Amount Donated So Far: $4160! Holy shit!
How Awesome Is That: Breakdancing on the sun.
Donation updates still to come throughout the week, but thanks to a ton of generous people this week, and a handful of insanely, almost worryingly generous people (what are you guys up to?) in the last few days, this bitch be shut down! I cannot believe you guys did this, and in under a week. Thank you so much! With your help and vigilance, you have prevented me from ruining the future of today’s youth (for now). Now, I’m off to the AoC shoot (dun dun dunnnnn!)
This started out as a joke, but man, I don’t think I’ve ever received this many angry messages. It is really pissing off a lot of people that they can’t actually donate. W…why, though? Why are you guys mad about it? Are there truly that many people in the world that actively hate their money?
Regardless of the reason, I’ve got a proposition for you fine people.
What if we do it like this: I’ll accept any donation you want to send, and honor whatever nonsense this column promised.
I won’t accept donations more than $500.00, because A.) That’s crazy talk, and B.) That’s probably not going to happen anyway (I know my audience, and Dry Ramen Packets Because You Forgot to Pay The Gas Bill is one of the four food groups for most of us). However, because I am inexplicably employed – and as soon as life stops having its way with me, I actually will be financially solvent (much to the horror and surprise of everybody, including myself) – these will be considered loans. As soon as I’m able (probably within a few months,) I’ll go about paying every penny back…to charity.
That’s a fund that Cracked readers started a long time ago to help fund micro-loans in impoverished nations, and it does damn fine work. So you still get to help me out, you get anything from a cartoon assault to psychic warfare (depending on donation,) and you also get to donate to an awesome charity that actually does a lot of non-Brockway-based good. Also, you get to stop sending me angry emails demanding that I take your money (that’s generally not a good policy to adopt).
For Posterity, the relevant fundraiser portions of the column:
For the last four weeks, I have watched nearly every aspect of my life get savagely attacked, go rabid, then turn on and maul every other aspect of my life until my entire existence was naught but a mewling orgy of blood and foam. I am a portrait of a man in mid-implosion, and there is no sign of change on the horizon. I won’t bore anybody with a complete retelling of all the things that have gone wrong, but the short version goes like this: OW OW WHY OW MY BALLS STOP FUCK FUCK AAHAGLL*
What I need the most right now is either a lot of money, or to step in front of a bus and secure a nice, cozy, semi-permanent coma. And since being a contractor in this society means you’re a subhuman with no rights or credit, and these goddamn LA bus drivers have reflexes like the motherfucking flash, I can’t seem to get either. Somebody heard my tale of woe and jokingly said I should hold a fundraiser, the implication being that I had too much dignity to actually do it.
Joke’s on them!
Welcome to …
Here’s what your generous donation gets you:
Donation of $1 or More:
One word and its dictionary definition, which, if dropped in casual conversation, will make you look extremely smart (in front of idiots) and also like a total asshole (in front of everybody).
1. Excessively or ingratiatingly flattering; oily
– he seemed anxious to please but not in an unctuous way
2. Having a greasy or soapy feel
-“Hey, Bill, your mom’s titties were downright unctuous last night — I like the way that Vaporub feels on my dick, man, but tell that bitch to tone it down, hey? My dong smelled like Norway this morning.”
Donation of $3 or More:
Your own exclusive portmanteau of swears.
Donation of $5 or More:
I will meditate with you for one full minute on the complete destruction of an enemy of your choosing.
Example: Focusing on Melissa Withers, that bitch from Payroll who ate your salad right out of the fridge last Friday.
Donation of $10 or More:
I will write your enemy’s name on a notepad and leave it by my bedstand when I go to sleep that night. I promise to slip into slumber with hate in my heart, so that we might metaphysically join forces in the dreamworld, then team up on your foe and end them in the space between spaces.*
*Results are not guaranteed, but methodology has been proven feasibly sound by Dreamscape.
Example: None (… yet?)
Donation of $20 or More:
I will write a unique and personalized haiku about your penis (or the penis of your choosing).*
*No vaginas (that would be weird. Don’t make this weird.)
Standing proud and tall
Bend like a reed in the wind
Samuel Pressley’s Dong
Donation of $50 or More:
I will draw a crude sketch of you sucker-punching the historical figure of your choice.
Example: Eric Mattingly giving Sultan Abdulmecid wot’s comin’ to ‘im.
Donation of $100 or More:
I will write a short story (1000 words or less) about the time everybody laughed at you, then immediately paid for it with their lives.
Example:“Oh Tina Jeffries,” said Melissa Withers, her mouth full of stolen salad, “maybe you should have put your name on it.”
“I did put my name on it,” Tina Jeffries replied, pointing to the black letters clearly visible on the top of the container.
“That’s your handwriting?” Melissa Whithers laughed. “I thought somebody tripped an illiterate Parkinson’s patient with a magic marker in their teeth and they fell into the fridge.”
The room erupted in laughter.
Seconds later, it erupted in fire.
Donation of $250 or More:
I will continue the aforementioned story, but it will now end with an excruciatingly graphic romantic interlude between the two of us.
Example:“Hey, sweet inferno,” said the man with sandwich in his beard.
Tina Jeffries hadn’t noticed him standing in the doorway when she transmuted her enemies’ laughter into fire.
“I like the liberal application of hairspray,” he added, then crossed the room in two confident strides, and pulled Tina Jeffries into his arms. As they kissed deeply, he lowered her onto the still smoldering ruins of the Payroll department. Finally, she broke the embrace and stared into his eyes.
“Ow,” Tina Jeffries whispered sultrily, “these corpses are still really hot.”
We’re not starving. We’re not going to die. These are absolutely first world problems. There are better causes and people who need your money a whole lot more. But hey, if you feel like it, we would certainly appreciate the help, and when we’re more financially solvent (hopefully very soon) we’ll pay every dime back to the Kiva fund, plus at least a 10% match. That’s the lowest rate we would’ve gotten for a loan anyway.
If you’re considering donating because it’s going back to charity anyway, you should probably just donate directly; I’m sure they could use it sooner rather than later. If you’re considering donating because you get something in return, why not buy this awesome book by fellow Cracked writers, the proceeds of which all go back to Kiva immediately. If you’re considering donating because you’re in some kind of Rodney Dangerfield-esque movie plot scenario where you have to give all of your money away to the worst possible causes, then yes, by all means donate to me.
…But that’s really the only scenario in which you should be doing it.
So if that is your scenario, and you are fully aware that any bad fortune I’m undergoing right now is the direct and completely deserved karmic reaction to all of the terrible things I have done, am doing, and absolutely plan to continue doing forever, by all means donate. Just remember to get me an email address that I can send your words, haikus, pictures or stories to, and also to include the relevant details – the circumstances of your revenge fiction, the enemies you want destroyed in their dreams, the names attached to the penises you want poetry about, etc. – and holy shit, thank you! Thank you again, and then a bunch more times after that. With your help, and time, it is remotely possible that life will leave my balls alone long enough for them to stabilize and heal. Not probable, but possible, and that’s good enough for me.
Love and punches,
First round of donation gifts:
Words that make you look smart in front of idiots, and like an asshole in front of everybody else:
Zoey Daws: Ostensibly
Amy Bartel: Analogous
Tom Leamer: Archetypal
Scott Smith: Paradigm
Julie Fletcher: Erstwhile
Ann Zimmerschied: Shitits! Shit – Tits
Jayna Rosas: Damotherfucker! Damn – Motherfucker
Grayson Antoniewski: Fucocks! Fuck – Cocks
Michael Chapman: Scrotass! Scrotum – Ass
Corey Vaspasiano: Fucunt! Fuck – Cunt
Jadon Grayson: Whoremongoloid!* Whoremonger – Mongoloid *Note: This is particularly effective when deployed against Central Asian pimps.
Today’s Meditation on the Destruction of Your Enemies:
Enemies Considered: Johnny D.
Tonight’s List of Victims to Attack via the Dreamworld:
Haikus About the Penis of Your Choosing:
Leon Ware beware
The jealous seek to steal your
Stands proud, raging, and rock hard
He cannot be bent
Wild, feral, savage
These words apply to the wang
Of one Clinton Wolfe
The dragon lies dead
Pierced by the iron-clad cock
of Dylan Gierok
Marci Sischo has
A poem about her cock
But did she want that?
He swore, dying. A penis,
the last thing he saw.
Special Considerations: I would like a haiku about the largeness of my hypothetical penis, as I am a woman. If I were a dude, there simply would be no penis larger than mine. Like a physical impossibility. Hawking would go “Ha ha ha” if anyone claimed theirs were larger because they would be so obviously retarded for honestly thinking anyone would believe such a scientific fallacy.)
Cock Consumes the Coarse Cosmos
Good job, Dawn Morrow
This poem is called: Take What You Can Get With A Name Like That
Stein Goldzweig’s big dong
What can we say of
Michael Madden’s pulsating
wang; the words fail us
Update 7.5.2011(3): Tonight’s Dream Assassination list (all I had time to get done today). Be sure to let me know if anybody’s head explodes, or if they start loudly and suddenly complaining of “explosive impotency.”
Words that make you seem smart (to idiots) and like an asshole (to everybody else):
Alexandra Peach: Circuitous
Kent McCullough: Incontrovertible
Bill Spencer: Adverse
Rebecca Richards: Reprobate
Daniel Jenkins: Usury
Sarah Johnson: Assuage
Sarah Wagenstein: Facsimile
Peter Flannery: Irreligious
John Gallo: Loquacious
Portmanteau of Swears:
Lisa Chiles: Cockunt! Cock – Cunt
David Paredes – Fuballs! Fuck – balls
L.A.S. – Arshite! Arse – Shite
Monica Kern: Dawang! Damn – Wang
David Varner: Shitaint! Shit – Taint
Update 7.6.2011(2): Haikus and dream assassination lists for 7.6.2011!
“There’s no way that’s real!”
She screamed, fleeing away from
Michael Marshman’s dong
“Kummer? I hardly know her!”
Jesse shouted wryly, though
he did cum on her.
Doesn’t have a dong, herself
…luckily for you
“Mercy!” they all cried.
Alexandra Bonak’s cock
did not seem to care.
“There’s been complaints…wait…
this says compliments. Sorry,
Like it or not, I
will immortalize your dick,
Shaun Peters, more like
Shaun Dongs. Oh no. The first way
was so much better.
There is no warmth here,
in the shadow of your dick.
Please move, Hamish Tym.
Kaj Jensen sure sounds
like a Superman Villain.
Cock of Kryptonite.
Get all the postmen
ready, Bill. This package is
from Martin Vietor.
Mark Younes’ penis
might not fit in a haiku.
“Great man, small penis.
Oh no, you mean Zack Churchill?
Yeah, that guy is huge.”
Brandon Ackley’s wang
shatters toilets. “It’s a curse,”
he says, with a wink.
Salmon swims upstream to spawn
it damn well stays spawned.
Bards still sing odes to
Nicholas Lagrassa’s dick.
They are long, and sad.
James Wood has got a
dick that has to be measured
in cords. Burns nice, too.
This poem is called “And You Did”
Rusty Watts sounds like
something you would do in a
Mexican dive bar
sing the body electric.
Abby Holmes’ cock.
Kevin Herman will
help you get home, as long as
you fly Air His Dick
Put it away, son.
These folks ain’t impressed. They’ve seen
Robert Wierman’s dick!
There’s a lot of poems
with girl dick. So what’s one more,
right, Caitlin Reagan?
A great man once said,
“There is nothing to fear but
Brennan Plunkett’s dong.”
Joel Harman’s penis
is so tough, it grew a beard
and another dick.
Tomorrow – nothing but sketches! (I mean, I’ll be working my normal job and if there’s a fire, I guess I’ll have to go outside, but aside from that – exclusive sketch time).
Meditation on the Death of Your Enemies, 7.7.2011, 3PM:
Focusing on ‘the retard who pissed on all my stuff.’
Sketches of internet folks beatin’ up history, 7.7.2011:
Ciaran Conliffe punchin’ Henry Ford right in his smug face.
Jamie Moran wanted to see “a bespectacled code monkey” givin’ Thomas Edison what-for…
Sean Peters wanted to tag-team John Quincy Adams with good ol’ Melty Face Andrew Jackson:
Words that make you sound smart (to idiots) and like an asshole (to everybody else):
Jeremiah Engelman: Nonpareil
Jason Dietz: Misconstrue
Nicki Fox: Apropos
Rick Breitenstine: Asskank! Ass – skank
Aubrey Noller: Slutits! Slutty – tits
Jessica Kassel – Bollococks! Bollocks – cocks
Joshua Beck – Fuckeretard! Fuckery – retard
Jonathan Royle – Ragamotherfucker! Ragamuffin – motherfucker
Today’s meditation on the death of your enemies:
Tonight’s impending dream assassination list:
She fought a bear with her cock.
It still has nightmares.
Special requests: Make it dirty.
Jamie Lewis’ dong:
So smooth it repels water.
dick died, saving this country.
No, that’s just Clinton Boomer
pulling out his wang.
Paul Policarp whipped
his dick out. And began a
new era of man.
The unholy dong
of Edward Jensen. It makes
widowers of men.
Helen Barlow sets
the bar low. That way her cock
is a nice surprise.
Den Shewman has a
three syllable name, but a
four syllable cock.
Samantha Hood moved
me. Then I wrote a poem
about her dick. Why?
Cypress and Sage asked
for no dick haiku. Fuck that.
“Please, one at a time
There’s enough of Chad Lee ‘s dick
dong attack left them asking
“Who was that masked man?”
I once knew a man
who cracked his dick like a whip.
His name: Charles Martin
Kathryn Rosie: Shitrumpet! – Shit – Strumpet
Oddly Medical-Themed Dream Assassination List:
Sketches of You Sucker-Punching History:
Chris Tooley wanted an image of Nikola Tesla uppercutting Thomas Edison, implying that he either didn’t read the directions carefully, or is, in fact, the immortal Tesla, who has simply run out of good things to do with his time.
Leesa Skaggs wanted a picture of her cat bitch-slapping Edison. Again, not quite the point of the sketch, but I went ahead and assumed she was a cat that had gained temporary sentience, and I obliged its mad feline whims:
Aubrey Noller don’t
have no wang, but if she did
you’d damn well know it.
Special considerations: Donator requested huge balls be the focus here. Be careful what you wish for.
Tristan Hodgson’s huge
balls make his dong look tiny.
it’s an okay size
Nils Carlson’s swedish
cock has flattened more Heinies
than a frat bro’s brow
Ray Warburton knows
comes with great willie
Jennifer Shaw once
dick-stabbed a man in Reno
just to watch him die
Michael Arce cannot
see the forest for the trees,
(and his huge penis).
Matthew Byas is
biased; the weight of his dick
makes him stand slanted.
Andrew Greeson is
not the same, since the war for
his dick erupted
Spyros Fetsis that
can’t be your real name, or your
real dick. CGI?
Matthew McLean ain’t
got nothin’ lean about him.
Is it ironic?
Special notes: Donator wanted her haiku to be about the disappointing size and overall inefficiency of a special somebody.
Nathan E., your dick
is wee. Are you at least rich,
or does God hate you?
Steven Bussell ‘s cock
has to fly first class, it needs
the extra legroom.
Aidan Fox once saved
a drowning girl. “It’s all right,
my dick has got you!”
That was it for all of the haikus! Let me know if I missed you. Sketches, up next!
Here’s Zachery Taylor battling Zachary Taylor for the correct spelling of the name. As you can see, Zachery is coming out ahead via liberal application of ‘the paralytic shocker.’
Lochlan Sudarshan socking one to the ever unpopular Edison, who was – ooh, bad timing! – just coming out of the dildo store.
Frank McDevitt punching Peter the Great in the back of the head. If ever a moustache deserved it, ’twas Peter’s.
Chris Burton tries to strangle all the dick out of Joe McCarthy, though sadly, his task is impossible. Still, A for effort, buddy!
Karen Jones reaps poetic revenge on the Countess of Bathory, by smashing her in the back of the head with Extra Virgin Olive Oil.
Jessica Farell reppin’ the Three Stooges all up in Descartes’ eyes.
Update: 8.14.2011: The second to last one!
First, meditating on the destruction of Bob Rogers, who likes to sue moms. I can see you through the internet, Bob.
And the question you have to ask yourself now is: Why do his eyes look like that? Is it photoshop? Is he on hallucinogens? Or can he remove happy memories from my brain if I look into them? It’s one of the three, Bob. Choose wisely.
Now, sketches of historical suckerpunching!
Deborah Zander wanted to punch Superman, but did not provide a picture. Here is what I imagine to be Deborah showing the man of Steel what’s really up.
Adam Berardini just cannot deal with Andrew Jackson’s bullshit anymore.
Finally, Ivan Gonzalez wanted to punch Anakin Skywalker in the throat. I gave him the benefit of the doubt, and assumed he meant the little boy. Have fun with Child Welfare, Ivan!
Update 8.16.11: The last one!
Stories about roomfuls of people laughing at you, then paying for it with their lives:
A Fine Day for Shooting
For Hunter S.
Hunter stood atop the still-smoking rhinoceros and pondered exactly how awesome his own name was.
“Pretty awesome,” he decided at last, and turned back to the terrified students, who stood hypnotized by his blazing silhouette, backlit by the merciless Australian sun.
“We don’t even have rhinos in Australia,” one timid boy whispered to another. Hunter shot him a look, and then also just shot him. A little. In the arm. It’s how he shows affection.
“Thank you,” the boy whispered gratefully, “I’ll never clean this wound again.”
“Rifle’s up,” Hunter told the class, “saving these tourists from the rampaging beasts may have cost us valuable time. We have to get to the competition.”
As the shooting class trundled along stiffly behind him – some still shell-shocked from the attack and Hunter’s subsequent swift but merciful reprisal – they knew it was already too late. The competition had begun without them. Sure, they had saved the lives of countless nubile and buxom orphan nuns on safari, but once again, the Kings were set to beat them. Last year, it had been a mysterious blaze just outside a village of virgin monks. Hunter and his class had inexplicably shot the fire out, but when it came time for the competition, his student’s eyes were too smoke-damaged to sight the targets. The year before, a bomb scare on the Emperor. Actually on him; somebody had rigged the Emperor himself to explode. Hunter leveled his rifle and shot the green wire, then the blue, bullet-soldered the detonation circuit to a dummy-switch, then wiped the anxious Emperor’s brow clean of sweat with a well-placed, gentle hail of bullets.
“We don’t even have an Emperor in Australia,” one timid boy had remarked at the time, and the memory still made Hunter smile. He would do anything to spare them, as long as he could, the truth of Secret Australia and its bizarre machinations.
Every year at competition time, strange happenings befell Hunter’s team on the way to the Big Shoot. And every year they arrived too tired, out of ammo, or simply too late to participate. Loss after loss piled on Hunter and his students, despite the fact that for three years running his classes had been voted “The Deadliest Shooters to Ever Shoot Bullets (Literally, They Actually Shoot Other Bullets Out of the Air)” by Bullet-Shooting Magazine.
At last, they arrived at the Big Shoot, and just as Hunter suspected, the competition was already over. The Monarchs were happily celebrating another undeserved victory. Kevin King met Hunter’s gaze and split off from the crowd, a long, lean sliver shaving away from the dense mass of purple jerseys.
“Kevin,” Hunter said, drawing and firing at a passing waiter. A skewer of coconut chicken ricocheted off the man’s platter, flipped through the air, and landed in Hunter’s hand.
King rolled his eyes: “Never pull it off when it counts though, eh, Hunter?”
“Funny thing, that,” Hunter spat back, shooting a ramekin of sweet and sour sauce from another tray, and dipping his hors d’oeuvres. “Looks like somebody set a flock of Greater Australian Mega-Rhinos aflame, and right when St. Busty’s Church for the Endowed was having their annual charity safari.”
“Are you implying something, Hunter?” King narrowed his eyes, then opened them, then narrowed them again. He did this several times, either for emphasis or possibly enduring some kind of stroke. “Don’t blame us for your yearly loss. It’s not the Monarchs fault that your team couldn’t hit the side of a barn…if they were inside of it.”
Behind Kevin, his team had fallen silent, watching the conflict play out. Now, they laughed uproariously at their leader’s insult. Hunter felt the students’ collective embarrassment and shame well up at his back, and just as he was about to shoot back a razor sharp retort (yes, he was actually going to shoot razors as a retort, did you need to ask?) a deafening boom shook the length of the dusty range. Then another. And another.
The Monarchs saw it first, and panic rolled through them like an encroaching tide. They bolted, and both Kevin and Hunter knew that meant their certain death.
The Gargantuan Drop Bears only chased prey that ran.
Hunter’s class, of course, stood their ground and began calmly loading their rifles.
“Please,” Kevin begged Hunter, “do something! My students! They have my trophy with them!”
Hunter spat into the dust, and the thirsty land instantly absorbed the moisture, wrapping it in a thin film of sand.
“Rifle’s ready,” Hunter barked, and the clack of a dozen firearms being leveled answered him. “We can’t save them all, class. You know that. But we can make sure their deaths are swift.”
“That is…if we can make the shots,” Hunter added to Kevin, with a wink.
His class laughed wryly at the joke; headshots on moving targets were child’s play. Again, literally; that’s what children in Australia consider “playing.”
The students sighted down their weapons, and as one, they fired. As each shot hit swift and true, one thing was for certain: The Monarchs would not be taking next year’s medal.
That’s it, everybody! If I missed you, check and make sure I have your correct information (email, names of enemies, reference pictures, etc.) and shoot me a message. I’ll get on it! Otherwise, thank you all so much again.
Love and punches,