I stood in the airport Tuesday morning hung over, bleary eyed and kind of ugly (like usual). A series of bewildering numbers and letters that probably meant stuff flashed on boards. I didnât even try to comprehend them. I walked up to the nearest uniform and handed her all of my papers with both hands. âI have this many,â I told the woman.
âIâ¦ what? Oh, you need help? OK, youâre at gate 32, Runway C.â She smiled pleasantly at first, but after several minutes of intense, silent staring the expression began to waver. âItâs uhâ¦ itâs that way. Thereâs a picture of a fish at a seafood restaurant kind of by the gate. Look for that.â Once sheâd finally used her fingers and picture-words to guide me, I set on my way. Iâve been working for this site for over a year now, but despite all the hilarious stories we tell here, Iâve never really met anybody in person. But that was all about to change: Cracked was having a party â a real, official, ball-busting gala to celebrate their many successes â and when they first invited me, Iâll admit I was a bit skeptical. The phrases ânot ever attendingâ and âyour dipshit paradeâ may have been bandied about a bit. Then they offered to fly me out, all expenses paid. Yet still, I remained reticent. Regrettably, somebody may have brought up the possibility of airline tickets being shoved up somebody elseâs asshole sideways. Then they told me it was an open bar.
...and I left so fast it made a man-shaped hole in the wall.After a hilarious misunderstanding about my new sneakers âbeing the bombâ and a not so hilarious misunderstanding about my anus being a glove, I finally boarded my plane to California. When we touched down, an impossibly small man-thing met me at the airport. He held a sign that read âCockwayâ in beautifully calligraphic lettering. In slightly less impressive scrawl, the âwayâ part had been scratched out and replaced with âgay.â This latter had been underlined several times, and whoever did it applied enough pressure on the last underline to actually tear through the signboard. There were spots that may have been blood. âIâm assuming youâre DOB?â I leaned down to shake the manâs hand, but he was so terribly small it seemed inappropriate. I ruffled his hair playfully instead.
DOB: Actual size.âF-f-f-fuckinâ cut it out!â Oh my, he has a stutter! The trip was already becoming rapidly worth it. âI got the c-c-c-c-company car over here,â he motioned for me to follow. We reached an empty corner in the parking lot, and he smiled proudly. âHop in,â he said, gesturing to the open door of a burrito truck. I began to form a question, but he quickly raised a hand to cut me off. He was obviously used to this reaction. âWe do d-d-d-d-double duty: By day Cracked is a c-c-c-comedy site, sure, but by night we convert the offices into the best burrito c-c-c-cart this side of the 101!â
"Yeah, could I get two tacos, an enchilada and the top 5 worst examples of sexism in GI Joe?"âIs that impressive?â I asked. Like most every other subject, I knew very little about California. I know their capital is Schwarzenegger and the state bird is a forest fire, but thatâs about it. âNo,â he replied, downtrodden, ân-n-not really.â We got in the truck, tied the rope seatbelts together and set offâ¦ towards adventure! Oh waitâ¦ no. Iâm sorry I misread that. That said âVentura.â We set off towards Ventura. When we pulled up in front of the bar, I knew somebody was fucking with me. It was a long way to go for a joke, sure, but I know that if anybody would fly a person all the way down to California just to spite them, itâs Cracked. The place was goddamn gorgeous! It was a palace: a mecca of glittering fixtures, expensive booze and stunning women looking sexily aloof and sensually disinterested. (Thatâs not saying much--all women making eye contact with me tend to look aloof and disinterested. But these ones looked
I don't know what they're smiling at, because I have literally never seen that expression on a woman before.âNo fucking way this is the place,â I told DOB, as he deftly hopped out of the still-moving vehicle and disappeared from view. A moment later he reappeared, jogged back up alongside the truck, and desperately hurled a wedge of wood in front of the wheels. The burrito cart slammed to a stop, covering the back of my head with carne asada. âSorry, those âbrakesâ are a little rough. But this
Pictured: Swaim's creepy, but somehow still erotic dancing.âHey,â he replied absently, clearly eyeing the room for somebody more interesting. âThe applause weren't for you. They are waiting on Seanbaby.â âPsh, good luck,â I scoffed, âhe never shows up in these stories.â âOur tableâs over there,â he pointed at a far corner with his Stretch Armstrong limbs, and we started off. âSo, whatâs with the ginormous statue of the devil?â I asked him, pointing to a ginormous statue of the devil that was there. âWell shit, somebodyâs gotta pay for all this,â he replied. âAnd itâs Satan?!â âWhat? No, dude. Itâs Red Devil Caffeine Pills. You been eatinâ retard sandwiches or something? Do we need to get you a seatbelt so you donât fall out of your chair?â âOhâ¦ sorry.â âDo we need to hire a guy to monitor which throat-tube you put liquids down so you donât accidentally breathe your gin and tonic?â âI get it. Iâm sorry I asked.â âDo we need to get you a crash helmet for dinner so you donât mistake your own head for a meatball and stab yourself to death with a fork?â âJesus Christ! I said I was sorry!â That last struck too close to home. How did he know about the helmet?
Never again, helmet. Never again!âDo we need to-â He started up again, but luckily at that moment Gladstone had clambered up onto the horns of Satan and was doing his best Teen Wolf impression. âLook at me! Give me all of your attention! Iâm the Teenage Wolfman!â It was not a very good impression. âIâm snowboarding on a station wagon like in that movie with Kirk Cameron!â âGod you are so old! Everything about that was wrong and I hate you for it!â DOB screamed up at him, shoving the statue with all of his short-guy rage. The mooring lines gave way, and the whole thing came crashing to the floor - Gladstone piggy-backing the Caffeine Devil all the way down to Hell.
Red Devil Caffeine Pills: When you really need to just MURDER THE DAY AND FUCK THE CORPSE.We finally arrived at the columnistâs table. It was an opulent spread bedecked in rare furs and set with crystal goblets. Some terribly bored and obviously well-paid skanks were sprinkled liberally about the booth in various states of repose, and in the center of this debauchery, on a black granite dais, sat Editor in Chief Jack OâBrien, his hand-carved wooden throne lined with seal fur. I went to shake his hand, but was roughly shoved aside and sat down. âYou do not talk directly to Jack,â DOB hissed in my ear, âunless you want one of two things: a paycheck or a savage dick-beating.â I spent a good deal contemplating the latter, wondering if it was an intense beating focused exclusively on the genitals, or an intense beating performed with a penis wielded somewhat like a chain flail. I decided not to risk either and stay quiet. An eager, well-kempt young man flopped down next to me, utterly beaming with earnestness. âHey guys!â said Bucholz, grinning widely in his overalls and idly chewing on a piece of straw. âIsnât this exciting?! We might finally have a real story to tell about the Cracked writers getting together! Not just those fictional adventures!â
"Back home in Canada, we drink milk straight from the cow!"âSh-sh-sh-shut up, Bucholz.â DOB snapped, somehow managing to stutter a âshâ sound. âNobody would believe anything that happened here, anyway. Weâve lied and embellished t-t-t-too often.â âYeah, no youâre right,â continued Swaim, âthis does seem a little unbelievable. Itâs like another weak premise for one of those stupid stories.â DOB began to shift uneasily. âWhat if this isnât real?â he whispered conspiratorially. âWhat if... what if weâre not real?â ââ¦youâre finally getting it, arenât you?â I smiled knowingly at DOB. âGetting what?â All color drained out of his face. âYouâre finally seeing the thin veil that separates reality from fantasyâ¦ and how easily torn it can be. Are you ready, Daniel? Are you ready to see how deep this rabbit hole goes?â I held two hands out, palms up. On one rested a blue pill; the other, a red.
"What these? Nah, I always carry the reality bending pills on me. Why do you ask?"âChoose one, Daniel. The blue pill will take you back to the reality youâve always known, and this will all become a distant memory. But the red pill? Take the red pill, and the veil will be lifted. You will see reality as it truly is.â With trembling, hesitant fingers, DOB reached out and plucked the red pill from my hand. âSwallow it and see the truth,â I told him. âThatâs what I told your mom last night,â he whispered reverently, and downed the capsule. He wandered off in a near-religious trance, ready to see the light. âWhat was the red pill?â Swaim asked me. âQuaalude.â âAnd the blue pill wasâ¦â Swaim started. âAnother Quaalude, yes,â I finished. âSoâ¦ why do you have multi-colored âLudes in your pocket?â âBecause itâs Tuesday, man. âLude day!â âAnd the colors?â âWell, itâs a party ainât it? Iâm just being festive. Taste the rainbow, guy!â
Quaaludes: Taste thr rsinboooooooooooowâGood god,â Swaim swore. âIâm going to need 18 drinks if Iâm making it through a night sitting next to you. Whereâs that bar?â Shit! I had nearly forgotten about them--the two holiest words in the English language: "Open" and "Bar." God, look at them together. Theyâre like poetry. Say them out loud; donât they sound beautiful? The lilting cadence of music plays in and out of their syllables. They are a minor incantation of joy, working real magic into the cynical science of this world whenever they are spoken truthfully. Open bar! Open bar! Openbar! Openbaropenbar! I felt as if in a dream. My legs seemed disconnected as I floated over to that shimmering isle of spirits. I was here! I had finally reached it! My god, do you know what Iâm going to do to an open bar? Iâm going to make love to it so passionately it might be a war crime. They will write epic ballads about this night. Generations from now, they will sing of it in hushed voices around the campfire and the tale will be passed from father to son. This is oral history in the making! This is how legends are born! âBourbon, please,â I told the barkeep. âThe best youâve go-
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.