Rarely does a Cracked blogger get to break a news story that’s guaranteed to excite and enthrall the readership. Today, I have been blessed with the opportunity to drop the knowledge bomb that is destined to leave your synapses flame-scoured and quivering, and your brain-villages nothing but smoldering piles of memories of rubble.

Activision, the visionary game studio that unleashed the rock with Guitar Hero III, have announced that the next installment of the game will have…wait for it…more instruments!

It’s the kind of genius development idea so clearly brilliant, you wonder how it hasn’t been thought of before. But I guess it took the big, juicy brains at Activision to make that dream a reality.

While they’re still nailing down which instruments to implement—may I suggest recorder, tambourine and harmonica?—the smart money is that they’ll end up using the four cardinal rock instruments: guitar, bass, drums, and vocals. Groundbreaking.

I mean, think about it! Anyone who’s ever picked up a bass knows it’s identical to guitar in every way, so the hardware’s already there! Throw in a mic and drum set, and you’re ready to form some sort of Rock Band!

But the brain train don’t stop there (toot toot!); they’ve already got their future developments sewn up as well. Stop tying up the phone lines at the patent office, people, Activision has already purchased the rights to the titles “Guitar Villain” and “Drum Villain.”

What’s more, early Internet buzz describes Drum Villain as a game so evil, every sinister strike of the high-hat embezzles money from a third world aid organization, and each malevolent thud of the kick-drum rapes a nun. G-damn, am I into that.

I’ve got to say, I am stoked about the fresh, fresh, fresh gameplay being offered here, and especially Activision’s promise to include a lot more “local bands” in the line-up.

Why the hell would I want to play a Radiohead or AC/DC song when I can rock out to The Hip Thrusters’ latest garage-recorded powerhouse “Light this shit up?” Why, I ask?!

I wouldn’t is the answer. I would not.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m hard at work on a rhythm game I hope to sell to Activision as soon as I’ve worked out the bugs. It’s called Boogie Boogie Uprising, and it’s so fresh you’d think it was the Prince of Bel Air.

When not blogging for Cracked, Michael drowns in a thick layer of his own sarcasm as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

I can’t say for sure whether or not this Riskay character is going to be remembered 5 years from now, but that doesn’t mean that there aren’t valuable life lessons to be learned from her hit song, “Smell Yo Dick.”

It’s a universal story: You come home from the club at 5 a.m. after buying drinks for a stripper named Diamond all night, when your girl asks you to present your genitalia so she can smell it and ascertain whether or not you’ve been cheating on her. You try to tell her that you have “enough dick to go ’round” and that asking to smell yo’ dick is how a “bitch get her eye swole up” but she doesn’t listen. She then proceeds to pour bleach all over your clothes, throw your iPhone off a balcony, and perform a song about smelling your penis live in concert to a large club audience.

I’ll admit that it’s been a little different for me personally, but the idea is the same regardless. True, my “clubbing” has traditionally been a D&D night in the basement of my local community center, and sure, my “girlfriend” is the girl that I see at the bus stop if I get there early enough (about 45 minutes before I actually need to), but what’s the difference in the grand scheme of things? So what if the real-life version of my girlfriend asking to smell my dick is actually some girl at the bus stop asking me what time it is? So what if my real-life iPhone is prepaid? No matter which verison of the story you choose to go with, some basic facts remain the same: My name is Ross, I’ve met a girl before, and I own a mobile communications device.

Oh - and I have a Snickers jacket. How are you gonna fuck with that?

So you’ve decided you want to drop out of community college and become an “entertainer.” Good for you! Everyone knows that being an entertainer will make you rich, famous, and get you constantly laid, but there’s a downside to this business that not a lot of people know about. Yes, success in the entertainment industry is very easy to achieve, and yes, your place in the history books is all but guaranteed if you want it, but here’s the catch:

At some point you’re going to encounter a heckler, and if you don’t handle it correctly, you may never make it out of Muncie, Indiana. You want to make it out of Muncie, Indiana, don’t you?

Watch the guy in this video, and note how he works the room to handle the situation. First he tells the heckler the whole audience is going to kick his ass. This is an essential step that allies the performer with the crowd, letting the heckler know that everyone is against him. Next, he peppers his crowd-banter with regionally-specific references that the audience will recognize. This makes the crowd like the performer on a personal level; By implying that he is familiar with their geographic area, the performer tricks the crowd into thinking he is somehow like them, when he is in fact a big fancy-pants entertainer who is NOTHING like them at all. (”Is he talking about OUR Cracker Barrel?! I think he is!”)

Finally, the performer jumps off the stage, waves his acoustic guitar menacingly, and splits the heckler’s head open with it. This step might might seem strange to the uninitiated, but the truth is that criminal assault & battery charges are the calling card of the professional entertainer. When the audience member says “Get security,” what he really means is “I want to purchase your merchandise, professional entertainer!” When that other guy yells “That was unnecessary,” he means “Will you sign this cocktail napkin? I don’t know who you are, but based on your awe-inspiring professionalism, I’m almost positive that you will one day be a star.”

Internal Microsoft Vista SP1 Video

I’ll admit it: It’s easy to point your finger and laugh at this video. It makes the executives that thought it up seem hopelessly out of touch, and it makes corporate culture look even more despicable than the “One Bank” U2 cover did last year. Come on - Bruce ServicePack and the Vista Street Band? “Rockin’ Our Sales”? This video is bordering on self-parody, and I can’t really blame anyone for making fun of it, but if you’re going to laugh, at least give me a chance to explain how this happened.

I should know: I’m the one who made it.

I’d made a few internal corporate videos before. Nothing big or anything; I cut my teeth on Wendy’s “Grill Skill”, but I didn’t really start getting any attention until Apple’s “Black & Blue”. That was when things really started to take off for me, but it was also when Steve Ballmer started calling me… constantly.

It was the fall of 2006, and I got a call from an unfamiliar number. I had already blocked Ballmer’s home, office and cell numbers, but this time he was calling me from a payphone.

“Rossy, baby,” he said. “I’ve got a cherry of a project for you. Our new product line is launching next-”

“I already told you, Ballmer, I’m not interested,” I said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to watch the series premiere of some new show called Heroes.”

“We’re prepared to offer you whatever you want,” he said.

“Whatever I want?”

“Whatever you want.”

There were problems from the get-go. The budget was too small, the shooting schedule was impossible, and I’m pretty sure the guy we cast as Bruce ServicePack was a junkie (I started getting suspicious when I walked into the bathroom and there he was, shooting heroin). I said I thought the saxophone solo was gratuitous; Ballmer said it was essential to hyping up the team. I said I thought the BitLocker superhero bit was hackneyed and tired; Ballmer said he had already promised the part to his down-on-his-luck nephew.

Then there was the catering… Christ, don’t even get me started on the catering.

Ballmer fought me every inch of the way and turned the whole project into the watered-down, middle-of-the-road pile of garbage you see now. It was the first and last time I would ever work for Microsoft, but I’m not trying to dodge the bullet here. It’s my fault this video exists, and for that I sincerely apologize to all of you.

And that, my friends, is the story of how I came to own a swimming pool filled with kittens.

Totally Normal Entertainment From (What Looks Like) Eastern Europe

I’ve traveled extensively through Eastern Europe, and I’ve noticed that the people there are really eager to share their customs with outsiders. Whether it’s the proper way to take a shot of the local liquor without going blind, the etiquette of bribing a local police officer to get your wallet back, or the cheapest way to transport your new and lovely bride back to America (cargo ship), the charming local people of Eastern Europe are only too happy to help.

But this kindness extends to more than just basics like alcohol, police corruption and the flesh trade. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that Eastern Europeans will go out of their way to explain a joke to complete strangers - even, as luck would have it, if that stranger is wearing a fanny pack and a “These Colors Don’t Run” t-shirt. Eastern Europeans have a strange sense of humor, but they’re usually more than willing to let you in on the joke.

For example, one time I was in Estonia and decided to go see some live theater. During the play, a small boy walked out onto the stage, and all the other thespians (full-grown men) crowded around him and started poking him with long staffs while giggling like little schoolchildren. Baffled, I turned to a woman next to me and asked her what it was all about. As luck would have it, she spoke English.

“The boy,” she explained, “represents Estonia, and the men around him represent the encroaching influence of Russian culture.” That made sense so I left it at that. Then I left during intermission and vowed to never go see theater in Estonia again.

Another time I was in a small town in the Prekmurje region of Slovenia, and there was a crowd gathered around a man performing in the town square. Draped in chainmail and furs, he sang an upbeat song and danced around a bit. Then he asked for a volunteer from the crowd, and a young boy stepped forward to applause. The man went on singing his song and dancing about, and then he put his hand down the boy’s pants and the entire crowd burst into laughter.

Horrified, I turned to an older woman next to me and asked, “What’s the joke there?”

As luck would have it, the woman spoke English (what are the odds in Prekmurje?!). “The man represents the Ostrogoths who once pillaged our land.”

“And the boy?!” I asked. “What does he represent?”

“The land,” she said.

I guess the moral of the story is “Eastern Europeans like political humor.”

With all respect and praise to our beloved Father, the dignified and beautiful leader of the people, our cherished Madiba President Nelson Mandela:

We write your eminence with humble deference to the blessings you have brought and continue to bring to the cause of equality throughout the world, and in the desire to shield your admired status from damage. That is why we, the South African people, feel for the first time that we must ask: what the fuck, guy?

You may wonder how we could take such a tone with your excellence. Let us assure you that just last week we would not think of doing so. But if our news outlets are correct, then it appears that your upcoming 90th birthday celebration will feature the “talents” of both hiphop artist Eminem and general plague The Spice Girls. So we ask again: what the fuck?

Perhaps you thought we would not know. Perhaps you hoped that hardships in our recent history would prevent us from exposure to such people. But we assure you, Mr. Mandela, that we all heard “Stan,” we all liked Dido’s version better, and we all retched at the utter nonsense of the phrase “Zigga Zigga Ah.”

Please, we beg of you, do not invite these elements into our country, and so soon after we threw off the yoke of oppression. You threaten us today with a new yoke, Mr. Mandela: the yoke of utterly shitty music.

We must ask: how can you find the works of these people a fitting tribute to your life of service? You once said that you “cherished the ideal of a democratic and free society in which all persons live together in harmony and with equal opportunities.” Such words lifted us up from the depths of degradation. Eminem once said “I’m-a pull you to this bullet and put it through you…just bend over and take it slut, okay Ma?”

In case you are unfamiliar with American hiphop slang, we should let you know that he is there expressing the intention of raping his mother with a bullet. You…you understand this, yes? Because we want to make sure, in case you misinterpreted that lyric as an interesting take on the effect of globalization on race relations. Just because he played with Elton John doesn’t make him any less of a misogynist or general cock ring.

We should also like to remind you of your inauguration, when you told us that you were a “humble servant of the people,” and that you “placed the remaining years of your life in our hands.” Perhaps you did not expect to live as long as you have, Mr. Mandela, but nevertheless we find it unseemly that you should try and back out of the deal now. You gave us all of your remaining years, and we certainly aren’t going to spend those years suffering under an AIDS epidemic while a woman named “Posh” rubs her fat white butt on your lap.

We hope that these oversights are merely the result of some late onset senility, an unfortunate fact of advanced age. If this is the case, then this can all be easily remedied. We beg of you, Mr. Mandela, focus your clearly ailing mind long enough to get on the phone and cancel your birthday concert.

In fact, you should probably ban Eminem and The Spice Girls from entering the country, in case you have a lapse later and forget our letter (A helpful hint: Eminem also goes by the name “Slim Shady.” Don’t be fooled.)

If you would still like to have a concert on your birthday, there are plenty of acts you could choose that would not so deeply offend and invalidate everything you stand for. Some white supremacists, for example. We kid, Mr. Mandela. Are you still with us? Our point is simple: do not allow these acts to disgrace your legacy.

We appreciate your ongoing commitment to color blindness and all, but if you’re going to get a hiphop artist, did you have to get the only white one? And don’t act like you didn’t notice; about half his songs are about it. It’s not that we hate white Americans, Mr. Mandela; it’s just that we wouldn’t want to run into one in the street on a dark night.

Look, if you’ve got to have hiphop, we don’t want to deny you that. We hear Kanye’s down with the whole African thing, and Talib Kweli’s probably free. Or if you’re feeling more flexible, may we suggest a little Ladysmith Black Mambazo?

In any case, the important thing here is to retain your integrity and grace, and not to let the phrase “grrl power” sully your holy ears. And just in case your eyesight isn’t what it used to be, we leave you with this message from your loving people:

EMINEM IS A TOOLBAG AND THE SPICE GIRLS ARE BLEACHED LEATHERY HAGS. HAVING THEM PLAY MUSIC TO CELEBRATE YOUR LIFE IS LIKE DRAWING A BIG FLOPPY DICK ON THE MONA LISA.

With eternal reverence,

The South African People.

When not blogging for Cracked, Michael impersonates large groups of blacks as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

Iron Mic: Eli Porter Vs. Envy

It was a brisk autumn afternoon in 2003 and there I was, sitting at the Iron Mic Freestyle Battle at Chamblee High School in Atlanta. That was nothing out of the ordinary, though; Eli Porter and I were pretty tight back then, and Envy and Marv-O were always joking around with me. Envy would always ask me, “Who are you and why are you hanging out at our high school?” “Good one, my man!” I’d reply with a hearty laugh, holding my hand up for a high-five. Then Marv-O would say, “No, seriously - Envy, go get security in here,” and I’d point at my still-raised hand and say, “Don’t leave me hangin’, bro!” Then security would come and escort me off school property, knowing full well that I’d be back the next week and we’d do the whole thing all over again. That was like our little inside joke.

Anyway, I remember this particular day very clearly. It was a day or two after the judge told me I wasn’t allowed within 200 yards of Chamblee High School, and Eli Porter and I were sitting in the school cafeteria. Eli was working on some lyrics, but he seemed really nervous.

“If you’re nervous about battling Envy, don’t even sweat it,” I said. “You’re a way better rapper than he is.”

“I’m going to call security,” he said without even looking up from his notebook.

“This is no time for inside jokes,” I replied. “You need to get your head in the game if you’re going to beat this guy.”

“Dude, how old are you? Why are you always hanging out at our high school?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “The point is this: Envy is a total chump. Seriously - the guy is like Rosie O’Donnell at a bisexual bridal shower.”

Eli looked up at me wide-eyed, and starting scribbling furiously in his notebook. Emboldened I went on, spitting potentially awesome science to be dropped.

“Envy doesn’t even need to come out, because he’s already in a gay parade,” I said. “You’re the best, man - you did it.” Eli slammed his notebook shut, got up and went racing into the studio. He didn’t need to thank me, and the police were already dragging me out of the school, so it was kind of a moot point anyway.

I guess what I’m trying to say is this: It’s my fault that Eli Porter lost this rap battle. Do I feel good about that? Of course not, but you know what?

Nobody ever said the rap game was going to be easy.

The beamz™ Music Performance System

If you’re like me, you have vague, completely unfocused musical inclinations. But if you’re like me, you’ve never actually acted on those inclinations and purchased any sort of musical instrument. Maybe you’ve been busy at work. Maybe it’s family stuff: The kids need to be picked up from school and the goddamn wife needs you to stop at the store and buy milk, leaving you wondering, “How do we go through so much fucking milk in this house? It’s like she’s pouring it down the drain or something.” And you’re right about that - she IS pouring it down the drain - but that doesn’t change the fact that you have to stop at the store and pick up the goddamn milk.

Or maybe you’ve never attempted to learn an instrument because you’re too focused on your career. You know - that career that has consumed your entire life but gives you the luxury of being able to buy $600 gadgets at Sharper Image. Well guess what, little buddy?! The beamz™ Music Performance System is a $600 gadget that is going to solve all of your problems (except the erectile dysfunction).

What kind of music are you into? Do you want to be a classically trained violinist? How about a “one-man rock band”? Do you want to “scratch” your favorite pre-programmed hip-hop “beats” like the real “homeboys” do, or would you rather relax in a darkened room full of your favorite Sharper Image products for a moment of “quiet reverie”? Whatever it is, beamz™ has you covered. You know those boring weekends you think to yourself, “I kind of wish I had to go to work so I’d have something to do”? With the beamz™ system you can kiss those goodbye. Just head down to your “studio” in the basement and tell the wife to let you know when dinner’s ready. Then when people call for you, she’ll answer the phone and be like, “He’s down in his man room playing with his beamz™ again. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

And here I was thinking that Sharper Image went bankrupt when all this time l could’ve been down in the basement, playing with my beamz™ and softly weeping.

Bob Blackman - Mule Train

I look out across the comedy landscape these days and it’s just about enough to make me puke!

Just look at the garbage that they’re calling entertainment these days! Blagh! It makes me sick! Larry The Cable Guy? Dane Cook?! Carlos Mencia?!?! These guys all suck, but things are even WORSE in the world of comedy!

Blame 9/11, blame Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer… hell, blame Wayne Gladstone if you really want to (he’s probably the one responsible). Blame whatever person or terrorist attack makes you feel comfortable, but you know what? That’s just making excuses. If this clip teaches us anything, it’s that comedy used to be a lot funnier than it is today.

What ever happened to good comedy? When I turn on my TV, where’s all the spinning bowties and squirting flowers? When I go to see the latest talkie, where’s all the pie fights and men dressed up like ladies? When I go out for a night of dining and live entertainment, where’s all the guys singing “Mule Train” while hitting themselves in the head with a metal tray?

Where’s all the Kaiser Wilhelm jokes? I haven’t heard a good Kaiser Wilhelm joke in years.

Sigh… comedy just ain’t what it used to be.

Some would call my suddenly blogging about Emo kids a transparent attempt to plug the newest Those Aren’t Muskets! sketch. Those people would do well to chill the fuck out and enjoy some embedded video. I’ll meet you on the other side with some exciting news about Mexico.

Well, here we are on the other side. Hopefully you’re not all laughed out, because I have some tragically hilarious news to share with you. Specifically, that Mexicans have once again done the dirty work we couldn’t do ourselves by beating the living crap out of a bunch of eye shadow-wearing, spiked hair-having, My Chemical Romance-listening Emo kids.

You read that correctly (unless you didn’t); there are currently riots raging in Mexico during which people rove the streets, muttering to one another about “these goddamned kids with their striped shirts and black nail polish” (in Spanish mind you), looking for gaggles of hipsters sitting on a parking lot divider to hit with a two by four.

They follow the sounds of Dashboard Confessional like a homing beacon, and then release their collective fury on behalf of all of us who have ever heard a Death Cab for Cutie album and thought “Jesus, does this asshole seriously want me to feel sorry for him because he feels bad about cheating on his girlfriend? I’d like to punch him in the mouth.”

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