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.

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Check out some more Gladstone over HERE and OVER HERE.

While this blog has done a fairly good job of documenting my chest hair, I regret to say there is frighteningly little else that has been revealed about me. Those of you who had the diligence to go to my website learned that my first name is Wayne and that I live in Maine. But what else have you gathered? Not much. It’s true. When it comes to blogging, I play it pretty close to the vest.

Indeed, so close, that I’ve apparently managed to keep things even from myself. For example, I’ve only recently discovered that somehow in the last few years, I’ve managed to gain about 25 pounds. See, in my delusional mind, I was still the grungy frontman for Ithaca’s greatest band, Slowburn (pictured in the top left). Not that I was Brad Pitt, but let’s just say I was someone Daniel O’Brien wouldn’t kick out of bed. But as revealed by my entry in YouTube ’s recent video contest, I’ve become something of a tubby, little bastard. And not all the bad lighting, poor sound, or continuity errors in the world can change that. Anyway, I realize now my contest entry might be disqualified because it refers to a public figure which apparently YouTube says you can’t do. (Although last year’s second place winner had a George Bush impersonator in it?) In any event, if it somehow makes it into the top 20, people will be asked to vote on it, but let’s not worry about that yet. Just enjoy the way I’ve let myself go and hopefully you’ll like some of the jokes too.

I’m also using this somewhat unorthodox blog post to announce that I bought an eliptical yesterday and I intend to chronicle my weight loss. You, dear Cracked Blog readers, are truly blessed.

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Check out some more Gladstone over HERE. And his latest YouTube video HERE.

So it seems Yoko Ono has been doing more these days than watching Cirque du Soleil’s Love and wearing oversized glasses: she’s also suing a Tennessee singer-songwriter who goes by Lennon Murphy for her use of the “Lennon” name. Ono’s lawsuit seeks to prevent Murphy from using “Lennon” due to the confusion it could cause in the marketplace.

This handy side by side analysis, however, proves that, name or not, there’s little chance these two artists could be confused:

JOHN LENNON	LENNON MURPHY
Was the walrus.	Is a fox.
Was a visionary songwriter who shattered the boundaries of conventional pop music.	Seems to have really nice breasts.
I own every Beatles Album.	I placed the link to the above photo in my favorites.
Collaborated with Paul McCartney, David Bowie, Elton John, and Phil Spector.	Sang Britney’s “Hit Me Baby One More Time” at TGI Friday’s Karaoke Night.
Meditated with the Maharishi.	Ate Indian food. Once. At the mall. Didn’t care for it.
Made me want to imagine no possessions	Makes me want to imagine sodomy.
Often mistaken as the Beatle who wrote Yesterday	Often mistaken.
Screwed by Yoko Ono.	Screwed by Yoko Ono.

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Check out some more Gladstone HERE and HERE.

Yeah, that’s right. This is my third post on the Spice Girls. Deal with it. Good things happen when I blog about the Spice Girls. For example, the last time I wrote about them, Cracked reader “Jeb” brought the picture on the right to my attention. That’s Emma “Baby Spice” Bunton.

True, this post is about all of the Spice Girls so let’s just go ahead and assume the rest of the ladies are in one of those buildings in the background. Does that work for you?

So, anyway, after some disappointing ticket sales, the Spice Girls have canceled about half of their reunion tour, completely eliminating dates in countries such as Australia. But, poor ticket sales or not, Australia is pissed. And they’re not staying quiet about it:

Aussie devotees … have been bombarding unofficial websites like SpiceGirls.co.uk, as well as the group’s official MySpace webpage with messages of abuse.

One fan writes: “They have known all along when their kids go to school or whatever. It’s a crappy excuse, really it’s all just about money… they’ve made enough now so who cares about anywhere else right?”

And other fans have turned their backs on the pop stars for good. Another adds: “I am absolutely disgusted in them. Most of us have been waiting years for this and they have just ruined it all for us. As far as I am concerned, they have just lost another fan. So much for girl power.”

But I guess the Spice Girls shouldn’t be surprised. Australians have never let the commercial realities of a changing market prevent them from writing angry letters to celebs. Indeed, as indicated below, Aussies save their greatest wrath for their own:

__________________

Dear Yahoo Serious,

WTF?! Three movies and then nothing? Imagine my surprise when I went down to my local cinema and was informed no Yahoo Serious movie was playing. OK, OK, I thought. Everyone deserves a vacation. But I have now been told that “no Yahoo Serious movie is playing” every day for the last eight years. Hello? I’m waiting? And don’t tell me there’s no market for Young Einstein II. I saw the first one like twenty times. Even if a new one is half as good I’d still see it like ten times. I guess some people are such big celebs they don’t need that kind of money.

Piss off,

Jeremy

________________

Dear Jacko,

I regret to inform you that you are no longer my hero. Your work for the Energizer corporation will live on fondly in my heart, but I must move on. For over 15 years I’ve waited for you to return in your tight black muscle shirt and crush the Energizer Bunny that took your place, but nothing. I’m sure Energizer would have you back. I mean, I can’t believe that stupid bunny is working very well for them. The fault must lie with you. You just don’t want it enough. Goodbye.

Regretfully,

Bruce

_________________

Dear Dingo that ate Meryl Streep’s baby in Cry In The Dark,

Rare is the performer who can indoctrinate himself into the public’s consciousness with just one movie appearance. But you did it. And I applaud you. I understand that when you’ve had success like that, it’s hard to know what to do next. But surely, you can’t just quit. Your fans await you. Perhaps, a Turner & Hooch remake Aussie-style? Or Eatin’ 2. Electric Dingaloo? Something! Your fans need to know that celebrities can have a second act. Please give us hope.

Sincerely,

Paul Hogan

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Check out some more Gladstone HERE and HERE

Rachel Bilson is more than just attractive; she’s attractive in a way that allows delusional guys to think they could hook up with her one day. She’s a naughty sex diva. But she’s also like your best friend’s little sister who wants to have sex with you —as practice— before she goes off to college a virgin. (That happens right?)

In any event, the dream is over. Rachel has done something unforgivable. Something so irrevocably horrible that she’s been removed permanently from the masturbatory minds of pubescents and dirty old men alike: she’s started dating that whiny, Star Wars-ruining, cry-baby. No, not George Lucas. She’s going out with, the chosen one, Hayden Christensen. The actor who answered the question, what if the great Sith Lord Darth Vader were a smug little twit who threw tantrums like the kid down the street who took his Nerf ball and went home when he started losing?

And while Rachel’s decision is soul-crushing, at least she has the good sense to lie about it. When asked what the “H” on her bracelet stood for, Bilson denied it had anything to do with Hayden, and, instead, replied:

“My little sister’s name is Hattie, and my favorite food is hash browns.”

That might seem lame, but really, who can blame her? Hell, I’m sure she’d be willing to make up all sorts of H-based lies to avoid acknowledging the sex she’s having with Hayden Christensen. Seriously, wouldn’t any of the following explanations still be more dignified?

• Heroin. I’m tragically addicted to heroin.
• Herpes. My vagina is incurably riddled with Herpes.
• Hell. I love Hell, and I am a pround member of the Church of Satan.
• Hitler. I’m not a neo-Nazi, but what can I say? I dig Der Fuhrer.
• Hermaphrodite. I, Rachel Bilson, am a Hermaphrodite. But rest assured, neither my penis nor vagina is gonna get anywhere near that douche Hayden Christensen.

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Gladstone writes for Cracked and others. Check out his latest offering or go to Wayne Gladstone Lives in Maine to see all his published stuff, his full name, and state of residence.

Some of you may remember my blog post on Monday about environmentalists, and why I don’t necessarily “hate” them, but I may “harbor a feeling of extreme enmity, revulsion, or hatred” towards them.

Well, in exhaustively researching that deeply factually flawed piece of info-journalism, I had the unexpected pleasure of being confronted with a series of (mostly) gorgeous naked women while image searching for bullshit pictures to keep you interested during my long, rambling tirade. And here they are:

Seriously, those are all on the first page of a Google Image Search for “PETA.” Don’t read the text on that first one, by the way; it’s the exact opposite of what belongs on a picture of a naked woman. By which I mean it’s the exact opposite of [insert joke about your penis and/or sperm].

Also, WHO STILL WEARS FUR?!! I mean, if it’s going to get Alicia Silverstone naked, I guess it’s fine, but I seriously haven’t seen anyone wearing fur in at least five years. The whole thing is bizarre, and implies that at some point in the past, at PETA’s public relations headquarters, this conversation occurred:

A Dog, Who is also President of PETA: You guys, people totally hate us for our extremism. What should we do? Blow up something?

6th Degree Vegan: I have an even better idea. Naked ladies.

3rd Degree Vegan: What about them?

6th Degree Vegan: Put them everywhere. All our ads. Connect them to our cause, no matter how tenuously.

A Dog: But that has nothing to do with our beliefs or values.

6th Degree Vegan: Yeah but sex sells.

3rd Degree Vegan: Really?

6th Degree Vegan: I’m pretty sure. I read it on the back of a business book while I was in line at Kinko’s.

A Dog: You went to Kinko’s?! Don’t you know their glue base is made from the eye jelly of the endangered Moroccan Root Beetle?!

6th Degree Vegan: Oh No!

The 6th Degree Vegan kills himself in the traditional PETA method, by standing up too fast and collapsing from exhaustion. The others, loathe to let any part of an animal go to waste, construct a crude bicycle out of the corpse and ride it to a falafel bar.

So don’t masturbate too hard, fellas (and lesbos; I don’t discriminate). Most of those women are nuts.

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Besides blogging for CRACKED, Michael also makes HUGELY DIGGABLE OMG I CAN’T BELIEVE HOW WELL THAT THING DID !!! videos as writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

Today I’m going to kick off my blogging year with a new feature in which I demonstrate my advanced age and decrepitude by describing things I’ve only recently come to realize, but which you’ve most likely known a long, long time. It’s… Late to the Party!

Part the First: The Wii is Awesome.
That picture to your right (presented in a wistful sepiatone to convey the feeling of olde timey days) is me gettin’ busy with my new Wii, which Santa was nice enough to give me permission to buy for myself and my ladyfriend after she planted the seed several months ago (by mentioning that “it could help us get in shape”) and promptly forgot about it.

I’m well aware that all you video game types are totally over the Wii, but for someone whose most recently owned video game system prior to this one was an Atari 2600 purchased by my Grammy in 1982, this was a pretty major leap to make. But 25 years seemed like a long enough time to allow for technical improvements, so I took the plunge (productivity be damned), and let me tell you that it was worth the wait. So far I’ve learned that a) my arms don’t know the difference between swinging a Wii remote and swinging a baseball bat, b) I am just as crappy a virtual bowler as I am an actual bowler, but the shoes don’t smell as bad, and c) my girlfriend can beat the crap out of me at boxing (to the point where I actually found myself yelling “I’m trying to punch you in the face! Why can’t I punch you in the face?!” followed by “Stop iiiiiiiiit!”). In any case, I’m just now discovering that it’s awesome, so be kind to your elders and cut me a break.

Part the Second: Rihanna is a Hottie.
While visiting my ladyfriend’s parents on New Years, I happened to see the video for a song called “Umbrella” for the first time. It’s by a singer named Rihanna, who spends the entire video strutting around in fishnets being splashed with water and naked covered in silver paint, and for all I know it’s been all the rage for the past five years while I was living alone in a cave teaching myself to juggle balls of mud. (I also think I read somewhere that the song was originally offered to Britney Spears, but I for one am glad she declined it, since I would just be spending the whole video thinking about how bad all that water would be for her toe fungus.)

But in any case, while the song is inarguably catchy, let me state now for the record that I concur with the 98% of men and lesbians worldwide who strongly believe that this Rihanna lady could melt the paint off Satan’s furnace. It is a scientific fact that an ordinary man accidentally seeing Rihanna in person would literally have his genitals burned completely off. So exercise caution if you believe she may be in your vicinity. But speaking of exercising caution…

Part the Third: It Is Possible to Be Eaten by Wild Animals at the Zoo.
Who knew, right? All those times I was dragged off to the zoo to stare at sleeping lemurs as a child, I was actually entering a terrifying death trap. The most interesting thing that happened while I was there was when the giraffe took a really enormous crap.

So apparently everyone’s saying these pics prove that Miley Cyrus aka Hannah Montana aka the underage girl that 500 Cracked reader trolls began masturbating to today, likes to have gay sex.

I have to admit it’s pretty convincing evidence. She’s on the floor; there’s another chick there; they’re sharing candy a la Lady and the Tramp. That’s all the proof I need. I mean, if these photos didn’t prove that Miley Cyrus likes to have hot gay sex in hotels with anonymous girls who are also underage, then why would I be masturbating?

I should point out (to the FBI) that “masturbating” is my word for blogging. (But in case you don’t believe me, you should know that sometimes Michael Swaim comes to my house and downloads things to my computer I know nothing about.)

In truth, I agree with Miley who calls these pictures innocent. After all, if these pictures make you gay, the deep tissue massage I gave Lex Friedman to get the blogging job would make me super gay. And I’m not gay. I masturbate to barely illegal Hannah Montana pictures. (Masturbate = Blog). (Until I chafe).

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Gladstone writes for Cracked and others. Go to Wayne Gladstone Lives in Maine to see all his published stuff, links to his other worthless endeavors, and his full name and state of residence.

What If I told you that one of the sexiest women in the history of film was looking for a young male escort? That she was willing to pay you just to be her date. And what if I showed you her photo?

 

Man, that’s a sexy lady. A come hither stare. Smoldering sensuality. Classy, yet seemingly not adverse to some sado-masochistic ass play. Sounds great you say, but something is troubling. This diva looks familiar. Is that… could that be… Good Lord, it’s Lauren Bacall:

 

So forget about the first photo because it’s the 2007 Lauren Bacall who’s in the market for a male escort.

But does that have to be a dealbreaker? I mean, you could still tell all your friends you bedded down with a movie star. You could have something in common with Humphrey Bogart. And, hey, you’d still be getting paid for sex, and that’s something, right?

Well, maybe you wouldn’t have to have sex. Maybe you could watch her feed her 600 cats or listen to stories about blowing Louis B. Mayer. Oh, I don’t know.

I do know that aging is incredibly depressing because Lauren Bacall was stunningly beautiful. And now even though she’s in her 80’s, she’s probably aged as well as is humanly possible without having your skin all pulled and Botoxed. And still, she has to pay men to keep her company. That’s a drag.

So if any of you strapping young Cracked readers are up for the job, why not leave your testimonials in the comments below? Maybe you can make a love connection. What do you have to offer Ms. Bacall? Please specify your favorite 40’s movies, likes, dislikes, and penis size.

 

 

 

Oliver Curry, an evolutionary theorist from the London School of Economics, predicts that by the year 3000 the human race will split into two separate species: a sexy, wicked-smart ruling class and a bunch of dumb-ass, goblin-like worker bees.

Don’t believe me? Check it out. It’s all explained in the article.

Oh wait, it’s not? Hmm. Well, that could be the reporter’s fault. Or maybe the problem is that this biological theory was developed by someone who works AT THE LONDON SCHOOL OF ECONOMICS! Call me old fashioned, but I like to get my evolutionary theories from biologists or, y’know, some kind of scientist.

Nevertheless, based on my extensive research —which consists of reading the article twice— Curry’s saying that, for some unexplained reason, people 993 years from now will be much hotter. Y’know, like Patrick Dempsey after the plastic surgery he allegedly didn’t have.

And then after that hotness kicks in, “sexual selection” will do the rest. Gotcha. Beautiful people will only be having sex with beautiful people, thereby making more beautiful people. Meanwhile, dorks and fatties will be generating loser spawn capable only of scoring with other trolls and/or Oliver Curry. Yeah, that makes sense. You can’t argue with it. It’s science.

Except it’s wrong. You’d think an economist would realize how money works. Because I’m pretty sure there’s at least one guy without movie star good looks who can bed just about anyone he wants. Hell, I’d even blow him if he could get my Windows Vista working right.