How Not To Write A Cracked Article
Pictured: Cracked Blogger Daniel O'Brien.
“Should we…should we call somebody? Get him out of there?” “No, he always gets out…eventually. I just try to savor the peace in betwe-“ Another impact sounded from above, dust settled onto the brim of Jack’s purple velour Rainbow Brite derby. “ALWAYS BET ON JACK!” Came the barely audible cry. “Listen, Robert, I called you in here because you missed the Inauguration Liveblog the other day…” He uncorked the bottle and motioned to me “Scotch. You want two fingers?” “That last one was Wesley Snipes, from Passenger 57,” the ceiling clarified. “No thanks, Jack. Scotch makes me simultaneously sad and violent - all sobbing about dead family pets and taking swings at strippers - you know how it is,” I replied, “Besides, you’re supposed to measure two fingers laid horizontally. It totals about two ounces of liquor. You’re measuring your fingers vertically, that’s like a quarter of a bottle.” “You’re new here, Brockway, you’ll learn what a ‘Cracked Pour’ is the six-hundredth time some asshole gets stuck in your crawlspace.” “THE NEW JACKNESS!” DOB responded, the detritus from his mighty blows raining down on us. “You missed the Liveblog, so you owe me a political article this week.” Jack said, settling back into his Corinthian-leather
Pictured: Cracked Blogger Robert Brockway's second job.
“Please, God, I have a family!” Tears sprung to my eyes as my balls retracted instinctively into my abdomen. “I’m afraid I have no choice; you’ve missed the quota. The other bloggers took the hit yesterday. Now you need to make it up.” “You don’t understand, Jack. After my last political article, somebody drove a car through my living room window!” “That was probably an accident.” Jack said dismissively, draining his platinum-coated
"Faster, Doc! If we don't get up to 88MPH the impact might not kill Brockway!"
“Not my problem,” he leveled a glare at me so level you could’ve measured it with a level, and it would’ve turned out completely level, “you owe, and you’ll pay. A political article, Robert, by tomorrow. If you don’t pick a topic, I’ll assign one to you. I was thinking ‘8 reasons why Ron Paul is Functionally Retarded.’” “No! I’ll…I’ll do it,” I said, slipping meekly toward the door. “JACK MY BITCH UP!” DOB added, his mocking, derisive tone clear even filtered through the ceiling. *** “Shit, Bucholz. I’m not gonna make it through this one,” I said, my incessant pacing more erratic than the third season of
Pictured: Cracked Blogger Chris Bucholz.
“I CAN’T RELAX! MY TIGER XANAX DOES NOTHING ANYMORE!” Tears streamed down my face as I ran crying from his office. I wasn’t going to find my help there, but I needed something – anything! I was desperate enough to bargain with the Devil himself at this point. *** “Wolinsky?” I asked, knocking tentatively at the black door, its surface slick with rancid, unidentifiable ichors in which one could see distant, screaming faces, “Are you…in? It’s uh…it’s Robert.” The door swung open silently, revealing a painfully bright, impeccably clean office, completely empty save for a small wooden shrine in the dead center of the floor. It was impossible I know, but I swear it was larger within than without, and a sense of vertigo shook through me as I crossed the threshold. “
Pictured: Cracked Blogger Ross Wolinsky.
“
Tits.
I paid the bag lady in the alleyway to flash him next time he passed, and when he inevitably slowed to yell profanities, I leapt through the T-top and into his pink zebra-print bucket seats.
“Brockway,” he said, throwing a half-empty beer can out the window and into the face of a now unconscious police officer, “well played. I assume you need something?”
“I do, I need to ask you something," I began as he floored it into a straightaway, weaving through traffic with the creamy ease and sleazy skill of a buttered gigolo.
“Stop,” he cut me off, reached below my seat and thrust a pair of sunglasses and a white sport jacket into my arms. “I don’t even talk to people that don’t look good.”
Pictured: Cracked Blogger Wayne Gladstone.
“I need help with Jack,” I said, struggling into the jacket that I quickly realized was sleeveless, “he won’t lay off the politics and I just can’t take the heat.” “Rookies,” he scoffed, shifting gears and reaching casually out the window to slap an elderly woman on the ass without slowing, “you need Jack off your back, you got to give him something better. That’s it.” “But I’ve got nothing,” I replied, sliding the fluorescent green shutter shades on, “I’m blank.” “This ain’t rocket surgery,” he sneered, slicking an errant hair back into a perfect curl with his switchblade, “pitch him something with the words ‘badass,' 'insane,' 'animals,' 'conspiracy,’ or ‘Photoshop’ in it, and he’ll cream his Dickies.” “Gross,” I said, “and thanks. One more thing…” I began, but he had already leaned over, opened my door, and was firmly kicking me from the moving vehicle. I would like to think that he flashed me the horns as he skidded around the corner and out of sight, the sounds of
Alexander Hamilton: Definitely #1.
“I’m not doing politics this week, Jack,” I replied, sliding my proposal across the desk, “read it.” “The 7 Most Insanely Badass Deadly Animal Conspiracies…” he read, his voice barely containing his astonishment. “Turn the page, read the rest.” “…That Aren’t Photoshopped.” He set the proposal down and centered a look on me so centered you could put Center tags around it and it couldn’t be any more centered, “what’s your number one?”
Read more from Robert Brockway at his own site, I Fight Robots, because that was this article's problem: Not nearly enough words.
