New Cracked column: What to Expect When Your Ex Is Expecting


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I listened to four versions of “Pursuit of Happiness” a sum 219 times to bring you this latest Cracked Column, every one of them drunk and then edited sober, and you are welcome for this unrequested sojourn into my dark country.

Here’s your customary apocrypha:

The world has been given over to the young. You are grown old without ever making your mark. You lost. On the plus side: without kids, you can sleep in on Saturdays, and you’ll have plenty of money to spread over the hole in your heart.

I’m kind of proud of this list of sexually transmitted infections I made up. The CDC should make me the guy in charge of inventing new diseases for the CIA to use when they want to wipe out people who believe in conspiracy theories:

• Clambone
• Lovetrench rot
• Sponginads
• Whore’s bloom
• Herpes Simplex III: The Final Battle
• Kardashingitis
• Wandering tattoo syndrome
• The weeping whelks
• UCLA Freshman’s Rash
• Blue colony
• Objectivism
• Chalk-Piss
• Pregnancy itself, in a way
• Sizzlegroin
• That weird thing where your genitals are a gateway to another dimension
• The Irish curse
• Hitler pox
• The Saw franchise
• My poor wee chap fever
• The Grungks
• Frontal flatulence
• Unnamed strain found exclusively in members of Motley Crüe.
• Sqrgrlfxx, the Disease from Beyond!
• Love. Love is the most virulent STI of all

I’ve had a couple of exes get pregnant, and while you’re always happy for them, there is a strange feeling that your life is essentially the same as it was in college, while theirs is well on its way to Stage III. This article is not really about that, though. It’s about that feeling shot through the prism of being still hung up on your ex, because that’s where all my best comedy is. Please enjoy it, because it features probably the funniest chart I’ve done since Parts of a Cow:

You pretty much give me any kind of biological schematic, I’m going to turn my ignorance into comedy

Also, it’s about my saying goodnight to that, since I’m not in that phase of life like I was when I was writing Martini-a-Go-Go. So while that feeling made an article ostensibly about martinis pretty funny, I bring it onstage now only to kill and bury it. Because unlike Teddy Roosevelt, I don’t have the luxury of a wilderness to escape into and hunt criminals for two years.

Onward, lads! New frontiers!