I remember it like it was last Thursday. Because it was last Thursday, and I have an excellent memory. I remember showing up to Jack O'Brien's office (house?) with my suitcase in hand, hope in my eyes, and a smile on my face. And a flask full of Jack Daniels in my pocket. It was April 24th, the day before April 25th, a day I'd been looking forward to all year. I took a quick swig from my flask and dropped it off with Jack's secretary. He has a "thing" about me drinking from a flask. While on the clock. And at 2:00 in the afternoon. Jack can be pretty uptight sometimes, but I wasn't about to get on his bad side. Not today. While his secretary stared at the flask, clearly puzzled, I showed myself up the stairs to Jack's cubicle (bedroom?). I had to make sure to stay on my absolute best behavior. After all, the ROFLCon was the next day and Jack had personally selected me to appear on behalf of Cracked. The ROFLCon, for the girlfriend-having readers of the blog, is the first annual conference for internet celebrities and the founders of internet memes. All of the net's royalty was invited: Tron Guy, somebody from Fark, Homestar Runner, those I Can Haz Cheezburger shit heads, and others. This was an exclusive party, a special gathering designed to celebrate and praise internet super celebrities. People like me. I wasn't sure how much ass I'd be able to snag at this party, but my most conservative estimates put it somewhere in the triple digits. I might have to buy a U-Haul truck so I have somewhere to stockpile all of the skanky blonde hood-rats that will undoubtedly be throwing themselves crotch-first right at me. I love the internet. Jack was waiting for me, and I could barely contain my anticipation. "I gotta tell you, Jack, I am so excited about this party, I can't even stand it. So fucking excited. It's like I've got a Joy-Boner that's ready to just spew happiness all over the face internet history, you know?" "Wow, that's probably the most disgusting metaphor you could've come up with." "All that happiness...dripping down the internet's face." "Please stop." "Fine," I said, even though I had no intention of stopping, "but I am so damn stoked about this party." "Right, well I wanted to talk to you about that," Jack said. "Talk about what? Talk about how awesome it's gonna be? I have my passport, I bought a new suit and I am all packed." I opened up my suitcase. "Well," Jack said inspecting the luggage. "You packed a t-shirt with your face on it, a few throwing stars...Uh...And what looks like an impossible amount of condoms." "Eleven hundred condoms, Jackne, yes sir." "Right. One shirt, four throwing stars, eleven hundred condoms, and absolutely nothing else." "This is gonna be a great party." I could always buy more when I got there, too. "Well that's the thing, Dan. I've got some news. Maybe you should sit down." I carefully closed my suitcase and sat down on the edge of Jack's bed. "What is it? Is it ROFLCon? Did something happen to ROFLCon? Is it my speech? Do they want me to give two speeches, because I am totally prepared to do that." "Nothing happened to ROFLCon," Jack said. "The party is still happening, but we are, uh..." Jack paused. I assumed it was because he was about to give me really great news and felt embarrassed for not bringing me flowers. It's alright, I'd tell him. Just send them along later. "They don't want us there. We weren't invited," Jack finally said. And it wasn't the good kind of 'We're not invited,' as in, 'We're not invited to the Getting-Punched-in-the-Dick Party.' It was the bad kind of 'We're not invited.' "What do you mean, 'not invited?'" "Well, I mean, they said we can still go if we want. But they won't give us a place to stay. And they don't want us to talk or take part in any Q&A sessions or really participate in any kind of active way. We're invited in the sense that they can't legally tell us we can't go." "They don't want us to give a speech? It's a friggin' internet celebrity party. That's the only kind of party that I will ever be invited to." Except for maybe that Getting-Punched-in-the-Dick Party but I really don't want to be invited to that party anyway. I seriously hope that our invitation gets lost in the mail (genitalia).
"Seriously, Jack & Field, this was my chance. ROFLCon is the only organization that would legitimately ask me to give a speech. Ever." No matter how many letters I send to Harvard. "I know. I assumed they'd want us there. We've just gotta try harder. Maybe next year." "Maybe next year? 'Maybe next year,' you fat-headed pig? What makes you think I'll keep dicking around on this sinking ship for another year? Listen, Uncle Jacker, I turned down jobs with Universal Studios, Google and the friggin' Pope to be here." "Ok, well none of that is true." We sat in silence for a while. Then, more silence. After an additional stretch of silence, Jack spoke up. "I'm sorry, Dan, really. I don't know what to say." "You can start by saying you're sorry." "... I just did. I completely just did that." "Alright, then you can reimburse me for all of my expenses. And build me a bat signal." "No. To both of those things." "Fine, can I please just sleep here tonight?" He held up his cell phone. "I've already dialed '9-1,' Dan. I don't think you need another breaking and entering on your record." "Alright, fine, Miss Mary Jack, I'll go. Oh, but by the way, your secretary sucks. She didn't seem to know what to do with the flask of JD I gave her." "Sec- I don't have a secretary... I have a daughter. Did... did you give my four year old daughter alcohol?" "Oh I don't know," I said climbing out the window. "Does anyone really give anything to anyone else?" I also might have given her a handgun. "Either way, you might want to replace her." The last thing I heard when I fell out the window was Jack dialing another number. The number "1," if I had to guess. As I hid in a small ravine about 30 yards behind Jack's house, praying that the cops didn't have those sniffer dogs, I started thinking: What's it going to take? Tron Guy is more famous than the Cracked Bloggers? Horseshit. Did Tron Guy get the entire planet to hate Hannah Montana? (Seriously. I did a genuine Google News search for "Hannah Montana" and this was the first headline that appeared, not at all doctored in any way:
See? And that article goes on to say--and I am for once not lying-- that we should "[b]y all means hang Hannah Montana." Cracked made that happen. Not Tron Guy. Don't let anyone tell you different. The only conclusion I can draw from this is that we've surpassed internet fame completely and now we're actual legitimate celebrities. I guess I'll know for sure if I get invited to the next BET Awards. Meanwhile, this is becoming a huge problem for me: What the hell does Cheezburger have that we don't? First the Webby's burns us, and now ROFLCon? How long? How long must Cracked.com play Salieri to the Mozart that is I Can Haz Cheezburger?
If we lose one more popularity contest to a bunch of pictures of fucking cats doing bullshit, I swear to God I'm gonna burn the internet to the ground.