Everyone hates masks.  At least, that’s what Warney thought.  Warney was a bit on the hate side of most things, actually.  So much so that he even hated people who hated masks.

“What a complex character we’re dealing with,” thought the narrator as he pat himself on the back.  How wrong, he was, though.   Warney was, in fact, so not complex that I could probably predict what happens in the entire story.

I predict that Warney will meet someone that just moved in next door.  The person next door will act very mask-like and will say things that a mask might say.  It will turn out that the person next door is actually a mask.  Warney will hate this new neighbor almost most of all.  I say “almost,” because someone else will probably move in to the house on the other side of Warney’s house and that person will hate masks even more than Warney.  This new person will be named Garren or something stupid like that and Warny will hate Garren so much (because Garren hates masks and Warney hates people who hate masks) that he will temporarily forget about the mask that happened to live next door.  Garren and Warney will eventually get into a fistfight and Garren will win.  The mask will take pity on Warney and nurse him back to health.  This will change Warney’s view of masks, which will make him hate people who hate masks even more than he previously hated people who hate masks.  Warney and the mask will team up to take Garren down.  They will end up killing Garren, and as Warney looks up to give the mask a high five, he will find that the mask is gone and (perhaps) was never really there.  Warney, freaking out, takes in a deep breath and gets a whiff of the inside of a mask (rubber and sweat).  Yes, Warney was a mask the whole time.  The end.

The narrator put his head in his hands, clearly frustrated with the accurate prediction of his story’s eventual plot.  “Fuck,” he thought, and picked up his in-depth outline.  Quickly, he tore it up and started from scratch.

The Living Mask Or Whatever

Everyone enjoys a good mask.  Warney knew this, which is why he one day wanted to open up his own mask shop.  He was only thirteen years old, though, so he had to settle for working at Garren’s Scarin’ Ya With His Masks Mask Shoppe.  Every day after school, Warney would hop on his roller bike and pedal all the way to Garren’s and help out in any way he could.  Normally this would involve pricing masks or throwing out old masks.  Today, he had a much more interesting job…

“Warney!” exclaimed Garren.  “Right on time!”

“As always, Mr. Garren, sir,” Warney said as he tied up his roller bike to the roller bike stand Garren had installed when Warney started working at the store.  “Any new masks in today?” he asked.

Garren smiled.  He would ordinarily enjoy watching as Warney excitedly tried on all the new masks and invented voices and back-stories for each of those particular masks.

“No new masks today,” Garren had to tell Warney.

Warney’s face fell.  What was he supposed to do today, then?

“What am I supposed to do today, then?”  Warney asked.

Garren smiled again.  “I have something exciting for you today, Warney,” he said, and gestured to the back room.  “It’s time you became an integral member of the Garren’s Scarin’ Ya With His Masks Mask Shoppe family.”

“Do you mean-” Warney began, his eyes widening.

“-Yes.”  Garren confirmed.  “It’s time you started making masks of your own.”

Warney jumped with Glee.  Glee was another young mask-enthusiast who worked at the shop.  He gave Warney a high five and shouted, ”We’re going to The Show, Warney!!!”

Garren grimaced.”Actually, Glee,” he began. “Only Warney will be joining me today. In fact, you’re fired. Your work with the masks has been sub-par at best.”

Glee lowered his head and slowly walked out of the store without another word. No one ever saw Glee again. That is, of course, until the Moongician’s curse was lifted. It’s not foreshadowing if you just say it, right?

Okay, didn’t think so…

When Glee was gone, Garren turned to Warney.

“Now,” Garren started, “It is time that you grow up and become a true mask.”

“What?”

“Er… A true mask maker, I mean,” Garren corrected himself, quite suspiciously.

“I won’t let you down, Garren.” Garren smiled.

“I know you won’t,” he said. “Now you’d best be off to home if you want to get enough sleep for tomorrow.” He stopped suddenly. “In fact, I want you to skip school tomorrow. Fake sick. Sleep in as much as you can. You will need your rest for what you are about to endure.”

“Endure?” Warney asked, confused.

“Just a figure of speech,” Garren explained.

“What will I have to endure?” Warney pressed.

“Goodnight, Warney. Or should I say… Garren…” Garren said with a meaningful look.

“SHOULD you say ‘Garren’?” Warney asked.

“Yes. You now take on the title of Garren.”

“Wait, so Garren wasn’t your name?” Garren Warney asked.

“No, my name’s Ted.” Garren Ted replied, and paused. “Garren? That’s retarded.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Garren Warney sadly agreed.

“Like ‘Warney,” Garren Ted said.

“You’re mean today, Garren,” Garren Warney pointed out.

“Please, call me Ted,” Garren Ted said.

“Can I leave, Ted?” Garren Warney asked.

“Sure. See you tomorrow, Warney,” smiled Garren Ted.

“Don’t you mean “Garren”?” Garren Warney asked.

“No. That’s my name. You’re Warney,” Garren said.

“So why did you-”

“-I like jokes.”

“Fine. Garren, NOW can I leave?” Warney pleaded.

“Sure thing, Garren.” Garren (Ted?) replied.

“So now my title is Garren again?” Warney (?) asked.

“Yep,” confirmed Garren Ted. “Like I said, me likey jokes.”

“Whatever you say, Ted,” Garren Warney muttered.

“WHO THE FUCK IS TED, YOU LITTLE SNOT!?!?” shouted Garren. He turned to the corner of the shop and set his eyes on the push broom.

“Please,” Warney muttered, not at all liking the turn this encounter seemed to be taking.

“Yes…” Garren whispered as he walked over to the corner. “Push broom.”

Warney’s eyes darted across the room, assessing whether or not he could make a run for it. By now, of course, Garren had returned with a push broom in tow.

SPOILER ALERT: The push broom is the villain, I think…

Garren swung the push broom as hard as he could and smacked Warney right across the face. Warney fell to the floor and Garren glared at him.

“Why did you just call me Ted, Warney?!?!” Garren screamed and glared at Warney. Warney spit blood onto the floor and looked up at Garren, who glared at him and stepped on his femur.

“I was confused by your joke about our names, Garren,” Warney screamed as his femur snapped. The pain was unbelievable. He wiped blood from his mouth. All the while, of course, Garren was glarin’.

“What do you mean, ‘joke’?” Garren asked.

“That little joke where you said my new name was Garr-”

“-I HATE JOKES!!!” Garren swung the push broom at Warney once again, this time hitting him square in the chest. Warney puked pretty instantly.

“You will pay for this insubordination, Warney,” Garren warned.

“I feel like I already have,” Warney pointed out, wiping blood and vomit from his mouth.

“Interesting theory…” Garren muttered. He ran his fingers across his chin. “You are free to go.”

Warney got up slowly. His body ached and his head throbbed, but he was elated at the opportunity to leave this awful place.

“See you tomorrow to make that mask?” Garren asked nonchalantly.

“Yeah,” Warney said as he limped to the door. “Probably not. You just beat the shit out of me and I’m fairly certain you wanted to turn me into a mask.”

“You’re a wise, boy, Warney,” Garren whispered. “See you tomorrow.”

“I don’t think you heard me. I won’t be coming back tomorrow.” Warney left the building.

“See you tomorrow, Warney,” Garren whispered, even quieter this time.

************

Later that night, the police showed up at Garren’s Scarin’ Ya With His Masks Mask Shoppe to find an empty warehouse.

“Looks like it’s been abandoned for years,” said Sgt. Lemurs.

Officer Jomathy Taylorb glanced up at the Sergeant and shook his head.

“Fuckin’ kid,” Jomathy began with a sneer. “Must have beat himself up and called us up just to get attention or something.”

Sgt. Lemurs nodded. “Stuff like this happens all the time, rookie,” he said. “Kids make up these silly stories so they can get popular on ViewTuber and FriendPlace.”

“Either that or we don’t investigate properly,” Jomathy pointed out with a laugh. Sgt. Lemurs joined in and they both had a good chuckle.

“Ha ha ha ha ha!” came a third, much more sinister laugh.

Sgt. Lemurs and Officer Taylorb looked around.

“Did that push broom just laugh with us?” Sgt. Lemurs asked.

“I don’t think so, sir,” said Jomathy. “I don’t think it would have a motive.”

Sgt. Lemurs looked Jomathy up and down. “You’re gonna be a good cop one day, rook,” he said and jabbed Jomathy playfully in the shoulder. “Motive. That’s good cop stuff.”

Jomathy smiled.

“The end,” the narrator thought about writing. He reread the story and shook his head.

Through The Looking Mask

People feel certain ways about masks. Warney certainly felt a very specific way about masks. He had a friend named Garren, who had a similar or differing opinion on masks. They were the best of friends, and together they would attend Masquerades (as well as Mask Parades). One day they met a mask that taught them an important lesson about being yourself. Then it made them go insane and kill each other. At one point during the story, they had to solve a riddle together.

The End.

For more Tales To Tell ‘Round Midnight, click on the following…

The Halloween That Was Actually Arbor Day

The Undelivered Package

The Slightly Haunted Mansion Party Across The Street From The Significantly More Haunted Mansion Party

Now You Invisible, Now You Don’t Invisible

Nightmare At Nightmare High

-April 19th, 2009-

DOB: Hello?

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

DOB: …Uh huh.

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

DOB: Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

Fantasia, as it exists in my memory.

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

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

DOB: I’m almost positive it is.

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

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

Sketches

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

-May 3rd, 2009-

Iger: No. No, no, absolutely not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Iger: You are not the best.

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

Iger: Shut up.

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

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

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

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

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

[Dialtone]

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

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

The Show

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

EXT. THE DOCKS BEHIND THE MAGIC KINGDOM- DAY

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

MINNIE

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

MICK

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

MINNIE

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

MICK

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

ROCK AND ROLL

INT. DONALD DUCK’S STUDIO APARTMENT - NIGHT

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

MICK

Looks like you’ve seen better days, Donnie.

DONALD

[Unintelligible gibberish.] [Unintelligible gibberish.]

MICK

I hear you, old friend. I hear you.

DONALD

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

MICK

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

DONALD

[Unintelligible gibberish.]?

MICK

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

DONALD

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

MICK

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

DONALD

[Unintelligible gibberish.]?

MICK

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

ROCK AND ROLL

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

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

Iger: I can read Daniel.

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

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

DOB: Who did you think you were hiring?

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

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

Iger: Those are just rumors!

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

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

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

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

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

DOB: DAMMIT.

This Other Thing

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

November 6, 2009

[Ring.]

DOB: Hello?

[Faint sound of heart exploding.]

I don’t know about you, but if I was fighting in a shitty war, I sure would feel better if someone put together the Craked.com in Association with Captain Freedom and Presented by Me For-The-Troops YouTube Classic Theater. Wait a minute: holy shit:

You can learn a lot from YouTube. For example, I learned that when our God was giving the Iraqi people hand-eye-coordination, he took inspiration from three cats tied to a vacuum cleaner.

I’ve never meant this more: “Nice jumping jacks, assholes!” So now that you and the troops have had a nice laugh at the expense of others, let’s move on to change absolutely nothing. Below is more laughter at the expense of others. We’re Americans, not some kind of changey homunists. If we change anything, it’s going to be the gravy in the center of our hot dogs and the medical duration of our erections. Put that in your turban and smoke it, Iraq. While you’ve been over there getting occupied and learning how to move your arms and legs at the same time, we’ve been hard this whole time.

Name: Flap Birdo, International Superstar of Failure
Real Name: Furthest Guy on the Right
Technique: Flap knows that this “jumping jack” the American troops speak of has something to do with jumping. His brain relays this message to his limbs, and each of them violently interprets it differently. If I was an anthropologist, I’d say he was panicking and that this was an ancient biological defense to dismember yourself and explode your body on your enemy as a final revenge. But since I’m not an anthropologist, I’ll say that this guy is so uncoordinated that he can’t piss his pants without a funnel.

Name: Clappy “The Seal” Ahmdghudj
Real Name: Second Guy from the Right
Technique: “The Seal” saw that clapping was involved in this exercise. But he didn’t have a word for it. In a country whose leading cultural export is mustard gas and lamb sex, there’s not a lot of opportunities for clapping. If someone died every time an Iraqi person applauded, it would kill fewer people than vitamins. “The Seal” is really making up for lost time, though. He’s clapping in front of his chest, over his head… where has this clapping been his whole life!? It’s like someone taught a monkey where its genitals were, but without all the elegance.

Name: Princess Ballet
Real Name: The Third One from the Right
Technique: Forming a circle with his arms and clumsily plie’ing, Princess Ballet creates a beautiful song about his body’s inability to do the simplest of tasks. This is so far from a jumping jack that if you told me this was a robot trying to make ice cream inside itself, I’d thank you for making sense of it. And then we’d kill it together, as ice cream-filled friends. Wait, now that I think about it, all these guys look like malfunctioning robots. Are they working out on an Iraqi Showtime Pizza burial ground?

Name: Rocket Virginbuster
Real Name: That is his real name.
Technique: When a white guy does a jumping jack, he’s all, “I’m effectively doing a jumping jack.” When an Iraqi does a jumping jack, he’s like, “I’m an idiot, motherfucker!”

Name: Chuck Chasewagon
Real Name: Parts Unknown
Technique: Whenever an Iraqi is asked to perform a physical action, they respond with a flipper-handed seizure. And under Iraqi law–or as we know it “Thunderdome”–it’s legal for every household to own an assault rifle. Those two things don’t go together. They have to have 50 goats in the house just to soak up all the accidental bullets. Growing up in Iraq is like growing up as a stop sign in Arkansas. When the Iraqi family gets together for dinner, they don’t talk about how your day was. They talk about which one of those bullet wounds is fresh, because we just had these carpets painted! You’re the reason we can’t have nice things, like this VCD copy of Hǎtch, the Turkish remake of Hitch featuring Miami Vice and Han Solo.

Name: Tap Razzmatazz
Real Name: Sixth Fellow from the Right
Technique: Remember that episode of the Cosby Show where Bill Cosby is challenged to tapdance? Well, that previous sentence is exactly what “jumping jack” translates to in Arabic.

Name: Swandive
Real Name: Saul Swandivenstein
Technique: While every other Iraqi guy is throwing themselves into the air like retarded human popcorn, Swandive carefully puts his hands together and slides them straight up. It’s just as wrong, but with less effort. This guy sucks so hard at jumping jacks that when he’s done with his workout, he has an egg, three gallons of milk and semen in his stomach.

Name: Impossible Achmed
Real Name: Eighth from the Right
Technique: This Iraqi was doing nearly perfect jumping jacks, which any scientist will tell you must be a hallucination. It’s so impossible that when most people watch it, a portal opens next to them and a future version of themselves screams, “I’m too late!” Let’s look at the facts: Being Iraqi and doing a jumping jack is like being American and transforming into a dinosaur boat. The fact that he can do this does nothing less than prove genies. We now know that magical men live in lamps and can grant wishes. And if anyone ever manages to produce a more reasonable theory, don’t trust that guy. He clearly has a fucking genie.

Name: Scimitar Napmaster
Real Name: Ninth from the Right
Technique: When Napmaster realizes that he’s doing something wrong, he gently keeps his feet planted and makes rings with his arms. I’ve gotten better workouts waving goodbye to the pizza delivery man. If this is the Iraqi idea of physical fitness, is it any wonder that these guys’ heads pop off when you hang them? Slam! Oh my god, if Saddam still had a head, that burn would have backdrafted his whole face off!

Note: Much like the people who start these wars, you never know how much you should believe YouTube. We’ll let historians work out whether or not this too-insane-to-be-real video is actually too insane to be real. Because even if the world was tricked by an elaborate jumping jack hoax, the people who managed to convince a platoon of soldiers to line up and do jumping jacks wrong still deserve the Silver Star of Morale Soaring Hilarity. If anyone has any proof that this video was created by professional military jumping jack impersonators, here’s what you do: keep it to yourself and hold this can of peanuts. The last thing our troops need right now is to find out the Internet was lying from some butthole holding a can of snakes. That’s right, you’re not as hard to trick as you thought, butthole.

“I have this many,” I told the woman.

“I… what? Oh, you need help? OK, you’re at gate 32, Runway C.” She smiled pleasantly at first, but after several minutes of intense, silent staring the expression began to waver. “It’s uh… it’s that way. There’s a picture of a fish at a seafood restaurant kind of by the gate. Look for that.”

Once she’d finally used her fingers and picture-words to guide me, I set on my way. I’ve been working for this site for over a year now, but despite all the hilarious stories we tell here, I’ve never really met anybody in person. But that was all about to change: Cracked was having a party – a real, official, ball-busting gala to celebrate their many successes – and when they first invited me, I’ll admit I was a bit skeptical. The phrases “not ever attending” and “your dipshit parade” may have been bandied about a bit. Then they offered to fly me out, all expenses paid. Yet still, I remained reticent. Regrettably, somebody may have brought up the possibility of airline tickets being shoved up somebody else’s asshole sideways. Then they told me it was an open bar.

…and I left so fast it made a man-shaped hole in the wall.

After a hilarious misunderstanding about my new sneakers “being the bomb” and a not so hilarious misunderstanding about my anus being a glove, I finally boarded my plane to California. When we touched down, an impossibly small man-thing met me at the airport. He held a sign that read “Cockway” in beautifully calligraphic lettering. In slightly less impressive scrawl, the “way” part had been scratched out and replaced with “gay.” This latter had been underlined several times, and whoever did it applied enough pressure on the last underline to actually tear through the signboard. There were spots that may have been blood.

“I’m assuming you’re DOB?” I leaned down to shake the man’s hand, but he was so terribly small it seemed inappropriate. I ruffled his hair playfully instead.

DOB: Actual size.

“F-f-f-fuckin’ cut it out!” Oh my, he has a stutter! The trip was already becoming rapidly worth it.

“I got the c-c-c-c-company car over here,” he motioned for me to follow. We reached an empty corner in the parking lot, and he smiled proudly.

“Hop in,” he said, gesturing to the open door of a burrito truck.

I began to form a question, but he quickly raised a hand to cut me off. He was obviously used to this reaction.

“We do d-d-d-d-double duty: By day Cracked is a c-c-c-comedy site, sure, but by night we convert the offices into the best burrito c-c-c-cart this side of the 101!”

“Yeah, could I get two tacos, an enchilada and the top 5 worst examples of sexism in GI Joe?”

“Is that impressive?” I asked. Like most every other subject, I knew very little about California. I know their capital is Schwarzenegger and the state bird is a forest fire, but that’s about it.

“No,” he replied, downtrodden, “n-n-not really.”

We got in the truck, tied the rope seatbelts together and set off… towards adventure! Oh wait… no. I’m sorry I misread that. That said “Ventura.”

We set off towards Ventura.

When we pulled up in front of the bar, I knew somebody was fucking with me. It was a long way to go for a joke, sure, but I know that if anybody would fly a person all the way down to California just to spite them, it’s Cracked. The place was goddamn gorgeous! It was a palace: a mecca of glittering fixtures, expensive booze and stunning women looking sexily aloof and sensually disinterested. (That’s not saying much–all women making eye contact with me tend to look aloof and disinterested. But these ones looked damn good not paying attention to me.)

I don’t know what they’re smiling at, because I have literally never seen that expression on a woman before.

“No fucking way this is the place,” I told DOB, as he deftly hopped out of the still-moving vehicle and disappeared from view. A moment later he reappeared, jogged back up alongside the truck, and desperately hurled a wedge of wood in front of the wheels. The burrito cart slammed to a stop, covering the back of my head with carne asada.
“Sorry, those “brakes” are a little rough. But this is the place, man. Some things we just d-d-d-don’t skimp on. Sure, maybe my office is technically the grill on a burrito c-c-c-cart, and sure, maybe our health insurance is an expired bottle of Tamiflu we all split, and sure, maybe our 401K is a t-t-t-Transformers lunchbox that I keep stealing, but we don’t f-f-f-fuck around about getting tore up. Now shut your meat hole and get inside. We’ve been waiting on you.”

I opened the double doors to a smattering of applause… that quickly died when the partygoers got a good look at me. Was I disappointing somehow? I took myself in: filthy bathrobe, pink fleece sweatpants with the word “juicy” emblazoned across the ass and completely, blindingly shirtless–nope, lookin’ good. I glanced to DOB for an explanation, but he was nowhere to be seen. In his place stood an eight-foot-tall monstrosity of a man, roughly 97 percent limbs and skull.

“Hey, Swaim!” I said to Swaim (it was Swaim, everybody!)

Pictured: Swaim’s creepy, but somehow still erotic dancing.

“Hey,” he replied absently, clearly eyeing the room for somebody more interesting. “The applause weren’t for you. They are waiting on Seanbaby.”

“Psh, good luck,” I scoffed, “he never shows up in these stories.”

“Our table’s over there,” he pointed at a far corner with his Stretch Armstrong limbs, and we started off.

“So, what’s with the ginormous statue of the devil?” I asked him, pointing to a ginormous statue of the devil that was there.

“Well shit, somebody’s gotta pay for all this,” he replied.

“And it’s Satan?!”

“What? No, dude. It’s Red Devil Caffeine Pills. You been eatin’ retard sandwiches or something? Do we need to get you a seatbelt so you don’t fall out of your chair?”

“Oh… sorry.”

“Do we need to hire a guy to monitor which throat-tube you put liquids down so you don’t accidentally breathe your gin and tonic?”

“I get it. I’m sorry I asked.”

“Do we need to get you a crash helmet for dinner so you don’t mistake your own head for a meatball and stab yourself to death with a fork?”

“Jesus Christ! I said I was sorry!” That last struck too close to home. How did he know about the helmet?

Never again, helmet. Never again!

“Do we need to-“ He started up again, but luckily at that moment Gladstone had clambered up onto the horns of Satan and was doing his best Teen Wolf impression.

“Look at me! Give me all of your attention! I’m the Teenage Wolfman!” It was not a very good impression. “I’m snowboarding on a station wagon like in that movie with Kirk Cameron!”

“God you are so old! Everything about that was wrong and I hate you for it!” DOB screamed up at him, shoving the statue with all of his short-guy rage. The mooring lines gave way, and the whole thing came crashing to the floor - Gladstone piggy-backing the Caffeine Devil all the way down to Hell.

Red Devil Caffeine Pills: When you really need to just MURDER THE DAY AND FUCK THE CORPSE.

We finally arrived at the columnist’s table. It was an opulent spread bedecked in rare furs and set with crystal goblets. Some terribly bored and obviously well-paid skanks were sprinkled liberally about the booth in various states of repose, and in the center of this debauchery, on a black granite dais, sat Editor in Chief Jack O’Brien, his hand-carved wooden throne lined with seal fur. I went to shake his hand, but was roughly shoved aside and sat down.

“You do not talk directly to Jack,” DOB hissed in my ear, “unless you want one of two things: a paycheck or a savage dick-beating.”

I spent a good deal contemplating the latter, wondering if it was an intense beating focused exclusively on the genitals, or an intense beating performed with a penis wielded somewhat like a chain flail. I decided not to risk either and stay quiet. An eager, well-kempt young man flopped down next to me, utterly beaming with earnestness.

“Hey guys!” said Bucholz, grinning widely in his overalls and idly chewing on a piece of straw. “Isn’t this exciting?! We might finally have a real story to tell about the Cracked writers getting together! Not just those fictional adventures!”

“Back home in Canada, we drink milk straight from the cow!”

“Sh-sh-sh-shut up, Bucholz.” DOB snapped, somehow managing to stutter a ‘sh’ sound. “Nobody would believe anything that happened here, anyway. We’ve lied and embellished t-t-t-too often.”

“Yeah, no you’re right,” continued Swaim, “this does seem a little unbelievable. It’s like another weak premise for one of those stupid stories.”

DOB began to shift uneasily.

“What if this isn’t real?” he whispered conspiratorially. “What if… what if we’re not real?”

“…you’re finally getting it, aren’t you?” I smiled knowingly at DOB.

“Getting what?” All color drained out of his face.

“You’re finally seeing the thin veil that separates reality from fantasy… and how easily torn it can be. Are you ready, Daniel? Are you ready to see how deep this rabbit hole goes?”

I held two hands out, palms up. On one rested a blue pill; the other, a red.

“What these? Nah, I always carry the reality bending pills on me. Why do you ask?”

“Choose one, Daniel. The blue pill will take you back to the reality you’ve always known, and this will all become a distant memory. But the red pill? Take the red pill, and the veil will be lifted. You will see reality as it truly is.”

With trembling, hesitant fingers, DOB reached out and plucked the red pill from my hand.

“Swallow it and see the truth,” I told him.

“That’s what I told your mom last night,” he whispered reverently, and downed the capsule. He wandered off in a near-religious trance, ready to see the light.

“What was the red pill?” Swaim asked me.

“Quaalude.”

“And the blue pill was…” Swaim started.

“Another Quaalude, yes,” I finished.

“So… why do you have multi-colored ‘Ludes in your pocket?”

“Because it’s Tuesday, man. ‘Lude day!”

“And the colors?”

“Well, it’s a party ain’t it? I’m just being festive. Taste the rainbow, guy!”

Quaaludes: Taste thr rsinboooooooooooow

“Good god,” Swaim swore. “I’m going to need 18 drinks if I’m making it through a night sitting next to you. Where’s that bar?”

Shit! I had nearly forgotten about them–the two holiest words in the English language: “Open” and “Bar.” God, look at them together. They’re like poetry. Say them out loud; don’t they sound beautiful? The lilting cadence of music plays in and out of their syllables. They are a minor incantation of joy, working real magic into the cynical science of this world whenever they are spoken truthfully. Open bar! Open bar! Openbar! Openbaropenbar!

I felt as if in a dream. My legs seemed disconnected as I floated over to that shimmering isle of spirits. I was here! I had finally reached it! My god, do you know what I’m going to do to an open bar? I’m going to make love to it so passionately it might be a war crime. They will write epic ballads about this night. Generations from now, they will sing of it in hushed voices around the campfire and the tale will be passed from father to son. This is oral history in the making! This is how legends are born!

“Bourbon, please,” I told the barkeep. “The best you’ve go-

***

It is now, apparently, Wednesday. I am typing this from what I believe to be Mexico, in what I sincerely hope is not a shallow puddle of human blood. There is something in the bathroom, and I am hoping with the desperate fervor of a Pentecostal that it turns out to be a woman, but from the sound of it, I have doubts that it is even human.

Please, if you’re reading this, I need you to do three things for me: First, call a doctor and ask if you’re supposed to move if you think you’re missing a kidney. Second, call Cracked and ask somebody if I’m fired. I mean, I’m pretty sure I’m fired, but it’s nice to have validation. Finally, while you’re on the phone with them (and assuming by some miracle that I’m still employed) tell them I’m calling in sick today.

Apocalyptic warnings have always been attractive to a certain type of person–bearded men without jobs primarily–and now that a lot more people are unemployed (and presumably bearded), anticipation of a world where our credit card debts have been wiped clean by a horrible calamity is building. What’s a couple billion dead if it gets Citibank off your ass, right? So, to see if there was any truth behind this 2012 phenomena, and track down where it originates from and what it could mean, I interviewed some of the leading specialists on history, science and new age studies from around the world.

___

The Mayan Calendar
According to Dr. Jorge Estrada, an Archaeologist from the University of Caba and an expert on Mayan an Olmec studies, the Mayans used a cyclical calendar, where every 144,000 days (approximately 400 years) constituted a unit called a “baktun.” Several Mayan records warn that after 13 baktuns have elapsed from year 0, “something” would happen. What that “something” entails is far from clear. Inscriptions seem to indicate that after the 13th baktun elapses, “Black… will occur” followed by the descent of “Bolon Yookte K’uh.” Who or what a Bolon Yookte K’uh is–aside from a terrible name for a baby girl–is at this point unclear. Inscriptions found elsewhere describe Bolon as a god of war, conflict or the underworld.

Artist’s representation of Bolon Yookte K’uh.

So, to date the arrival of the apocalypse, we have to do a little math. Because the Mayans never heard about all the good work Jesus did, their year 0 is a little different than ours, and when that’s taken into account, the 13th baktun is supposed to elapse on December 21 or 23, 2012. Great. Because the holiday season isn’t stressful enough.

“I swear to God, I wish a tidal wave kills your parents.”

Dr. Estrada doesn’t put a lot of stock in the doomsday scenarios, but during our conversation, he did begin talking very excitedly about some new inscriptions he’d uncovered recently that shed some light on Bolon Yookte K’uh. His translation hasn’t been published or peer-reviewed yet, so take it with a grain of salt. The inscription appears to tell a story of Bolon Yookte K’uh meeting a “man-boy from the land of sparks and whispers.” This half-man apparently confronts Bolon Yookte K’uh on the day of reckoning. After that point, the inscription is badly damaged, and little else after that is legible, except for a glyph meaning “terrible violation.”

___

Timewave Zero & the I Ching
Timewave Zero is a theory once proposed by a man called Terence McKenna. McKenna believed that the universe has a sort of interconnectedness which ebbs and flows over time. Ultimately this “timewave” will reach a crescendo, at which point shit will go down. The exact nature of the shit is uncertain, though from his studies of the ancient Chinese text the I Ching, and a computer program of his own invention, McKenna believed that it would happen in late 2012. It’s worth pointing out here that McKenna’s theories have been criticized on the basis that he had never, at all during his life, not been on drugs.

Press F3 to invert polarity of horseshit.

Still, his theories have been taken up by others, and I managed to speak to one of them. Daryl Kilsman of Santa Cruz is an expert teleologician, which is a word I think he made up right on the spot. I also feel it’s worth pointing out that I’m pretty sure I could actually smell this man over the phone. Kilsman has refined McKenna’s work, and by converting the output from McKenna’s Timewave program into a series of I Ching hexagrams, like some sort of Ouroboros of bullshit, he claims to have found another message. This message, told in the maddeningly vague manner of all I Ching prophecies, simply states the following phrases “Purveyor of cracked scrolls,” “Heaven Beast,” “Danger” and “Great Humbling Penetration.” Kilsman offered to share his interpretation of this with me, but by that point I had set the phone down to get some fresh air.

___

Geomagnetic Reversal
Geomagnetic reversal is a term used to describe an event where the Earth’s magnetic poles will flip over. There’s geological evidence to suggest this has happened multiple times in the past, and that it is in fact long overdue. There’s absolutely nothing to tie geomagnetic reversal to the year 2012 however, and whether such an event would be apocalyptic or merely a nuisance is again, completely unknown.

Because no one of any repute at all will talk about this, I decided to take a compass, a globe and $33 to Madam Shandra, an “Attuned Plane Walker” and “Experienced Masseuse” whose flier ended up in my hands while researching an unrelated project. Madam Shandra greeted me warmly, and after I explained who I was and showed her I did in fact have the money, she seemed eager to help.

After dimming the lights, Shandra consulted her astral companion from the Ninth Plane, Toby. Together they confirmed that there was nothing to be concerned of: the Earth’s magnetic field was fine, and would be for another 10,000 years. However, as I was handing over the cash, Shandra seized upon my palm, very excited by a scar that I’d had since childhood. According to her and Toby, this mark implied that I was a child of destiny, fated to lead mankind during its darkest hour. When I inquired for more information, she told me that my complete fate could only be unlocked in the course of a special $45 massage.

___

Galactic Alignment
The principle behind this theory is that due to a slight wobble in the Earth’s axis of rotation, the position of constellations in the night sky will shift slowly over a 26,000 year cycle. And, at or around the end of the 20th century, the constellation that rises during the winter solstice is Sagittarius, which happens to be the constellation hanging over the center of the galaxy. Lunatics have proposed that galactic energy will be beamed directly to Earth during this alignment. And, seeing that 2012 is close to the end of the 20th century, it would seem proponents of this theory have decided to climb aboard the 2012 bandwagon of crazy.

I couldn’t find any supporters of this theory willing to go on record; although someone in a related newsgroup did ask me to “STOP LEAKING BRAIN ZETA PROSPECTS OVER THE TORUS.” Browsing said newsgroup though, it seems these people claim the Mayans were aware of the cycles of axial precession when they devised their calendar. They even point out the existence of Mayan symbols like the Hunab Ku, which depicts a spiral pattern that could be a galaxy, and the Kwantk Phnag sequence, which they claim to be a representation of the apocalypse. This sequence depicts the Hunab Ku lined up above a temple, where priest/astronomers watch as a large bear forcibly has sex with a man.

___

Nibiru Collision
This is where we find the real cask-strength crazy. Extra terrestrials have supposedly been sending zeta waves to receptive individuals on Earth, warning that a rogue planet called Nibiru would soon arrive in the solar system, wreaking havoc. Whether it collides with Earth or merely rips us apart via tidal forces is unknown, possibly because it’s completely, completely made up.

I traveled to the University of Portland, where I spoke with Dr. Jennifer Feits, who studies people who have claimed to be contacted by extra terrestrials. Feits explained how these stories become self reinforcing as they spread throughout the community. Susceptible individuals will hear a story, then realize/claim they had a similar experience themselves. Basically these people feed off each other, their shared fictions seeming to give further proof that there’s some truth they’re peering in on. In her research, Feits has gone to some length to isolate such individuals, to see if their stories matched up when kept independent of one another. And in all cases but one, they never did.

The anomalous story was an interesting one. Several people have all independently told a vivid story of a an emissary from Nibiru, who for all intents and purposes looked like a grizzly bear, and answers to the name Balon. Balon travels to Earth, where he randomly selects a representative for the planet. This one is described as a foolish and vain man with thin arms. During their meeting, the representative angers the great space bear with his terrible manners and sweaty neck. At this point the space bear vigorously molests the representative in front of the whole world’s press and dignitaries. “Everyone felt very embarrassed for this pathetic figure,” Dr. Feits said, looking at me curiously. “Apparently he did not comport himself very well, either as a representative of humankind, or even as a man. Lots of weeping and wailing,” she concluded, grabbing one of my arms and squeezing it experimentally. After I wriggled out of her grasp, she continued her story with a shrug. “Anyways, after that Balon decides that the people of Earth are too pathetic to even be worth destroying. He returns to Nibiru and the planet continues on its way, leaving humanity alive and unharmed.”

“And, uh, what happened to the Earth’s representative?” I asked.

Dr. Feits looked at me blankly. “Who cares?”

____

As you can see, the threat of a disaster in the year 2012 is both real and too great to ignore. I encourage all loyal readers to donate thousands of dollars every day to the Prevent-Space-Bear-Rape-Fund, which will provide funding for protein shakes, free weights and Krav Maga lessons for the Earth’s representative as soon as he steps forward, along with $45 massages for the administrator of the plan, who, until further notice, will be me.

___

“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. . .

Jimothan sighed, his arms wafting about as if to say “If only we could sigh, but sadly we are just arms.”  Yes, it was the kind of sigh that a stranger might speak up about, were they so inclined.

“Something the matter, guy?” a nearby stranger felt inclined to say.

“Something the matter, guy?” the nearby stranger asked.

“Oh, no, nothing,” breathed Jimothan.

The nearby stranger had little to think about that day, so he pressed further.

“That sigh certainly wasn’t no nothin’ kinda sigh there, boy,” pressed the nearby stranger.  “What’s the problem-o?”

“I sighed because someone else got the best costume in the store,” Jimothan sighed again.  “I really needed that.”

“Yeah, I’ve been eyeing that costume for months, myself,” said the nearby stranger, standing nearby.  “It certainly was the best costume I ever seen.”

The two stood there a moment, lamenting the fact that neither of them had gotten their hands on the best costume in the store.  Minutes later, the stranger spoke up.

“Why are you so glum, though?” he asked Jimothan.  “You can just get another costume.”

Jimothan scowled. “How am I going to find a costume in time for my party tonight?”

“Why you havin’ a Halloween party on Arbor Day?” the stranger asked.

“What do you mean?” asked a shocked Jimothan, all shocked and stuff.

“It ain’t Halloween, kiddo,” the nearby stranger explained.  “It’s Arbor Day.”

This was too much for Jimothan, who immediately believed the nearby stranger.    It was so too much for Jimothan, in fact, that he screamed quite suddenly and ran out of the store.  The now faraway stranger shook his head and went back to his business, which is of no concern to you, nor is it any of your business.

The parking lot outside of the costume store was full of zombies, which was a mainstay of this particular town’s Arbor Day celebration.  Jimothan was baffled six ways from “I’m baffled,” because  Halloween was a zombie-free holiday in this particular town, and Jimothan could have sworn this was Halloween.  The current zombie frenzy begged to differ, but beggars can’t be choosers and the zombies certainly didn’t choose to be in a frenzy, so maybe we should all just settle down and forget about the zombies for a second.

The particular town Jimothan was in was called New York City, and it was a mere shadow of the New York City you’re probably thinking of (New York City, Ottawa).  This New York City had but one main road with a gas station and a costume shop.  The local school was run by the students, and the local students couldn’t care less about running a school so, no, there was no school to speak of.

New York City didn’t quite care for the theatrics of Halloween, nor was it fond of its ne’er-do-well attitude.  Halloween was tolerated in this particular town, and by God if this didn’t seem like the craziest zombie frenzy this town had ever seen (certainly not the kind of celebration one would see during Halloween).

“What the zombie?” exclaimed Jimothan in the manner one might exclaim “What the hell?”

This certainly was the time for exclamation, but not so much that we need to spend anymore time here.  Jimothan made his way through the zombies and arrived home.

“How is your Arbor Day going, sweetie?” asked Jimothan’s mother, Jimmifer.

“Horrible,” Jimothan muttered.  “I think it’s Halloween for some reason.”

“Well, it’s not Halloween, dear,” Jimmifer explained.  “It’s Arbor Day.”

“If it’s so much Arbor Day, then why aren’t we going to the Frankenstein Feast?  If it were Arbor Day, we’d be enjoying some delicious Frankenstein right now!”

“But, honey,” Jimmifer began to say as she also began to put on her coat.  “We are leaving for the Frankenstein Feast right now.  Put on your coat, or you’ll catch cold.  You don’t want the Ice Pumpkin to come and take your health for the season.”

“Mother,” Jimothan began to say as he also began to put on his coat.  “I’m old enough to not believe in the Ice Pumpkin.  That’s just an Arbor Day myth.”

“Nevertheless,” Jimmifer opened the door.  “We must not rely on the Vampire Campfire for warmth this year.  Rumor has it a lot of the vampires are on strike.”

“Mother, they’re on strike every Arbor Day.”

“Did you see the zombies, dear?”

“Yes, mother.”

“It’s Arbor Day, sweetie.”

“I think it’s Halloween.”

“Nope.  Arbor Day.”

Jimothan looked up and realized that Halloween wasn’t Arbor Day at all.  It was Halloween.  That stranger from earlier was crazy and everything else was a dream or something.

The End

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

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

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

“That’s not his name,” Sally said.

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

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

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

“His mom’s dead,” Sally said quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was Bugs Meany,” Daniel said.

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

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

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

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

“Fucking, Bugs.”

“There’s more,” Marty said.

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

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

“Or a werewolf,” Sally chimed in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brown smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think I know my own Dad, Daniel.”

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

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

“Jesus Christ, this kid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re retarded, is his point.”

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

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

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

“…I’m 11.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have a Spooktacular Halloween!

#7. Kids on Children Shows

Any actor on a kid’s show that isn’t dressed as an alien or a bear is a complete idiot. They run into streets, they drink bleach, and if a stranger says he has a cookie in his pants, they’ll sprain their wrists grabbing for it. And all of these horrible things remind nearby creatures of songs. Do you realize that there’s an entire generation of children whose first interaction with education is watching traffic accidents and handjobs get interrupted by rapping dinosaurs? Good luck, Future.

Why They’re So Stupid:
Besides basic safety procedures, most puppets only know songs about the alphabet. If you’re over the age of three, hearing that all day is just going to make you dumber.

#6. Airport Security Guards

When you apply for a job as an airport screener, you are shown a jar containing three jelly beans and asked to guess how many are inside. If you guess correctly, you are placed in a holding cell and tortured until you give up the bomb’s location (nice try, Muhammad). If you guess incorrectly, you are given a coupon for a free hug. If you throw the jar of jelly beans into a wall safe and scream for everyone to clear the airport, you are immediately hired.

You’re only allowed to bring three ounces of liquid on a plane. Kind of. You might have a four-ounce bottle of toothpaste that’s almost empty, but airport security guards are so stupid they’re not allowed to do that kind of math. This is a problem, but I have an idea. Since we don’t have enough money to hire dentists to inspect everyone’s toothpaste, we should put a chimpanzee at each checkpoint. Then, every passenger gets to select two items from their bags to carry into battle against the chimp. This will not only quickly identify each commuter’s two best weapons, but if they choose toothpaste, hold on, there’s something up with this guy’s toothpaste.

Why They’re So Stupid:
The idea is to make them so dumb that they’re impossible to trick. But man they’re going to look like geniuses when the first old lady tries to drive a jetliner into the Statue of Liberty and her plan falls apart because her mouthwash wasn’t in her carry-on.

#5. Cops in Sci-Fi Movies

As a rule, people in movies haven’t ever seen a movie. They’re not equipped to deal with anything strange. Now, if you or I saw a naked man drop through a hole in reality and walk through 50 bullets to put his fist through our stomach, we’d die knowing that we’ve made a robot from the future very happy. A guy in a movie, though, he has no idea what happened. He’ll use his dying words to argue how robots don’t exist, and even if they did, they wouldn’t be able to smile!

As slow as people are to accept that they’re dealing with the supernatural, cops are always the last ones to catch on. They can watch the Blob dissolve through a kindergarten and suggest out loud that they must have drank too much this morning. No matter what, a cop in a science fiction movie uses drugs as the explanation for everything. Did a dead body get up and eat the coroner? “PCP.” Did a viking frost giant knock down a skyscraper? “Stack of PCP abusers.” Did Star Man bring a dead deer back to life? “That’s just what gay sex looks like when you see it for the first time.”

We know that werewolves are impossible, officer. But after you see one doing a handstand on a moving van and leading their team to the state finals, it gets to a point where “werewolves” are a less ridiculous explanation than “Armenian drug users learning to talk and play basketball.”

Why They’re So Stupid:
If police were allowed to believe in the supernatural, they would be shooting people all day long. Meth addicts would be shot as goblins. People lined up for Twilight would be gunned down as vampires. And like I mentioned before, gay prostitutes performing deer necromancy would be… actually, I think they already shoot you for that.

#4. Fat People Near Trapdoors

The seventh law of thermodynamics is that every time a fat person gets near a trapdoor, they fall in. It’s the closest thing we have to scientific proof of God.

Why They’re So Stupid:
According to my research, rumors of underground pizza trees started in 1982 made not falling into trapdoors completely obsolete in the fat person community. If that’s a coincidence, I’ve completely wasted this encyclopedia set.

#3. Healthcare Practitioners

To avoid any subjectiveness on this author’s part, I wanted one of these to be fully scientific. So I went on FutureProofYourCareer.com and took an extensive online quiz that tested my aptitude and personality traits to decide the perfect career for me. This was a quiz I was determined to fail.

I gave myself the lowest possible scores in all aspects of human ability. Then I answered all the personality questions like a schizophrenic. If I was able to contradict myself at any time, I did. As far as this quiz knows, I can’t do math or stack objects, I’ve killed several drifters and I did great in math class while working as an object stacker. I’d like to think that by the time I finished, a computer somewhere was screaming and shooting itself in the mouth. Unrelated to this article, that image is also what I was thinking about every time I slept with you, ex-girlfriends.

So now that this computer brain knows I can’t do anything right, and the property damage from me trying would be unacceptable, it suggested my primary field of study: healthcare practitioner. This seemed strange. Maybe because giving myself the lowest possible scores in everything proved I was honest enough to tell someone they have cancer without fucking with them, yet incompetent enough to have that turn out to be wrong. That’s win/win for everybody.

Why They’re So Stupid:
Don’t ask me. It’s simple science.

#2. Pro Wrestling Referees

These people have made a career out of looking at the wrong thing. If the Love Buddies are in a tag match against the Murder Cheaters, you can be sure that the ref will spend the whole time screaming at the Love Buddy outside the ring while all manner of inhumanity is being done to the one behind him. I looked up logic in my encyclopedia. Even by 1982 standards, that doesn’t make any sense! If you hired a pro wrestling referee to babysit, he would warn the house plant in the corner not to cheat while your two cats killed your baby behind him.

Why They’re So Stupid:
No matter how obvious the crime scene, the ref can’t ever piece together the story after he turns back around. If he sees two burping cats and half an infant, all he knows is that these cats win! Shrug! As soon as you get home, he’ll present you with the new tag team champions and go home thinking it was a job well done.

#1. Best Buy Employees

Have you ever had a Best Buy employee interrupt your conversation with the question, “Are you guys finding everything OK?” It happens to me five times a visit. And maybe it’s just me but when I’m shopping for DVDs in a row of alphabetized DVDs, asking me if I’m finding everything OK is a lot like asking me if I’m currently shitting into a diaper.

I’ve never found an answer that makes them go away, either. If I say “Yes,” they usually read off the titles of whatever DVDs I’m holding until they’re satisfied that we’re best video buddies. If I say, “Thank God you’re here! Can you tell me what letter Hitch begins with?” they look at me like I asked them if they’re currently shitting into a diaper. Which is often my follow up.

Why They’re So Stupid:
I imagine some of them start with healthy and active minds. Then they try to explain HD to an elderly customer while the 300 screens near them start playing Bolt again from the beginning. The human brain has one of several choices at a time like that, and they’re all suicide.

Lifehacking originated amongst computer geeks, who, after discovering they needed to nerd things up more efficiently, devised scripts and tools to perform unwanted or repetitive tasks for them, like shaving. The term “lifehacking” has since expanded in scope beyond the computer world, and now includes any creative solution to everyday problems. Productivity enhancers still dominate the field, but if you’re looking for a clever way to hang a cabinet or get skid marks out of your underpants, rest assured someone out there’s got your back.

Because people are always asking us here at Cracked how we do the things we do (a question only exceeded by its mate: “Why do you…”) I thought I’d share some of the lifehacking tips we’ve accumulated over the years that help us produce the high-in-quality-but-low-in-brow comedy we’ve become famous for.

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1. Use To-do lists
Any paint huffing idiot can make a to-do list, but making a to-do list that actually works requires the higher cognitive power only a felt-pen sniffing idiot possesses. Leading felt pen sniffers agree that three key steps are required to get your to-do lists to work:

1a. Break items up into manageable chunks
Let’s say I put in my to-do list the following entry:
Defraud Swaim out of Swaim family fortune.
Looks good right? It’s important, and now I won’t forget to do it. But there’s a problem here. The task is too big. Dozens of steps will be required in executing it, and I might not know where to begin (I do in this case: past post scheme at a rigged cockfighting parlor, or a confidence scam hinging on the price of potato futures). But by breaking this item up into several steps, I can tackle them individually with minimal stress and delay, and before I know it, I’ll be$5,000 richer.

1b. Review the list regularly
Just like pornography, a to-do list won’t work if you never look at it. Either keep your to-do list front and center in your work environment so it’s impossible to not see it, or set a regular time to review it each day. Like right after pornography time.

1c. Keep separate lists for different environments
The tasks you’ll have to do at work will be different from the tasks you have to do at home, so why confuse your to-do lists? Anywhere you have a lot of work to do or spend a lot of time is a valid candidate for a to-do list. I keep separate lists for work, home and school, and I know DOB keeps a special one just for the bathtub.

1d. To-do list software
In terms of software, there’s tons of options available. I’m a minimalist, so I just use a plain text file and a program called Samurize to embed it in my desktop.

Note my simple priority system.

2. Coding Tips
Cracked.com makes use of all the latest web technologies like HTML, CSS, XML, TDI, GHB, etc… Given the challenges of working with these diverse technologies, our web developers have developed a number of Greasemonkey scripts which they use to steal code from better websites. Most of our front end is simply Fark with some different colors, and our forum was lifted entirely from this place here.

3. Keeping A Schedule
This shouldn’t be that hard. Calendar programs like those found in Microsoft Outlook, Google Calendar or your smartphone are all great at keeping schedules and reminding yourself of deadlines.

4. Find pictures of crotch bulges
Google Image Search is the classic way for doing this, but there are other superior ways as well. Try installing a pinhole camera in the dressing room of your local vintage dress store, and you’ll soon have pictures of hipsters trying on tight pants–along with other images of some value–streaming into your inbox faster than you’ll know what to do with them. (Hint: You can sell them.)

5. Bail a coworker out of jail
It’s a common enough occurrence at Cracked that we have a system all set for this. In our area, the bail amount typically set for public nuisance is a few hundred dollars, depending on how many chickens were set loose. So not a huge amount, but not trivial either. Fortunately we’ve got a mason jar in our kitchen area, which works sort of like a swear jar, only it’s for frustrated crying jags. Every time someone bursts out in tears and says, “Fuck you guys, I quit,” they have to put in a quarter. There’s usually a couple thousand bucks in there, so we just dip into it when we need it.

6. Put out fires
In the Cracked offices, none of our fire extinguishers are charged, and haven’t been since Gladstone’s last birthday party (“Fuck you guys, I quit.”) So we’re a little limited with firefighting options. Fortunately you can make your own fire extinguishing system by dumping a bottle of Mr. Bubbles in a dishwasher and taking the fuck off. Finally, remember that “stop, drop and roll” only works if it’s you that’s on fire. We found that out the hard way one hilarious, but tragic, (but hilarious) day.

7. Look like you’re working harder than you are
Oh don’t look so surprised, Jack. Angling your computer monitor away from coworkers, using alt-tab and wearing a green accountant’s visor are all time honored ways to look like you’re doing more work than you are. Here’s another little trick I picked up from Brockway:

“Replace your keyboard with a really loud one. Clickity clack clack clack. You know, super loud. Cowbell loud. Make sure everyone knows how loud it is. Then record yourself typing very rapidly. Then, when you find a suitable time, playback the recording on a loop. Then, when everyone thinks you’re working, whiskey jacks.” (”Whiskey jacks” is a game Brockway has devised where he drinks a pint of rye whiskey, and then throws things on the ground.)

8. Instantly come up with synonyms for male genitals
Whether you’re a comedy writer or an appeals court judge, you can never have enough synonyms for junk. Here’s a pro tip: Grab a thesaurus and look up all the synonyms for “Love” or “Lust.” Pick one of those at random, then go to the Home Depot website, close your eyes and click around a bit.

“Love Baluster”? Good, but maybe a little esoteric. “Passion Lathe”? Sure, why not. “Deep Caulk Gun”? Yes.

9. Get rid of a whole bunch of puppies
Because of the amount of comedy that gets done in back alleys and underneath bridge overpasses, Cracked staffers are always finding and bringing home stray dogs, on account of our enormous hearts, and the uncooked ground beef management requires us to carry around at all times. (Official company motto: “Never a bad time for tacos.”) This means that we constantly have to sweep the office of puppies and dogs, and because of the strict ethical code Cracked employees follow, we have to do it safely and hygienically. Our best trick is putting them in the elevator and sending them to the eighth floor, where Redbook is published. If Redbook is not published in your building, consider moving.

10. Hide in a toy store overnight
Comedy’s written during the day, and it’s starting to get dark out. Time to find a place to sleep. Like all who hail from the race of Men, Cracked writers constantly dream of spending the night in the local Toys ‘R’ Us. But this can be tricky. All of the obvious places will be inspected by store staff for homeless comedy writers before they lock up for the night. What to do?

The trick then is to hide in a non-obvious place. Like that huge bin of rubber balls they have near the front of the store. With the help of some accomplices, first stage a distraction. A good one is to have two friends walk around, loudly discussing how toy stores are similar to petting zoos, if you really think about it. While store security is busy dealing with them, you’re wading into a bin of balls, quickly concealing yourself. That smell friend? It’s not the toxic off-gassing of cheap Chinese rubber. It’s success.

11. Find things on Japanese websites
Even the bravest comedy writers have yet to plumb the complete depths of Japanese insanity, a fact which renders this small island nation into a limitless source of hilarity.

Japan.

A key element of Japanese-mockery lies in gathering the appropriate images. The problem lies in the fact that, thanks to a fluke of geography, the Japanese weren’t brutally conquered by the English and now speak some bizarre Eastern tongue. Navigating Japanese websites is thus ridiculously, ridiculously hard. Even finding a suitable Japanese website can be nearly impossible.

One trick is to take the word you’re looking for, punch it into a web translation engine and translate it to Japanese. Depending on the language packs you’ve got installed on your machine, you may or may not see Japanese characters or complete gobblydegook, but regardless, paste that shit into Google, and see what it digs up for you.

Did you try it? You found some pretty shocking pornography, didn’t you? Yeah, that will happen. I was going to warn you before you did that, but then remembered that I didn’t want to.

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