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

Do you fuck or fight yourself?

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

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

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

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

Clone-Fucking And You

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

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

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

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

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

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

Go ahead and get your clone-bone on!

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

And you’re fucking him.

Clone-Fighting and You

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Conclusion

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

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

Do you fuck or fight yourself?

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

As a special feature, there will be rare panels that have been left untouched! Look for the “Classic, Untouched Wonder Woman Line” seal to know that what you’re reading is printed the way Wonder Woman intended.

Coming Up In This Blog Post:  “He’s doing it wrong.”

If you stuck around, The Prisoner on AMC is amazing.  Not only is it a perfectly acceptable mindfuck to watch while LOST is on hiatus, but it is 99% beautifully done.  The missing 1% is the fact that Jesus Caveziel’s performance makes him look like he’s acting and if an actor looks like he’s acting, then he’s doing it wrong.  But, you know… he does okay.

Coming Up In This Blog Post:  “Also, whoever edited this is a genius.”

Everything else?  Amazing.  It’s creepy, it’s intriguing, it’s confusing, it looks beautiful, all of the other performances are great (Ian McKellan is as good as you think, only better), and the dialogue and art direction hit on themes and symbols and tones and ideas that actually mean 9 different things at once.  It’s all very good, and I’m being specifically vague with all this because you should just go watch it.  I don’t want to ruin anything for you because the ending is satisfying and really cool, and you should just enjoy it.  They do kind of hit you over the head with it in an “All the people who need this level of explanation stopped watching the show five hours ago” sort of way, but it’s just the last few seconds and it’s probably not as bad as I think it is.

Coming Up In This Blog Post: “… and this is to justify the third Coming Up In This Blog Post.”

Watch AMC’s The Prisoner because it’s amazing, and be glad you didn’t watch it when it originally aired earlier this week on AMC.  Every single time it went to commercial, there would be 2-10 seconds of “Coming Up On The Prisoner,” and they would show clips from scenes of the show I was in the middle of watching, only they were scenes from, like, ten minutes later.  Seriously, I wanted to see those scenes, only I wanted to see them when they actually happened.  Get your act together, AMC, and this is to justify the third Coming Up In This Blog Post.

Coming Up In This Blog Post:  “The Prisoner gets an A.”

The Prisoner gets an A.  AMC gets an A-.

Right at my favorite mission, too.

“That’s odd,” I said to my dogs (because I’m so, so lonely). “I wonder whatever that could be.”

The controller wasn’t responding anymore, so I reluctantly got up from my chair to manually press the power button like some kind of third world savage. I powered it back on, and that’s when I saw it: Three sections of the ring were lit up brilliant red, flashing with vindictive mockery.

The legends were true: The Red Ring of Death.

“The Eye: that horrible growing sense of a hostile will that strove with great power to pierce all shadows of cloud, and earth, and flesh, and to see you: to pin you under its deadly gaze, naked, immovable.”

“FFFFUUUUUUUUU-“

***

“-UUUUUUCK,” I finished screaming (though this was completely unrelated to the earlier scream; it happens a lot these days).

“I should probably call about that Xbox thingy,” I suddenly remembered, letting the mailman up from my Flying Rage Tackle, “but we’re agreed, right? No more bills.”

“I don’t make the bills,” his voice broke nervously.

“That’s right: You don’t. Not anymore.”

I strode manfully (that’s when you walk confidently, cock-first) into my living room and dialed the number for Xbox Support. I cleared my throat, arranged my papers in front of me, and prepared to introduce myself to the operator.

1. Start with a joke 2. Pause for laughter 3. Death threats 4. Graphic descriptions of genitals 5. Hammertime.

“Hello, Xbox Support, how can I help you?” a chirpy female voice greeted me.

“You RRODed me! You shafted me with your horrible RROD! You stuck your huge, throbbing RROD into my life and ejaculated ruination all over it!”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain! That’s profane!”

“Wha… how, how can I help you?”

“You can fucking travel back in time and build a product that works! And while you’re back there you can accidentally court and woo your own mother like Marty McFly…. “

“I don’t-”

“Because you’re a motherfucker!”

“God, ever since I got out of you all I’ve wanted to do is get back in you.” -Marty McFly, Professional Motherfucker

“You seem to be upset. If we can just calm down…”

“I am calm,” I screamed, punching the mouthpiece, “you fuckin’ fuck you!”

“That doesn’t even make sense! Sir, please! We can resolve this, just take a breath.”

I did so.

“And tell me what happened.”

“Well, I was just sitting aaaAAARRRRKKK ARK ARK ARK” I barked furiously at her.

“Stop! Please stop! I can help!” she pleaded. “I can help you!”

“That’s good! First things first: I am going to need a new Xbox. Now, I’m not unreasonable. I understand there are inherent difficulties here, so I’ll tell you what: You don’t even have to deliver it. Just call the nearest store and tell ‘em to gimme.”

“Sir, I… I don’t know to give change for a ‘gimme’”

“Sir, I can’t do that. We have no authority over the local retailers. But we can get you a new one. Just tell me your address, and we’ll send you a pre-paid shipping label, then pack up your system and mail it to us. In three to four weeks, we’ll send you a repaired unit!”

“Three to four whats?! WHATS?!”

“Weeks, sir,” she answered.

“Weeks?! I don’t even know what those are! I’m sorry, I don’t speak incompetent bitch. You’ll have to explain your fascinating, bizarre language to me. I’m not familiar with your culture. Tell me of your rich heritage of incompetence and bitchery, sing to me your native fucking idiot songs-“

“Sir, I-“

“PAINT ME A TAPESTRY SO THAT I MIGHT EXPERIENCE THE BEAUTIFUL ART OF THE INCOMPETENT BITCH PEOPLE.”

“Good god, sir!”

The two gators represent luck and misfortune, while the sun-spear idol represents what a tragically ineffective bitch you are.

“You will give me video games right now!” I demanded, standing on the dining room table and pounding my fists on the ceiling, like a completely reasonable person.

“Sir, the best I can do is two to four weeks, but I assure you it is free of charge. We’re very sorry that–“

“God, shut up. Your mouth is like my mother’s vagina.”

“I don’t… I don’t understand…”

“It’s just a hole that disappointments come out of.”

“Oh god, I don’t know if I’m offended, disgusted or sorry for you.”

“That’s what she said.”

“That is what I said,” she said.

“Goddammit, don’t tell me what you said: If I wanted to know your opinion, I’d beat it out of you.”

Pictured: A public opinion survey.

“Didn’t you just tell me not to take the Lord’s name in vain?”

“Don’t tell me what I said, either! Listen: OK. Let’s take a step back here.”

“Oh, yes! Yes, let’s do that sir.”

“Yeah, actually I need to take two or three steps back to get enough room TO JUMPKICK THIS PHONE.”

I didn’t hear her rebuttal at that point, because I bought some stupid piece of shit Japanese phone that can’t even take a measly jumpkick, but I got the feeling the situation was not going to be resolved to my liking–considering that “my liking” involved significantly more fire than HR was likely comfortable with. No, there was no point relying on Microsoft–the same people that engineered (and kept manufacturing systems with) the problem–to fix it again. What was I supposed to do? They had a monopoly on murder simulation. I couldn’t buy a Wii because I’m not a child molester, and I can’t game on the PC because I can’t do advanced physics calculations in my head.

“…so you just carry the video card and multiply by the number of DivX’s and then… just fuck it: Go play Nintendo.”

But wait… weren’t there rumors? Hushed whispers in seedy back alleys about a competitor for the Xbox. Some washed up old hack who used to be king, and was now supposedly coming back to the fight with something to prove, like the console equivalent of Rocky? That’s right! The Playstation 3! There were alternatives, no matter how unseemly. I hadn’t emptied my Swear Jar in nearly a week, so I grabbed two fistfuls of 20s from it and sprinted out my front door, down the street.

***

Navigating the sea of anachronistic nerds that always occupy the local game store (seriously, guys, where do you come from? I haven’t seen a nerd in real life since 1992, and I think that might’ve been a Halloween costume), I grabbed a dusty, long-forgotten PS3 box from the haphazard pile in the alley behind the store and made my way back to the checkout stand.

Nerds: Do they just spring from Gamestops fully formed, like Smurfs from mushrooms?

“Would you like to sign up for our Blaster Points card?” the pushy virgin-king at the register asked me.

“No.”

“Would you like to pre-order Sports Game 12: The Sportsiest today?”

“No.”

“Would you be interested in signing up for our Rad Game Masters embarrassing newsletter this eveni-“

***

After 42 more minutes of intense personal questioning that culminated in a full prostate exam, I was allowed to make my purchase and leave the store. Upon returning home, and after taking a searing hot shame-shower, I plugged in my new system and navigated the many set-up menus, high off the smell of new plastic and giddy with gadget-euphoria. When it was all ready, I signed onto the high-tech, MMO-like virtual reality service that was the Playstation’s version of Xbox Live. I was floored by the potential. A whole other world constructed just for gaming! Why, with a place like this you could seamlessly integrate a multimedia center with strangers half a continent awa-

Where the fuck is everybody?

There wasn’t a soul in sight; absolutely no trace of human occupation. Jesus, it was like Wyoming up in there.

He… hello? Hello? Did I do something wrong? Is this purgatory?

Was that a tumbleweed? Did they virtually render a tumbleweed just to mock me? Is this supposed to be the post-apocalyptic level that illustrates the crushing loneliness of a world built for habitation, when all the people have long since passed on? After several hours, days maybe (in a world devoid of culture, what meaning has time?) of wandering through empty malls, deserted movie theaters, vacant bowling alleys and eerily silent plazas, my heart skipped a beat at what I saw. Was that a person? My god, it could be! The figure was far-removed–impossibly distant–but there was definitely something there.

Oh God, please let this be real and not a hallucination brought on by the solitary weight of despair. If only I could reach him! All the personal connections I took for granted on that other gaming platform, all the opportunities to form a meaningful bond between human beings I’d wasted – not here! Here I would savor those chances! Here in this desolate wasteland, where human companionship is the most valuable currency, our empathy would be driven by necessity. Friendship, by its very scarcity, would have meaning again!

I will never again take humanity for granted! Please, I’m so terribly alone!

Wait, he was stopping. He saw me! A friend! I had found a friend! A companion to stave off insanity!

“My fellow man,” I desperately typed, “I thought you were a vision! A hopeful hallucination too cherished to be real! Hail and welcome, friend! I never thought I’d be so happy to see another human being!”

A long, insufferable moment passed as I awaited his reply. I would have to be patient; we had so much to say! Not like Xbox Live, where human companionship was cheap and words were quickly thrown away like verbal garbage. This place would be different!

“Lolz,” came the response, 15 minutes later. “Fagzor.”

I wish I could tell you what he said next, but apparently the Japanese can’t fucking build anything to withstand even the most half-hearted, heartbroken of jumpkicks.

But before we can begin, let’s cover some basic definitions first:

Asset
An Asset is something you own that’s worth something, like money or hair.

Liability
A Liability is something you own that is not worth something, like your family or joy.

Income
Income is money that comes to you, like flies to a magnet, or honey to a vacuum cleaner.

Expenditure
Expenditures are when money goes away from you, like squirrels do when you try to pet them.

Now let’s begin again!

The most important part of the Nicolas Cage Investing System is to remember the Three B’s. If it helps, I recommend memorizing the following phrase: “Always remember the Three B’s.”

The Three B’s
1: Buy everything
2: Be in movies
3: you are capaBle of anything.

Let’s go into each B in more detail.

Buy everything
Because Assets are things you own that are worth something, if you don’t own them they’re not assets! It’s simple logic even a child could understand. That’s why everywhere I go, I buy everything I see! I buy horses and cars and sunshine!
Nicolas Cage pro-tip: But don’t buy people! That’s a “Nicolas Cage No-No.”

Be in movies
Movies are a great way to earn money. For every movie I make, I earn more money than two bakers. I highly recommend being in movies.

you are capaBle of anything
Believe in yourself, and you’ll always succeed at believing in yourself!

Me, believing in myself.

_________

When I walk the Earth helping strangers with their investments, I hear a lot of people repeating the same common misconceptions about money and investing. This is my chance to set the record straight!

Misconception 1: Investing is hard
Not true! Investing is easy! It’s just that not investing is also easy. Easier in fact. So comparatively, you may have a point.

Misconception 2: Only rich people invest
Again, not so! Everyone can invest! Rich people often make more money investing than everyone else, but money isn’t everything! Many people invest because it helps them meet people or become more active!

Misconception 3: The stock market is dangerous
I don’t know what that is.

Misconception 4: It’s OK to delay planning for retirement
Do you have a job? Every evening you stop working and go home, right? That’s retirement! It’s already here, every day! And longer on the weekends! You need to start planning now!

Misconception 5: Investing is about earning money quickly
Many investments make no money at all!

Misconception 6: I don’t need to diversify
Diversifying is very important. But if you remember your Three B’s and “Buy everything you see” you’ll find you’re automatically diversified! That’s the power of my system.

Misconception 7: Try and invest on your own
Investing on your own is easy, but it’s easier to get someone else to do it for you. Find a man who knows about money. They usually wear gray suits. They used to wear those green visors, but stopped doing that.

Misconception 8: Pay yourself first
Every time you earn money, give some of it to yourself! You earned it!

__________

Q: What do you know about investing?- H. Jervis, Cincinnati, OH
A: My entire family has been involved in show business for decades, and I’ve been starring in movies since the age of 18. I would have to say that my favorite director to work with was Ridley Scott. Thanks for your question!

Me and my good friend Ellen DeGeneres. I often help her with her investments.

Q: What was it like sleeping with Patricia Arquette? She was pretty hot back in the day. – B. Kipson, Los Angeles, CA
A: It was all right!

Q: What are the benefits of a Roth IRA versus a traditional 401k? Also, what was it like sleeping with Patricia Arquette again? – L. Menkinson, Indianapolis, IN
A: Contributions to a Roth IRA are not tax deductible, but most withdrawals will be untaxed. Whether a Roth IRA or traditional IRA is right for you will depend on the marginal tax brackets you’re in while contributing and at retirement. And Patricia was wild! Great times!

___________

Other people who are doing it wrong? The Wayans Brothers. That “I’m dressing like a white chick” bullshit has gone on long enough (one movie). It’s about time the Wayans Brothers started dressing up like fat old black women. That would be hilarious, like over and over again.

My point is, these people need to wise up. Dave Chappelle? He’s not doing anything anymore, and he’s hilarious. That’s definitely doing it wrong. Richard Pryor, too! That guy’s dead. Get it together, black comedians. Some of us are still rooting for you!

And, yes, I am aware that technically I just wrote that I wanted to bend over the Wayans Brothers and then cum in, on, or around them. That’s nt a typo.

That “nt” was, though.

Shoulda said “not.”

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

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

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

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

The Prompt:

If Sex Education Was Actually Useful

The Entry:

If He’s a Genius…

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

If He’s a Lunatic…

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

The Prompt:

Show Us How to REALLY Scare People This Halloween

The Entry:

If He’s a Genius…

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

If He’s a Lunatic…

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

The Prompt:

Why I Was Late For Work Today

The Entry:

If He’s a Genius…

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

If He’s A Lunatic…

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

The Prompt:

April Fool’s Pranks We WISH Happened

The Entry:

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

If He’s a Genius…

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

If He’s a Lunatic…

…All the great ones are.

The Prompt:

If Schools Were Truthful

The Entry:

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

If He’s a Genius…

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

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

If He’s a Lunatic…

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

The Prompt:

Historical Moments Ruined By Modern Technology

The Entry:

If He’s a Genius…

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

If He’s a Lunatic…

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

The Prompt:

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

The Entry:

If He’s a Genius…

He’s not.

If He’s a Lunatic…

He is.

The Prompt:

When Superpowers Go Wrong

The Entry:

If He’s a Genius…

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

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

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

If He’s a Lunatic…

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

You can learn a lot about sex in a used book store. For example, and since I can’t resist, you get fewer paper cuts when you fuck non-fiction. Back to what I was saying, and I apologize for the last sentence, I’ve collected five books that each represent a different culture or religion’s sex life. These five books will be read by me and then entered into the Great 2009 Literary Sex Off, an academic sex contest held every 2009 years.

Represented by the book: Human Sexuality: A Catholic Perspective for Education and Lifelong Learning, 1991
This book contains all the erotic secrets of the Catholic Church. Like you, I thought this would be things like how to dissolve roofies into a sno-cone when an altar boy is too fast to grab and too smart to take the pills you throw at him. But it’s actually much stranger than that. It’s an exhaustive list of the thousands of circumstances that need to be met before God will allow sex. This line summed it up pretty well:

“As we have stated several times in this document, we believe that it is only within a heterosexual marital relationship that genital sexual activity is morally acceptable.”

Genital sexual activity? That’s so unnecessarily specific that it’s almost challenging horny followers to find a loophole. It’s like giving readers a puzzle they can only solve with their fingers, mouths, and assholes. Fact: tennis elbow, indian burns, propulsive gait, and the figure-four-leglock were all discovered by two unmarried Catholics trying to stay religiously legal during their intimacy.

Erotistration Rating: 0
There isn’t a single drawing in this entire book. I guess with chapter titles like, “Human Sexuality: A Catholic Perspective for Education and Lifelong Learning Chapter 4: Special Groups and Sexual Issues, Moral Discernment and Pastoral Care,” there isn’t a whole lot of room for pictures. Plus, I think Catholics have to be married to a pencil for seven years before they’re allowed to draw a nipple.

Safety Rating: 1
Here’s an excerpt: “In keeping with our abiding respect for the inherent procreative meaning of sexual intercourse, it is a teaching of the Catholic Church that one ought to space it “naturally,” that is, taking into account the biological ebb and flow of the woman’s fertility cycle.”

This book makes it clear that if you’re using a contraceptive, you might as well be doing so from inside a warlock. Condoms are like putting a plastic bag over the head of God’s love and birth control pills are so evil that if you give one to a goat, the beast will curse in the tongue of man. So in order to prevent babies, Catholics use the Rhythm Method. It’s where you fill a woman’s reproductive system with sperm and hope that millions of years of evolution aren’t watching. Step one in being a good Catholic is making sure your ovaries can beat God in a battle of wits.

Represented by the book: The Ultimate Guide to Anal Sex for Women, 1998
Due to my love of comedy, I never read a book about regular people having sex. The closest I could come was The Ultimate Guide to Anal Sex for Women. To say it’s exactly what it sounds like isn’t doing its ultimateness justice. Everything you’ve ever wanted to know is in this book, which is why I wrote this short but ultimate one-sentence guide to reading it: You don’t want to know 125% of the details involving anal sex.

Here, I can sum it up with this understatement from Anal Fisting: How To’s: “There is going to be some mess, so you should have lots of paper towels on hand.” Cherish that– a carpet cleaner and two garbage men died bringing you that knowledge. This book is so gross you won’t even want things coming out of your ass.

Illustration Rating: Negative Used Butt Towel.
If there was a rating I could give the book worse than a 0, I would. And since I’m making the rules, I can. It gets the rating of Negative Used Butt Towel, the lowest number in the world. You want a drawing of a fat woman getting an amateur colonoscopy from a caveman? Check. How about a beatnik wearing only combat boots and anal beads? Yes. I can’t tell if it’s a magic book showing the reader personalized images of his or her own hell, or if someone was playing MADLibs at the same time they were drawing butt sex. All I know is that you’ll have an easier time getting aroused by the interior view of the anorectal anatomy, thankfully included.

Safety Rating: 7
After reading this guide, I feel vaguely qualified to perform any medical or sexual procedure on a human butt. That is if my patients or lovers can look past the solid, steady scream I’ve been letting out since I first opened this book.

Represented by the book: Growth and Intimacy for Gay Men: A Workbook, 1997
I knew I wanted to represent the homosexual community in this battle of the books, but the used bookstore was suspiciously out of gay pornography. I was about to give up and just represent them with a Maxim magazine, but this book suddenly caught my eye. It’s a workbook that damaged gay people can use to put their lives back together. And as fate would have it, it’s been used.

I know so much about this book’s previous owner. As you can see from his highlights above, he took a special interest in the “Merging” stage of relationships, and couldn’t give a damn about “Learning to live in harmony.” He does this for the whole book. If there’s a line about sex, he highlights it. If there’s a section on different techniques to get your lover to shut the fuck up, it’s lit up like a Cher gown under stage lights. I don’t want to sound gay, but I really like this guy.

Illustration Rating: Twenty five question marks.

The only illustrations in the book are complicated flow charts so the gay reader can create genealogy trees. However, since these are homosexual trees, they’re mostly about gossip instead of genetics. I’m not making that up. The author has filled in all the boxes with things like “Alcoholic” and “Probably Gay.” And get this, Julie and Rick’s daughter Sarah has “Abortion 1981 Depressed On Medication In Therapy” by her name. And under that: “Sexually provocative.” Roowr! The claws are out, girlfriend!

“Dear Family Tree: Can you believe what Stan was wearing when he impregnated my great-grandmother? HellOOO?!?! It’s the 19th century, not the Country Music Awards!”

Safety Rating: 9
If a man with this book ever chooses to have relations with another man, there are 25 questionaires to help him prepare for it, and 35 worksheets to deal with the emotional aftermath. You literally could not have a safer sex life unless you were humping a pillow with a Ph.D in psychology. It was a welcome change from the Ultimate Guide to Anal Sex for Women which spent five chapters dispelling the myth that it’s unsafe to jump ass-first onto a juicer.

Represented by the book: Dating and Other Frightening Experiences, 1979
This book is mainly about resisting temptations. Unfortunately, it seems like the author has been doing that for too long and every page is heaving with desperate sexually charged analogies. This guy is so backed up that he has to sleep in an oil rig to catch his night discharge. The following is a passage that will change the way you look at flowers forever:

“Girls, you will never walk into any garden and see any self-respecting flower chasing the bees. Picture that. They won’t do it. They know enough to stay right where they’re planted, and they blossom, and have a sweet fragrance that comes from within. The bees will come to them. Oh my, how they’ll come.“

Yikes. Sounds like someone chased that bee metaphor all the way to orgasm.

Illustration Rating: 9
Mormons seem to resist a lot of their temptations on The Porch. At first I thought this meant that Mormons like to make out on the front porch so passing motorists can celebrate their journey to second base together. But as you can see from this illustration, The Porch is an actual monster that sneaks up on you while you do it.

As I hinted at earlier, Mormons have sex through a hole in a complicated series of metaphors, so I’m not sure how to interpret this picture. Is that evil door simply where The Porch Monster keeps its mouth and eyes, or is that the girl’s father pressing his face up against the screen door? Either way, it makes no sense why I’m masturbating. Oh god, I’m a bee! I’M A BEEEEE!!!!

Safety Rating: 1
Let’s strip away all the flowery language for a second and get real: Mormons copulate publicly on the body of a fanged monster. That’s some Conan shit to do by anyone’s standards. If you ever wondered why Mormon porches always smell like the insides of virgins, now you know.

Represented by the book: The Ultimate Guide to Sex and Disability, 2003
This book is 334 pages of sexual tips for every type of affliction known to man. If you have arthritis, they’ll tell you where to buy some vibrating mittens. If you’re mostly in a jar, they’ll drop a pickle in you. The problem is, they spread themselves so thin that no single affliction really gets much attention. Just look at these tips on Sex With Ourselves.

There’s not one piece of usable advice in that! If I really was a guy with no arms or legs, I want only one answer from the chapter on masturbation– will a masturbation robot try to kill a masturbation monkey? Instead I get this philosophical redefinition of the term. How does this semantic fruit looping help anyone? “Why, if you believe in your heart, anything can be masturbation! See that sunset? That’s masturbation! A low flying aircraft? Masturbation. An aircraft that’s… that’s coming right at us! We’re all going to die! Shit– really masturbate!”

Illustration Rating: 0
There are only six illustrations in the entire book. Three are diagrams of how to have sex without rupturing colostomy bags, one is a collection of kegel devices, one is anal beads, and one is Satan’s own dildo collection (pictured). If I didn’t know better, I’d say this is a prank by the handicapped to punk my eyeballs. Well, round one goes to them. Or “us,” if you count that I’m now blind.

Safety Rating: 10
The one thing this book has going for it is safety procedures. Before giving any instructions, the authors carefully assume the worst about you. You’re a morbidly obese torso, but they can’t show you how to build a tension-powered dildo rigging because they’re sensitive to your crippling fear of pulleys. And since your skin is made out of dog food, swinging you around would just waft your scent into the hound-filled night. And that would be insane.

So after reading all of these manuals on how to turn sex into a disgusting and unsafe battle against porches and God, I’d have to say the winner is…

“That’s, uh…that’s great. Can I help you?” the sniveling, weaselly little bastard at the reception desk replied.

“Listen you sniveling, weaselly, little bastard,” I told him, in order to keep narrative consistency,“I am a goddamn reporter. I ask the questions around here; I don’t answer them. I don’t even know how to answer questions. I don’t even really understand what the word ‘answer’ means. Is it a dance? Some sort of spicy soup? I don’t know! That’s how good a journalist I am.”

Pictured: The best journalist ever.

“Sir, this is a highly secure area. I’m afraid that, without extensive clearance and an appointment, I simply cannot let you beyond this point,” said the weasel, sniveling. Or at least I think that’s what he said - at this point I was sprinting past him at top speed down the hallway and his voice was growing rather faint.

He caught up to me after about 50 feet, when I had to lay down for a minute to get the wheezing under control. In retrospect, I should probably have put out at least one of the traditional pre-scam cigarettes I lit up immediately prior to running.

“Sir, I’m going to call security. The Large Hadron Collider is not a joke, and we take any attempts at forced entry very seriously.”

PROTIP: Try to avoid the words “forced entry” when you work at a giant, distended robot anus.

A group of be-suited gentlemen came around the corner just then and, thinking quickly, I jumped to my feet and thrust my package into the receptionist’s outspread palm.

“RAAAPE!” I cried.

The man frantically tried to withdraw his hand, but I nimbly matched his every movement, and managed to keep my junk firmly in place as he jumped, flailed and ran about. To the casual observer, it appeared as though he was hurling me around the room by my dick.

“THIS IS SUCH A HARDCORE RAPE THAT YOU ARE DOING TO ME!” I screamed in panic. One of the suits quickly jogged up to us and heroically separated hand from balls.

“Jesus Christ, Amir! What are you doing?!” he demanded, only half-disturbed when I snuggled up into the nook of his arms for comfort, and began sobbing like a little girl. (Hey, there’s no room for dignity in a good scam. You gotta sell that shit.)

Pictured: Some bitch sellin’ it.

“Sir I… he was going to… I didn’t,” the receptionist tried to stammer out an explanation, but at that moment the suited man glanced over his shoulder. When he turned his gaze back a split-second later, we were all mildly surprised to find my genitals in Amir’s hands again.

“This man is rape’s biggest fan! He’s a rape expert!” I huddled back against the wall, wailing hysterically.

As they dragged Amir from the building–hog-tied and positively marinated in mace–my would-be rescuer spoke to me.

“I am so, so sorry about that. My name is Vance and I’m the Operations Manager here. Can I help you with anything, anything at all?”

“My name is Robert Brockway, and I’m a for realsies journalist. I had a tour of the facilities scheduled for my magazine,” I started the long, arduous process of lighting up my traditional post-scam cigarettes.

“I love it when a scam comes together.”

“That’s funny, I don’t see your name here…” the man said, checking some paperwork at the desk.

“Yeah that is funny; I bet Amir raped it off of there or something. Listen, that’s not important anyway. I’ve got a better story now: ‘Particle Acceleration Turns All Men into Rape Aficionados.’ Good headline, eh?”

“Jesus, no! Listen, I’ll take you on a tour myself. Show you around the place. It’s really quite an amazing facility, and I’m sure you’ll see that advanced physics is not at all a rape-friendly field. Unlike those god-forsaken marine biologists. Come on.” He led me gently by the arm to the elevators, and we descended downward into the guts of the accelerator.

“I’m so glad I went to six years of college so I could GIVE IT TO THIS SLUTTY JELLYFISH.” - Every Marine Biologist

“What’s this thingy, Vince?” I grabbed what is scientifically classified as a “gizmo” off the table and tossed it casually from hand to hand.

“It’s Vance and- oh god! Put that down!” He frantically rushed over and stole my science doowacky.

“What? Is that important or something?”

“Yes, it’s incredibly important! All of the equipment here is terribly sensitive and just astoundingly expensive. Please refrain from touching anything. Also, we do frown on smoking on the premises. You really shouldn’t smoke more than four cigarettes at a time, anyway. Would you mind putting some of them out?”

“I’d love to, Vaughn, but I won’t be doing that at all. Ever. There’s this little thing called ‘journalistic immunity.’ Maybe you’ve heard of it? Your laws don’t apply to me,” I answered, striding purposefully down the nearest random hallway. I once read that it’s important to maintain control in new social encounters, and the best way to do it is to subtly steer the course of conversation. So I started taking wild, random turns throughout the complex while I talked. Just, you know… just steering the hell out of that conversation.

“No, you’re thinking of diplomatic immunity,” Vance replied, struggling to keep up.

Pictured: The second greatest journalist ever.

“Yeah, that. It’s like that, but better. Anyway,” I continued, absent-mindedly juggling a couple of doo-dads, “let’s collide us some hard-ons, eh?”

“Yes, ha ha. We’re all quite familiar with that joke here,” Virgil desperately seized the science thingamajigs from their thrown orbits and replaced them in the various machines I had ripped them out of along the way.

“Joke? What joke?”

“You…what magazine did you say you worked for?” He began to eye me, for the first time, with suspicion. I was hurt. I expected this kind of treatment from nuns, police officers, children, the elderly, full-sighted women and Puerto Ricans, but not Viktor!

“Unpopular Mechanics,” I said, choking back tears and some pills.

“Unpopular Mechanics?” He repeated skeptically.

“Yeah, it’s like Popular Mechanics but we cover the loser science. You know, like the really fat, stupid robots and that gay stuff with the numbers.” I took two quick lefts, ducked under a pipe and climbed a short ladder. As long as I kept talking quickly enough, Vance was too distracted to protest.

This issue: We unveil the new DipshitBot 5000!

“Math?”

“Yeah, that stuff. Also, we’re doing a piece on your pussy machine here.” I took four quick lefts, bringing us full circle, and then dropped down a vent.

“Our what?”

“Well, it’s kind of famous now for being a giant pussy, isn’t it? It came online for half a day, collided like four particles and then broke.”

“Yeah listen, we’re just gonna leave the scaffolding up in case another molecule accidentally gets in here and destroys absolutely everything.”

“Machines can’t be ‘pussies,’ Mr. Brockway. It’s true that our technology is very delicate, but that’s because it’s unspeakably advanced,” Vanessa protested. I don’t think he fully realized that at this point he was actually helping me to pry the cover off this hatch, but he was obviously quite troubled by my accusation.

“What did you guys say last time – the Higgs Boson traveled back in time to prevent itself being created?”

“Well, sort of. I mean, that’s almost close to one theory…”

“OK, well, how big was he?” At this point we had both taken off our jackets and rolled up our sleeves - just really ripping into this hatch.

“Who?”

“Higgs Boson. Was he fuckin’ retard-ripped like the T-100, or was he more like one of those T-1000s–all wiry, but kind of badass in a creepy serial killer kind of way?” The covering finally gave way and clattered to the floor. Vance was still too absorbed in our conversation to notice.

Higgs Boson: The Hadron Chronicles

“No, it’s… it’s not a perso-” he began, but I cut him off.

“Yeah, I know. It’s a machine designed to look like a man. I’m not stupid.”

“No, I mean it’s a particle. Microscopic.”

“Oh come on, man,” I continued, ducking through the opening and tearing through some inconvenient wiring, “it’s so small you can’t even see it, and it still whooped your butts? And didn’t a bird just kick your ass with a crouton or something? You tellin’ me your giant-ass boner-ramming machine isn’t a huge pussy after that?”

“Well, yes it is true that this last malfunction was caused by a seagull dropping a piece of bread into some machinery but…OK, yeah it’s kind of a pussy.”

This is what birds do… when they’re not beating science’s ass, that is.

“Giant pussy,” I corrected.

“Fine. Yes. The Large Hadron Collider is a giant pussy. But I don’t see what merit that has on the experiments we’re tr-” an ear-piercing wail shattered the air around us and lights began flashing.

“What – where are we?!” Vicki Vale frantically spun around, taking in our surroundings for the first time. “Oh god! Oh god we’re inside the accelerator! We have to get out of here! Where did we come in?!” He began clawing at the walls of the concrete tunnel, looking for an exit.

“That was like a mile back there, man. Why, what’s the big deal?”

“The… the big deal? THE BIG DEAL?!” My Cousin Vinny’s eyes pissed themselves with fear. Crying, I think it’s called.

“The big deal is that we’re going to die! The accelerator’s starting up, and when that happens we’re going to be bombarded with particle beams!” At least that’s what I think he said, because at this point I was sprinting top speed down the tunnel and his voice was growing faint. When I glanced back, Vindaloo was jogging after me.

Pictured: The author’s complete understanding of particle beams.

“What are you doing? You’ll never make it to an exit in time! The beam is starting up!”

“Well it’ll have to fuckin’ catch me first, won’t it?” I shouted back, remembering to put out two of the traditional impending-doom-cigarettes I’d lit up.

“You can’t out-run a particle beam!” he insisted.

“But I’m so fuckin’ fast!” I argued.

“You’re laying on the floor,” he helpfully pointed out.

I was indeed laying on the floor. Putting out those cigarettes had bought me another eight-feet of distance; it was apparently not enough.

“What are we going to do?” Virginia Woolf quietly lamented.

“I know what I’m going to do,” I replied, rising to my feet.

I slowly slipped on the sunglasses I always keep on me in case of dramatic effect.

“I’m going to kick the Large Hadron Collider’s ass.”

“I disCERN that somebody’s about to COLLIDE with a PARTicle of my fist and.. it’s going to be…HARDo, ah fuck it: YYEAAAAHHH!!!”

Vampire Weekend started to protest, but I had already flown into action. First I drop-kicked a length of cable, Captain Kirk-style. Then I unleashed a flying elbow onto an unsuspecting control panel. I made a bunny motion by extending and wiggling two curled fingers on my left hand and, while the circuit-board was distracted, I karate-chopped it with my right. I groin-punched a lever. I fish-hooked a release valve. I eye-gouged Vance.

“Ow, fuck!” screamed Vance.

But I didn’t even hear it. I was lost in a berserker rage: A red, bloody fugue of violence and seriously repressed sexual energy.

This seems to happen more and more often these days…

When I came to, the tunnel was in absolute ruins and the sirens had stopped.

“You did it,” whispered V for Vendetta in awe.

“I beat the shit out of your particle accelerator,” I acknowledged, lighting up my series of traditional post-shit-kicking cigarettes. “And why?”

“B-because it’s a giant pussy?” he weakly answered.

“That’s right. The Large Hadron Collider is a giant, humongous, weeping pussy.”

You fucking heard me, CERN. What? DO SOMETHING.