The Weather Channel. The phrase brings to mind thoughts of planning your weekend, flipping through en route to According to Jim, maybe even watching a hurricane tear your crappy state a new asshole. But there is a dark side to The Weather Channel. A world of sexual harassment, verbal abuse, and corporate cover-ups. Yes, the unthinkable has happened: The Weather Channel is interesting.

The man who made it so interesting? Bob Stokes, their “lead anchor” (sorry Bob, but you’re still just a weather man). After running his original co-anchor off with physical and verbal abuse, and not getting fired for it, he realized that he was so valuable to The Weather Channel that he could get away with basically anything. What made his bland, pan-asian face and generic way of speaking so damned valuable, we’ll never know.

But the fact is his new co-anchor, Hillary Andrews, was forced to put up with three years of sexual harassment and petty sabotage during which her superiors refused to act, and ultimately laid her off. Damn, but that Bob Stokes must be some draw. And all this in the midst of a 5 billion dollar bidding war for the sale of the channel. My God, The Weather Channel, when did you become a soap opera?

Probably about the time these pages from Andrew’s deposition hit the Internet. Prepare yourselves, readers; you are about to enter the seedy cloak-and-dagger world of national weather reportage.

Harrowing. We can only hope this monster’s abuses are finally brought to light, and The Weather Channel is replaced with something more wholesome and worthwhile, like foxy boxing.

When not blogging for Cracked, Michael fulfills his title of world champion watcher of female mud wrestling as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

I’m going to level with you: this article about fat people trying to get “being fat” a federally protected condition raises some fine points. Although it sounds like fatties trying to have their cake and eat it too, maybe with a shake and some fries on the side, there are some compelling cases by which I could be persuaded that they deserve to be protected form discrimination (most of these cases are cases of liquor).

And in a nation obsessed with body image and yet largely overweight, it’s an important issue. Whether or not someone can sue you for offering to describe their feet to them (you know, for old time’s sake) could actually affect my life very directly.

But above all else, what I gather from that article is that there’s a real possibility, in the near future, that it will be socially unacceptable to make fat jokes. And that fills me with the kind of horror known only to a fat kid being told that the funnel cake machine is still out of order.

As a blog that clearly loves the fat jokes, I think now is a good time to brace for the worst, and celebrate what we once took for granted. Give us your best fat jokes, people of Cracked. Link hilarious photos of men who are probably dead now. Show us videos of obese kids jiggling their way into their parents’ cholesterol-clogged hearts.

Let’s celebrate the fat joke, one last time, while we still can. Before the law says we have to sleep with overweight people, hire them as models, and encourage them on their road to Guinness glory, let’s memorialize their immeasurable contributions to humor. And, if we’re lucky, we may just make some people cry in the process.

When not blogging for Cracked, Michael wicked rips on fat kids as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

Sex tapes have become a basic staple of the Internet diet. Shocking as it may seem, literally dozens of celebrities apparently have sex, and now we know about it.

But I was still honestly surprised to read about the upcoming release of a Jimi Hendrix threesome tape. And by Vivid no less, whose stable of fine actors fill out the cast of my personal favorite adult movie of all time, XXX Pirates (the only porn to my knowledge featuring fully CGI skeletons and ghalleons).

I mean, it used to be that barring a major grave robbery, you could kind of count on your post-mortem legacy being secured. Now we’ve got Monroe and Hendrix boning on camera, and it’s only a matter of time before sexstorians dig up more compromising footage of our favorite dead.

After all, there seems to be plenty of money in it; Vivid plans on selling the 11-minute clip of a man “closely resembling Hendrix” as a forty-dollar DVD. For that kind of money, he’d better break into the solo form All Along The Watchtower at the moment of climax.

And so, as this horrorshow we call the Internet continues to consume more and more of our lives, and allows us all to indulge in the cravings for celebrity depravity we all share, then I’d at least like to put in my personal requests. Are you listening, people who comb through estate sales looking for old reel-to-reels of celebrities fucking? Here we go.

5. Celebrity: Claudette Colbert

Why I Want to See it: For my money, Colbert is the most beautiful woman ever put to black and white film. And as the (I presume) grandmother of Stephen Colbert, watching her have sex in high-contrast spectrovision is probably as close as I’ll ever get to meeting him. And that’s good enough for me.

Favorite Imagined Highlight: The guest appearance from Palm Beach Story’s “weenie king,” now 108 years old and hung like a kielbasa that’s been left out in the sun.

4. Celebrity: JFK

Why I Want to See it: Basically I just want to see a President’s weiner, and it seems like JFK’s the most likely candidate (unless Obama makes good on his promises to pants Hillary at her inauguration). There was a good chance a Monroe sex tape would have included him anyway, so I think we’re due.

Favorite Imagined Highlight: When John awkwardly tries to reference “the Cuban missile crisis” during initial insertion, and finally upsets his bedmates with an unflattering comparison to “the bay of pigs.”

3. Celebrity: Lucille Ball

Why I Want to See it: You know it’s going to be feisty, wacky, and interracial, and there’s not a lot more you could ask for in a sex tape that doesn’t involve things I’m not willing to discuss with you.

Favorite Imagined Highlight: When Lucy reenacts her famous chocolate factory routine by stuffing dildo after dildo into every possible orifice while they come relentlessly down a conveyor belt Desi built just for that purpose.

2. Celebrity: Groucho Marx

Why I Want to See it: I’m a huge Groucho fan, and everything I’ve learned about the man leads me to believe that his sex would either be riddled with hilarious one-liners or silent, seething, and smothered in self-loathing. Either way, I’ll buy a ticket just to watch his shoe polish mustache end up all over a lady’s nethers.

Favorite Imagined Highlight: When Harpo and Chico burst in to explain that there was a mixup with the condoms, and Harpo starts honking wildly as Groucho mugs to the camera and says “good thing I never use any.”

1. Celebrity: Sacajawea

Why I Want to See it: Because it would be the most beautiful, elegant, and dignified sex tape ever recorded. Also, the historical implications of its existence would be staggering.

Favorite Imagined Highlight: When the noble Indian woman directs Lewis and Clark to the exact location of the clitoris.

Addendum: The Monroe sex tape just got debunked, and the Hendrix one is highly dubious, as I mentioned. Hey, if we’re already faking them, all the more reason to fulfill the requests on my list. Get on it, Hollywood!

When not blogging for Cracked, Michael imagines the genitals of dead people as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

Nope.
Well, not yet, anyway, but I think should focus all of our efforts on making that happen. In case you didn’t know, Late Night’s Conan O’Brien will be leaving in 2009 to take over for grinning chin-monster Jay Leno as host of The Tonight Show, and the race to fins his replacement is on. According to this article, the frontrunner is the totally relevant and always professional Jimmy Fallon. Really, Fallon’s a terrific choice. Remember that time he giggled his way through six seasons of SNL? What about all those great characters he created, (that guy who really like Noma, or the guy who often folded shirts, or the annoying asshole who kept laughing during skits)? And who could forget his illustrious film career which includes new classics like Taxi, an action comedy that teamed Fallon with a sassy, talking car that solved mysteries, (if you’ve ever seen Taxi, you are now well aware that I have not)? Also, Fever Pitch. Jimmy Fallon has truly earned the Late Night desk.

Horseshit.

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This weekend it was reported that Prince William landed a helicopter outside his girlfriends house in rural England, during a training exercise. Military spokespersons have confirmed that this was all part of an authorized training mission, the British military evidently placing great stock in how well their fighting men are capable of fucking up their father in law’s lawns. The press has been less charitable however, a notable example being the Sun with their headline “WILLIAM GAILY DANGLES BOLLOCKS OVER ENGLAND ON HELICOPTER JAUNT.” All of this comes on the tail of reports that William took another helicopter trip to a stag party with his brother Harry in recent weeks. Military spokespersons have been unable to confirm the nature of that particular military venture, other than to suggest that it might have had something to do with naked vaginas.

All this raises an important question, “Why the fuck don’t I have a helicopter?” Seriously, what kind of loser goes to his girlfriends house and peeler bars in a Mazda Protege? I’ll tell you who: It’s me. (but never on the same night sweetie.) Oh sure, there’s probably several good reasons that I don’t have a helicopter. I have no money, for one. And I can’t get one via the military, because apparently I’m too “doughy” for those perfectionists. Perhaps most importantly, my dad isn’t going to be King one day - a fact which causes me unimaginable shame, and makes every Father’s Day around our house feel like a hollow sham.

Anyways, the result of all this aimless rambling is that if I want to go on any incredible adventures like Prince William, I’m forced to use my “imagination,” which is kind of like a helicopter for poor kids. So here’s a big list of things I’d do if I had a helicopter:

Get some 20″ wheels on it, and maybe a discrete spoiler.

Also, get a waterbed in there.

Help old people get cats out of trees.

Put old people’s cats in trees.

Put old people in trees.

Get around highway tolls.

Watch sporting events for free.

Harass nudists.

Paint it black and fly around Idaho, scaring the hell out of those anti-UN nuts.

Shout patronizing advice at mountain climbers.

Toilet paper some hot air balloonists.

Attack France.

Pop by the airport whenever I need a handle of Duty Free gin.

Fly to the moon.

Pee on people from a great height.

__

So that’s my list. What would you do if you got a helicopter? Like if Santa Claus made a horrible mistake one year?

Our demographics studies have revealed that a majority of Cracked blog readers are sexy, deadly ingénues in the midst of international games of cat and mouse (all except Glendoor; he’s just this guy). As such, I thought I’d do you all the favor of formulating your political opinions for you, seeing as you’re so busy falling perversely in love with the secret service agents sworn to exterminate you for the sake of national security.

Thus, to the recent Democratic debates in Philadelphia. No, not the ABC debate; the important one, the one on last night’s episode of The Colbert Report. Yes, Hillary Clinton, Barack Obama, and even John Edwards stopped by the show last night, and although they never spoke to one another directly or answered any questions, the debate had a clear winner: Stephen Colbert.

Let’s take one of the show’s opening segments, in which Hillary Clinton comes on to help fix their malfunctioning projection screen.

First of all, I’m pretty sure that’s the same scenario The Muppet Show used to introduce about forty percent of their guest stars. Secondly, I’m no classicist, but isn’t there something unsettling about a Senator and Presidential candidate stumbling woodenly through a pre-scripted bit with a talk show host? I thought that kind of thing was only for Nobel Peace Prize Winners.

Stephen Colbert’s power to manipulate the will of his massive audience has translated into an unprecedented ability to force politicians into mugging at a camera and saying things that they probably don’t understand and loathe saying. Anyone with the ego to run for President has got to have some sense of inflated decorum, and I doubt Senator Clinton’s stop in at “that show the numbers guys say will get the stoner vote” was a highlight for her dignity.

While Edwards seemed to genuinely enjoy his bit, that’s probably because it was the funniest and he’s already out of the race.

Admitting that The Colbert Report is where most Americans get their news these days is a lot easier once you’ve got nothing to lose. Still, he managed to staple some talking points onto the script, and in general struck me as the least out of his element.

Finally, we have Obama, who made up for his inability to actually be in the studio—judging by the backdrop, he was busy facing away from a large audience of orange enthusiasts—by regurgitating Colbert-ian cultural memes like a ventriloquist’s dummy. Not only did he “put something on notice,” he actually said the words “Grizzly bears are the number one threat to America.”

The implications here are staggering. Some of the most powerful people in the world are now having their actions circumscribed by a guy who produces a regular flash cartoon series of himself having sex with aliens. If he can un-endanger elephants, he can damn sure make all the Democratic candidates dance like little ponies (dancing ponies).

Although you’ll notice that for all his clout, he couldn’t get them to be in the same room together at the same time. Only Edwards and Clinton were on-premises, and their appearances were separated by enough time for Clinton to track down her husband, yank him out of the womens’ dressing rooms, and be on her way before Edwards even got to the green room cookies. I imagine they passed one another awkwardly in the hall and shared a look as if to say “Jesus, we’re really doing this.”

I don’t know what to think of this phenomenon. On the one hand, the utter transparency of the candidates’ grab at a voting segment makes accusations of pandering almost passé. On the other hand, imagine if this had been going on for years. We could be watching old episodes of Seinfeld right now that guest star Ross Perot as their “wacky landlord.”

Has Stephen Colbert become too powerful? Will he use this power for good, or evil? Or, more likely, just dick around with it and get bridges named after him? Do we like this?

When not blogging for Cracked, Michael writes spec scripts of The Gilmore Girls featuring John Kerry as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

Due to events far too complex too go into, I’ve had a Wii and full library of games at my house for some months, something I wouldn’t normally be able to afford. And it’s been pleasant. There’s a minigame in Mario Party where you shake a can of soda, and playing it is exactly like the very end of masturbating. I’m good at that one. Also soccer.

But this Wii Fit shit has officially crossed the line. Not just because playing it makes you look retarded; I played Dance Dance Revolution and collected pogs (and made my own pogs), so I can’t really take the high ground there. The thing about Wii Fit that I can’t stand is that it’s depriving a whole generation of kids a classic rite of passage: ogling the women in workout tapes.

Personally, I work out with The Firm. I said it, and I’ll say it again: The Firm.

Traditionally a woman’s exercise tape, but god damn it, I wouldn’t change my morning workout routine for all the tampons in China.

I don’t care if Johnny Lee makes it so Wii Fit implants memories of kicking ass with Van Damme into my brain while lasers sculpt my musculature into that of a Greek God. I will still work out with The Firm: Upper Body and Standing Legs and The Firm: 5-Day Abs and Tough Tape II (It really is quite tough).

First of all, it’s cheaper; for the price of Wii Fit (90 dollars), I can get like sixty Firm tapes at the swap meet and still have enough left over for their patented fanny lifter. Sure, it’s just an overpriced step ladder, but so is the Wii Fit controller, so fuck you.

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Some of you probably think being a Cracked blogger is fun. And sure, getting recognized on the street is a thrill at first, and the all the hot sex you’re constantly invited to watch (otherwise Ross can’t finish) is pretty okay too.

But let me tell you, it’s not all peaches and thick-bearded sex. There’s a dark side. Of course, I’m primarily referring to our being forced to care about the most inane shit ever hammered onto a keyboard by an AP intern trying to pad his transcript so he can get an internship in DC and avoid breaking up with his needy girlfriend.

Also sometimes Dan hits us with an old piece of leather belt he found. I don’t think it’s his, mostly because I’ve never seen him wearing pants.

But back to inane shit. The below photo of Dick Cheney “made waves” in the blogosphere this week, not because of his uncanny resemblance to The Penguin scowling triumphantly while Gotham burns, but because there was speculation that that little smudged reflection in his glasses was a naked woman.

You can start masturbating whenever.

The White House claims that it’s actually just a reflection of the fishing pole Dick was holding at the time. And while any moron can see that that’s clearly true, the use of the phrase “Dick’s pole” in their justification is so sexually charged that I’m going to have to assume that the reflection is actually of hardcore pornstar Jenna Haze. My arguments?

One. Look at that smirk. You’re telling me that’s the smirk of a man enjoying a nice fly fishing cast? You’re suggesting a man who is at least a third responsible for the downfall of the American Empire gets off on some fucking nylon sailing through the air?

Au contraire. That is the knowing grin of a bald, overweight man who knows he can bang, and then murder young starlets with impunity. I guarantee you that mere moments after this photo was snapped, that woman’s face got a blast from Dick’s trusty shotgun. And then he probably killed her, too.

Two. I have devised a simple test to prove that it’s at least possible that there could be a naked lady in there. Below, four photos. Three are old men’s hands. One? Jenna Haze. I DEFY you to spot the difference.

And three. The White House claims some fancy zoom-in of the photo proves Cheney was fishing. Big whoop. I saw a picture yesterday of a guy with his head stuck up his own ass. It was not only a hilarious visual metaphor and example of computing wizardry, but also a dire warning: photos are not to be trusted.

Just because your European History teacher shows you some slides of emaciated torture victims standing by some grainy wooden bunks doesn’t mean the Holocaust actually happened. Okay, bad example, but you get my point.

Check out these images I made with just a few minutes and some Googling.

Clearly, when someone like me—not even a professional photo manipulationist—can fool the eye so utterly, so completely, we can’t take anything at face value. If a few bloggers say that those eighty tan pixels represent a nude sunbathing pornstar, who are we to question?

We should just accept it as fact and react accordingly (huge boners), for the sake of entertainment if nothing else. Who cares about high gas prices; Cheney’s leering at nipples! On boobs! The important question now is what to do about it. Our VeeP has almost certainly been snagging some poon on the side, possibly while dressed in rubber wading pants.

It may be too late to impeach, but I say there’s always time for a good old fashioned uprising of the people. I mean, you didn’t rise up when you found out they lied about the WMD’s in Iraq. You didn’t rise up when they sent your children to die in the desert and pushed our economic status back forty years. For the love of God, rise up now!

If I don’t see people looting in the streets tomorrow, I’m going to care even less about this issue, which, believe me, is no small feat. Please, don’t let that happen.

Viva la inanity!

When not blogging for Cracked, Michael plans and coordinates the execution of photoshops as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

As some of the more pop culture knowledgeable readers have already deduced from that headline, Vanilla Ice was arrested yesterday on a battery charge. Apparently, his wife bought an expensive bedroom set and, as a result, Vanilla pushed her, right in front of their daughter.

I…I’m sorry, I can’t just report on this story. I have a confession, Readers, and I need your advice on this one. I have such a guilty conscience, and I feel like I may somehow be responsible for Ice’s actions. Let me just start at the beginning. I’ll tell you this story, and you let me know if I could have done anything to prevent this mess.
Last Friday, I was at Jay-Z and Beyonce’s wedding. Don’t beat yourself up if you weren’t invited, the guest list was very small. Mostly just family, Kanye, Dame, me, Vanilla Ice, some of the Nets and Nas, (they’re cool now). I think one of Destiny’s children was in attendance do, but hell if I know. Beyonce and I don’t really get along. (I didn’t like Dreamgirls. Fucking kill me.)

It was a beautiful ceremony. Nas gave an inspiring speech as the best man and Kanye released, like, a thousand doves, (motherfucker loves doves, I’ll tell ya). There was a nice jazz band for the reception and the food was really terrific. I remember walking up to Jay-Z to hand him his present, and I remember razzing him a little bit about his recent marriage.
“So, Hova,” I said with a smirk, “you’re finally married, huh?”
“Chyeah,” He said.
“What about all that talk, huh? I thought you were a pimp in every sense of the word, Jay. I thought you giving your heart to a woman would never happen and that, further, you’d be forever mackin?” His face turned bright red. “I’m messing with you, Sean, ahah, gosh, you get so nervous sometimes. Anyway, I got you a clock radio. It’s waterproof, so you can use it in the shower.”

Anyway, it was at the reception when I ran into Vanilla Ice and he did not look good.
“What’s wrong, Robert? Where’s Mrs. Van Winkle?”
“Oh, hey D.O.B., I didn’t see you there. Laura’s not coming tonight, we’re having some… problems.” He seemed really broken up.
“Wanna talk about it?”
“We…We just keep arguing. Arguing over stupid shit, you know? I mean, how do I even know if I’m really in love with her?”
I sat him down.
“Love is very simple, Ice. When you’re in love, you can just feel it. Something grabs a hold of you tightly. Love flows, like a harpoon, not just daily, but nightly, too.”

“Wow. That was beautiful.” He then proceeded to tell me all about his marital troubles and how that pesky wife of his just keeps spending all of the money he’s earned (?) over the past few decades.
To be fair, I never really liked Laura. I always thought she was just using him for his money, connections and his locked position as a laughably obscure pop celebrity, (residing in a place I’ve named Popscurity). But, as much as I think Laura Van Winkle has always been a gold-digging opportunist, I’ve always kept my mouth shut about it. Who am I to intervene, you know?

“I mean, I definitely love her,” Ice said as the reception was winding down. “But she just keeps spending all of my dough-flow, yo. Just last week, she bought a fridge, a wine rack, and two new bedroom sets. Two! What is that?” Now, here’s where I think I might have offered some bad advice that might make me slightly, (slightly), responsible.
“Well, I’ve always had a pretty simple rule about this sort of thing, Ice. I say, if Laura buys one more bedroom set, I say you should just push her.”
“Push her?”
“Yep. Right onto the floor. It’s been my experience that women love being on the floor.” He considered this and smiled.
“Wow. Thanks DOB, you’re the best.”
“Hey man, it ain’t no thing. Anything less than the best is a felony. Oh, one more thing, when you push her, make sure your daughter’s around. Yeah.”

So what do you think? Do you think I might have, in some way, inspired Vanilla Ice to push his wife? I mean, in my defense, I was speaking metaphorically. Like, women love being on the floor of our hearts, you know? You’ve heard that expression before. You have to (figuratively) push women (with love) onto the floor (of our hearts), you know? I can’t be held responsible if Vanilla Ice has to take everything literally, right? Right?

To set the scene: I was sitting in my well-appointed office, legs up on a mahogany desk, wondering in what order I’d like to bang the female cast of the O.C. this week (I was going by height, but considered switching to alphabetically). Suddenly, Youtube CEO Ronny “Hardwood” Youtube bursts into my office out of breath and tells me that he’s in a bad way.

“A bad way?” I ask, gently sloshing a snifter of Bavarian brandy, “what is this, Manhattan in the 20’s? Out with it Hardwood.”

A few sips and a shitload of small talk later, I am informed that Ronny’s eponymous sketch-delivery service is ailing for lack of quality content. He tells me they’ve tried to drum up some yuks with some sort of competition, but all they’ve attracted are schmucks, schlubbs and schlemiels.

Once again, I reprimand him for the 20’s terms with a quick rap from my leather riding crop. We’re in bed at this point, but that’s inconsequential; it was time for me to hit the “A’s” and I’m not one to let a little business interfere with my pleasure.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Ronny the Bear. I will deliver to you the finest sketch available, and below cost. It will afflict the viewers with such riotous laughter that they shoot themselves in the fucking face just to make their sides stop aching.”

Ronny thought that was a bit much, so we scaled it back 10%, shot it that afternoon, edited it that night over Chocotinis, and had a team of man-slaves heft it to the Youtube.

Naturally, the 40,000-dollar prize that goes along with the contest doesn’t interest a man of my stature, but I suppose I could use the bricks of cash to build a small house for my Pekinese.

Help that small cash house become a reality by voting for the above sketch in said contest.

Click the link, then “next video” till you see ours, and give us the ol’ green thumbs up.

You can give all videos thumbs up or down once per day per IP address until the 15th, so really go nuts here.

Hell, star it up too while you’re at it.

Double-hell, if you really liked it that much, why not Digg it to the front page and actually give us a shot at winning this thing?

Triple-hell, why not tattoo a screencap on your junk? Remember, Ronny’s counting on you.

When not blogging for Cracked, Michael OH GOD PLEASE VOTE FOR OUR SKETCH! OUR CAMERA’S ON ITS LAST LEGS AND MY MOM NEEDS AN ORGAN TRANSPLANT AND JESUS GOD PLEEEEEEEASE! THEY’RE GONNA TAKE MY LUNGS!