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"Check it out," he said without looking up. "Really first rate. If it weren't for the fact that Ross occasionally murders people in accordance with the phases of the moon, he'd be my favorite Cracked blogger."
But I wasn't interested in hearing about Ross. "Are you listening to me, Premature E-Jack-U-Lation?" I inquired. "We have a problem here."
"What is it NOW, Dan," Jack said, looking up from the piece. "Oh, Gladstone . . . I thought . . ."
"Thought what, Banana Jackeries?"
"Thought you were someone else. Never mind.... And stop calling me that."
I knew Jack was a reasonable man at heart. A man who unlike DOB and me, had never been held in Disney jail for asking Minnie Mouse (repeatedly) if she were "fucking Goofy," during a character breakfast. (That shit just does NOT get old.) I tried to appeal to his inner businessmen.
"Listen to me, Three-Jack-A-Day-Smoking-Habit. Cracked has got to do a better job differentiating between DOB and me. Don't you want the readers to have TWO reasons to come visit
Jack tightened up his eyes in an inexplicable display of pain. I assumed the lashes from his recent dominatrix visit were flaring up. (I'd read that all powerful men have their own dominas.)
"First of all," he said. "You're doing it wrong. You're just supposed to do variations on my name -- not insert "Jack" into any word that happens to rhyme with it. Second, are you seriously complaining about this?"
"Of course not, Tic-Jack-Toe" I said, trying to think how I could complain without appearing to be complaining. I came up empty so I just tried affecting a more pleasing English accent. "It's just, I've worked hard to carve out my own identity, and when 19 year old Facebookers get confused by a link, it just ruins it for me. I mean, seriously, how could anyone mix up Dan O'Brien and me?"
"Why are you talking like that?"
"Do you like it, Ex-Jack Change Lane?"
"No. I hate it. And was that suppose to rhyme with