Let me tell you, children, of a time before CG and greenscreens. Days of yore when Speed Racer was a halting, two-dimensional imbecile and Transformers moved their mouths to speak only when absolutely necessary.

In those days, if you wanted some dimensionality in your fantasy, there was only one crazy mother who could hook you up, and if you were lucky, he would stick his hand up something’s ass for your amusement. I’m talking Jim fucking Henson.

Henson knew where it was at. He knew we didn’t want fantastical creatures who couldn’t exist off of a sheet of paper. We wanted REAL fantastical creatures, ones fashioned out of old socks and ping pong balls sawed in half.

And while the Skeksis from The Dark Crystal may pale in comparison to today’s Captain Barbosas and Michael Claytons, they were once the undisputed kings of terrorizing small children.

Which is why I am super-jazzed to let you all know that a live action Fraggle Rock movie is fast approaching theatres. So do like I did and Wikipedia it to remind yourself of the character names, then prepare for a blast of nostalgic epiphany so powerful you may well uncover repressed memories of sexual abuse. Then do the same thing with The Snorks. I know, right?!

The only possible snag I can see is that Ahmet Zappa is signed on as Executive Producer, so there’s a slim chance that Gobo will die of a cocaine overdose and Boober will be into watersports. But on the plus side, he probably can’t give any new characters names more ridiculous than are already in the film. Moonunit Fraggle kind of has a ring to it.

But frankly, I don’t care if the movie is just two Doozers discoursing on the tragedy of Darfur; I’m going to be buying a ticket. That’s how badly I miss Jim Henson movies.

And to those cynics still wowed by slick computer graphics, let me put the question: Can you touch a computer-generated image? Can you hug a bunch of polygons? Can you run away from home, take the wrong bus out of the city, get your money stolen by a homeless man and have to make your way back by taking a ride from a wild-eyed trucker because you thought you were going to get to live with bump-mapped 3D models?

I think not.

And while I’m still holding out for a full-blown return to puppetry (up to and including the production of Labyrinth 2: Hoggle and The Enchanted Codpiece), this movie should help sate my felt fetish for the time being. And whenever I need a quick fix, I can always load up the old Youtube and see what bizarre remixes of the intro are floating around this week.

God bless the Internet.

When not blogging for Cracked, Michael consults with Marjory the trash heap as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

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!