I remember it like it was last Thursday. Because it was last Thursday, and I have an excellent memory. I remember showing up to Jack O’Brien’s office (house?) with my suitcase in hand, hope in my eyes, and a smile on my face. And a flask full of Jack Daniels in my pocket. It was April 24th, the day before April 25th, a day I’d been looking forward to all year. I took a quick swig from my flask and dropped it off with Jack’s secretary. He has a “thing” about me drinking from a flask.
While on the clock.
And at 2:00 in the afternoon.
Jack can be pretty uptight sometimes, but I wasn’t about to get on his bad side. Not today. While his secretary stared at the flask, clearly puzzled, I showed myself up the stairs to Jack’s cubicle (bedroom?). I had to make sure to stay on my absolute best behavior. After all, the ROFLCon was the next day and Jack had personally selected me to appear on behalf of Cracked. The ROFLCon, for the girlfriend-having readers of the blog, is the first annual conference for internet celebrities and the founders of internet memes. All of the net’s royalty was invited: Tron Guy, somebody from Fark, Homestar Runner, those I Can Haz Cheezburger shit heads, and others. This was an exclusive party, a special gathering designed to celebrate and praise internet super celebrities.
People like me.
I wasn’t sure how much ass I’d be able to snag at this party, but my most conservative estimates put it somewhere in the triple digits. I might have to buy a U-Haul truck so I have somewhere to stockpile all of the skanky blonde hood-rats that will undoubtedly be throwing themselves crotch-first right at me. I love the internet.
Jack was waiting for me, and I could barely contain my anticipation.

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Friends, Fellow Bloggers, and Cracked.com Editor Extraordinaire Jack O’Brien- I owe you all an apology. Maybe it was the remarkable amount of Mabisms that kept showing up week after week after week. Or maybe it was the fact that, because the Cracked Commenting Community was so relentless and shameless with their graphic pursuit of destroying Hannah Montana’s Biography, Daniel Terhorst, (co-founder of Biographicon), actually contacted us to let us know that he compromised his intentions and locked both Hannah and Miley Cyrus’s Biographicon pages. Maybe I realized that this whole thing was bigger than me, too big for me to control. Maybe it’s because, deep down, I have a heart after all.
Whatever the reason, you may have noticed that I’ve slowed down in my Anti-Hannah Propaganda as of late. While I was passionate and, perhaps, even obsessive at the beginning, my focus in the recent weeks has shifted to simpler, gentler things like spousal abuse and shit-eating.
What can I say? It was a moment of weakness.
While I was taking a few weeks off and reflecting on the possible consequences of systematically destroying a fifteen year old both professionally and emotionally, the fifteen year old in question was certainly not resting. If I had to guess, I’d say she was sitting on her recently polished throne of orphan skulls, hissing and wondering what she could possibly do that would piss me off the most.
Well, let me be the first to say, mission accomplished, you puppy-eating thunder bitch.

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The Biographicon.
Have you heard of this thing? It’s the Wikipedia for people who would otherwise never make it into Wikipedia, (that’s you!). The object of the Biographicon is to give regular, everyday users the chance to edit and create their own biographies with the end goal of getting a bio for everyone on the planet.

The set up of the site is such that, at this point, anyone can edit anyone else’s biographies. Now, is this good news or bad news? That all depends on how you look at it. On the one hand, it removes some of the elitism that’s been plaguing Wikipedia lately, (an elitism, it should be noted, similar to the elitism that made Wikipedia necessary in the first place). On the other hand, by opening the doors to everyone, it’s difficult to stop people from viciously attacking the bios of other users for no discernible reason.

Granted, Biographicon has an editor or two that regularly checks to make sure no one is writing anything too awful or inaccurate, and generally these editors have a good eye for spotting false information and, usually, the offending information is soundly deleted.



But not always.

Me personally? I’m kind of into this Biographicon. I mean, I’m famous enough that Tina Fey will drastically change her mind in order to have sex with me, but not quite famous enough to end up in Wikipedia just yet. Until those Wikipedia fat cats realize that I do belong on their stupid site for jerks, Biographicon will have to do. Finally, I’ll have a page that details my whole life history.
I couldn’t create a page myself, though, (I’m far too busy and important, of course). So, I enlisted the help of Cracked.com’s Head Editor, Jack O’Brien.



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I will no longer sleep with Tina Fey if she asks me to.
That’s right. I mean, the New York Times will probably be running my official “I Will No Longer Sleep With Tina Fey If She Asks Me To” announcement sometime next week, but I wanted you, the Cracked Readers, to hear it first, and to hear it from me. Now, I know what you’re all thinking. You’re thinking:


Your thoughts:“Horseshit, O’Brien. Of course you will. You appreciate her smart, quirky, self-deprecating sense of humor and you can’t deny that her skin looks incredibly soft. Also, you’ve always had a thing for powerful women, particularly ones that rock sexy librarian glasses, and no one rocks them quite as hard as Tina.”


That all might be true-


Your thoughts: “It is true, God Dammit.”


Okay, alright, take it easy. You’re right. I’ll admit, at one point in my life, I most certainly would have graciously accepted Tina Fey’s generous boning invitation. There was a time, not too long ago, when all I thought about was receiving Tina Fey’s Please-Come-Over-And-Bone-Me-Silly text message late at night. “Sure thing,” I’d cooly reply. “I’ll be there soon,” I’d add, also cooly. Then I’d drive over in my 97 Nissan Sentra and I’d pop in my homemade, totally romantic Now That’s What I Call Boning Mixed CD, (it’s basically a Barry White album plus one track of me grunting while lifting weights). The rest, as they say, would be history. Ass history.




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Given my recent campaign against serial abortionist/poorly-disguised Snake Monster Hannah Montana, I’ve been getting a whole lot of letters. Not just from Hannah’s managers and lawyers and the FBI demanding that I stop harassing her, but from you, the Cracked readers and writers. Gladstone, for example, sent along this helpful article wherein Hannah is described as a juggernaut for her trampling of U2, the Super Bowl and the movie theater industry at large. In this article, sent by JoJo, Hannah Montana claims that she will not turn out to be the next Britney Spears but, suspiciously, she doesn’t say anything about not turning out to be the next Pol Pot. Eric 616 sent along this uncomfortable article including scandalous photos that may or may not be of the 15 year old, totally-illegal-and-as-a-result-totally-hideous Hannah Montana, scantily clad and covered in some of that middle-school-dance-sweat we all remember. Also, someone sent a package to the Cracked House that just contained a lock of Cyrus’s hair and what I think was one of her toenails. While I appreciate your dedication and resourcefulness, whoever you are, (let’s face it: Swaim), I can’t in good conscience condone this sort of behavior.
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Well folks, Spring is here which, for most people means love is in the air. For the nerdy, pasty, internet obsessed tech crowd, however, (that’s you, Cracked.com readers!), it means one thing: South by Southwest. That’s right, the 22nd Annual South by Southwest Festival, a celebration of music, movies, technology and the internet, is going on all this week. Bloggers, pseudo-celebrities and nerds everywhere are flocking to Texas for a week of boner-inducing inter-news, and as an incredibly important and influential Cracked Blogger, it’s only natural that I should be in attendance.

I don’t mean to brag, but as an experienced journalist, I have somewhat of a knack for sensing when something huge is about to happen and, let me tell you, I had one hell of a hunch that this particular SXSW festival was going to be different. Something big was going to go down, and I wanted to be there when it happened. If my hunch was accurate, (and they always are), this story could almost guarantee me a Pulitzer. Alternately, I heard Jenna Fischer was going to be there, and I’ve always kind of wanted to ask her if she’s ever seriously considered taking a shower with me.

I went to visit Cracked’s Head Editor Jack O’Brien last week to see about getting a plane ticket to the event…

“Let me ask you something, Jack Rabbit-” I began
“Don’t call me that” he interrupted.

“What if I was to tell you that I’m planning an article so controversial, so inspirational, so fucking life-changing that, after you read it, your head will literally spit your eyes right off your god damn face because your brain would realize that there’s no point in reading anything else ever. Got that? Your brain says you don’t even need eyes anymore because you already read the most important article ever conceived. That’s how fucking Ninja Turtles this article is.” I paused to let my words sink in, and because I accidentally spit all over myself in my excitement. “If I told you I could write that article and get it up on Cracked by the end of the week, would you just shit your pants, or what?” I could tell I had him.
“Probably not, no,” he answered. “But I’ll admit it, you’ve got my attention.” I also had his wallet, but he didn’t need to know that.
“You can have that article, Jack to the Future-”
“Don’t call me that.”
“-and all it would take on your part is a plane ticket to Austin. One little plane ticket, and you’ll have the article that’ll change the world. One plane ticket … and a few other incidental expenses,” I mumbled as I pulled out my expense proposal.
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Every once in awhile the media exalts some random celebrity to renaissance man status. Right now, that man is Justin Timberlake.

First, he was a successful boybander. Then, a hit solo artist. Then he turned up in a movie. It doesn’t matter that it was a rape fantasy soft core midget porn movie; it was still a movie!!

And now the Grammy winner is executive producer on a new show called My Problems With Women.

Wow. Is there anything this annoying, no-talent, scrawny piece of a shit can’t do?

He’s really got it all:

• Crying like a little bitch on Punk’d? Check!
• Satisfying his older lady fantasies with the only “beautiful” woman who bears a resemblance to Max Schmelling? Check!!
• Somehow capturing the look of BOTH redneck white trash and Orthodox Jew? Check!!!

Seriously, enough with this guy. Men will admit that Brad Pitt and George Clooney are attractive. Men don’t even mind that their girlfriends openly masturbate during Oceans 11. But I have yet to meet one dude who looked in the mirror and said, “Damn, I wish I looked more like the sniveling little brother of a bayou serial rapist.”

I’m not buying it. Timberlake is not Da Vinci. He’s just some dude. If he were taking your order at the McDonalds Drive Thru, you’d definitely double-check the bag before driving away. And you just KNOW, he’d totally forget the Sweet N’ Sour sauce you clearly asked for.

Am I wrong?

I gotta tell you, folks, there’s nothing more disappointing than spending four hours on an eight-page commentary on the life and times of Patrick Swayze as a tribute before he dies, only to find out, (and from the News on Cracked, no less), that he isn’t even fucking dying. So I will not be running that tribute today, as I had originally intended, but you can rest assured that it was tasteful, moving and it just might have healed the world a little bit. I would have moved you readers to tears with this tribute, but that shark-eyed bastard decided he’d rather stay alive a little bit longer. Selfish, really, if you think about it. I’ll hold on to it in case he ever does decide to move on to that great big Road House in the sky.

So, let’s move on to lighter news. Before I proceed, I don’t want anyone to get the wrong impression of me: I don’t normally read the National Ledger. In fact, I rarely venture far from this site to get my daily news, (which is why I learned about Swayze’s immortality through Lex Friedman), but I may have to start checking out the ole’ Ledger.

See, I was doing various Google searches, (“Hannah+Montana+Bitch,” “Hannah+Montana+Cancer,” “Hannah+Montana+Daniel+O’Brien,” “Hannah+Montana+Snake-Monster?”), when I stumbled upon quite possibly the greatest headline the internet has ever seen. That’s right, the National Ledger reports that “Despite Hannah Montana Success, Miley Cyrus is ‘Lonely.’” The story goes on to point out another episode of the awful, Christ-hating Miley And Mandy Show wherein Miley whines about being alone. What a bitch, right? Seems like all the fame, money, and success in the world can’t compensate for the fact that you’re fat-eyed Snake-Monster, can it? (It can’t.)
Man. I can’t wait till she turns 18 and I can legally murder her.
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Some of you may not be aware of this, but the contract for being a Cracked Blogger states that you have to share a house with all of the other Cracked Bloggers. I moved in a couple of weeks ago. It’s not so bad. I share a bed with Gladstone, who is, astonishingly enough, even hairier than he looks on film. I miss my girlfriend and family and sometimes it’s a little uncomfortable, living in a small house with five other guys. Also, I don’t think Swaim knows that I’m part black. I’m running out of excuses to give him when he asks me to accompany him to his White Supremacist meetings, which actually happen a lot more frequently than you might expect.

It gets awkward.

No matter how strange and often aggravating living in a Cracked House gets, I can’t imagine that it would ever be quite as irritating as sharing a house with that bitch who plays Hannah Montana. What is that belief based on, you ask? An irrational hatred that, perhaps, borders on obsessive? Not this time. (Those other times, though, yes, absolutely.) This time around, I have hardcore evidence to back up my reasons for thinking Hannah “The Holocaust Never Happened” Montana would make an awful roommate. Ladies and Gentlemen, allow me to present that bitch who plays Hannah Montana’s new Youtube show “The Miley and Mandy Show.”

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A whole lot of things in this world don’t make sense to me. I don’t know why we can’t accurately predict the weather yet, I’m not totally sure how microwaves work, Calculus has always been somewhat of a weakness.
The Vagina can be pretty tricky if you catch it on a bad day.
But of all the things in this world that I don’t completely understand, nothing is quite as confusing as the continuing career of actor/forehead-monster Nicolas Cage, [pictured right just minutes after molesting an eleven year old]. I mean, the guy’s got six movies coming out in the next two years despite the fact that he’s fairly talent-less, incredibly unattractive and remarkably unlikable. Sure, he’s Francis Ford Coppola’s son or nephew or whatever, but that shouldn’t mean he gets to be Ghost Rider, right? Right!? There is no justice in this world.
Well, despite what some Cracked Bloggers might lead you to believe, there is some justice in this world as, earlier this week, Nicolas “The White Wesley Snipes” Cage was accused of tax fraud. Apparently, he used his production company to “wrongly write off $3.3 million in personal expenses” and, a few years before that, “made a shitty movie about face-swapping.”

In an effort to let the “actor” clear the air and reveal his side of the story, I drove past Cage’s house early this morning and pooped in his mailbox. Will he go to jail? Or will he, like Mr. Snipes, beat the charges and make a Bowflex commercial? Time will tell.

Stay tuned after the jump for everyone’s favorite segment….

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