At 12:13 am, Eastern Standard Time, Cracked columnist Ian Fortey died. His column, Fortey Days and Fortey Nights, died with him. They were murdered. Murdered to death. By murder!
Seriously though, this is Ian's last column on Cracked, so pay attention ...
The Scene:An Evening of Murder became all too real when Cracked staffers and assorted celebrities gathered to play a game and enjoy a dinner while discussing future projects for the site.
The Suspects:Gladstone: Disgruntled ex-columnist and Ian Fortey’s Facebook stalker. Gladstone had an axe to grind now that Ian had punked his old gig. But was it a real axe that he decided to grind into Ian’s supple, young spine or a metaphorical, kind of queer one?
I have some candy, but I left it in my van…Dan O’Brien: Cracked golden boy, senior writer and suspected alopecia sufferer, DOB’s star was fading just as Ian’s was rising like a splendid boner against the setting sun. What does that even mean? Means DOB was a sour man. Sour like so much sour candy, because it’s covered in that stuff that looks like sugar but when you put it in your mouth you realize it’s not. Don’t put DOB in your mouth is what I’m saying.
Robert Brockway: Cracked editor and the man most likely to edit this entry to say something complimentary. In real life he’s a goddamn really nice guy who never had a problem with Ian nor access to the blueprints of his house. Pick up “Everything Is Going to Kill Everybody” on book stands now.Michael Swaim: A known android and head of video.
Scarlett Johansson: An avid Ian Fortey fan. Apparently she’s some kind of performer or something?
Pictured: something relevant.Peter Weller: The actor best known for his portrayal of RoboCop.
The Narrator: I read about the concept of The Lovely Bones on Wikipedia. So I guess I’m Ian. I’m lovely.
The Night According to Gladstone
We arrived at the house just after 8pm. I say we but I mean me. I was alone. I had my iPhone, though, and Facebook was up. I have 5000 friends on Facebook so really, I’m never alone. Did you know Facebook only lets you have 5000 friends? It’s true. I’d have more friends if they didn’t impose those limits. I’m that popular. I get poked so many times in a day, you don’t even know.
I left Cracked a few months ago to become a baker. I love to bake. You should try my sticky buns. In an article that would be a joke about spooge all up my backside but this is serious. Anyway, I still keep in touch with the gang. I call them the gang because they do drive-bys.
When I got there, Ian was already drunk. I mean, that’s no surprise, he’s always drunk. Once, at a company picnic, he shit his pants. I like to tell that story. Ian Fortey was a drunk who shit his pants, God rest his soul.
RIP you beautiful bastard.
Ian was arguing with Dan about who had the keys to the car. Apparently they’d carpooled together to get here with Peter Weller and Peter insisted one of them had the keys. Ian was belligerent as usual, claiming Dan was as useless as tits on Andy Rooney. No one even knew what that meant, but he said it with a lot of hate.
Swaim tried to cool things down by suggesting we all play Cranium. Ian told him Cranium was a baby game for loser babies who suck at life. Secretly I agreed but as Ian stormed out of the room I could see the hurt expression on Swaim’s little face and I knew he’d never ask us to play Cranium again.
After that I had to get back to Facebook so I could approve more people in my fan club. I have so many fans, I’m really loved. I really am. I mean sure, I’ve never met these people and I may sleep alone on a cot but hey, sure beats being murdered, right? Anyway yeah, I don’t remember seeing Ian again that night.
The Night According to Dan O'Brien
If there’s one thing I know, it’s talent and Ian Fortey had less talent in his whole body than my shit has in its shit. Like if my shit could shit, the shit shit, or shit squared or whatever, would be able to excel at all things Ian Fortey struggled with. And brother, that’s a lot of things.
Yeah, we came to the party together, but I didn’t want to. I’m a senior writer at Cracked, do you know what that means? I have my intern do all my work and sign my name to it. It’s supposed to be in my contract that I don’t do anything I don’t want to.
I was trying to pick up chicks with Peter Weller--it’s what I do on weekends--and out of nowhere Fortey shows up with a half bottle of Scope. I’m going to be honest, I don’t even think Scope is made with alcohol.
The burn is so delicious!
We agree to go to this Evening of Murder thing and Fortey tells Peter Weller he’s going to murder him good for making RoboCop 3 so godawful. Mr. Weller tells him that he wasn’t even in RoboCop 3 and Fortey tells him his mom was, then he literally laughed for the entire rest of the drive. We're talking at least 15 minutes.
By the time we arrived, the bottle of Scope was gone and he started hitting the Pabst that I brought. I brought that Pabst for everyone! Laughing boy drank it all except one that Peter Weller took.
The burn is less delicious!
He went to the bathroom for about and hour, I guess, and when he came back, just before Gladstone arrived with his goddamn iPhone and pretend friends, Ian came out of the can and wanted to drive to Taco Bell but I told him I didn’t have the keys. Peter Weller didn’t have the keys and Ian said he didn’t have the keys, so then he called me a “cock juggling turd burglar,” muttered something about Andy Dick and stumbled out of the room after making Swaim cry. Fucked if I know why, but when doesn’t Swaim cry?
By the time we got around to the dinner he was just sitting alone in a corner with a pack of uncooked Ramen noodles talking to himself. After dinner is when I noticed he was missing and then Brockway found the body in the library. If you ask me, Brockway is a great guy who didn’t kill Ian.
The Night According to Robert Brockway
Did anyone else notice Scarlett Johansson at this party? She’s on the guest list but I didn’t see her anywhere. She's the only reason I even showed up, I hate these people. I wore my skinny jeans, for fucks’s sake. Skinny jeans. They make my junk look enormous. And she’s not even here? God, no one tells me anything. I’m a fucking editor!
Listen, I showed up just as dinner was starting. Ian was drunk and eating Ramen noodles but so what? I literally see him do that in the office at least three times a week. At first we tried to stop it because, you know, it’s unprofessional, but when we saw the quality of shit he writes when he’s sober we just let it slide. I mean seriously, he did this and this sober. We can’t have that.
So Swaim was trying to sell me on a new concept for a video where he’s this French guy who’s not really French who gets trained to do the splits by a Japanese guy, and then he ends up in China fighting in a tournament and honestly, it was pretty clearly the plot of Bloodsport from the get go except the twist was he’d include funny YouTube clips.
I touched his weiner! NOOOOOOO!
Across the table from me, the guy who played RoboCop is eating desserts. Like he just skipped the actual meal and started in on a whole pie and a can of Pabst, which I don’t even know where he got, because I didn’t see any Pabst around here.
So Robocop is just staring at me while he eats the pie and it’s like he’s challenging me. Have you ever seen a guy trying to pick up a girl he knows you like? And he gives you that look? That look that says, “Hey buddy, I’m going to put a finger in her butt later tonight.” That’s the look RoboCop had on his face and I didn’t like it one bit.
I had to leave to get some air because, ask anyone, if you have to listen to Swaim for more than 10 minutes it takes a good year off your life anyway. That and the pie thing, plus my skinny jean issue, really made me regret showing up at all. So I went out on the patio out back to stroke my splendid beard, smoke a Cohiba and reassess my place in life.
By the time I went back in I’d planned on just hopping on the computer in the library and looking up some pictures of topless chicks with guns. Instead I find Fortey sprawled out on the floor with a bloody chunk out of his head and a candlestick on the floor next to him. I admit that I laughed, just for a second, because I’ve never seen a Clue murder in real life. But it was just for a second.
The Night According to Michael Swaim
I got Cranium for my birthday literally a month ago and have been just dying for a chance to play. Like, my God. It’s probably the greatest party game I have ever played and I was so excited to play with Danny and Robby and that Jewish fellow who used to work here, I forget his name. And oh my God, Mr. Peter Weller, star of The Substitute Wife, one of Farrah Fawcett’s best performances, how perfect is that?
So at the party I’d put out these really great organic bean dip wraps and some virgin mimosas and Ian Fortey starts shot gunning Pabst like a hobo trying to blank out his memories of combat gone awry and he literally ate every goddamn bean dip wrap that was on the tray before all the guests had even arrived. What kind of psycho does that?
Taste the Swaim.
So I rushed off to make more hors d'oeuvres because I’ll be jiggered if Ian Fortey is going to ruin another one of my parties – did you know he shat at the picnic last summer? In his pants. From his butt.
I started whipping up some pecan sandies and these really delicious little ham crostinis from a recipe I sort of stole from a Good Housekeeping magazine and suddenly I hear all this shouting from the great room.
I left the crostinis for a minute and head back to the party and Ian is just cursing out poor Danny and he said he looked like Mickey Rooney’s titties. My hand to God, I have no idea what that means. Worse, he said my bean dip wraps tasted like cock and he wanted to go to Taco Bell but no one could find the car keys. I’ll have you know that my organic bean dip wraps do not taste like cock. Not even close.
Because I am a gracious host, I let that comment slide, and tried to make everyone happy by suggesting we play Cranium because really, Cranium does make any party that much better. And do you know what Ian Fortey said to me? Do you? He said “Cranium? Sure, we could play that. Or maybe I could prolapse my own rectum and smash it with a hammer for an hour.”
Listen, I get that organic bean dip wraps aren’t for everyone, even if you did eat every single one, but Cranium does not deserve that. It just doesn’t.
Anyway, Ian left for a while after that and I finished making some food. At dinner I was telling Robby about this divine new idea I have for a show on the site that will involve hilarious YouTube videos and he was really responding to it. I think he was going to go call someone about getting me funding when he stumbled upon Ian’salready dead body that he didn’t kill at all.
The Night According to Scarlett Johansson
I wasn’t at any party. I don’t even know what Cracked.com is.
The Night According to Peter Weller
I know Dan O’Brien from rehab. We met there. He was a waste. A failure. His self loathing was unlike anything I’d ever seen and it made me laugh. I saw him try to hump some fetid produce in a dumpster once with a rage and intensity I've only ever seen in the eyes of the stark, raving mad. You could dare him to do literally anything, no matter how degrading or illegal, and he’d do it. And I loved it. I don’t usually laugh but Dan O’Brien, he can make me laugh.
That night I wanted to laugh, so I called Dan and told him he should make me laugh. I was going to get him to dive punch the elderly in a park. That's where you run at a senior citizen and leap, with your fist extended, towards them. But this guy, this Ian Fortey, shows up out of nowhere with some shit headed idea to go to dinner and an Evening of Murder party. Fuck. I literally thought that. I just thought the word “fuck” and wished him gone. But my wishes haven’t been granted in a hell of a long time.
I rubbed it but all I got was herpes
I don’t even eat dinner. I eat dessert. I like pie and I will eat your pie and when I eat your pie, I want you to know that it’s your pie that I’m eating. And you’re not going to say shit about it, are you?
The party sucked. And this Fortey guy never shuts up. Just never. Worse, he lips me about taking the car keys because he wants to go get a taco and he can’t find them. Listen, and this is important, you never lip me about your fucking car keys, you understand? Because if you do I swear to whatever deity you hold dear, I will bash your skull to meaty bits with a candlestick just like I did to Ian Fortey.
Yeah, that’s right. RoboCop killed a bitch. RoboCop being Peter Weller and not Robert Brockway, who isn’t even sure he saw Ian Fortey that night and even if he did they were probably on opposite sides of… wait… nevermind. RoboCop did it. Yeah.