis.

EMPLOYEE
I know what you mean. Please, just drive up, take your free food and get out of here.

If you’re anything like me, you’re surely going to Hell. Yes, fire and brimstone await you for a lifetime of sins all of which have only increased exponentially in this technological age. That’s why the need for Catholicism and its “get out of eternal damnation free” cards are more important than ever. But as about half the congregants in those confessionals are likely owning up to sins they committed online–from illegal downloads, to eBay scams, to harassing old flames on Facebook even after being defriended–it occurred to me that the confessional could use a 21st century update. That’s right, you’re way ahead of me: sexting!

GLADSTONE
Forgive me Father for I have sinned. It’s been forever since my last confession.

PRIEST
Why is that my son?

GLADSTONE
I’m not a Catholic.

PRIEST
I see. Well, would you like a personal relationship with Jesus?

GLADSTONE
I would, but I don’t have his cell.

Priest’s cell vibrates.

PRIEST
I’m sorry, son. I forgot to shut off my phone

GLADSTONE
No, that’s OK, Father. Please. Answer it.

PRIEST
No, now is not the time.

GLADSTONE
It’s from me. I’m shy. Please read it.

PRIEST
Oh very well. (reading) “I’ve been a naughty boy?”

GLADSTONE
Very.

PRIEST
How, my son?

Priest’s cell vibrates.

PRIEST
Again with the text? Very well. (looks at cell) Why did you just send me a picture of a man in a shower? Wait. Is that you? And if so, you might want to consider waxing….

GLADSTONE
I think I’m addicted to sexting, Father. Ya see, sexting is…

PRIEST
I know what sexting is, my son. And no good can come from it.

GLADSTONE
Well, I did just get a free Big Mac on the way over here so…

PRIEST
What do you say in your sexts?

GLADSTONE
Well sometimes, I do sexts like this:

Priest’s phone buzzes

PRIEST
The boobs graphic? That’s not really a sext. That’s… well that’s just a retarded emoticon. Are you sure you really know what you’re doing?

GLADSTONE
Hey, how do you know so much about sexting? Aren’t you supposed to be a priest?

PRIEST
Um, they had a course… at seminary.

GLADSTONE
You sext, don’t you!

PRIEST
I do not. Stop this nonsense or-

GLADSTONE
Or what? You’ll take me to the rectory?

PRIEST
That’s kind of a long way to go for a joke, don’t you think?

GLADSTONE
Yeah, I know. I’m sorry, Father. I’m kind of lost here.

PRIEST
How so?

GLADSTONE
This whole sext column seemed like a good idea, at first, and now well, I don’t really have an ending.

PRIEST
Yeah, most Internet columns are like that. Many skits too.

GLADSTONE
Yeah.

PRIEST
Wanna make a joke about me being a pedophile?

GLADSTONE
Nah. Too easy. Besides, you seem like a nice enough priest. I mean, for a fictional character.

PRIEST
Thanks. I try.

GLADSTONE
I should probably just do some penance or something.

PRIEST
For the sexting?

GLADSTONE
No. For starting a column I couldn’t finish.

PRIEST
OK, tell you what. For penance, why don’t you send me the other half of that shower pic and we’ll call it a day?

GLADSTONE
I thought we agreed that joke’s too easy.

PRIEST
It is, but you’re in a bind, and being compassionate is part of my job.

GLADSTONE
Gee thanks, Father!

PRIEST
Besides, you didn’t make the joke. I did.

GLADSTONE
Well, yeah, sorta, but…

PRIEST
Don’t sweat it, Gladstone. It’s just the Internet.

Know what’s just around the corner? Only the most funnest holiday ever — April Fool’s Day! I mean, who doesn’t love April Fool’s Day? No one. That’s who! Name another holiday that lets you to engage in good-natured hijinks and tomfoolery with none of the ramifications you would normally expect? (I know what you’re thinking. Ash Wednesday, right? But it turns out that churchgoers actually want the priest to leave that sooty stain on their foreheads, so that doesn’t technically doesn’t count as a prank.)

So with this awesome holiday drawing near, I thought it would be a good time to review three classic April Fool’s pranks for you to try out on your friends and loved ones. Remember, it’s April Fool’s Day, so it’s just good clean fun!

The prank phone call is an April Fool Day’s classic. The way it works is you call someone up and say something that isn’t true. And then when your untruth generates their hilarious reaction, you tell the person what you said isn’t true. And then further hilarity ensues.

What you’ll need:
A parent who loves you
A telephone
A policeman’s uniform and disguise (if you make the call on Skype).

You’ll need a fake persona for your prank call, and pretending to be a police officer is a good variation on this classic. Sure, impersonating an officer is typically a crime, but it’s April Fool’s Day. The day law forgot! So after you  disguise your voice (or your voice and your appearance for Skypers) call someone who really cares about you and tell them you’re dead. Don’t be confused. You’re not a ghost. You’re pretending to be a police officer telling them you’re dead. And not a dead police officer. A police officer advising them that the real you is dead. (Hey, no one said perpetrating classic April Fool’s Day pranks was going to be easy).

Hint: To make this prank believable, you can’t give everything away too quickly:

YOU (as police officer)
Mrs. Jenkins?

YOUR MOM (If her last name is Jenkins)
Yes?

YOU
This is Officer Mulrooney. I’m afraid I need you to come down to the station.

YOUR MOM
Why? What’s going on?

YOU
I think it would be best to tell you when you’re at the station ma’am.

YOUR MOM
Is something wrong? What’s the matter?

YOU
Well, it’s about your son.

YOUR MOM
Has he done something wrong?

Now this part of the prank is critical. You need to allay the victim’s concern at first, to give the subsequent April Fool’s zinger maximum impact:

YOU
Oh, not at all.

YOUR MOM
Oh, you had me worried.

YOU
Yes. I’m sorry. I’m just calling because he’s dead.

YOUR MOM
WHAT?

YOU
Yes. Head sliced clean off in an industrial accident.

YOUR MOM
AAAAIIIIGH!!!!!

Now, this next line might be hard to deliver because you’ll be laughing so hard. I mean, here you have your mom feeling the worst pain she’s ever experienced so it is pretty hilarious, but the joy of April Fool’s Day is sharing the delight of a fun joke well-played. So after about three minutes of gut-wrenching moaning and guttural noises, be sure to scream nice and clear “APRIL FOOL’S DAY!”

If you do it right, you and your mom will have a classic April Fool’s Day memory to share for years to come!

A good way to design an April Fool’s prank is to mess with people’s favorite possessions. The two things that people like most? Their cars and not dying.

What you’ll need:
Wire clippers
A friend or loved one who owns a car

Did you know that disabling a car’s brakes is fairly easy? It’s just a matter of clipping the right wires. And since you’re going to be playing this prank on friend, you don’t even need burglar’s tools to pick the lock or jimmy the hood open. You can probably just get access when he’s not looking.

If not, use a clever ploy such as saying, “Hey good friend who owns a car, you should check out Cracked.com today. They’re running an article called ‘Top 7 Things Said By Optimus Prime That Sound Really Gay When Taken Out of Context.’ Or if your friend is not a fan of well-crafted, popular culture-referencing, list-based comedy, say, “Hey I heard a rumor that Hate By Numbers™ is returning to Cracked.com. You should probably go watch the entire catalog.” Hint: remember to wait for your friend to leave before cutting his brakes.

At this point in the prank, some people seek safety by refusing to ride in the now disabled car with their friend. But those April Fool’s Day poopers are missing the best part: screaming “April Fool’s Day” moments before their friends’ horrific deaths.

Still, if you don’t have the proper spirit, a variation on this prank is merely disabling your friends airbag (but not yours) while distracting him from the passenger seat (with airbag) thereby causing an accident. There’s always more than one way to have a good time on April Fool’s Day!

This April Fool’s Day classic takes people’s natural love of pornography and surprise packages and turns it into something hilarious.

What you’ll need:
The contact information of a Cracked.com columnist other than me.
Child pornography
The desire to pull the greatest April Fool’s Day prank ever!

If there’s one thing Cracked columnists enjoy, it’s stealing G-Stone’s good ideas and dumbing them down for broader appeal. But if it’s two things they enjoy, it’s getting porn from readers.

Want to turn that personality trait into a hilarious prank? Here’s what you do! First, either be an underage girl with a camera or own pornography of an underage girl. (You’d be surprised how many Cracked.com readers fit that profile.) Then send those materials off to Dan O’Brien, Michael Swaim or Robert Brockway. (Chris Bucholz is excluded from this list because I’m pretty sure kiddie porn is not big deal in Canada.)

“But wait, G-Stone?” you ask. “Isn’t mere possession of child pornography illegal?”

“I’m sure it is,” I reply. “Its existence is a pox on humanity and a federal offense, I think”

“Then why would I want to own it or send it to writers I enjoy?”

Friends, your questions sadden me. What part of APRIL FOOL’S DAY, don’t you understand?

-(Thanks to Emily Gheseger for the column suggestion)

Despite having written for the Internet the last four years, I’ve never been particularly tech–savy, so you might think I’m unqualified to write a column comparing Dell’s computer repair customer service to Apple’s. But this is no tech-head review. Instead, I’m only reporting the events of my last week when a perfect storm of mishaps combined to break both my Dell laptop and Mac PowerBook.  The timing was especially cruel as I’d just fired up my Twitter account and now my ability to recount my glorious life in real time was more limited (jumping into the void with opportunistic greed was my co-columnist Dan O’Brien, selfishly sucking up all the twitciples he could find while I was away. You’re welcome, Dan!).

Anyway,  here’s my story…

Dell PC

The Breaking

I bought my Studio Dell laptop halfway through the run of Hate By Numbers™ and I gotta tell you, it started falling apart instantly. The screws came out, converting the the cheap plastic casing into a snap trap for my arm hair. Nevertheless, because I am a professional (and because I now no longer have any arm hair) I kept using it. Shortly thereafter though, the hinges gave way and the screen got all wobbly. Still, I remained undeterred until last week when the computer suddenly stopped charging. I decided to remedy all these problems at once. I knew that meant I might be without my laptop for a few weeks, but I still had my Mac. What could go wrong?

The Call To Customer Service

I called Dell’s 800 number and was instantly directed to India. Apparently, Dell has found a way to make money off of America’s racism and/or xenophobia because now –for an additional fee– you also have the option of being connected to a customer service technician “right here in America” (I think this ploy will be more successful than the automated message they had first considered: “If you hate talking to brown people, push ‘1′”). Anyway, because I love people of all races and creeds and because there was no way I was paying Dell one more cent for their crap laptop, I opted to hold for an Indian technician. I was greeted by a “Raj” who filled my head with Slumdog Millionaire images. (no, Raj was not gouging out a singing boy’s eyes with a spoon. I meant the tech support scene.) Raj quickly displayed his near-perfect English and startling systematic diagnostic prowess:

Raj:
Good morning, sir. What seems to be the problem?

Me:
My computer won’t charge. I’ve tried several outlets. But the light on the plug’s not lighting up. So I think it’s just a plug problem.

Raj:
I see. Very good, sir. Have you tried more than one outlet, sir?

Me:
Yes.

Raj:
OK, very good, sir. Now if you look at that plug, You will see a little green light. Do you see it?

Me:
Yes.

Raj:
Is it lit?

Me:
No.

Raj:
Is it plugged in?

Me:
Yes.

Raj:
OK. Very good, sir. There are two options. Either there is a problem with the computer or with the plug. At this point, I think it’s the plug, because the green light on it is not lit. Is that correct?

Me:
Yes.

Raj:
OK, then at this point sir, I am 99 percent sure the problem is with the plug. I will mail you a new plug –that is no problem, sir– and when you receive it, plug it in and if it works then everything is fine and there is no problem sir.

I should have left it at that, but sensing the possible return of my Hate By Numbers™ series, I thought this was the perfect time for me to get the whole unit serviced. Apparently, that posed a dilemma for Raj. For reasons I still don’t understand, I couldn’t mail the whole unit back to Dell until we solved that one percent of doubt as to whether the plug or the computer was the problem. Accordingly, Raj suggested he ship the plug, I try out my computer and make sure all works well, and then ship the whole unit off to Dell. He also stressed that I not ship back the good plug (”I fear the techs will lose it, sir”). And lastly, Raj suggested that I remove the hard drive before sending. Accordingly, he walked me through the removal of eight screws (four external and four internal) and the disconnecting and removal of the hard drive from the memory board. That took about 10 minutes. After the procedure, this exchange occurred…

Raj:
So you’ve now removed the hard drive, sir?

Me:
Yes. Now what?

Raj:
Very good, sir. OK. Now put the hard drive back and close up the computer.

Me:
What?! Why?

Raj:
Well, you’ll need the hard drive to test out the computer when the plug comes.

Me:
Then why did you make me remove it right now?

Raj:

Well, I wanted to make sure you know how to remove it for when you have to.

Raj then took another 10 minutes to give me an ID number for the plug repair, an ID number for the hinge repair, an ID number for our call and his personal extension should I need further care. In total, the call lasted 58 minutes.

Two days later I received the plug (yes, Raj, turns out the plug was the culprit. Rest easy). Oddly enough, the Dell mailing box also included mailing instructions which specified that I should include both my plug and hard drive — completely contrary to Raj’s suggestions. I decided to split the difference: kept the hard drive and mailed the plug with the computer. What could happen to a plug?

That was five days ago. I have not seen my Dell since.

Mac PowerBook

The Breaking

I never had much of a problem with the Mac. I always thought it was a sturdy little guy. And with my Dell in the shop I started using it for all my needs whether they be updating my Twitter account, Facebook account or latest Cracked offering. And then I dropped it. Mind you it was closed and only fell about two feet to the carpeted floor, but that’s all it took. Complete hard drive failure. Also, like my Dell, I’d noticed some plug problems with intermittent charging in the days leading up to the fall.

The Call To Customer Service

I called Apple’s customer service and was pleased to see that their support had not been outsourced to a foreign country. Ever resourceful, however, Apple found a way to make extra money even without Dell’s “racists pay more” angle…

Chip:
Hi this is Chip. I see you are not registered for our warranty plan that would allow you to have repairs made free. Would you like to join?

Me:
But this Mac is six months old. Isn’t it still under warranty?

Chip:
Yes.

Me:
So the repair is already free?

Chip:
Yes. So would you like to purchase and additional warranty?

Me:
No.

After failing to accomplish that attempted financial rape, Chip advised that it sounded like my Mac was suffering complete hard drive failure. He recommended I take it to the Apple store, and so, last Sunday at 10:30 a.m., I hit my local mall. I was pleased to see almost no line for the Genius Bar.  Three modern day wisemen ready to help me.

But before I reached salvation I was intercepted by an Apple concierge who informed me that the store was only open for service calls.

Me:
Oh, that’s OK. That’s what I’m here for. I called the help line and they told me to come in.

Concierge:
Did they make an appointment for you?

Me:
I don’t think so.

Concierge:
I’m sorry. Appointment only. You’ll have to leave your computer and someone will call you in 24 hours. Is that OK?

I consented and filed out some paperwork, including a provision where I agreed to a $100 diagnostic fee.

Me:
Why do I have to pay a diagnostic fee if it’s under warranty?

Concierge:
You don’t. We never charge that, but we have to put it.

Me:
Why?

Concierge:
So that your order gets processed, but I promise you won’t be charged.

Me:
But I’m signing a piece of paper giving you permission to?

Concierge:
Yes. You have to give us permission to charge you so we can service it without charge.

I knew that didn’t sound right, but I was tired and the concierge had really bad breath so I didn’t feel like arguing. Accordingly, I took my revenge by converting my last name to Scottish before signing the paperwork.

The Follow Up

Despite the promised 24-hour contact time, I did not receive my call from Apple for another 36 hours. Sure, they claimed there was some mix up with differing names on the account (Gladstone vs. MacSucks) but that’s hardly an excuse. The phone rep predicted full hard-drive and plug repair in three to five days. Yesterday at 2 P.M., I received a call that the Mac was fixed. I drove to the mall and picked my bad boy up, but realized (just before leaving) that they had neglected to return my plug.  Apparently the tech guys had lost that. And after just 10 more minutes of waiting they found a new one for me.

Final Analysis

I’m not going to pick a winner. I mean,  yeah, Apple has more repair outlets so I avoided the mail and their turnaround time was pretty impressive–a total of three business days. But both Dell and Apple tried to screw me out of money. Both were bogged down in bureaucratic procedure. And most importantly, both manufactured a laptop that fell to pieces in under a year.  Like I said at the start, I’m no expert. Just a man who lived through the cataclysmic events of dual laptop failure. I’ve waded through the morass of customer service and lived to tell the tale. Does that make me a hero? In a way. Yes.

As many of you know, I put my Peabody Award Nominated-series Hate By Numbers™ on hiatus a few months ago so I could pursue my screenplay. Since that time, many of my Facebook friends have been hounding me with one question: “G-Stone, what’s your e-mail address? I need to send you pictures of myself in fishnets.”

But a few of them have also asked about the screenplay. The truth is, it’s not going that well. Although I drafted what I believed to be a timely satirical tale about one man’s amusing struggles against corporate America, my agent felt it was just “too smart” for Hollywood. Actually, he described it as “really not funny,” but I think if you’d seen his face, you’d be able to tell “too smart” is what he meant (I’m assuming here. I actually just got his comments scrawled across the title page when he mailed the script back to me).

So I’d pretty much given up hope of selling it when my agent called me last week with an idea:

“Gladstone!” he screamed. “Why don’t you see if that funny columnist over at Cracked.com could help fix up your screenplay?”

“Oh, Ian Cooper?” I asked. “I’d love to, but he doesn’t work here anymore.”

“No, no. The other one.”

“Oh, Ross Wolinsky! Yeah, he’s great, but he’s on sabbatical.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” he said. “Well, why don’t you take a shot with whoever’s left over there?”

I must confess that, initially, I hated the idea. I hadn’t tried collaborating with someone from Cracked since I wrote that Valentines Day skit with Those Aren’t Muskets. I guess it turned out funny enough, but every time I shot down one of Swaim’s punchlines he would cry for hours until I stroked his hair and swore to him that one day he’d have a clip-based show on Cracked even more popular than Hate By Numbers™. But in this economy, money is money, and if collaborating with my intellectual and comedic inferiors meant getting paid for a script well then, hey, I was up for it.

So last week, I called an emergency meeting at the Cracked House. Everyone was there on time, but only because of the false incentives I had provided: I told Jack O’Brien that the meeting was a rave where prizes would be given out to the partygoer who took the most X. I told Swaim the meeting was a tutorial on hairstyles that do NOT make you look like an 18^th Century English lesbian. I told Dan O’Brien that I was giving a lecture on Dan O’Brien. And I told Robert Brockway that I was giving a lecture on Dan O’Brien (Chris Bucholz wasn’t invited. Not because he isn’t nice or funny, but because I’m still not convinced “being Canadian” is not contagious).

“OK, Gentlemen,” I began. “First, I have some bad news. I lied about what we’re here to discuss. I actually just wanted your help writing a movie. Before each of you is an excerpt from my script Working Man Triumphant — my break out comedic performance where I play a man done wrong by the system.  In this scene, our protagonist –me–  is laid off by his uncaring boss, so he decides to seek revenge by opening up a rival business. Take a look.”

Everyone started thumbing though the pages, except Dan O’Brien who rolled them up into a tube and stuck it in his fly.

“Look,” he said. “Coming at ya! Get it?”

“Yes, Dan,” I said. “You’ve made a penis out of my script. Very clever.”

“Not just,” he protested. “I also made a pun. Coming at ya? Get it?”

“Good stuff, DOB,” Jack said, as he downed some X. “Remember that for the site.”

“Damn it, Jack,” I yelled.  “Can you stay focused? I asked you here to get your ideas on my script, not encourage Dan to make penises out of things. It’s not like he needs encouragement anyway. Do you NOT remember how he Photoshopped the Cracked Christmas cards last year?”

“Well, I’m sorry Gladstone,” Jack mumbled, with tears starting to form in his spinning eyes.  “It’s just that my forte is really not writing. It’s titling things. So I looked at this scene and I’m thinking instead of Working Man Triumphant, we go with Crappiest Boss Ever!”

“Thanks Jack, but I’m trying to get this movie released in theaters, not Digg.com.”

“Believe me, Gladstone. I get it,” he said.  “If you were trying to land on Digg.com I would have already received 27 whiny Digg Me requests from you.”

(I’ll never know how a man can drop so much X and listen to so much vintage Madonna and still make astute observations like that. I guess that’s why Jack’s the boss.)

But this was going nowhere. I started pacing the room. “Does anyone have any ideas for how I can tweak this movie.”

Robert Brockway, the newest Cracked columnist, was eager to please. “Well,” he said, scratching his beard. “I’m thinking that  instead of firing him, the boss kills him with a hammer. A bad news hammer!”

“So you’re suggesting we kill the protagonist of the film in the first scene of the film, am I getting you, Robert?”

But Brockway wasn’t paying attention. He had already curled up his script and stuck it in his fly. “Coming at ya!” I heard him scream, as I turned towards Swaim.

“Swaim. You’ve taken classes. Surely, you have some input?”

“Well, Gladstone. Seems to me you’ve written what’s known as satire here.”

“Yes!” I said.

“You have your protagonist–laid off unfairly from a big defense law firm–open up a plaintiff’s shop and then bring a series of nuisance strike suits against all his former bosses. Revenge.”

“Right!”

“And in doing so, he becomes very rich, very sucessful and, ultimately, just  like those he despised.”

“Yes, Swaim. Exactly! So any suggestions?”

“Just one. Burn it. People hate satire, Gladstone. Christ, haven’t you noticed that? Seriously, what is wrong with you?”

“But-”

“He’s right G-Balls,” said DOB. “If you wanted to make a revenge flick, you should just have your proctologist –

“Protagonist,” I corrected.

“Right. You should just have him bone all his bosses’ wives. That’s what I’d do.”

“That’s funny,” Swaim said. “And like some of the wives could be hideous, but he still does them anyway because its more about spite than sex.”

“Yeah,” Brockway shouted. “And then after the sex, he kills them all with a bad news hammer!”

Everyone laughed, and  Jack shouted,  “Great. I’ll call some venture capitalists I met in Thailand during Spring Break ‘01!”

The meeting broke up shortly after that, and I didn’t think much of it until my agent called this morning.

“Gladstone,” he said. “I got the new script and you’re a genius. Beautiful.”

I put down the “Shouts and Murmurs” section of the New York Times. “What are you talking about?”

“Jack O’Brien sent along the new draft this morning. We already got a rough draft of the new poster! Check your e-mail.”

And so I did:

–(this post is dedicated to Gemineye the Great)

Part of being a Cracked.com columnist means staying on top of trends in pop culture and knowing what’s HOTT! And nothing’s hotter right now than those delightful Facebook memes. But before we talk about Braggaboo –the newest, hottest one of all– let’s do a quick review of some old favorites:

First there was the List of 25 Things where your friends shared amazingly off-beat and amusing details about their lives:

Then there was the one where you assign all your friends identities in a cartoon filled with Little Miss characters. That one’s super funny because you’re saying your friend is like a little, blue, round dude with a flower hat even though your friend totally doesn’t wear flower hats. He’s not even blue! LOL!

More recently, people have been making album covers for their own fake bands, following directions that take you to various websites for words and images. And the results are always as enjoyable as they are convincing. This could totally be a real album!

But the new one that’s super hot right now is called Building The Perfect Braggaboo! And everyone’s doing it. How? It’s simple! Just follow these quick and easy steps below.

BUILDING THE PERFECT BRAGGABOO

1.    First, type your deepest childhood fear into Google images and hit return. Take the third image.
2.    Then go to the U.S. Dept of Agriculture website and check out the crop calendars. Choose your birthday month and see what is planted in the United States at that time of year. Write this down on a piece of paper and put it aside (you’ll need it later!).
3.    Call up the first person you ever had sex with and tell them you’re pretty sure you gave them a venereal disease. Write down the first thing they say. This goes at that top of your Braggaboo in quotes (hot pink is preferable, unless your childhood fear involved an image with a lot of hot pink that would make this graphic unreadable).
4.    Become the facebook friend of a mildly notable Internet pseudo-celebrity with the words “Braggaboo” in the request. Wait for a reply to accompany your accepted request.  If no reply is forthcoming, try sending homemade pornography.  Upon receiving a reply, plug it into Babelfish and translate to Dutch.  If no reply is received, translate the phrase “Best Facebook Meme Ever!” into Chinese (you should also use this phrase if you are already this person’s Facebook friend. Also, you should probably still send additional homemade pornography). This phrase goes at the bottom of your Braggaboo (any color is acceptable – except chartreuse).
5.    Take the piece of paper with the U.S. Agriculture stats from step two and fold it into three equal parts. Then throw it away.
6.    Start a stopwatch and go to the Digg.com’s home page. See how many seconds it takes you to find a popular story featuring either Linux, some kind of wacky lolcat type pic and/or boobs. Then add 10. That’s the total number of Facebook friends you should tag to check out your Braggaboo.
7.    Tag one more Facebook friend (the one you don’t really like speaking to that often. Perhaps, tagging this person in a meme will count as communication, thereby buying you a few more days of not actually having to speak).
8.    And you’re done! It’s just that easy. And just that fun! How’d ya do? Here’s mine!

One of the great things about working for Cracked is that, from time to time, I’ve been contacted by public figures looking for someone to ghostwrite their autobiographies. Confidentiality agreements typically prevent me from disclosing their identities (right, “Barry O”?) but my latest writing assignment carries no such requirement. Instead, last week former California Congressman Gary Condit called and asked me to help tell his story now that it appears he will be exonerated in the murder of Washington intern Chandra Levy.

For those of you who don’t recall, in the days leading up to 9/11, the papers were filled with scandalous reports revolving around Chandra Levy – a shapely intern for the Federal Bureau of Prisons who had gone missing. A police investigation revealed that prior to her death, Levy had been having an affair with Gary Condit – a married Congressman from her district and 29 years her senior. Although Condit steadfastly denied any involvement with Levy’s murder, the negative press destroyed his reelection bid.

But now, DC police seem primed to arrest Ingmar Guandique for the crime, and Gary Condit  recently told reporters: “I had always hoped to have my opportunity to tell this side of the story, but too many were not prepared to listen. Now I plan to do so….”

And what a story it is.  The gripping tale of a good man wrongly removed from power by a society too quick to judge. I present to you excerpts from the forthcoming book….

Chapter 4: No Homocide For This Hetero

I threw some papers into my bag and headed for the door. Not two steps later, my pain in the ass staffer, Jenkins, was calling out after me.

“Congressman,” he whined. “You haven’t cast your vote on the proposed legislation yet!”

“I know, Jenkins, but y’see, some of us have a hot date tonight.”

Jenkins seemed confused. He flipped through his session minutes in exasperation trying to think of what to say next. “But, but…” he stammered. “I don’t understand. Mrs. Condit is out of town tonight.”

“Exactly. Jenkins. Exactly.”

I headed for the door, trying to remember the new moves I’d read about in Penthouse Forum when Jenkins interrupted me again.

“Congressman Condit. I am not one to trade in innuendo, but I’m afraid I have to ask: Are you having sex with that young intern from the Federal Bureau of Prisons – Chandra Levy?”

I let the full weight of my experience fall upon Jenkins as I laid my palm firmly on his shoulder.

“Yes, Jenkins,” I said.  “Yes, I am having sex with Chandra Levy. Dirty, crazy, adulterous monkey sex. But let’s be clear. I am NOT killing her.”

Jenkins just stood there for a minute, silent. And even though we never spoke of that day again, I have to believe he was impressed with a congressman who could dive headfirst into the ravaging waters of illicit –possible career ending– sex without taking refuge on the comforting shores of arranged murder for hire.

Chapter 8: Children Are The Future (Interns)

One of the things I loved about being a congressman was working with the fine children of my district. If I had to pick just one day that stood out, it would be the morning I visited Ms. Carlton’s third grade class in Modesto, California. I was there to give a lecture on public service, and I can still remember little Becky Simmons sitting in the first row, full of enthusiasm and hope – two ingredients so desperately needed in Washington.

“Congwessman Condit,” she lisped in an adorable fashion. “Do I have to be a grownup before I can make a difference?”

“That’s a great question, Becky! Did everybody hear that?” I asked the class. “Well, Becky, not at all. One great way to start is to be an intern in one or our nation’s many departments. And you can do that when you’re just a bit older.”

“But what does an intern do, Congressman Condit?”

“Pretty much anything you ask,” I laughed.

But Becky didn’t get it so I knelt down in front of her little desk, filling her wide-eyed innocence with the truth: “Interns are a valuable part of the governmental process. Young minds doing the work of democracy.”

“That sounds GWEAT,” Becky replied.

“It is. Seriously, these chicks are crazy desperate for letters of recommendation.”

Afterword: If I Could Speak To Chandra’s Killer

On many sorrow-filled nights, I have yearned to speak to Chandra’s murderer face to face. I’m not sure I ever will, but if I did, I imagine I would say something like this:

I don’t suppose a man like you understands the joy that comes from real love or the pain that flows from loss. But I wish you did. I wish you could understand what I feel. Could appreciate the damage you’ve done. The pain you’ve caused.

Because I live every day with the result of your senseless violence. You did more than just commit murder. You stole something from us. Something beautiful and full of promise. That’s right. You stole my political future. When I think of all the people deprived of my brilliant leadership. And all the interns I never had the chance to have sex with. Well, it just makes me sick.

You miserable bastard. No one even knew about the affair until you had to go and commit your stupid murder. And even then, an affair? That’s not fatal. I could have overcome that. I have an excellent handshake and when I remember people’s names at fundraisers they swear they’ve been touched by the ghost of JFK himself. But suspicion of murder? That was just too damn much.

You left me with nothing, except my good name. Well, nothing except the opportunity to earn a lot of cash on a book deal at least.

Dear Regina,

I heard the song you left on my voicemail this morning. And even though I couldn’t actually understand any of the words you were singing, I took it to mean you were sad about our break up. You’re right. I handled it badly, and I’m sorry. Let me try to explain.

I know that on paper we’re great. That all signs point to yes, but just because you and I were thrown together by eHarmony’s online compatibility survey is no reason to stay together.

A relationship is more than just answers to some standardized test. It’s about chemistry (and no, not a chemistry test. I know how you like to have fun with words).

Believe me, Gina-belle, this wasn’t easy for me. I wanted it to work. Everywhere I went, people told me I’m supposed to love you. That I should really give you a chance. That you are so unique and, like, totally amazing. And I tried. Honestly, I have, but … well, I don’t know. I must be missing something.

Like the night you invited me over and made dinner. I think it was some kind of traditional Russian borscht, but you did something wacky to it, right? Like, you added Nathan’s hot dogs. All cut up. It was so idiosyncratic and zany and you just didn’t care, did you? Just Regina being Regina. But the thing is, I had a few bites and despite all your free-spirited flourishes, it tasted strangely familiar. Like something I’d eaten many, many times before. Just not as good. Do you understand?

Look, it’s not like I hate you or anything. I understand your appeal. We just don’t click. Where are the laughs? Sure goofy outfits and funny faces are amusing for a little while, but that stuff gets old.

And yes, those voices of yours. Sometimes high and squeaky. Sometimes thick and Slavic. I mean, yeah, that’s kind of amusing, I guess. But I need a girl with a harder edge. Someone who can hold their own when we’re out with my writer friends. Remember election night? I was live-blogging over at Comedy Central. It was a blast. And what did you do? Did you laugh at my post mocking CNN’s coverage? No. You just wore your cute little dress from the Fidelity video and pouted all night. And when everyone kept asking you if you were having fun, all you did was point at me and sing in that airy little head voice: “It breaks my har, har-he-har, har-he-har har-he, heart.” I guess that’s kind of funny. In a way. I don’t know. Look, I just can’t settle down with that despite those sensational stockings and heels, which, let’s be honest, were what attracted me to you in the first place.

And before you ask, let me just answer: No, there is no other woman. Sad as it is to admit, I haven’t found anyone better than you. I mean, you have some nice attributes: You can play piano, you write your own stuff and, as far as I can tell, you have no intention of ever recording with Timbaland. But is that enough? Is that where we’re at in 2009. Just because you’re not this or this or this, do I have to fall head over heels? Well, I’m sorry, Reggie, this blogger still believes in a little something called love.  Also, you look a lot like my grandma, who took a bullet to the leg while fleeing Russia during the communist revolution.

I don’t know. Maybe it’s me? Maybe I can’t love. Maybe as a young man I gave my heart too fully to a wise older woman named Kate Bush. We spent a summer in Paris and she made all the quirky songstresses who followed seem like mere poseurs and/or East Village waitresses hawking their wares at an Avenue A open mic night. That could be true, but I have to believe there’s still hope. That some day, some way, I’ll find my companion.

Goodbye Regikins. I wish you every success.

Love,

G-Stone

P.S. Do you mind if I still keep you as my Facebook friend? (I would like to have some way of contacting you to digg my columns.) Thanks a bunch!