You know what I’d do with a time machine? Grab a laptop, load up a bunch of websites with people all like “ZOMG BILL O’REILLY IS SUCH AN ASSHOLE” on them, and head back in time to the set of Inside Edition, just a few seconds before this rant happened. Ol’ Billy boy was just your average soft news douche back then, introducing Sting “cuts” with a full head of hair and flipping out on innocent teleprompter operators. The phone booth would shoot out of the floor of the set (because time machines are made out of phone booths - duh), the camerman would yell “CUT!” and O’Reilly would be all “GET THAT FUCKING PHONE BOOTH OFF MY SET!” But then I’d be all “I’mmmmm frrroooommmmm the fuuutttuuuurrreeee” and Bill cower in the corner like “NOOOO!” because, as you probably know, Bill O’Reilly is completely terrified of time travelers who talk like spooky ghosts. Seriously - he’s like the real-life version of a black chef in a 20s movie.

Anyway, once his guard is down I’ll whip out the laptop and show him all the blogs like “ZOMG BILL O’REILLY IS SUCH AN ASSHOLE,” and at first he’ll be like “What does ‘ZOMG’ mean?” and I’ll be like, “Oh yeah - it’s the early 90s and internet slang doesn’t exist yet.” But then I’ll explain to him that none of that matters, and that the important part of the story is that everyone in the future thinks he’s a dick. He’ll probably get all defensive at first, and then he’ll get angry and turn back to the teleprompter and go off on the rant that’s in this video. Then after he’s done with that he’ll start bargaining with me, like “Maybe I can be a dick now and turn into a nicer guy later?” Then he’ll get super sad and cry a little at the craft service table, and then eventually he’ll give up and be like, “Okay, fine - I accept that everyone in the future hates me.” The five stages of grief will be complete, and I’ll nod knowingly, turn around, and start walking back to my phone booth to return to the present.

Then right before I punch in the final number of today’s date on the keypad, Bill O’Reilly will call out to me. “Hey, wait a minute,” he’ll say. “What the hell are all those interconnected pages filled with text, pictures, and clickable hyperlinks?”

I’ll crack the door to the phone booth open and give a sly little wink. “It’s called the internet, Mr. O’Reilly, and pretty much everyone on it thinks you’re dick.”

What does this mean, grabby headline? Has Stewart betrayed his loyal fanbase and become a frothing Conservative man-baby with a bad combover? Has O’Reilly pulled a reverse-Dennis Miller and become suddenly, inexplicably reasonable? Have you ever actually seen The Daily Show? You get that they’re jokes, right? And that that other asshole’s serious?

Before you start freaking out and replacing the picture of Stewart over your mantle with one of Colbert, know that this intensive “journalism think tank” consisted of a bunch of guys watching a year’s worth of Daily Show episodes and concluding that they have the following things in common:

And even the last one is unverifiable. Frankly, the news to me here is that there are think tanks that involve watching a year’s worth of Daily Show episodes. Of course I originally assumed that by “think tank,” they meant Jerry and Ryan, the interns who agreed to stay late and know how to use bittorrent.

But NO. This study was performed by none other than the Project for Excellence in Journalism. They’re based in Washington, too, so you know they’re legit. And gentlemen, if I may address you directly: I want in.

What are my qualifications? Well, right now I get paid to read about celebrities I hate and come up with witty things to say about their genitals. As such, I’m already vastly overqualified for your project.

Especially with your director throwing out nuggets of insight like “The Daily Show makes serious political commentary, but they use humor to do it.” And my personal favorite “They’re not making jokes about Dan Quayle is dumb or Gerald Ford is clumsy.”

Really? Because I’m pretty sure the April 18th, 2008 episode was centered largely around footage of Ford missing a golf swing and comically falling onto the green. Plus, didn’t last night’s “Back in Black” have a bit about Quayle’s 1988 White House bid? He yelled about it, I think.

My point is, pay me to watch The Daily Show, you out-of-touch cocks.

When not blogging for Cracked, Michael upholds the credo of the Project for Excellence in Journalism with zealous ferocity as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

You probably think I’m going to make fun of Marche Taylor for wearing a skimpy dress to her prom and getting escorted out in handcuffs, don’t you? Admit it: you think I’m going to go off on a rant about how the kids are out of control these days and the world is going to hell in a handbasket and nobody knows how to make a decent handbasket anymore. That would be a great rant for an older, more conservative blogger¹, but me? Come on. I can actually relate to Ms. Taylor’s plight, because I went through something very similar at my own prom.

The year was 1999. Limp Bizkit and Smashmouth were at the top of the charts, people were legitimately concerned that their computers might kill them on New Year’s Eve, and there I was, standing outside my senior prom in a leather harness and a pair of assless chaps.

Our principal, Dr. Louis Killjoy Sr., was standing in front of the doors with his arms folded across his chest. “You’re not coming in here dressed like that,” Dr. Killjoy said.

“I completely understand,” I replied. “This is a ridiculous outfit for me to be wearing to senior prom. What was I thinking?”

“Well, I’m glad we see eye to eye on this. Put ‘er there,” he said, holding out his hand. I tried to shake it, but my hand kept slipping out. “Are you slathered from head to toe in baby oil?” he asked.

“No,” I lied.

“Thank God,” he said. “If you were, it would be nearly impossible for us to catch you if you tried to run through this security gate into the prom.”

A few minutes of blank staring went by.

“I see,” I lied.

“You know - because you’re too slippery to grab.”

Another minute or two went by, and we both looked at our watches. Mine was too smudged from the baby oil to read, but I pretended I could read it anyway and looked around impatiently, as if to say, “Come on, people - let’s move it along.” A few dozen people stood behind me in line with the same expression on their faces.

“You’re an idiot, Wolinsky,” Dr. Killjoy said. “Go home.”

I took his advice, and the next day I went out for pie with my friends. They all told me the prom had been lovely.

A few weeks later we all went to college and never saw each other again.

Ba-dum ching!

¹ Like an 88-year-old, for example.

Regular readers of my “Risk Management Korner” column will be aware of my long-standing fascination with the insurance industry. Yet it had never occurred to me before that the possibility of your lead actor driving naked down Sunset Boulevard while throwing phantom rats out the window (this actually happened) was something that had to be accounted for and insured against. In some insurance company out there, there’s a spreadsheet calculating the possibility of “drug fueled, imaginary-rodent-ejecting car ride (nude)” It was someone’s job to make this spreadsheet. This tickles me to no end.

Of course, once you think about it, this kind of insurance makes perfect sense. A movie requires a huge amount of capital up front to be made, none of which can be recouped until the film is finished and released. If filming gets delayed or canceled because your lead actor got caught humping a bus shelter (I made that one up) the production company would be out of some serious money.

I’m guessing that the original intent of these insurance policies was to protect against delays caused by illness or injury, and not to protect against the possibility of the production being kicked out of a country because your lead tackled the monarch to during a publicity event “to protect him from bees” (I made that one up too.) These kind of insurance policies would make a Hollywood executive in the 1940’s sleep a little easier knowing about Humphrey Bogart’s fourteen pack a day smoking habit, but it amazes me to think they’ve now grown to encompass the possibility of your lead actor swinging across a hotel ballroom on a chandelier and then striking Jodie Foster in the face with his penis. (I’m kinda having fun with this.)

Most of Downey’s troubles with insurance bonds should be in the past now. He’s reportedly been clean for several years, and has even managed to make a couple films without hostage negotiators getting involved. So it was evidently fairly straightforward for Ironman’s producers to secure insurance for him for the movie. But there’s still a wrinkle: no-one was planning on making a single Ironman movie.

As I type this I’m wearing my usual writing get-up: a Spider Man 3 promotional T-shirt, an X-Men III promotional golf visor, and some original 1983 Batman Underoos. (I’m also sipping an alcohol-flavored beverage from a promotional Pirates of the Caribbean grog mug.) As you should be able to deduce from my entirely normal attire, there’s not a single summer movie being made these days that isn’t being deliberately designed to be the first of a seven movie franchise. And not withstanding the excellent work of Val Kilmer and George Clooney, it’s pretty hard to make a successful franchise when your lead role keeps changing hands. Sure, we can all be pretty confident that Tobey McGuire isn’t going to get in a fistfight with a transvestite over half a handle of Wild Turkey. But even considering his recent good behavior, it must take some large, steely, painfully heavy balls to take the same multi-million dollar leap of faith on Robert Downey Jr.

The man who made it so interesting? Bob Stokes, their “lead anchor” (sorry Bob, but you’re still just a weather man). After running his original co-anchor off with physical and verbal abuse, and not getting fired for it, he realized that he was so valuable to The Weather Channel that he could get away with basically anything. What made his bland, pan-asian face and generic way of speaking so damned valuable, we’ll never know.

But the fact is his new co-anchor, Hillary Andrews, was forced to put up with three years of sexual harassment and petty sabotage during which her superiors refused to act, and ultimately laid her off. Damn, but that Bob Stokes must be some draw. And all this in the midst of a 5 billion dollar bidding war for the sale of the channel. My God, The Weather Channel, when did you become a soap opera?

Probably about the time these pages from Andrew’s deposition hit the Internet. Prepare yourselves, readers; you are about to enter the seedy cloak-and-dagger world of national weather reportage.

Harrowing. We can only hope this monster’s abuses are finally brought to light, and The Weather Channel is replaced with something more wholesome and worthwhile, like foxy boxing.

When not blogging for Cracked, Michael fulfills his title of world champion watcher of female mud wrestling as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

Ever since this whole War on Terror thing started, America has been slowly and steadily falling behind the rest of the world. Our money is worthless, our economy is in the shitter, and our standing as the leading global economic superpower is waning. Meanwhile Western Europe is sighing and shaking its collective head, China is too busy toiling around the clock like some crazy 1.3 billion-member ant colony to even notice, and the Dutch are sitting around laughing at pedophilia… and self-righteously defending their national identity on the internet.

Saving the world from evil-doers is all well and good, but it makes your country’s TV shows suck. Think about it: American Idol debuted in 2002, just nine months after 9/11. Coincidence? I think not. How did waging an unwinnable war against an invisible enemy turn a glorified karaoke competition into a #1 hit? I have no idea, but Ryan Seacrest doesn’t make me feel like everything is OK. If I had my choice, I’d much rather see some guy with an awesome Hitler moustache bouncing around inside a giant balloon when I turn on my TV during primetime.

Oddly enough, the Japanese haven’t even heard about the War on Terror. That might sound outlandish, but think about it: If you had shit like this on TV in your country, would you really be that concerned with global geopolitics? Nope - you’d just sit there on your couch, mouth agape, watching some guy with an awesome Hitler moustache bounce around inside a giant balloon. Then you’d get bored, change the channel, and watch something else equally awesome. Then you’d go to work for 18 hours and fall asleep on the train, but hey - at least you’d have some awesome shit to watch on TV when you got home.

But what to do now? Yes, it’s true that Michael Bay called my agent and offered money for the rights to turn Hate By Numbers into a summer blockbuster, starring Shia Labeouf as a dangerously unhinged mathematician, but that deal fell through. “Well, that’s it,” I thought. “My run at the big time is over.”

But just then the red phone in the Cracked House started ringing. DOB answered.

“‘This-shit-is-wack’ O’Brien is on the phone for you, Gladstone,” he said.

I took the phone. “Who’s your girlfriend having sex with now, Jack?” I asked.

“No, it’s not that,” he said. “I have a deal for you. What would you say, if I asked you to do your successful feature, Hate By Numbers, on a semi-regular basis, for no extra money?”

“How can I refuse?” I asked. “Anything else to sweeten the deal?”

“Yes. We also won’t be titling any of your posts Hate By Numbers because people seem to respond better to X Things That Pissed Me Off About Y.”

I winced, but as sure as I knew Chris Buckholz would leave me to die in a fire should Wolinsky burn the Cracked House down while freebasing, I knew Jack was right. So I called up my good friend and (former Cracked superstar) Ian Cooper and had him put together a kick ass logo for me. Then I went looking for something upsetting on FoxNews.

Turns out Neil Cavuto doesn’t interview nutritionalists as effectively as you might have suspected. Get ready for another round of Hate By Numbers

Cracked.com’s Headitor, (that’s “Head Editor” shortened to just one word, Sports Fans, and you’re welcome), Jack O’Brien called all of the bloggers for a very important meeting. Even Cracked and Week In Douchebaggery Superstar Lex Friedman was in attendance. I hate being woken up in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon, so I was already eager for the meeting to end.

“What’s this all about, Jim,” I asked.

“Please stop calling me ‘Jim,’” Jack responded. Lately I’d been trying to establish a Batman-Commissioner Gordon relationship between me and Jack. So far, he hasn’t been behind it. Incidentally, that’s also the reason why I keep breaking in through his window whenever I want to speak with him. Also, why I keep throwing smoke bombs at his family. Lex spoke up.

“Guys, thanks for coming out today, I really appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it, Lex & the City,” I answered.

“Don’t call him that,” Jack said.

“Anyway, the reason I called this meeting is because I want us to start shifting the focus of our articles and blog posts into a new direction,” Lex went on. The bloggers all got nervous. Me especially. Unless the new focus is “Things Found in Hannah Montana’s Trash,” I’m totally up shit’s creek.

“Why,” Swaim asked. Lex started passing around some documents to everyone.

“On these sheets, you’ll find a list of the top words and phrases people have typed into various search engines that lead them to this site. For example, about 150,000 people found us by typing the word ‘Cracked’ into Google, which makes sense.” I didn’t know why exactly that made sense, but I know better than to question Lex Friedman. “What I need you bloggers to do is to go through the other top words and phrases and start writing about that.”

“I’m not sure… You want us to pander” Gladstone said.

“I think what Lexas Chainsaw Massacre is trying to say,” I began, “is that we need more content that directly involves things found in Hannah Montana’s garbage.”

“That’s not even close to what I’m trying to say. Even a little bit. Okay, look: For example, according these records, 5,091 people found Cracked by typing ‘inspirational songs’ into a search engine. So, Bucholz, maybe you could do a post on-” Bucholz interrupted him as soon as his name was mentioned.

“I’m not doing shit. I’m gonna write about what I want, whenever I want to. Hope you fuckers like the Olympics.” He then got on his motorcycle and road off.
For a while, nothing happened.
Then, after nothing stopped happening, things started to happen. Specifically, Ross spoke.

“Is anyone else, like, totally terrified of Bucholz?” I seriously almost crapped all over the place, Bucholz is scary as hell.

“Look,” Lex said, “Like it or not, these sheets reflect the kind of content that people expect from this site. You guys have the sheets, you know what people are searching for, so you know what to write about. Just give the people what they want.” Gladstone raised his hand.

“Who’s Tupac?” I lowered my head. Gladstone is so god damned white I almost weep sometimes. I swear to Hov, one of these days I’m gonna give that guy a serious Hip Hop education. But not today. Today, I am providing you, the fans, exactly what you want, (for once). I’m going to combine what you’ve searched for with the trademark witty joke-making you’ve come to expect from Cracked.com. Today, I give you

Five Things You Apparently Want to Read About

5. Horse Cocks
Evidently, 473 of you found Cracked after googling “Horse Cocks,” and an incredible 1,359 found us by googling just “Horse Cock.” Well, we’re sorry to the 473 who wanted to see/read about multiple horse cocks, (gosh, for so many reasons), but majority rules, so we’re only going to focus on jokes with just one horse cock. In an effort to please you, the discerning horse cock enthusiast, please enjoy these hilarious observations about a singular horse cock:
“So, you’ve got a horse cock, eh? Where are you gonna use that bad boy, a Whorse House? …Hm. You know, that joke really isn’t funny unless you read it. And even then, it’s still kind of retarded.”
“So I was at a farm today doing a comparative study of animal genitalia for a friend’s birthday present and, let me tell you something: A horse penis is shockingly large. Hey, more like schlong-ingly large, am I right? What? I’m not right? Oh, I see. It is ’shockingly.’ ‘Schlongingly’ isn’t a word. My mistake. Take note, kids, because proper spelling is no laughing matter.”

That was Jokes About Horse Cocks, ladies and gentlemen, and You asked for it.

4. Suicide
“How to suicide” was one of our top phrases bringing in 1,963 readers, but “Suicide,” “Suicide how to” and “Committing suicide” also drew some huge numbers. Long story short, you folks start out looking for suicide and you end up at Cracked, so we might as well give you some suicide jokes, right? Before you kill yourself? Because you came looking for a site about suicide and you ended up on a comedy site? Because you can’t do anything right? Right? Here goes:
“A friend of mine committed suicide, and gosh, I miss him every day. Every single day.” (What a knee-slapper!)
“Knowing someone who committed suicide is like having a constant headache that won’t go away. You end up taking so many pills just to numb the pain.” (Whoa, watch out for this guy, he’s on a roll!)
“I just want my friend back.” (A hat trick of comedy!)
That was Jokes About Suicide, ladies and germs, and You made me revisit horrible memories.

3. Tupac
“Tupac,” “Tupac alive,” “Is Tupac alive,”"Tupac is alive,” “Tupac still alive,” “is Tupac still alive,” and “2pac alive” all brought in astonishingly huge amounts of readers. Granted, we do have one article about Tupac in our back catalogue, but that’s one article out of our fifty year legacy of comedy. One. Still, it seems the world wants to know whether or not Tupac is alive, and they want Cracked to be the site that finds the answer, so, after careful research, here it is:
“No.”
That was Jokes About Tupac, ladybugs and gentle-bees, and You need to get a hobby.

2. Prison Rape and Cute Animals
557 of you found Cracked.com by typing “Prison Rape” into a search engine, and 441 of you got here by doing the same with “Cute Animals.” Since neither search topic really draws huge, (re: horse cock), numbers we’ll just combine them and, hopefully, both ridiculous demographics will be pleased.

That was Jokes About Prison Rape and Cute Animals, laddies and girls, and I have to take a shower.

1. Rapetude
A remarkable 1,022 of you fine readers reached Cracked.com, (home of harmless little articles about food additives and insects), by typing the word “Rapetude” into a search engine. To be honest, ‘Rapetude’ isn’t a word I use very often. ‘Tomfoolery.’ Now that’s a word I like. ‘Marmaduke,’ that’s another one. ‘DOB’s Abs are Incredible.’ While that isn’t necessarily one word, I still say it a whole lot. But Rapetude? I don’t think I’ve ever used that one. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever even heard that word in my entire ever-loving-marmaduking-life. No clue what it even means.
I asked the other Cracked Bloggers if they had any insight.

“I’m struggling with that one, too. I’m thinking it’s some kind of combination of attitude and rape. But rape isn’t an attitude. And it isn’t funny. And…and why would so many people be searching for that? Why? I hate what this assignment is making me discover about our readers. I… I just post funny videos…”-Ross

“I’m sorry, I’m still on ‘tupac.’ It seems he was some type of street poet of some kind?…This can’t be right.” -Gladstone

“Do I look like I give a shit about your worthless blogging?” -Bucholz. And, for the record, no he did not.

“Oh, that’s easy. Rapetude is having an aptitude for rape. Like, an innate proclivity for raping,” Swaim explained with way too much confidence.
“How did you know that?”
“Look, DOB, I don’t have time to teach you the in’s and out’s of rapetude.You either have it or you don’t, alright? Now, are we done here? I gotta go make a video about rapetude and- Hey! You’re dog’s a cute animal, right? Mind if I borrow her real fast?”

That was Jokes About Rapetude, you sick bastards, and I want a new job.

Ross Wolinsky is taking a personal day today. Filling in for him will be his grandfather, Pappy Wolinsky.

Hello, internet! How are you all doing? I’m doing fine, thanks!

You know, back in my day we didn’t have much scratch, but that was a different era - one where men wore hats, women wore dresses, and there was never any confusing the two!

We’d do all kinds of things for kicks back then - if we had the dough, we’d get dolled up in our best glad rags and head to town for some giggle water, but more times than not we were left flipping eggshells and spinning nuts - if you could get your hands on them! Hoo wee! We didn’t have the cable TV and Nintendro machines driving us all bugaboo back then! Heck no! All we needed was a bottle of hooch and a dame in the struggle buggy, and anything beyond that was just padding the butler’s ankles as far as we were concerned!

Things were a lot cheaper back then, boy I’ll tell you what! Back then you could get a gallon of milk for a penny, and a gallon went a lot further than it does today - we didn’t have those big fancy drinkin’ glasses you kids have today! I used to drink milk out of a rusty old tin can! There was only one tin can in the house that didn’t have any rust on it, and everyone knew that one belonged to Pa. It’d be coolies bending the trolley tracks if you drank out of Pa’s tin can - he’d box your ears but good!

Pa was a man who was hitting on all sixes for sure, and he could be tougher than a Chinaman’s mule on a hot Tuesday morning, but every once in a while he’d take us to town to see a talkie. Back then talkies only cost a nickel, and they were better than the garbage you get in the movie houses nowadays! That was when entertainment was on the level, boy! Now you’ve got your hotsy-totsy computer effects and your Iron Men and whatnot… horsefeathers! That ain’t entertainment! Nobody knows how to make a good movie anymore! Bah!

Back in my day, we didn’t need all these fancy effects and flashy cars and rap music to make a good talkie! All we needed was a good story - preferably one about a group of dogs having a party together, and if one of the dogs tried to rape one of the other dogs, all the better! If you could get a couple of dogs, some tiny evening wear, some string, and a jar of peanut butter together, why, you’d have a plum-ducky film on your hands!

And boy, those dogs were disciplined back then! We didn’t need some Spanish poolboy “whispering” at them to get them in line, no sir! But like I said, it was a different era back then: one where men wore hats, women wore dresses, and dogs knew their place. These films nowadays… applesauce, I say! Applesauce!

Yes, Florida is actually trying to split into two, with one half (presumably the one with Disney World) remaining a part of our glorious nation and the other (Universal Studios) sinking into the sea where it belongs.

And readers, I implore you: if you live in Florida, SUPPORT THIS MEASURE. Then move to a less shitty state. I hear Wyoming’s got room.

Let’s face facts. Florida is the wang of the United States for a reason: it’s a magnet for disease, usually smells bad, and at times (Spring Break, Mardis Gras, any other Girls Gone Wild-related calender event) it’s filled with wriggling white creatures who are just passing through.

Well, I say enough. Florida, don’t let Cuba hit you on the ass on your way out.

And believe me, I don’t take hate lightly; until now the only things I’ve hated are the chips and salsa at Mexican restaurants in Europe, dogs who act like they want it and then are all “yip yip yip” when it’s time to get down to business, and Judd Apatow (Grr! I hate him so much! Grr!). So when I say “I hate Florida,” I say it as someone who’s never gone near the hellhole and never will.

“But Michael,” you ask in your effeminate voices, “why so angry?”

“Shut up,” I answer, and then I ride away on my Harley.

But okay, just to humor you.

First off, if the liberal media I subscribe to is to be believed, you fuckers and your goddamned butterfly ballots stuck us with an idiot President and an expensive, highly fatal war in the Middle East, rather than just a boring, inoffensive President who invented the Internet. By my calculations, that means you owe us 500 billion dollars (and counting), the execution of Jeb Bush, and a public apology.

Secondly, they want to teach their ugly, incestuous kids Intelligent Design. Intelligent Design is about as intelligent as the people in Florida, which is to say not very. Until religion can do any of the following things:

Then it has no right being taught as science or, for that matter, even being presented to our children. Yes, that’s right; I am firmly against children even being exposed to religion at school.

Middle School is a place to lose all faith in a higher loving power, and taking that experience away from our young people is just plain unfair. If I had to go through it, so should they.

Religion and school are like milk and gin; you can mix them if you want, but you’re just going to end up with a terrible taste in your mouth and a clogged kitchen sink. Alright, maybe that’s not exactly what it’s like, but I didn’t want to use a metaphor that would shoot over the heads of the mongoloid Floridian “readers.”

Bottom line: Get the hell out, God. And if you’ve got a problem with that little scenario, I’ll be waiting. You know where to find me (I presume).

Lastly, I was never that close to my Grandparents, and old people make me uneasy. What do they know that I don’t?

So do your duty, Americans (while you still are ones) and vote for Floridian secession.

It’s the right thing to do, and if you’re stupid enough to follow the advice of a Cracked blogger, you deserve no better.

When not blogging for Cracked, Michael makes enemies states at a time as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!