I kicked my way into Cracked.com Head Editor Jack O'Brien's office, armed to the teeth with fireworks, steak and hardcore pornography. "Jacktus Jack," I screamed when I got in. "Let's celebrate!" "Why would you even need to change 'Cactus Jack' to 'Jacktus Jack?' Jack was already in the name to begin with," he said quietly. He just doesn't get it. "Yeah, well, now it's in there twice. More is better, everybody knows that." I pointed to my crotch several times. "Stop that. Anyway, what are you doing here; I've got a lot of work to do." His desk was full of papers and files and probably some other stuff. "I'm here to help you celebrate, boss. It's Labor Day Weekend! We need to go out and honor America. Honor the
"You have no idea what Labor Day is about, do you?" Okay, he was right, but I could still spin this. It was time to get all philosophical up in this bitch. "Can you really know a holiday, Jackson 5? I mean, when you think about it, can anyone really know anything, for sure?" That shit was smooth and deep. I'm like Socrates wrapped in Shaft, sometimes, I swear to God. I sat down on the edge of Jack's desk. "You see,
Journalism is a tricky business. You need to be sure that the person you're interviewing feels comfortable around you, comfortable enough to give straight, honest answers. If you ask too many questions or if you give them a look that can be described as particularly "rapey," they can, and they would be right to-- end the interview. If even for one second they feel even the slightest bit ill at ease, it is their right to refuse to answer questions, and the
This might be a problem. "Miss McDowel," I said when she sat down, "thank you for agreeing to meet with me." "It's Mrs. McDowel," she corrected. "It's
"Don't you worry your pretty little ass, Miss McDowel. I've got it all up here." At 'here' I pointed to my head, so to suggest that I was mentally writing down the words that she was saying. This was, of course, ludicrous, as all of my mental ability was focused on not pointing towards my crotch while we talked. There was an intense battle going on in my head between good and evil over this very subject. Nothing punctuates a sentence like a good ole' crotch point. Indicating your genitals is Nature's period, Evil would say.
She was very animated when she spoke, and it was clear from the hint of a smile and the twinkle in her eye that she was very passionate about the topic of labor laws and unions. I almost felt sorry for the poor girl, because those were some of the most boring fucking things I've ever heard about. Still, it was wonderful to watch her speak, flailing her arms around, pausing only to sip at her coffee. It was so wonderful, in fact, that I didn't even pay attention to a word she'd actually said.
So, my sexy, expert subject had left and I'd completely ignored every sexy little word that came out of that filthy mouth of hers. In the world of journalism, when presented with a situation like this, it is said that you've been handed "A Strawberry Cock Sundae with Shit Sauce." In terms everyone can understand, I was totally screwed. Or was I? The clock was ticking, nearing towards deadline. I had no story, no subject, and absolutely no interest in doing any further research. But what I did have was a wild imagination and an uncanny ability to create a touching and heartwarming piece of journalism
I know I will. I know I will.
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.