I’m getting fairly frequent emails these days asking why I’m all worked up about Cracked all of a sudden, recruiting writers and shit. It occurs to me that many of you weren’t around a month ago when I made the announcement and don’t scroll back far enough in the archives to see it now that you’re here.

So for those of you not in the loop, I was hired as the Assistant Editor at Cracked.com. Full time. You can read my announcement from a month ago HERE. If your attention span is too short for that, just know that the sites are merging soon but that nothing should be lost in the transition. Not on purpose, anyway.

In other news, some reviewer has been kind enough to review my retarded horror novel John Dies at the End.

They were very nice to it, giving it a 9.5 out of 10, though now that I type that I’m realizing that may turn out to be the lowest score they’ve ever given out for all I know.

Also, we’re up to 65 reviews on Amazon.com and are holding steady at an average of five stars. That’s five out of a possible five, people. Oh, and I’m out of signed copies again (I’ve signed and mailed 90 of the fuckers) but I’ve ordered more. If you want one, click here for details.

I’ve decided my new goal in life is to still be really cool when I’m 70.

My inspiration is this old guy and his “Don’t Tase Me Bro” folk song and, even better, the guy from the Cautionary Tales of Swords video.

The above, grossly-misleading headline resulted from me waking up this morning to find my retarded horror novel John Dies at the End is at #969 on the Amazon sales ranks, and #88 in the horror genre.

Books we’re currently outselling:

Wizard and Glass, by Stephen King (No. 91);

Treasure Island, by Robert Louis Stevenson (#89)

You know, I feel emboldened to say this: Treasure Island is without a doubt the worst horror novel I’ve ever read. Anyway, right now we’re one notch behind A Turn of the Screw by Henry James, and they had to drop the price to $1.75 to beat me.

Now, let’s not go crazy here, one thing that skews these numbers is that my book is pretty much only available on Amazon and other online booksellers. Those other books are selling tens of thousands of copies in brick-and-mortar book stores and grocery stores and Wal-Mart. That’s why you don’t have to sell more than a few hundred copies to climb up those Amazon sales ranks. Still…

I had also gotten 30 copies for myself, that I decided I’d give away to the first 30, or possibly the only 30, people who wanted signed editions. I mentioned it on my forums and the 30 were claimed in a couple of hours, then about 120 more people said they wanted one before I stepped in and told them the books were gone and that they were all screwed. Now, again, some of that was because they were free and as someone pointed out, you can give away herpes on the internet if you say it’s free.

That said, I will start selling signed copies if people want them. Inquire here.

Against all odds, my Miserable Century article became kind of a Digg phenomenon over the weekend, with more than 4,000 Diggs and a shitload of readers and lots of very kind comments. Thanks, everybody.

Want to write stuff like that for CRACKED? Apply within. Come one, come all.

There is a John Dies at the End trailer, and it’s awesome. I don’t know what else to say about that.

Pwotter S Peter Davis has made this video over on his site, a part of a growing sub-genre of videos with the admirable but hopless goal of transcribing Fall Out Boy Lyrics. Also, this.

Friday was my last day at my day job. I notice the company’s stock has dropped 35% in early trading on the basis of that news alone.

I always had this fantasy where I stride into my boss’s office and fling my resignation on the desk. “Whoops, it looks like I forgot to sign it,” I say as I unzip my fly. I leap onto the desk and “sign” my name in urine, across his entire office, the bald little man sputtering and trying to work the monocle back into his eye. Then I walk out, past the cubicles, while all my coworkers stand in two rows and applaud my passing.

So, after having this daydream probably 3,000 times in 16 years, Friday was the day. I waiting until ten minutes to quitting time and strode right into her office (my boss is an 82 year-old woman named Gladys), scooted a chair over so I could use it as a step stool to the taller-than-I-had-imagined desk. I climbed up, kicking aside kitten figurines. Gladys had been on the phone, I think describing some health issue with her doctor, so this was the first time she actually looked up at me.

“Here’s my resignation,” I whispered, not wanting to interrupt what sounded like an extremely important call. “Oh wait I didn’t sign it…”

She put a hand up, a signal to wait until she was finished with her call. By that point my fly was down and my penis was mostly exposed. I realized I had no desire to urinate, and that my genitalia had shriveled to the size of a peach pit.

Gladys was looking away again, focused on her call. She absently rummaged through a desk drawer, then held out a ballpoint pen. I stood that way, standing astride her computer keyboard, my shy penis huddling for cover in the frigid air-conditioned space. Finally, as a compromise, I took the pen and sort of held it against my penis, then squatted down and scrawled my name on the paper.

The woman sort of nodded around her phone as I dismounted, as if dismissing me.

“I, uh, signed that with my dick,” I mumbled.

She covered the phone with her hand and said, “Good working with you!”