Pictured: Cracked Blogger Daniel O'Brien.âShould weâ¦should we call somebody? Get him out of there?â âNo, he always gets outâ¦eventually. I just try to savor the peace in betwe-â Another impact sounded from above, dust settled onto the brim of Jackâs purple velour Rainbow Brite derby. âALWAYS BET ON JACK!â Came the barely audible cry. âListen, Robert, I called you in here because you missed the Inauguration Liveblog the other dayâ¦â He uncorked the bottle and motioned to me âScotch. You want two fingers?â âThat last one was Wesley Snipes, from
Pictured: Cracked Blogger Robert Brockway's second job.âPlease, God, I have a family!â Tears sprung to my eyes as my balls retracted instinctively into my abdomen. âIâm afraid I have no choice; youâve missed the quota. The other bloggers took the hit yesterday. Now you need to make it up.â âYou donât understand, Jack. After my last political article, somebody drove a car through my living room window!â âThat was probably an accident.â Jack said dismissively, draining his platinum-coated
"Faster, Doc! If we don't get up to 88MPH the impact might not kill Brockway!"âNot my problem,â he leveled a glare at me so level you couldâve measured it with a level, and it wouldâve turned out completely level, âyou owe, and youâll pay. A political article, Robert, by tomorrow. If you donât pick a topic, Iâll assign one to you. I was thinking â8 reasons why Ron Paul is Functionally Retarded.ââ âNo! Iâllâ¦Iâll do it,â I said, slipping meekly toward the door. âJACK MY BITCH UP!â DOB added, his mocking, derisive tone clear even filtered through the ceiling. *** âShit, Bucholz. Iâm not gonna make it through this one,â I said, my incessant pacing more erratic than the third season of
Pictured: Cracked Blogger Chris Bucholz.âI CANâT RELAX! MY TIGER XANAX DOES NOTHING ANYMORE!â Tears streamed down my face as I ran crying from his office. I wasnât going to find my help there, but I needed something â anything! I was desperate enough to bargain with the Devil himself at this point. *** âWolinsky?â I asked, knocking tentatively at the black door, its surface slick with rancid, unidentifiable ichors in which one could see distant, screaming faces, âAre youâ¦in? Itâs uhâ¦itâs Robert.â The door swung open silently, revealing a painfully bright, impeccably clean office, completely empty save for a small wooden shrine in the dead center of the floor. It was impossible I know, but I swear it was larger within than without, and a sense of vertigo shook through me as I crossed the threshold. â
Pictured: Cracked Blogger Ross Wolinsky.âHelp I can,â replied the wafting voice, âbut at what price? What offer have you for my advice?â âI have the tears of conjoined twins long separated,â I said, pouring the vial onto the shrine, âand a pledge of devotion from a desperate heart.â â
Pictured: Cracked Blogger Wayne Gladstone.âI need help with Jack,â I said, struggling into the jacket that I quickly realized was sleeveless, âhe wonât lay off the politics and I just canât take the heat.â âRookies,â he scoffed, shifting gears and reaching casually out the window to slap an elderly woman on the ass without slowing, âyou need Jack off your back, you got to give him something better. Thatâs it.â âBut Iâve got nothing,â I replied, sliding the fluorescent green shutter shades on, âIâm blank.â âThis ainât rocket surgery,â he sneered, slicking an errant hair back into a perfect curl with his switchblade, âpitch him something with the words âbadass,' 'insane,' 'animals,' 'conspiracy,â or âPhotoshopâ in it, and heâll cream his Dickies.â âGross,â I said, âand thanks. One more thingâ¦â I began, but he had already leaned over, opened my door, and was firmly kicking me from the moving vehicle. I would like to think that he flashed me the horns as he skidded around the corner and out of sight, the sounds of
Alexander Hamilton: Definitely #1.âIâm not doing politics this week, Jack,â I replied, sliding my proposal across the desk, âread it.â âThe 7 Most Insanely Badass Deadly Animal Conspiraciesâ¦â he read, his voice barely containing his astonishment. âTurn the page, read the rest.â ââ¦That Arenât Photoshopped.â He set the proposal down and centered a look on me so centered you could put Center tags around it and it couldnât be any more centered, âwhatâs your number one?â
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.
It's easy to work the system and win these awards even if you don't deserve them.