The fame that comes with being a Cracked blogger has its pros and cons. I can always get a reservation at fancy restaurants, I get into all the most exclusive night clubs, and thousands of women email me pictures of their junk on a daily basis. That’s great and all, and yeah, I’m filthy rich and everything, but it’s not all cash and clubbing and ill-lit close-up jpgs; the schedule can be exhausting, the gossip mags say the nastiest things, and I can barely walk down the street anymore without a dozen women throwing themselves at my feet. It can get to be a little much sometimes, but hey

This gig is my Different Strokes (Gladstone is Willis, Swaim is Kimberly, and Daniel O’Brien is the maid). That being said, what’s going to happen to us when it’s over? Swaim will end up doing porn and OD’ing (but we all knew that was going to happen anyway), and Gladstone will knock out Vanilla Ice on Celebrity Boxing, but what about me?! Will I be making diaper rash cream commercials and making fun of myself on any show that will take me? Will I run for Governor and get 14,242 votes? Perhaps most importantly, will I end up on Divorce Court with my beastly ginger wife and talk about my inability to get an erection on national television? Is that’s what’s going to happen to me?!

How much money could Gary Coleman have possibly received to appear on this show, and at what price does it actually become worth it to tell the world you’re packing a limp noodle? My guess is that he got paid $10,000 for this. Times must be rough for Gary Coleman.

You know what he should probably do with that money? Go to community college and get an associate’s degree. Something practical. Data processing, or maybe stenography or something. Anything to get this guy a steady paycheck and some dignity. Seriously, Gary - get it together.

Sex tapes have become a basic staple of the Internet diet. Shocking as it may seem, literally dozens of celebrities apparently have sex, and now we know about it.

But I was still honestly surprised to read about the upcoming release of a Jimi Hendrix threesome tape. And by Vivid no less, whose stable of fine actors fill out the cast of my personal favorite adult movie of all time, XXX Pirates (the only porn to my knowledge featuring fully CGI skeletons and ghalleons).

I mean, it used to be that barring a major grave robbery, you could kind of count on your post-mortem legacy being secured. Now we’ve got Monroe and Hendrix boning on camera, and it’s only a matter of time before sexstorians dig up more compromising footage of our favorite dead.

After all, there seems to be plenty of money in it; Vivid plans on selling the 11-minute clip of a man “closely resembling Hendrix” as a forty-dollar DVD. For that kind of money, he’d better break into the solo form All Along The Watchtower at the moment of climax.

And so, as this horrorshow we call the Internet continues to consume more and more of our lives, and allows us all to indulge in the cravings for celebrity depravity we all share, then I’d at least like to put in my personal requests. Are you listening, people who comb through estate sales looking for old reel-to-reels of celebrities fucking? Here we go.

5. Celebrity: Claudette Colbert

Why I Want to See it: For my money, Colbert is the most beautiful woman ever put to black and white film. And as the (I presume) grandmother of Stephen Colbert, watching her have sex in high-contrast spectrovision is probably as close as I’ll ever get to meeting him. And that’s good enough for me.

Favorite Imagined Highlight: The guest appearance from Palm Beach Story’s “weenie king,” now 108 years old and hung like a kielbasa that’s been left out in the sun.

4. Celebrity: JFK

Why I Want to See it: Basically I just want to see a President’s weiner, and it seems like JFK’s the most likely candidate (unless Obama makes good on his promises to pants Hillary at her inauguration). There was a good chance a Monroe sex tape would have included him anyway, so I think we’re due.

Favorite Imagined Highlight: When John awkwardly tries to reference “the Cuban missile crisis” during initial insertion, and finally upsets his bedmates with an unflattering comparison to “the bay of pigs.”

3. Celebrity: Lucille Ball

Why I Want to See it: You know it’s going to be feisty, wacky, and interracial, and there’s not a lot more you could ask for in a sex tape that doesn’t involve things I’m not willing to discuss with you.

Favorite Imagined Highlight: When Lucy reenacts her famous chocolate factory routine by stuffing dildo after dildo into every possible orifice while they come relentlessly down a conveyor belt Desi built just for that purpose.

2. Celebrity: Groucho Marx

Why I Want to See it: I’m a huge Groucho fan, and everything I’ve learned about the man leads me to believe that his sex would either be riddled with hilarious one-liners or silent, seething, and smothered in self-loathing. Either way, I’ll buy a ticket just to watch his shoe polish mustache end up all over a lady’s nethers.

Favorite Imagined Highlight: When Harpo and Chico burst in to explain that there was a mixup with the condoms, and Harpo starts honking wildly as Groucho mugs to the camera and says “good thing I never use any.”

1. Celebrity: Sacajawea

Why I Want to See it: Because it would be the most beautiful, elegant, and dignified sex tape ever recorded. Also, the historical implications of its existence would be staggering.

Favorite Imagined Highlight: When the noble Indian woman directs Lewis and Clark to the exact location of the clitoris.

Addendum: The Monroe sex tape just got debunked, and the Hendrix one is highly dubious, as I mentioned. Hey, if we’re already faking them, all the more reason to fulfill the requests on my list. Get on it, Hollywood!

When not blogging for Cracked, Michael imagines the genitals of dead people as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

The new X-Files movie is coming and, I have to admit, I’m pretty excited. I was a big fan of the show. It was scary and funny and —way before Heroes— it had a convoluted and suspenseful plot that was worth following. (Until that last season where I don’t remember what the hell happened. Seriously, I followed the show for years and I have absolutely no recollection how it ended. All I can recall is a very old and cancer-ridden cigarette smoking man blowing up. By a laser? That happened right? He blew up?)

But I digress. There was something else I loved about the X-Files: Gillian Anderson. She’s a talented actress and since the show ended she has achieved some critical success in respected films like The House of Mirth and The Last King of Scotland. But my favorite thing about Gillian Anderson was her continual and unwavering efforts to be taken less seriously as an actress and more seriously as a wildly objectified sex kitten.

Photo shoot after photo shoot she screamed, “yes, I can convincingly portray a no-nonsense Federal agent, but I can also give you a venereal disease! Lust for me!” Yet, it never seemed to happen. Why? I have no idea. It certainly wasn’t for her lack of trying. Remember these? They were taken from a photo shoot I like to call “I fuckin’ hate you so much David Duchovny.”

Seriously, people. How come you never turned your prurient interests to Gillian? While you spent the 90’s fawning over your Courtney Coxs and Jennifer Anistons, good ol’ Scully was just waiting for your objectification with a box of kleenex and a can of lube. There is just something wrong with a country that picks Pamela Anderson over Gillian Anderson. I mean, what did she have to do? Pose tied up and gagged on a bed with a “spank me” sign?

No. Not even that was good enough. You people make me sick. Do you realize Gillian may have forever thrown away her chances to be on Inside The Actors Studio with James Lipton? And what for? Just to be a mere sex object used for your pleasure. And how did you repay her efforts? By making fun of her first season haircut. How dare you. Well, I hope you’re happy because you’ve really blown it. You screwed it all up. Time passes. And yesterday’s sex object becomes today’s failed presidential candidate in drag. The passing years have been a little tough on Gillian. She went blonde for awhile and stopped eating. That was rough, but, hey, we all get old. And now that the X-Files movie is coming out, it’s simply unfair of you to you to expect her to be all shapely, sultry, and filled with enough Daddy issues to strip down to a nightie for Maxim magazine.

Or maybe not. All hail, Gillian. She’s better than ever and coming to a theater near you. And this time, you better treat her with the respect she’s earned and go full Pee Wee Herman during the movie. Anything less, frankly, would be rude.

It seems Angelina Jolie may have been snacking a little too long on the sweet, sweet man candy that is Brad Pitt. She has diabetes, or, as Wilfred Brimley would say, “DIABETUS.”

Before you start weeping and gnashing your teeth, you should know that it’s a special kind of Diabetes that only beautiful pregnant actresses can get, it isn’t permanent, and it apparently makes her so glow so vivaciously that Brad Pitt must avert his gaze at all times.

Fortunately, doctors say miss Jolie’s affliction can be cured simply through diet and exercise. Judging from the fact that most pregnant women look like they had an allergic reaction to the shellfish section of the buffet and she looks like all it did was make her lips even more luscious and pouty, I’d say the diet part is firmly in place.

As for exercise, I’ve been told my brand of laborious, six-hour lovemaking is one of the best full-body workouts you can get. And unlike some other Cracked bloggers, I have few qualms about banging gorgeous celebrities (as long as we keep the lights off and don’t talk).

Come to me, Angelina. The doctor is in, and he’s prepared to work muscles you didn’t even know you had, provided you have only a rudimentary understanding of human anatomy.

On the very off chance that Angelina Jolie DOESN’T want to sleep with me to cure her Diabetes, I think we should all put her in our nightly prayers, and trust that God will make her better.

Oh wait, I forgot: that ends up killing you and getting your siblings taken away from your crackpot parents by the police, just like this poor kid. And let’s face it: with names like Shiloh, Maddox, and Pax, the Jolie-Pitt children aren’t going to be welcome in many American homes.

I guess it’s down to us fucking, Angie. Man, I’ve never been so happy to find out there wasn’t a God. But don’t worry baby; I’ll make you see Him anyway.

When not blogging for Cracked, Michael fucks the disease out of A-list actresses for pay as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

The Mills/McCartney divorce ruling is in, and while I don’t have access to some of the more guarded court transcripts, I believe the official verdict is that Mills is an insufferable bitch.

At least that’s what I glean from this article, whose bias is made clear if only by the photo they chose to use of Mills looking like a gull shrieking for a bite of your hot dog.

She was able to wrangle more than 20 million pounds, which in American money is about nineteen billion dollars, which is so much money that I imagine her prosthetic leg will soon be replaced by a staff of crystal, jet-leg, or simply be fashioned out of thousand dollar bills.

And how did she manage that? First, by pissing off the judge, who called her “less than candid,” “unreasonable and exorbitant” and “a bitch on wheels.”

She also claimed to give 80 to 90 percent of her income to charity each year—and thus be stone cold broke—when in fact “her tax returns disclose no charitable giving at all.” Hey, she’s just like me! Except for her being a huge bitch, of course.

Mills then attempted to silence court documents that would reveal her as, you know, a bitch, called the 70,000 dollar a year childcare payment she’ll be receiving “inadequate,” and threw water on Paul McCartney’s lawyer.

Headlines like “Money Can’t Buy Her Love” were inevitable, although I imagine there are a few other Beatles covers Paul is humming to himself these days:

When not blogging for Cracked, Michael moves into the finals of the Youtube Sketchies II contest as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets! Thanks to all who voted for us!

Following in the wake of Jack Nicholson’s stirring tribute to Hillary Clinton, famed and prolific Hollywood screen actor Samuel L. Jackson (Deep Blue Sea) has released a video clip detailing his own thoughts on the person best fit to run the country in 2008 and beyond. Let’s watch, shall we?

When not blogging for Cracked, Michael makes ridiculously dificcult edits as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

A good friend and I were recently discussing what would make for the most exploitative reality television program. We cycled through recovering drug addicts, quadriplegic veterans, and the corpses of stillborn children, and yet despite our best efforts, Oprah has outclassed us in every way imaginable.

How foolish we were, thinking that the way to make the show offensive was to pit undeserving and underprivileged classes of human against one another. As Oprah’s new reality show “The Big Give” proves, what it really takes to exploit these people is to pit people trying to help them against one another.

See, in our version, at least the dead fetus has a chance of winning fabulous prizes through his or her own merit. In Oprah’s show, teams of “Givers” compete against one another to bring in money for people in need. That means that if you’re a quadriplegic veteran, you get to watch helplessly while a team of morons infight, bicker, connive, and generally treat your welfare as a game. Which, if you’re an Iraq War veteran, you’re probably used to by now.

Plus, by turning the whole thing into a television show, she encourages corporations to line up “spontaneous chartable donations” ahead of time, so as to get themselves prominently featured on the show as “Big Givers.” Paying large sums of money to get your brand on a television show? Why, it’s hardly even charity at all! Huzzah!

But perhaps the worst of it all is that if this thing works like all the other reality TV shows I’ve seen, the viewers at home are going to pick favorite teams to root for each episode. It brings it one step closer to a sporting event, which is infinitely more bearable. Except that in this case, it means that millions of people will be sitting in their living rooms willing your team to fail to provide for you.

Oprah, if I wore a hat, it would be off. Your ability to cheapen the act of helping the less fortunate really makes me feel better about the very little I do to improve the world. If you see Bono, tell him thanks too.

When not blogging for Cracked, Michael makes reality TV as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

I can’t tell you how often I get into a heated argument with someone about the economics of Pedophilia. Although I can tell you how many establishments those arguments have caused me to be banned from: six. Seven if you count museums as establishments. But can you blame me? It’s a woefully underreported area, and one that craves an answer.

Enter Michael Jackson, grabbing his crotch. And by “his” I mean Macaulay Culkin’s.

Following a series of financially draining legal battles and career hits, the perennial post-op has put his famed Neverland Ranch up for auction. You know, that place with the amusement park rides and cotton candy, just like a ranch. Perhaps the lucky buyer will bring some cattle in and legitimize the joint, who knows? All we know for sure is that things have been looking down for MJ ever since newspapers started running headlines like “Wacko Jacko Fondles Sacko.” Pedophilia, one could infer, is a financial killer.

But how mistaken you’d be, my shortsighted friend! For in the right circumstances, can it not also be a money-making proposition? Take the inspiring story of Louis Conradt, the late former prosecutor who is best known for his guest appearance on NBC’s To Catch a Predator. After he shot himself in shame and humiliation, his family sued NBC for 100 million dollars in damages. And it’s starting to look like they might just get it.

So, let’s recap. Pedophilia = financial ruin. But, pedophilia + suicide = big bucks! The question becomes: is suicide the only variable one can combine with child molestation to create financial opportunities? Perhaps adding a public apology or religious conversion into the mix would generate some capitol. Maybe adding a murder would push the whole thing back around to positive. What about molesting an old person to cancel out the pedophilia?

It’s clearly a complex issue, and one that I trust is currently being pondered by the finest minds in modern Pedonomics.

When not blogging for Cracked, Michael entraps child molesters as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

Well, I’ve done it. I’ve watched the Gene Simmons sex tape just so that I can discuss it for the benefit of you heathen monkeys. Do you understand the sacrifice I’ve made here? I expect rose petals strewn at my feet wherever I go, including to the kitchen where I will grab a steak knife and gouge out my eyes.

As for the tape itself, it features the same grainy cinematography we’ve come to see as the standard in our celeb sex tapes. Honestly, where would the Meg White, Paris Hilton, Screech, and Sizemore tapes have been without obscuring, impenetrable gray fuzz screening us from the horrors occurring before our eyes?

Frankly, I thank the Lord that for some reason, despite living in a time when cameras the size of a push pin can deliver stunning color and clarity, all the people taping past-their-prime celebrities having sex are apparently doing so on old Hi-8 cameras smeared with Vaseline.

There are really only two notable things about the tape. Firstly, these clips where Simmons’ gal pal, when not slamming her stunningly huge and stunningly fake breasts against one another like someone trying to start a fire, refuses his repeated attempts to kiss her. I’m guessing she was worried his massive tongue would somehow reach into her body, then find and crush her still-beating heart. KISS used to have him do it on stage to kill time while Ace Frehley went to the bathroom.

The second interesting thing is the fact that everyone seems shocked. How could Gene Simmons, second only to Wilt Chamberlain in the field of bimbology, betray his longtime girlfriend by sleeping with a blond Austrian supermodel in a hotel room far away while on tour promoting energy drinks? Answer: with his penis, his t-shirt, and absolutely no emotion whatsoever.

Honestly, it’s as if the guy’s just so used to banging whatever women are around that he considers it a diplomatic duty. I wouldn’t be surprised if their sexual relationship began with a fifteen-minute break between public appearances and the sentence “well, I guess we should, you know…” followed by a long sigh and a tic mark in a tattered leather notebook.

All of which makes it a little disingenuous to make your sex track “I want to know what love is.” Seriously Gene, if you haven’t figured it out by this point, I doubt putting your junk inside this girl’s junk is going to provide the epiphany you’re looking for.

You’ll get there some day, though you be weary and offensive to the senses. Fight on, gentle soldier, fight on. Oh, and sorry about how (much more) fucked up your kids are about to be.

When not blogging for Cracked, Michael makes amateur sex tapes as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

Well, the Oscars are over, and I have retroactively altered my opinions of films I saw in order to be popular. For example, I used to think the Juno screenplay was mildly charming, with moments of overwrought mugging. Now I think it’s a tender yet daring explosion of the teen romance genre.

But I still won’t back down about the terrible makeup in La Vie En Rose. Honestly, Academy, what were you thinking? Norbit was the clear choice, and you fucked up. Although I guess we all have the comfort of knowing Norbit was at least seriously considered for film’s highest honor.

As for the non-movies part of the show, it became pretty apparent that Jon Stewart is the perfect man to host a hastily-assembled Oscars, if only because he can take any unfunny joke, pause, laugh, shrug, and look at the camera as if to say “that wasn’t funny, and I’m sorry” and it’s totally saved.

Watch some Daily Show; he does it all the time. It’s one of six moves he has, alongside the “purposely terrible impression that’s reminiscent of an old Jewish comedian” and the “expressing political outrage via screaming at the heavens as if starring in Star Trek II: The Wrath of Kahn.”

So now that all the statues are given out, all the awkward interviews are posted and all the American actors are wondering what the hell happened, have we learned anything? I, for one, learned that Daniel Day-Lewis wears bizarre hoop earrings, Joel and Ethan Coen are the most socially awkward filmmakers outside of Kubrick (post-mortem), and Javier Bardem likes showing off his Spanish. Hey Javier, I speak Spanish too and you don’t see me showing it off, comprehende?

As for the No Country sweep in general, I’m all for anything that further justifies my almost fetishistic love of The Hudsucker Proxy. But I’ve got to say I was a little surprised. There Will Be Blood was by all accounts an excellent film, and on top of that it had a natural advantage in that it didn’t aim to piss off the audience, whereas No Country spent its last forty minutes brazenly jerking you around and showing you what a pavlovian tool Hitchcockian suspense movies have made you.

All of which is weird for me to say, because I actually really liked it. But come on, you’ve got to admit there’s a point in that movie when you realize they’re not even going to show the final confrontation they’ve been methodically building to for an hour and a half and a little guy in your head stands up, walks out of the theater, and sets fire to the snack bar. And then the whole bit with the car accident happens, and the little guy in your head finds the theater manager and pisses on him for wasting his time. But, really, I liked it.

It just has to be appreciated on a level that’s a little harder to access than There Will Be Blood’s “if you try and act like God, God will fuck you.” Now there’s a message the whole family can enjoy. Especially the father.

Here’s hoping someone in the comments explains to me exactly why the structural choices made in the back half of No Country are symbolically sound, and not tantamount to the Coen brothers filming themselves wacking off. In the meantime, doesn’t this video lose all impact now that you know Tom Cruise is nuttier than a nut factory on Nut Day?

Seriously, I feel like I can look into his eyes and see the crazy crouched, ready, waiting for its moment to pounce on Cruise’s respectability and tear out its throat.

When not blogging for Cracked, Michael makes Oscar-nominated short films as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!