Note: Today’s Nooner is being written immediately after purchasing Grand Theft Auto IV for Xbox 360. It is sitting unopened on my coffee table right now, and yet here I am, 100% focused on writing, not thinking about Grand Theft Auto IV at all.

My greatest regret isn’t a girl that got away, skipping my high school prom, or not getting to say goodbye to a loved one before they passed away. It isn’t running away from a problem, missing a career opportunity, or getting that tattoo of the kanji symbol for “two-car garage” that the tattoo guy told me meant “strength.” Yes, I’ve done all of those things, and sure, not a moment goes by that I’m not ashamed of every single one of them, but that’s all eclipsed by my greatest regret:

Why the fuck didn’t I commit more crimes when I was young enough to get away with it?

Sure, I broke some bottles and lit some fires when I was younger, and yeah, one time in junior high we stole my friend’s mom’s car (it wasn’t our fault - “Welcome To The Jungle” came on the radio and we got all pumped up), but we only made like two houses down an alley before we crashed into some rubber garbage cans at about 5 mph, and then we ran away and hid until the cops came. On a scale of one to “cool” that ranks somewhere between a two and a “suck.”

Why didn’t we go on a crazy crosstown rampage like this kid did? Maybe we were better behaved, more respectful and fearful of authority. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because this was the pre-Grand Theft Auto era and we just didn’t know how. Not that a rampage in GTA involving two mailboxes and two parked cars would be very impressive, but for a real life 7-year-old? That’s nothing to shake a stick at - particularly considering he couldn’t even see over the steering wheel.

Come to think of it, this might just be some crazy viral advertisement for GTA IV or something. One that, based on my ability to focus intently on writing this Nooner without thinking about GTA IV, is clearly having no effect on me. Which reminds me - I have to go now for a completely unrelated reason.

It’s not easy to admit some kinds of personal tragedy. Breaking it to your extended family that you’re going to die because a horse’s cock ruptured your colon isn’t my idea of a good time. But when you’re at the end of your rope with no other options, sometimes all you can do is confide in your loved ones and hope for the best.

Cracked readers, you are my family, and I must tell you: my penis has been stolen.

When I booked my recent trip to the Congo for the purposes of extreme birdwatching, my travel agent warned me about a rash of penis thefts that has struck the area. Like many of you are probably doing now, I laughed.

“Penis thefts?” I chortled “What, are they out of dildos?”

I then patted my carry-on case of dildos, momentarily wondering what kind of profit I could turn selling them to the dildo-starved locals. But I didn’t turn a profit, ladies and gentlemen, and I came home less of a man that I’d been upon arrival.

For you see, while I scoffed at the idea of a shadowy, hunched figure, loping off with my freshly-severed penis on his way to a black market fertility clinic, or perhaps to prank a local hot dog-eating contest, I made the cardinal mistake made by tourists throughout time.

I forgot about shamans.

Shamans, people. Witches and warlocks trained in the dark art of penile enchantment. Chode sorcery. Dick wizardry. The forgotten rites of cockmancy.

Such men, according to the locals, have been plaguing the region, rendering once-proud and robust African cocks shriveled, tiny, and limp (although of course by white American standards, still fairly impressive). And despite a recent wave of shaman-lynching, there seems to be no end to this tide of genitalchemy.

I don’t know when it happened. Maybe a shaman hexed my package right as I stepped out of customs. Maybe if I’d tipped the bellboy I’d still be plowing women with the confidence I once enjoyed.

Hell, maybe it was one of the many times I stopped in the street to let old black men touch my penis and mutter. The point is, there’s no way of knowing for sure.

Meanwhile, the attacks continue. And while local police try to deny the existence of magical penis thievery by pointing out that “alleged victims clearly still have penises,” there’s no argument against cold, limp facts.

Countless Congolese men have stood up, braved slander, and shown off their tiny penises as proof of the shaman blight. And who are you going to believe? A police officer?

Or a guy who claims that the reason his penis is tiny is because a shaman bewitched it with dark magic?

Ask yourself, who has more reason to lie?

Please, let my tragic example be a warning to you all. Clutch your penis tight. Hold it dear. Appreciate it while you can.

Here are a few tips to help you guard against these opportunistic magicians (a great band name, by the way):

And finally, no matter how much you want to blend in with local customs, don’t let anyone dip your penis into a small sack of twinkling powder or chicken’s blood. Rude as it may seem, just politely decline and walk away.

Trust me, you’ll be the better for it.

When not blogging for Cracked, Michael stares at the place where his penis used to be and weeps as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

CG McGruff Hates Cybercrime

There are so many things that suck about this McGruff PSA that I don’t even know where to start. There’s the move to CG (which looks completely ridiculous), and there’s the crappy new voice (probably not all that surprising considering almost three decades have gone by), but you know the biggest problem here is?

Cybercrime is boring.

Take the classic McGruff commercial “Are The Neighbors Moving?” Getting a bunch of robbers together, pretending to be suburban movers and cleaning out someone’s house is a real crime. Stealing someone’s bike is a real crime. Whether it’s a bike, a television, or the entire contents of your home, PEOPLE ARE PHYSICALLY TAKING YOUR STUFF.

These days it’s “cybercrime” that McGruff is warning us about. Yawn. What’s going to happen? Is a leet hax0r going to gain access to my bank account, forcing me to call the bank and be like, “Some leet hax0r got my PIN - I need to change it.”? Sure, it’ll be annoying - calling your bank is always kind of a pain in the ass - but that’s about it. McGruff used to help us take a bite out of crime. These days, it looks like McGruff helps us take a bite out of minor inconveniences.

Also, did I mention how McGruff is all 3D and has a stupid voice now? If you’re going to make a mascot 3D, change his voice, and make him address a completely different danger three decades later, why even keep him around? How about a completely new anti-crime PSA mascot? I’m thinking an anthropomorphic RFID tag named Kris that talks like a surfer and LOVES to party… responsibly.

It’s been a big week for meaningless crap, so I won’t dally with the usual homily about the virtues of protecting your mind from abrasive topics of genuine consequence. Suffice it to say that my great-grandfather lived to just shy of his 108th birthday, and he chalked it all up to unfiltered cigarettes, frequent lap dances, and a steady diet of Unnecessary News! Let’s begin:

Be Prepared (to take a bullet): The president of the probably war-torn nation the Maldive Republic was shocked today when an attempt on his life by a knife-wielding attacker was foiled by a quick-thinking Boy Scout. However, when the boy was later discovered to be gay, officials expelled him from the Scouts, revoked his training, and ordered the result of the attempted stabbing overturned. (Elections for a new president will be held next month.)

Oh, the Irony: A New Hampshire campaign rally yesterday for Senator Hillary Clinton was interrupted by a man who shouted “Iron my shirt!” and held up a sign bearing the same demand. While the exact meaning of the man’s message has yet to be established, pundits have suggested the following possible contexts for the statement:

1. “My shirt” is obviously a reference to the struggling U.S. textile industry, which has lost much of its once-mighty market share to inexpensive Chinese clothing manufactured without the restrictions of American labor laws, resulting in the loss of countless domestic jobs. The protester asks Sen. Clinton to “iron” this issue—that is, to smooth relations between labor unions and clothing manufacturers in order to compete more effectively in the global marketplace.

2. The man is a paid activist-advertiser for the upcoming film Iron Man, in which troubled actor Robert Downey Jr. portrays the beloved Marvel Superhero. He had originally planned to say “Iron Man! In theaters May 2nd!” but after getting the first word out, suddenly realized he’d left his promotional t-shirt on the dresser (despite repeated reminders by his wife), and interrupted himself to say, “My shirt!”

3. When deciding which shirt to wear to the rally, the man unwisely chose one made of iron; it quickly became so uncomfortable that he had no choice but to shout this fact to the crowd in the hope that a good Samaritan would help him take it off.

Un Sticky Situación: A boy in Mexico attempted to get out of going to school this week by gluing himself to his bed. That’s not the joke. The joke is the awesome graphic which accompanied the story:

This is listed as “AFP/Illustration”, which tells me that AFP, which is by all accounts a respected news institution, needs to fire their illustrator immediately. First, the text is all squished horizontally. Second, the text is in English, even though the kid lives in Mexico. Third, the glue bottle has little wavy lines shooting out of it, representing God-knows-what. Fourth, it looks like it was drawn by a 6-year-old who’s glued to a bed.

“Sure,” you ask, “you can criticize, but could you do better?” Well, Mr. or Mrs. Smartypants, in addition to my Cracked duties, I also happen to be a professional graphic artist, so yes I can. In fact, here’s an example of what a real professional-quality illustration looks like:

It’s simple; it’s elegant; it tells the story. (AFP, I’m available for freelance. Talk to my agent.)

It’s time for another edition of the feature which provides you with essential news and analysis about vitally important topics of the utmost relevance to you. Opposite Day! Let’s begin…

Hat’s Off: Garth Brooks (whose 1997 Central Park concert was mistaken by me for a terrifying redneck invasion of New York City) has donated his trademark black cowboy hat (shown at right) to the Smithsonian Institution, where it will presumably be showcased as an article of national historical significance, somewhere between an original copy of the Declaration of Independence and Abe Lincoln’s buttplug collection. (In a related story, Chris Gaines’s eyeliner pencil was donated to the dumpster behind the taco truck in the Smithsonian parking lot.)

Marsters of the Homoverse: Actor James Marsters, formerly of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, got a little squeamish about some “Brokeback to the Future”-style action he engaged in while shooting the BBC sci-fi show Torchwood:

[Marsters] shared an on-screen smooch with openly gay actor John Barrowman for the hit show, but Barrowman claims Marsters wasn’t entirely comfortable with their man-on-man action. He says, “After the scene he snogged (kissed) his girlfriend to re-establish his masculinity.”

One little homoerotic kiss and he runs screaming to his girlfriend? Sounds like somebody has some issues about his sexual identity. Personally, I’m so confident in my masculinity that I had sex with like 10 guys before I even had breakfast this morning, just to prove how straight I am. Lightweight!

Put That in Your Toad and Smoke It: Desperate for new ways to fight the tedium of living in a relatively free, safe, prosperous, non war-torn country, American young people have begun experimenting with smoking the extracted venom of the Sonoran Desert toad, according to police. This novel method of self-medication is believed to have been discovered only after a rigorous experimental process during which the inventors had no reaction to the following:

• Poo-huffing
• Toejam snorting
• Antifreeze footbaths
• Poison oak brownies
• Tampon and banana sandwiches
• Dirt smoothies
• Scorpion enemas
• Licking old guys’ wallets
• Drinking pot
• Smoking wine
• Looking at pictures of sheep

Those zany British were in the news again this week, as it was revealed that an obscure law states that it is illegal to die in Parliament—which is like their version of Congress, except that the members call each other “right honourable gentlemen” instead of “treasonous pigfuckers” or whatever they’re saying in Washington nowadays. (Note: for approximately half its sessions, Parliament is known as “Funkadelic.”)

This fascinating legal tidbit emerged as part of a TV poll which compiled the most ridiculous laws on Her Majesty’s books, which also included such gems as “it is illegal for a woman to be topless except as a clerk in a tropical fish store” (hot), “a pregnant woman can legally relieve herself anywhere she wants, including in a policeman’s helmet” (superhot), and “the head of any dead whale found on the British coast automatically becomes the property of the king, and the tail of the queen” (I am so goddamn hot right now).

However, the poll’s creators must have forgotten the following laws, which while perhaps not strictly verifiable, are nonetheless demonstrably followed to the letter, in a noble effort to prevent anarchy in the U.K.:

• It is illegal to eat oysters or use a toothbrush during months which do not contain an “r.”
• As a reward for his long service to the nation, John Cleese is legally permitted to kill one Spice Girl per year.
• Policemen do not carry guns, but if one points his finger at you and says “bang!”, it is considered polite to die.
• Everyone is required to eat “Spotted Dick” at least once a year, but no one is permitted to think it’s funny.
• You can take Mel Gibson’s life, but you can never take his freedom (although his life would be just fine, really).
• No British citizen is allowed to understand baseball. And finally:
• The entire country must feed, clothe, and pledge undying allegiance to a little old white lady, in return for which she waves occasionally but doesn’t say much.

If you’re an 18 to 34-year-old male like me (and if our advertisers ask, you definitely are), you’ve most likely gone through periods in your life convinced that all the good women are taken, and that the rest of your life will be a long, slow succession of painful rejections, unsatisfying lap-dances, hung-over regrets over the unreliability of beer goggles, and lonely nights at home with the ladies of Vivid Video (who while attractive and friendly, may not actually like you for you).

But wait—take your head out of that oven, for I bring you news of a great joy for all people: there are still excellent women to be found:

An Australian barmaid who entertained patrons by crushing beer cans between her bare breasts and hanging spoons off her nipples has been fined, police said Wednesday. Luana De Faveri, 31, was fined 1,000 dollars (900 US dollars) after pleading guilty to two breaches of the Liquor Control Act. Another barmaid who helped hang spoons on De Faveri’s nipples was fined 500 dollars while the bar manager was fined 1,000 dollars for failing to stop the pair.

So two brave souls dare to show that girls—how should I put this—just want to have fun, and how are they rewarded? Fines and public embarrassment. Australia, I’m sorry, but the global goodwill you generated with Crocodile Dundee may have just evaporated.

But I know what you’re thinking: sure, there are perfect girls with beer-crushing breasts halfway around the world, but what about here in the Good Ol’ U. S. of A.? Is there any woman here who can replenish our faith in the fairer sex? Yes, there is:

Tiffany Sutton, 24, pleaded guilty to aggravated assault… after she repeatedly stabbed her lover during an alcohol- and drug-fueled sexual tryst. According to police, the victim agreed to be tied up during sex but became alarmed and asked to be untied when Sutton pulled out a knife and said she liked to drink blood. … When he escaped, she chased him with a pickax. … prison records show Sutton thought she was a vampire for the first several weeks she was in jail.

… I know, it’s great that your ex has been able to move on and see new people, isn’t it? She really has gotten back on her feet.

But in case you fear that all single girls out there think they’re vampires and want to drink your blood, you can take comfort in the fact that a short look at Craigslist turned up:

• a girl who thinks she’s a werewolf and wants to urinate on your leg;
• a girl who thinks she’s Dr. Frankenstein and wants to hook electrical clamps to your nipples;
• a girl who thinks she’s Dick Cheney and wants to hook electrical clamps to your nipples; and
• a girl who thinks she likes you and wants to talk about your feelings.

On second thought, maybe you should stick with porn.