In these tough economic times, each of us is looking for ways to increase our earnings and secure our futures. While we'd like to believe that all it takes is hard work and talent, the bitter reality is that we need every advantage -- legit and otherwise -- to rise to the top. And that means you have to be ready to be a horrible person.
Fortunately, like most people who read or write for the Internet, I am a terrible human being. Over the years, I've honed this talent, evolving from writing shitty little online comments to actually destroying other writers. Some of you newer to Cracked might not remember that we used to have a completely different slate of columnists - all of whom were obliterated by my fiendish, back-stabbing ways. I mean, think about it. How else could I keep this job? As my last column should have made clear, I'm not really funny and everything I say should be taken absolutely literally. So when some business affairs brought me to Los Angeles last weekend, I decided it was the perfect time to stop by the Cracked office, and secure my job via patented d-bag techniques.
And now I can share these techniques with you, illustrating each with a real-world application to your friends here at Cracked. These tips will work for anyone. As long as you're a prick and out to destroy the competition, this 5 step process will move you to the front of the line, whether that is a line for blood bank donations, government cheese, or the third circle of hell.
The first step in any evil plan is perpetuating the notion you're a nice guy. When I was a younger horrible person I used to actually cover myself in warpaint and carry a sharpened butcher knife to the office before trying to murder a coworker. But as you get older you learn subtlety is your friend. You want your evil to be a surprise.
But how do you achieve this? Stand in front of a mirror and think about drowning several kittens. See what happened? That thing in the mirror is called a smile, and you can use it to your advantage. Compliments are good too. Also, try not to stand out. You want your peers to think you're just like them, only happier and less talented. That's why when I went out to L.A. I did several weeks of surveillance to figure out how the gang dressed. I wanted to reflect their style. Also, so the lads wouldn't be intimidated by my superior good looks, I decided to have my face stung by a thousand bees just before posing for this picture. That bloated puffiness says "hey guys, you can trust me."
Now that you've established yourself as a good guy. You need to slyly create dissension. Like wouldn't it be great if no one were plotting to destroy you because they were all plotting to destroy each other? Of course, it would.
I set to work creating a divide between my peers. A novice would do this by spreading a rumor that one member of the office was banging the girlfriend/wife of another. But as only about half of the Cracked writers are sexually active and only half of that remaining number have successfully overcome erectile dysfunction, I thought the approach lacked credibility. Also rumors/lies have a tendency to backfire. Remember when you told all your friends that the girl who wouldn't go to the prom with you was a huge lesbian? Remember how silly you felt afterward when it came out she was banging your phys ed teacher, and the captain of the football team, and your best friend, and even a certain non-kosher farm animal in an amateur porn tape that surfaced a year later? Yeah, it takes more than just a lie to do this right.
That's why I sent this Tweet moments before I arrived.
Some of you might be thinking I've violated my own rule. Isn't that an overt attack on Seanbaby? What happened to being subtle? But as noted by the pic above, Sean was not joining us that night. My battle with him would have to wait for another day. And since Sean is a self-proclaimed mixed martial arts master, it would have to be a day when he was feverish and bed-ridden with another bout of highly contagious and incurable venereal disease. No, I was merely using Sean (much like he's been used by so many Malaysian businessmen before me).
Soren and Daniel responded to my infantile Tweet, defending Seanbaby's honor.
But did you notice something? No response from Cody and Swaim. Maybe they thought the tweet was too dumb for a reply. Maybe they had enough of a life that they didn't check Twitter every five minutes. Or maybe they had a secret. Maybe they hated Sean. Maybe they hated Soren and DOB. Lines were being drawn. Sides taken. Now I'd just sit back and watch the house of cards fall.
Well, apparently no cards fell and after a moment all I could discern was an awkward discomfort among my peers from seeing me in person. Maybe it was my raw sexuality. Or maybe they were just creeped out drinking beers with a guy who couldn't get a pigfucker to go to the prom with him. I mean, drinking beers with a guy who had a friend who couldn't get a pigfucker to date him.
In any event, it was time to move on to the next step. This one might be my favorite. Y'see,sometimes the best way to destroy your alleged friends is to help them destroy themselves. Each of us contains the potential for our own undoing. For some, it's a death wish. For others, it's just incredibly poor judgment. Yet, most of us suppress these ideas for fear of making waves. That guy in the cubicle next to you who thinks the company should move to a four day work week because a happier worker means greater productivity? You should totally encourage him to tell the boss that.
And so I set about speaking to my colleagues, finding out their deepest dreams and goals. Apparently, Soren wanted to leave Cracked to start a summer camp for young Aryan boys. Now we were getting somewhere. I spent all night whispering invented statistics in Soren's ear as he knocked back his Chocolate Choo Choos and Mojitos: "Did you know that young Aryan boys are the largest growing summer camp demographic in the U.S."; "Why just the other day at a Neo Nazi rally in Chicago I heard several Aryan parents complaining there was just no good place to send their kid for the summer", and "No, no, I heard that mixed drinks don't affect your abs as long as they're a primary color and come with an umbrella. Drink up."
Cody wanted to do more Game-helping Squad videos, but with more irritating voices. "YES!" I proclaimed. Swaim decided never to do Cracked TV again "YES!" DOB yearned to retire his confident, cock-obsessed, humor of hyperbole. "Good call," I offered. Incidentally, they all agreed I should keep up with the long form, literary satire, no one reads. "Teacher surpasses student," I wondered...
Meanwhile, at another bar, far away, Bucholz, Brockway, and Seanbaby had nothing to do with us:
This trick works as well in war time as it does for miserable cubicle-based jobs. Given that most of your peers are scared and pathetic, desperately clinging to the status quo while they avoid making waves at all costs, they will jump on any bit of information they believe gives them insight into how to go unseen. For example, your office might have a Hawaiian Shirt day. Incredibly, 20 people will show up in bright disgusting colors because NOT wearing a Hawaiian shirt will make them stand out.
Now if you can get your coworkers to wear a Hawaiain shirt on a day that isn't Hawaiian shirt day, well, then you're getting somewhere. After several drinks, I applied this technique in subtle expert fashion:
"Hey, I was a little surprised by the rain we had today," I said finishing my sixth Scotch neat. "I guess that's why Bossman Jack O'Brien says DOB writes like a fourteen-year-old girl who learned English as a second language."
"What?" said Dan.
"The rain. I thought it was supposed to be sunny," I said finishing my seventh Scotch. "I brought my sunglasses and everything for the glare. Y'know, like the glaring continuity errors in all of Swaim and Cody's videos. Oh, sorry. Channeling Jack again. Waitress, is there even any alcohol in these? Bring me an eighth Scotch please."
"Anyway, let's not focus on the boss's palpable disgust with all of your work product. Let's just try to get in his good graces. Since Jack's been on the east coast, he's totally gotten into Cirque du Soleil. Like heavy into it. I think he thinks that's the future of the Internet."
"French Circus Performing Artists are the future of the Internet?" Swaim questioned.
I swallowed my ninth Scotch. "Totes."
I saw Soren smirking, and I realized I was being foolish. I was dealing with some of the finest writers on the Internet. They weren't going to fall for some absurd line of crap and sell out their artistic visions in the process. Then I saw something blue out of the corner of my eye.
Sometimes, the first four steps don't work. Or at least they don't work fast enough when you've got a 7:20 am flight back to New York the next day and you want results before you leave. That's why I decided I should probably just kill everybody. But still, I didn't want to be caught. Also, I had left my war paint and butcher's knife back in New York. I soon devised a master plan. What if I pretended to commit suicide, but in the process murdered everyone? I could wait until they left the bar for a smoke break, leave a suicide note, jump off the roof and try to crush them all from above.
I waited until the gang headed out front, and rushed up to the roof of the building while mentally composing my suicide note. If I flung myself off the building just right, I could snap each of their necks with a different one of my limbs, while using their now-dead bodies to brace my fall. Kinda brilliant.
I flung myself off the building, my face filled with California air, my eyes with visions of job security. But only a moment after leaping off the four story building, my descent came to an almost instant halt. I opened my eyes to find myself seated firmly on Swaim's shoulders. Fuck that fucker was tall.
"Hey, whatcha doin' up there, buddy?" Swaim turned and asked.
"Me? Oh, nothing," I said, shimmering down the side of his body to the other writers below.
"Well, it was great to meet you, Gladstone," Soren said.
"I'll let you know when I'm back east," DOB offered.
"Which giant fake mustache looks more
"Aww, you really are a swell bunch of guys," I said. "Sorry for trying to destroy and/or murder you."
Most rich kids just want to be pop stars.
How did these hyper-specific tropes spread so quickly?
The Hollywood rumor mill has been playing games with celebrity deaths for at least a century.