Once you’ve had a Mago Barca, which, PS, I invented, you’ll never enjoy anything else. Except a banh mi. Or a grinder. Or the Mackenzie. Or…dang, man, there are just too many incredible sandwiches to be had. But I began the manly catalog of them with Damn Good Sandwiches for National Sandwich Day.
Since Maxim‘s gone bloodless and removed their voluminous content from their site, it falls to me to remind you that there are just 27 days until you can gnash your teeth into the greatest thing America’s invented: the gobbler! Here’s my article for them, which I rescued, because I am wonderful and handsome. (more…)
We know Adam Sandler is funny. We’ve seen it happen. It’s not a fluke. And look, everyone has their missteps. But at least something like Little Nicky, you can say he tried for an intriguing idea, or Zohan, you can see why it would be funny in the right hands.
But I don’t think he’s trying anymore. Would you, when you can make 5x as much bank while taking sweet vacations? Because that’s what Blended is. It’s lazy. It lacks a compelling premise. And it didn’t have to be because they had Terry Crews RIGHT THERE. They could have just let him be terrific for ten minutes and gotten more laughs than their entire semblance of a plot.
You know, The Room is a terrible movie made by a compulsive liar. But at least it had a goddamn vision. Sandler is the Guy Fieri of comedy — started off making enjoyable plebian fare, and now it’s just Blorp! Glop. Splorg. Fart.
This article owes a huge debt to Will Leitch’s magnificent Deadspin screed, It’s Not Okay to Be Shitty. (Seriously — click that link. It’s on the very short list of articles I’ve saved to my Pocket favorites, and this column is greatly influenced by it.)
Here’s your customary apocrypha:
With the clock ticking down on a terrorist threat to decimate New York, Chuck & Larry admit they’re just big, flaming gaybags for each other and they shouldn’t have to hide who they are to be happy. As they finally confront their feelings, they are evaporated in each other’s arms.
I’m proud of this joke structure, but the fact is Chuck & Larry are FDNY, and I didn’t want the question of whether I was touching on 9/11 to distract from the joke, when in fact I just think it would be sweetly fatalistic for them to fall in love a moment before their destruction.
Jack lights a cigar with the Magna Carta and high-fives the CHILD, who is in fact, TIME-TRAVELING BABY DREW BARRYMORE, and not yet neglected by people trusted to care for her.
You’ve suffered enough, Drew Barrymore. You don’t need my taunts.
I wrote a new Cracked column on how even the basics of Valentine’s Day are a myth, just like the love that your ex said they held for you. You will enjoy it–or else I will stop loving you.
Here’s your customary apocrypha, self-culled because it was too divergent from the main topic:
Here’s the thing with saints – they’re basically tiki idols with shinier heads. Since Christianity is monotheistic, it doesn’t have sub-deities like Cupid to worship. “But hey,” says the Catholic Church, “no harm in asking the dead to pray on your behalf, just like you would the living.” Although this does suggest that God pro-rates prayers based on how good a person you are.
IMAGE: God “Don’t tell me what to do. There, now he’s a pillar of salt. Are you happy?”
CAPTION: In fairness, most Americans are 40% salt already.
Many Protestant forms of Christianity consider this a form of idolatry, and I invite you to bicker about it in the comments below while the atheists mock you both and all three groups celebrate Valentine’s in spite of yourselves. Anyway, even though the Catholic Church has an elaborate process for confirming saints now, that wasn’t always the case. Historically, you were a saint if people could say for certain you were in Heaven – usually martyrs or Ted Williams, because that guy paid for children’s cancer treatments in secret. He’s in Heaven even if God is a Yankee fan.
Saints were beatified at a local level, at first informally through prayer and memorials and miracles. It all got a little—eh, I don’t want to say culty, so I’ll let the Encyclopedia Brittanica do that. relics People who collect other people’s body parts to obtain their power are creepy, no matter how friendly they are. Local bishops eventually took authority of canonizing the deceased’s saintly status, probably because regulation beats prohibition.
It took an entire millennium–half the extant Church’s life—before a pope started namedropping saints. By that point, saints’ roles diversified. Some protect their hometown (St. Januarius – patron saint of Naples) or their industry (St. Brendan — patron saint of sailors), or just whatever they’re best known for (St. Christopher — patron saint of people who transport children across borders). You get the idea. (If I got any of that wrong, I’m only reading from my Catholic high school notes. Our theology program was run by two priests who didn’t want to be there and a woman so pure her soul could distill water, but she believed Adam & Eve were real people. We got so many mixed messages there.)
Here’s an article I wrote about healthy eating before I start deep frying macaroni & cheese balls with home-cured bacon for the Super Bowl. I invented some insane diets for Cracked, but couldn’t beat reality at its own game.
If you’re wondering about this passage:
And yes, he’s is a doctor of naturopathic medicine, but since I’m writing this from New York, legally speaking, I think I am, too.
There was originally a link there to the states that govern a person’s use of the term. In NY, as far (and as little) as I know, there’s no recognized doctorate in naturopathy.
Last year I wrote a State of the Union with some suggestions for real change in America. But did you know there was a fifth entry? It was very vindictive.
Mr. O’Brien, Mr. O’Brien, Emperor Wong, members of Cracked, distinguished readers, spambots, trolls, and easily offended moms here by accident from Facebook–
Thank you for joining me in The Cracked State of the Union.
(pause for applause)
(pause grows awkward in length)
*cough* You know, last night I gave a State of the Union speech over in Kyrgyzstan. And I thought THEY knew how to govern…
(pause for boos. Boos become excessive and frighteningly violent. After a scuffle, security removes several Uzbeks from the audience. They are replaced by Leonardo DiCaprio, eagerly hoping to win an Academy Award, but he loses to a potted plant.)
Ahem! So I thought Kyrgyzstan knew how to govern…But NOBODY governs like America!
(rock ‘n’ roll solo squeals out. Crowd goes wild, as it should.)
…But you’ve forgotten that, my fellow Americans. You forgot how hard you rock, and you gave in to fear. You fear America’s powers are in decline. You fear this country is crumbling to enemies both domestic and foreign. You fear there’s nothing you can do about it, or worse: that you can, but it requires effort.
In fact, you fear so many things, you forgot the one thing you should be afraid of: letting down the Batman of nations. So let me ask you a question, Sniffles O’Buttercup–are you going to sit there posting Facebook statuses about how hard you weep for this country, or are you going to sack up, cinch in, and light this patriotism shit off?
Look, I won’t lie to you; America’s bleeding. But you can either cry about the America we have, or you can help build the America we want. The best way to do the latter is by solving one problem with another. Therefore I am proposing Congress turn the following weaknesses into strengths:
Jesus Diabetes Christ, America, you’ve let yourself go. You’re so fat when you sit around the house, you sit around the ICU ward recuperating from your fifth coronary. I don’t want to kick you while you’re down, but I honestly can’t tell if you’re down or up now that you’re a perfect sphere. The average American’s weight has gone up so much since the ’40s that birth certificates now give the option of MALE, FEMALE and HAM MONSTER.
[img:obese.jpg] <br/ >When you’re sweating corn syrup, it’s time for the nation to reconsider its lifestyle.
Sure, it’s because we’re eating badly. Like, <target=”c” href=”#Standard_American_Diet”>really badly. So badly that science now recognizes sodium nitrate as a blood type. But it’s also because air conditioning allows us to stay inside playing video games instead of sweating it all out on the football field, bleeding and losing teeth like people did when they still knew how to have fun. So now you’re fat and you need MORE air conditioning to prevent mold from thriving under your clammy breasts. Your clammy…still, strangely, sexy…man-breasts. I–what? Look, whatever, that’s not the point. Folks, it’s a drain on the electricity, and it’s going to stop.
America’s already suffering from rolling power outages and we can’t have that. Unemployment is too high already, and now you want to send the people with jobs home to make the obesity and energy problems worse?
Wasting electricity is an American tradition, and we’re not about to give that up. But this obesity thing has got to go, so let’s take everyone who doesn’t have a job and stick them on a stationary bike wired up to a capacitor. Their efforts will power a massive game of Mario Kart, and the high scorer for the day gets a $50 bonus on their paycheck.
Is it inefficient? Hell yeah, if your only goal is to generate electricity, but we’re reducing fossil fuel consumption while forging an army of road warriors. After a few 30-90 minute shifts under medical supervision, we’ll have an America ready to kick some ass in both video games and Spinjitsu, the martial art for bikes.
The bonus is it will clear whole packs of scumbag recreational bicyclists from our nation’s auto lanes, no longer struggling to pass one another, as they dream of clearing Lance Armstrong’s name and earning his friendship.
It’s not the president’s place to interpret or rewrite the second amendment, so rest assured, no one is taking your guns away. Although if they did, what are you scared of? That’s precisely why you have a gun, you sexy well-regulated militia, you. A gun will defend your home from any threat except the stormtrooper kicking down your door, because he has a much sweeter gun issued to him by the New World Order. And assuming he leaves you alive but disarmed, then you’re vulnerable to–oh my, all manner of burglars, caribou, and teenagers.
Meanwhile, this debate is distracting attention from the very real ecological havoc caused by global warming, and thousands upon thousands of species stand to lose their habitat. That’s why every home will be issued its own endangered beast. Not only will you enjoy the protection and wrasslin’ matches of a big ol’ honking wolf, lion, or cinema’s Gary Busey…you’ll guarantee a future for these beasts and their prey, since you can’t put a price on home security, and feeding these things ain’t cheap.
I know what you’re thinking: “Won’t the invader just bring a tiger to a lion fight? Will weapons manufacturers shift production to dangerous new species like the manticore, the sharktogon, and the nuclear skink?”
Don’t be absurd. Have you ever tried to drag a rhino across town and coerce it into a burglary? They’re not going anywhere they don’t want to–and even if they do, statistically speaking, most rhinoceros crime is non-violent fiscal fraud. Your enemy’s best bet is still to bring a gun, and science has yet to invent the firearm that beats Armed Homeowner Riding a Polar Bear.
[img:knut.jpg] <br/ >Like you wouldn’t trade all your guns to be best friends with a polar bear.
What about assailants you can’t reason with? If you live in a rural area, you won’t have to worry about being beset by wild animals since we’ve already tamed all the dangerous ones. And even if we miss a few, no coyote is dumb enough to attack a person walking their pet bobcat. So foster an endangered killing machine today!
Look, we all know the odds of dying in a terror attack are slim to [number of athletes Kim Kardashian wouldn’t fuck for attention]. Statistically speaking, you’re more likely to be killed by a shark made of lightning than a terrorist. And it’s not because those goons aren’t trying. It’s because we have a kickass security net made of spies, SEALs, and cyborg super-soldiers who don’t officially exist yet. Nevertheless, statistically, a few attacks are going to slip through our defenses.
If terrorists are going to kill a small number of Americans in a very public way, we need to put that to work for us. Let’s lure them to hotbeds of domestic terrorism so wickedly western, we can all agree they must be smote from the Earth. May I suggest a TMZ broadcast?
Perhaps you’ve never heard of TMZ because you’re not from America, or you are a happy person. I’ll try to explain: this gossip site encourages reporters and random citizens to harass people in the entertai–no, hold on, that’s not clarifying anything. Okay, picture the most savage kids you went to high school with kicking a stillborn baby in a circle. That’s TMZ.
[img:fuckharveylevin.jpg] <br/ >The greatest contribution host Harvey Levin could make to the world would be dying someplace where his remains don’t pollute local water supplies.
As a website, it’s awful. But as a TV show, it causes cancer in lab rats and the scientists who dissect them. If a pregnant woman watches TMZ on TV and doesn’t miscarry, Vatican scholars start dying of mysterious nosebleeds before they can warn the Pope.
This program rewards its paparazzi for ambushing strangers with hostile behavior, so it’s exactly like a terror network minus the respectable aspects like moral conviction or engineering ability. In terms of production value TMZ is indiscernible from terrorist propaganda: grainy camera work, some dull-witted turd making inflammatory statements, and a hostage who just wants to go home.
The enemy of my enemy is my friend, right? Imagine if we could lure terrorists into gassing the TMZ studios with phosgene during a segment about some Baywatch alum’s varicose veins! Would they still hate America when we all woke up that day to a brighter world? Or would we watch together as the writhing bodies of the TMZ crew slow to a twitching mass, and realize we’re not so different after all?
[img:phosgene.jpg] <br/ >Fun for the whole family!
These days, America is a divided house in most any room you care to enter. Economically, the middle class is vanishing faster than the whiskey at an Irish wake. Politically, the internet is seeping into real life, and now politicians just stand around calling each other gay Nazis. And as for religion: we can’t even enjoy a nice holiday season without one side or the other pretending be offended by how we wish one another peace and joy the wrong way.
But one thing we all know: there are more Americans now than ever before, and since none of us can survive outside of big box stores for more than a fortnight, resources are getting tighter. That’s not good news, since the New England Complex Systems Institute recently linked riots to a single factor.
[img:foodriot.jpg] <br/ >Their research was supported by the New England Actually Quite Simple Systems Institute.
That’s right—come summer, rising prices trigger the food fight to end all food fights and also millions of human lives. What’s a good patriot to do? Nothing but watch The Enemy Within devour the amber waves of grain? Or fight back, and squirt out a horde of Duggars like it’s some sort of cultural arms race?
Answer: both! The future of America, like its past, is going to be one of compromise.
I’m just going to say it, we’re going to have to become a nation of swingers.
Although the trend has dipped, the poor have more kids because condoms waste money meant for cigarettes, whereas rich people have very few children. In upper society it’s considered good form to pull out and finish in a sack of money. Of course, we all know that’s literally a flimsy excuse when the real reason for their impotence is rich guys can afford all the cocaine.
But you know what rich people hate even more than having children? Tax hikes. And why shouldn’t they? They’re currently suffering through the worst tax levels since…uh…okay, not so much. But that just means taxes are going to go up soon! See? Tax hikes, grrrrr!
So here’s the deal, and it’s a good one: if your personal income is $150k or above, you unlock the Polygamy Badge. It permits you a gross income tax break of 7% for each spouse you marry, BUT: you can only marry someone who earned $26,000 or less for the last five years, and has religious or political beliefs that make you laugh one of those rich person laughs.
[img:richlaugh.jpg] <br/ >Oh yeah, that’s the one.
This is a win for everybody: now the spouses can take up better hobbies than reproduction, like polo–the gentleman’s orgasm! Their kids finally get a successful role model and a house with better flavors of paint than lead. And you get a gift certificate from the government to enjoy a plethora of sexual partners.
But the real winner here is America! Because as your hate-sex slowly turns into a tender love affair, you’ll stop despising all their perceived differences, and instead start despising the million little reasons all spouses want to kill each other.
For decades now, Congress has belabored the fact that America suffers from freeloaders who drain our resources. These parasites put zero into the system even as they suckle on benefits paid for by real, hard-working Americans.
Not illegal immigrants. Those guys work hard. I’m still talking about Congress. That’s why all of the legislative branch is fired, effective immediately.
Don’t act like you’d care. Sure, there are a few good ones in there, but not enough to have any effect, obviously. You could probably replace them with one of those algorithm robots that organize Walmart’s warehouses, and get a better country. If you put the whole of Congress in a rowboat with a map to safe harbor, half of them would row in circles and the other half would sell the boat to Goldman Sachs for kindling. And they would all refuse rescue so they could blame the other party for their untimely drowning.
Now obviously we’re going to need someone to write some laws every couple of decades. And that’s where the 62% Mexican sector of illegal immigrants can help. Did you know a recent study found that 99.9% of luchadors are Mexican? Lucha libre wrestlers kick exactly the kind of ass we need kicked to effect real change in Washington.
For starters, they’re go-getters, okay? They don’t waste nine months campaigning and compromising. When a luchador wants a title, he finds the guy who has it and pins him. It’s survival of the fittest, and it only takes ten minutes. Think of the efficiency! In that amount of time your current Congress can barely break more than seven or eight promises.
But the big advantage is luchadors’ identities are concealed – often their own families aren’t even aware. Special interest groups are going to have a devil of a time influencing the vote of a man who can vanish by pulling his face off.
[img:elhijodelsanto.jpg] <br/ >And one of them is a saint.
Other times, a politician might vote against his own judgment just to cut a deal or get back at another politician. Luchadors have more honor than that. The only time a luchador flips his position is to better leg-lock his opponent. And if a wrestler betrays his partner, you won’t see the wounded party take a dive next week as revenge.
Maybe you’re not convinced. After all, what do these heroes know about legislation? But ask yourself this: how could they do any worse, America? At least luchadors know they’re real men, and wouldn’t lurch the nation into eight years of unnecessary war because they’re afraid of being called soft.
[img:108.jpg] <br/ >There is no pipe rusty enough to thank the 108th Congress for its service to this country.
Since only natural born citizens can run for president, they’ll get out there and govern fearlessly, without worrying about their record. And there are clear-cut heroes, or faces (Spanish: technicos) and villains, also known as heels (Sp: rudos). This easy classification system means we can dispense with the endless debates, and say goodbye to the unbearable pussyfooting of the Democratic Party (Sp: putas) and hello to a Republican Party (Sp:Sith Lord) that finally admits it just wants to crush someone weaker.
Obviously, that still leaves 11 million illegal immigrants without a Congressional gig, but I trust our luchador legislators will grant them their chance at the American dream and all the taxes that accompany it. Meanwhile, they can assess heavy fines on employers who hire under the table and circumvent the tax system.
In conclusion, ask not what your country can do for you; ask what it’s doing to you with your own tax dollars. Don’t be afraid to speak up, don’t be afraid to fail, don’t be afraid to be hurt, don’t be afraid to be kind, and be very afraid of the manticore. Thank you, and may God bless all this weirdness.
Over 183.9 years ago, two merchants shared a dream for Christ-Mass: a gingerbread house so large that all men, whether Christian, Mohammedian, or Juwe, might worship the Christ within it. This mighty structure would unite the hearts of good Englishmen everywhere in the unity of goodwill, that they might stand as one and smash the Irish race from this Earth forever.
Unfortunately, the structural integrity of cookie-bread proved catastrophic, and 500 souls were lost that first year when a flying buttress made of fondant collapsed on their heads. But did the merchants give up? Nay! They found a new dream—one of the exchange of commercial gifts that would make them richer than any man dared dream each Christmas. And so was born—the Pumblechook & Figg catalog of Mercantile Goods.
Now it is yours to enjoy over at Cracked. I think I only made four references to cannibalism, two to infanticide, and two more to exploitative child labor, so it was a pretty family-friendly year for Victorian England’s greatest catalog warehouse. Oh, and a sentient robot who could not protest his life in sex slavery. Merry Christmas!
You had it all planned but society’s frail threads snapped on your plan for a perfect new future. Comes with sledgehammer for shattering concrete and metal, and batteries for when the electricity fails.
Hunky Male Mercenaries
[This was supposed to accompany Foxy Female Assassins, but it didn’t have enough comic oomph.] Surely this will work now. Team of manly murderers brainwashed their entire lives to kill and die for you without piffling emotions or fanciful ability to feel pain. Unsullied by vice or virtue, these—AIEEE! They’re turning around! RUN!
Event horizon expands over time and at increasing rate to eventually consume all we know and ever shall be.
November was NaNoWriMo–no, that’s not a scrapped Blackberry concept phone, but National Novel Writing Month. But did you know that December is NaHoStrugPubYoNoMo (National Hopelessly Struggling to Publish Your Novel Month)? It’s true, and over at Cracked I’ve charted the worst ways to achieve that end with an infographic that does not hold up to scrutiny at all. For God’s sake,
I put Les Miserables at the tail end of “popularity,” [edit: No I didn’t! I told you that chart was confusing] so don’t listen to anything I say. That chart doesn’t even make sense to me, and I’m the one who composed it from the hours of 11 p.m. to 5 a.m. for days on end.
Anyway, here’s the official list of men’s best-selling genres:
• Practical romance
• Action and/or adventure
• Breaking a horse’s spirit
• Revenge fantasy
• Motorcycle murder mysteries
• Erotic men’s rights activism
• War again, but this time overtly racist
• Tannery soap opera
• Explaining things to women
• Rifle user’s manual fan fiction
• Facial hair photo collections
• Dad loves you but can’t say it
APOCRYPHA — I had to kill quite a few darlings to trim this puppy into decent length.
- If you can’t be a great bad writer, try being foreign. Readers love exotic authors who deliver deep spiritual insight about seizing every day while being a self-obsessed wimp. If you are neither of these things, don’t worry. Anyone can find success with my methods below.
- Hell’s bells, couldn’t the man see that?! It made Randy/Chuck sick. Sick to his stomach. His stomach was sick with anger.
- Upon infiltrating a computer lab for 15 minutes: Mack did a quick equipment check: binoculars, rations, 12 Claymore mines.
- It seemed there were fewer and fewer places for guys like him in this world—old warhorses with no stable to go to, forever nuzzling sugar cubes and carrots out of the palms of a maiden called the American Dream. God, he wished he were a real horse. Life would be simpler then. He would whinny with joy, having lain down his soldier’s burden.
- The guards didn’t even have time to scream, but their agonized wails afterward filled the chamber until Mack put them out of their misery by stomping on their necks. “This must be the place,” he quipped under his breath. His piercing blue eyes that it’s not gay to admit were piercing turned to the stout man next to him, who did not live under a cover identity as a famous writer that any publisher would be wise to snatch up.
- The entire sample from Patch-22-Skidoo!:
“It’s positively no use,” A.C. said negatively. “Even if you may outrace Jerry Jetpack, how shalt you convince Mr. Hitler to call off this mad war?” “Oi, dinkum!” squeaked Ha’Penny. “These blokers is got us over a barrel, so they ‘as! I’d better gozzwhizzle me gears!” With that, the Yorkshire greasemonkey disappeared back under the electro-blimp’s hull, where she continued repairs. Nellie Mae thought about their predicament thoughtfully. Was it her womanly imagination, or did the handsome agent use Ha’Penny’s disappearance as opportunity to move his manly bulk closer to her womanly not-bulk? She was never sure of a man’s intentions until she danced with him… That was it! She could stop the Lightning Streikezeit and discern what he thought of her in one genius stroke! “There’s one way to save the president,” she stated finally and out loud. “Get all the swing kids to a Sadie Hawkins dance — maybe the biggest one ever! — right in the middle of Castle Nazistein!”
- And this beast below from the final entry, which was the weakest link. I hate ending weak:
Had he failed? Could he be said to fail? Was failing a thing done by him? Yes. It was that simple. “I am leaving now, Donna,” Belial said into the loathsome buzz of a voicemail recipient, and hung up the phone, knowing that she hadn’t heard the ring through the Ambien haze—even as his father, dead now 22 years, was unable to hear him Donna. Divorce is painful for us all. We are the dead, thought Belial to himself, we are the dead and we do not know it. We leave voicemails for the living that they do not play, and we are the dead. His mother, after she, too, had passed on, had bequeathed him his grandfather’s sword—the last remembrance of his service in the Japanese Pacific forces. He picked it up now, thoughtfully. A knock on the door jamb roused him from his thoughts. There stood rubicund William Cody, chair of American literature studies. His typically unstaid nature was in overt contrast to Belial’s glum spirits, and usually won them over, but today was especially dusky on the brain. “I’m pulling up lines in ten minutes. Last chance to come with.” Belial confusedly furrowed his brow in perplexed befuddlement. “Isn’t it too cold to sail today?” Bill—for so William Cody was often called by his friends when they wanted to be informal with him—winked. “Not with the new device I just installed.” He paused, as if he were about to reveal a great secret that many men would kill for, and would change the world. “You…should see it, Belial. Come with me, sailing on a night-sail. There’s so much I want to show you.” This last was accented with great import but utter ambiguity, as if he could just as easily have been talking about a new piece of technology as the homosexual tryst that both men had felt the compelling urge to which to submit in their long friendship. The priestly man drummed his fingers. What to do?
I said some things about America and how we should all just lighten up. Then I ignored my own advice by making it preachy instead of funny, but it involves shaved bears, so I think everybody got what they came for.
(and plenty of it — redacted because none of it’s worth reading and it’s just blah blah )
Prior to the internet’s making him a one-liner machine, Chuck Norris was mostly remembered for terrible action movies and the hilarious drama of Walker, Texas Ranger. The best thing he ever did in his career was get his ass kicked by Bruce Lee.
Did you watch the Country Music Awards? I sure didn’t, because mainstream country warble-panders to its audience with so much suction power that most acts have replaced the traditional slide-guitar with a lamprey. And if you heard what country does with slide-guitar, you know that’s an improvement.
But that’s no worse than any other genre of music that makes the Billboard charts. If you’ve listened to music at all in the last 60 years, you know there are only 13 songs on the radio, and 15 of them are terrible.
But that’s one great thing about America—there’s a version for everybody! If you don’t like Hank Williams Jr., you can go hear a Hank III album set the speakers on fire at the less crowded bar next door. And I no more care what music you enjoy than I care what you think of Obamacare, because both have forgotten their origins, and we all have to live with it.
If you had watched it, you might have had a good chuckle at a skit mocking Obamacare’s crappy website. You would not, however, have laughed as hard as the audience—a bunch of millionaires who sell music about the hardships of being poor mocking efforts to alleviate the hardships of being poor.
“HO HO HO! Registering for previously unattainable coverage is slower for poor people than those of us who don’t need it thanks to corporate patronage!”
This crap goes on all the time. I don’t watch the Oscars either, because I care more about pork belly prices than I do whether someone leading an already charmed life wins a trophy.
Pork belly can be eaten, and is therefore more valuable to me than gold statues I will never touch.
But people there think winning an award for pretending well means it’s time to call for an impeachment.
This pedantic fuck, whose name I assume is Bitchface McLiberal:
This country was founded on compromise (although no one ever adds how shameful some of those compromises were). Still, they got the job done because people could agree to disagree. Although some people could only agree 3/5ths of the way via their unelected representatives, but you get the idea.
But that was back in the day of the gentleman farmer.
Pennsylvania’s Patriot News called the address “the silly remarks of the President.”
Confederates buried in shallow graves.
Everett’s speech said basically the same thing. http://www.civilwarhome.com/everettgettysburg.htm
Because as long as people have opinions, there will be a troll there to disagree with them, and a more educated person to correct them…just like the troll wanted.
Don’t want Iran making weapons-grade plutonium? Offer to build them a thorium reactor maintained by a foreign coalition if they agree to something we want.
Then maybe we can get one here.
For example: find me ten normal people in this country who think the teen pregnancy rate is too low. Nobody, right? Right. That would be insane. But not as insane as letting kids get knocked up or diseased even though that horrifies you, because it satisfies your moral principles.
But that’s exactly what happens with the debate over abstinence-only education. Abstinence is the only 100% effective method of preventing pregnancy and disease, and therefore the most sensible thing to teach kids! However teens’ ability to practice it is not so good.
Bristol Palin is a woman whose mother raised her to practice sexual abstinence. Cool, that’s a 100% effective method of preventing pregnancy and diseases! That is the most sensible thing to teach kids! However teens’ ability to practice it is not so good. Correlations, if not causation, suggest we should also teach them to use these magical wrapping papers that stop both Death & Life like the hand of God Almighty. Bristol Palin is an example of the inefficacy of abstinence
But keep fighting that fictional war on Christmas, kiddo!
Palin should go on a speaking tour with Jenny McCarthy, and nine months after the anti-vaccine lies kill a pile of babies, their grieving mothers can adopt all the unplanned babies whose teen mothers can’t afford them because Bristol Palin told them
Because there are no statistics that even remotely back up either of their stupid crusades. In Palin’s case, she doesn’t even have anecdotal evidence. She and her baby are living proof that abstinence-only education doesn’t work, and she’s made a career out of advising young women to follow her exact path.
A strong correlation suggests we should also teach them to use these magical wrappings that stop both Death & Life like the hand of God Almighty. And it’s fine if your beliefs say birth control is wrong or you’re just skeeved at the thought of your kid boning, but don’t pretend that you’re still debating the best way to prevent pregnancy and disease when you’re really concerned with .
It’s true at the White House Correspondents’ Association Dinner, America gathers to laugh at its foibles…its crimes…its old white men rapping in a major way. But they’re not really laughing at themselves there. They’re laughing at everything they’re getting away with.
Some things are hilarious because they are TERRIBLE. Laugh or scream.
Hey, a new Cracked book is out this week, and I’m part of it again! Because I am the luckiest boy in the world, apparently. You should order it. I’m going to. Like, even though I get a free one, I’m ordering it, because it’s the first time Amazon ever recommended an item to me that I had a hand in. And by hand I mean it’s a single page, so more of a cuticle. I have no idea what article of mine they reference, but I’m hoping it’s the one about. They could be using an excerpt, or a line, or a reference–I have no guess.
But I’m upgrading it to a whole finger and passing the gains on to you: since it comes out the week of Halloween, if you want me to sign your copy, I will–in blood. Dead serious, and some folks have already taken me up on this offer. I’ll leave a bloody finger print on the page and write you an inscription. I have Irish skin, so this should be as easy as my next bad shave. The only caveat is you’re not allowed to clone me. I don’t want to deal with some younger, more driven version of myself who faces me down in 30 years when he tries to assume my identity.