Today my Cracked article about Statistically Shitty Stereotypes ran. 2 entries were cut, so I am posting them here. Enjoy:

The Netherlands are a crazy drug haven

Where have we seen it:

In many movies and TV shows like “Euro Trip”, “European Gigolo” and even “Hostel”, but more importantly in the dreams and blogs of every college drop-out whose only dream is to one day smoke their life away in Amsterdam, the drugtacular capitol of the Netherlands.

Why it’s all a bunch of horse piss:

Netherland laws against using drugs are a little bit like rules prohibiting pissing in public pools. Officially they do exist, but if you keep it at a minimal level and never drop a deuce in the water (which in this metaphor stands for cocaine), the life guard will probably look the other way. It doesn’t make it legal though, same as the drugs, all of which—even pot—are considered controlled substances under Dutch regulations. The government simply decided to not do anything about them… for now.

What actually is “tolerated” in a silent double-wink agreement between the Police and the users is far from a liberal’s wet dream. You’ll be OK as long as you stay on their stuff, but try to bring in some cannabis yourself from abroad and that’s 4 years in one of those famous Windmill Prisons (12-16 years for the harder drugs). Additionally, you can only buy small quantities of pot (coke, heroine and even shrooms having all been outlawed) and it has to be smoked in one of the designated coffee houses, many of which have been closing down like crazy lately due to being too close to public schools/creating a new generation of Environmental Studies douchebags.

When you get down to it, the Netherlands are merely a country where in a very few selected places you can buy an illegal substance and get high in front of a group of strangers. It couldn’t get less crazy if everyone wore suits and wanted to discuss national fiscal spending.

Canada is the Ned Flanders of North America

Where have we seen it:

Thanks to such distinguished anthropological documentary productions like South Park, The Simpsons or Canadian Bacon, the world will forever view Canada as the pacifist, overtly polite and lovably quirky version of the US, only with igloos and “aboot” instead of “about”, eh? Also: Mounties, Maple Syrup, Hockey and Poutine.

Why it’s all a bunch of horse piss:

What would you say is the longest sniper kill in recorded history? 500, 600 yards perhaps? Sounds about right. At that distance it would be like shooting pubes off an ant, but it probably could be done. Well, in March 2002 on Afghanistan soil, an “Operation Anaconda” sniper took out an al-Qaeda agent…. from 2657 yards away. That’s a little bit over 1.5 mile or “Holy Tap-dancing Jesus!!” in the Cracked-tric System. The soldier’s name was Rob Furlong, but you will fucking address him as “His Deadshotness Master Corporal Rob Furlong of the Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry”. Additionally, you will not snicker at the word “princess”.

However, pushing out a guy who would feel more at home in the movie “Wanted” was hardly the first time when Canada kicked everyone in the balls so hard all their children and grandchildren were born infertile. During WWI, Canada—as part of the British Empire—was basically allowed to do whatever they wanted concerning their involvement in the war effort. So, when most of us would probably volunteer to clean the showers in the ladies’ training facilities, Canada willingly mobilized four divisions which later became known as the most effective and feared assault formations on the Allied side, affectionately called “Shock Troops”.

Later on Canadian forces concentrated mainly on Peacekeeping Missions in such politically stable areas as Central Africa, Syria, Cambodia or Kosovo, where their Air Force was responsible for 10% of all the explosive “peace” dropped in the region.

There I was, minding my own business, chatting up this really fine girl. Things were going well and I was about to take her to my place when all of a sudden this huge guy appears out of nowhere and throws me out of the Morgue, threatening to call the Police if I show up there again. Fuck you guy, I should be the one calling the cops, seeing as you totally cockblocked me.

This is serious: cockblocking is a big problem in this country. By my calculations it’s the single biggest unreported crime in the Western hemisphere. I decided to do my part in raising awareness of this issue by identifying 3 common types of cockblockers. They are:

3. The Jealous Fuck

Often very fat and horribly ugly, The Jealous Fuck couldn’t get laid in the Projects if their ejaculate was made out of a mixture of cocaine and heroin. These are the kind of people who decided that if they can’t get some, then neither will anyone else.

Common Cockblocking Tactic (CCT) if The Jealous Fuck is a Woman: Usually somehow sensing when you are just about ready to close the deal with some skank at a bar, The Jealous Fuck will come from behind, tap you on the shoulder and demand to be driven home because “it’s late and [she] has to get up early tomorrow”. In most cases it won’t be later than 7 PM.

CCT if The Jealous Fuck is a Man: Usually will keep pulling you to the side claiming the girl you’re hitting on is a total slut with 23 different STDs up her vagina, 4 of which haven’t even be discovered yet. This will continue until the girl overhears him and storms out of the place crying. Occasionally she might return with a 7-foot tall older brother.

2. The Idiot

Often not a bad person at all, The Idiot just doesn’t know any better. Not that it matters, because when someone gets between your penis and any female willing to show even the slightest interest in said penis, well, that’s reason for a one-way ticket to Hell if I’ve ever seen one.

CCT if The Idiot is a Woman: Usually the female Idiot will try to be helpful. Like, imagine you just bought the girl a drink or an ounce of coke, whatever. Before the topic of conversation can even start leaning towards sex, The Idiot will butt in and very loudly ask you if you will want the apartment to yourself tonight “for the sexing”. She will then giggle. You will dream of murdering her.

CCT if The Idiot is a Man: Usually will off-handedly mention to any girl you talk to: “I hope you’re in for a ride of your life because THIS guy [you] is a total freak. You should see his box of porn and toys he keeps in the closet.” This is him seriously complimenting you.

1. The Crazy Person

Often homeless and stinky.

CCT if The Crazy Person is a Woman: Usually she can be found chasing away pigeons or cats that are trying to get it on.

CCT if The Crazy Person is a Man: Usually seen throwing feces at teenagers losing their virginity in the backseat of an old Buick parked near Make-out Point.

I’ve been working on a hard-boiled detective story. Here is the first chapter:


It was a sunny and warm night, the kind of night you usually expect to be an afternoon. Come to think of it, it probably was an afternoon, what with the Sun still being up and everything. I was sitting by the dinner table hunched over a bowl of Graham crackers swimming in vodka, the Polish Cereal we used to call it, when the doorbell rang. It had to be her. No one else could ring a bell like she did, rocking its world, taking it to Hell and back, leaving the poor sap sweating and begging for more. I pulled the baseball bat from the umbrella basket under the sink and made my way to the entrance, knowing I only had one shot at this.

The doorbell went off again, carrying with it the undertone if impatience and a somewhat erotic anticipation. I flung the door opened and took a swing, aiming for the tits, her one weak spot no one else knew about. The Sun blinded me but I just kept going at it, swing after swing, until my eyes got used to the light, giving back the mangled blob in front of me some of its original form. The now clearly visible mangled blob in front of me was not her. I knew it instantly because she never did fancy brownish uniforms with the words UPS written on them. Also, she was now a man around 30, looking at me with eyes that kept asking “Why?”, something his mouth could no longer do cause of all the blood inside it.

- I am so sorry, I thought you were my mother – I explained to the man. And though hidden under a mask of what might have seemed like pain and agony to the layman, I knew the expression on his face was that of a brotherly understanding. Still, looking at him down there in a puddle of his blood and my pee (I have a weak bladder OK?)… he sort of reminded me of myself, when I was viciously beaten by a crazy person. So I threw a couple of cents his way for doctor bills and what have you not. I would have given him some paper money, but all I had was a 50 and, come on, I won’t give him that much. What am I? Scrooge McRockefeller? Plus I reckoned he wouldn’t really take a cheque.

With this I picked up the package addressed to me, flicked the deliveryman’s tooth off of it and went back inside. Without even opening the parcel I knew it was from her, especially because she made the fatal mistake of putting her name and address on it right where I could see it. I would dispose of it later on in the local lake, together with the monthly garbage and septic tank drop but for now, I continue my wait. Forever vigilant, forever prepared, forever totally on that awesome white powder I stole from the locker at the bus terminal.

They say brilliant ideas can strike at any time, which proved very true for me. So there I was amidst my quadruple murder trial after purchasing a shotgun and seeing a Nike commercial which told me to “Just do it”. The prosecution was going on and on about “heinous crime” this and “both women were pregnant” that, I don’t know I wasn’t really paying attention, but just then they said something that really opened my eyes: the state will demand tighter gun control right after my execution, maybe even making all guns illegal.

And then it hit me. The answer to America’s growing safety concerns and the rising problem of violence. We should totally make cancer illegal!

Now stay with me. What is currently illegal in this country? Hooker murder, coke, hunting down emigrants for sport and food, stuff like that? Though a few bad apples are definitely committing these crimes, generally their numbers are low compared to a time not too long when all of those fun fun activities were pretty commonplace. That is the first half of the answer on why should we make cancer illegal. I am not that naïve to believe that if we simply outlaw the cancer bacteria, people will just stop dying. The masses always have a few renegades among them who will tell our kids to stick it to the man and totally get some cancer, but I think in the end we would see a significant drop in the number of cancer cases throughout the country. It will boost our economy and relieve our crippling medicare system.

Now here comes the best part, and I really have to thank the DA for pointing it out to me.

After he tearfully told the jury his daughter would be 13 on this very day if not for me, he once again stressed the importance of banning firearms, because even if a ban on guns will mean only criminals will have guns, it will be a welcomed alternative from people like me owning some.

If we outlaw guns, only criminals will have guns. Holy Crap, why didn’t we see it before?

People, if we outlaw cancer, only criminals will have cancer! This is so brilliant yet simple I can’t believe no one else has thought about it before. The criminal scum have the lowest possible regard for the law and I predict they will simply jump at the opportunity to totally get cancer the second it becomes illegal. They can’t help it, it’s in their nature, but it totally works for our advantage. Give it a few years and the entire country will be criminal free, all of them having died of brain tumors and colon cancers, leaving only the law abiding people to reclaim the country in the name of good.

Unfortunately I won’t be around to spearhead this initiative because I have just been informed they are reinstating torture as an acceptable form of death penalty and pushing my execution to about 5 minutes after the jury find me guilty (which should be any minute now). So I leave you with my idea and ask you to please carry my message of cancer and public safety to the world.

Together, we can make a difference.

Same as the rest of you, I also once feared the reality of one day becoming old. It wasn’t just about my nut sack sagging below the knees (though that was definitely in the top 5 of my worries) but more about the choices I longer will have. What if after turning 50 I will suddenly get the urge to climb Mt. Everest completely naked other than a pair of neon-green tube socks? Or eat a snack after 10 PM? Gone will be the opportunities I now cherish so much while sitting in my own filth writing testicle related jokes on the internet.

But then I realized something. Yes, I will be giving up a lot of the freedom I have now, but I will gain a completely new type of freedom: to do things, really cool things mind you, that only older folk can do. I have narrowed them down to a Top 3 and am now sharing them with you. People, it’s OK to get old. Because once we’re there, we will be able to:

3. Pull off the suit look

I freaking love suits, and want to assure you am not really a retired brick layer posing as a debonair Polack on this site. Suits look simply amazing but only if the right sorts are wearing them. James Bond would be the perfect example, and for a more recent one look no further than Don Draper of “Mad Men” fame. I want to be that someday.

The problem is anyone younger than 35 looks like a giant turd wrapped in fabric while sporting the suit look. It’s like dressing up your family dog in a mock sweater and pants. Yeah, it’s cute, but it’s as far away from dignified as mining for boogers after having picked your butt for an hour. That’s what most people my age look like in suits: animals in people clothing.

But once you hit the late 30s/early 40s mark the suit starts to… suit you. In unrelated news I have just been subpoenaed for allegedly murdering comedy with my last sentence and I am planning to plead guilty.

2. Be brooding and cool at the same time

Every now and again the mood hits you like a sledgehammer to the dick and you start feeling down in the dumps. Everyone has to go through that at least a couple times a year, but it’s especially aggregating when you are younger. Stop smiling like a moron for more than a minute and everyone (your age) around you will start calling you Grumpy Sourpuss von Sadsack, or worse yet, emo, and that is a reputation nobody wants.

Then let’s take your grandpa. When the problems of the world—and the fact that high school girls are now sluttier than ever and he can’t do anything about it without his blue pills—finally get him, you will often find him over a glass of scotch in a poorly lit room, cursing under his breath and looking cooler than ever. When you are old, everyone assumes you went through enough shit, what with having to deal with all those dinosaurs as a kid, and simply let you be dark and enigmatic over your drink.

Be dark and enigmatic – now that is something which under no circumstance can a person under 40 achieve in his entire life. Don’t believe me? Check out your local Goth kids. They tried it and they failed. Horribly.

1. Buy a motherfucking sword cane!

Have you seen the movie “Blood and Bone”? If not, do it this instant and prepare to have your butt kicked off. It stars Michael Jai White as a semi-mute asskicker, a role so perfect for him you’d think they especially bred it in top genetic labs, but more importantly, it has Eamonn Walker using a god damn sword cane. The man looked so manly doing that, I instantly grew a third ball after witnessing it on screen but it’s OK because one of my other testicles exploded within seconds from the sheer badassery before my eyes. It was then that I decided I want a sword cane.

Some time after turning 50.

If suits make us young whippersnappers look like circus monkeys then canes on anyone without a snow white scrotum look like the ultimate douche move. Even royalty has trouble pulling them off before a certain age. So what chance does some local community college jerk-off who spends his afternoons watching illegally downloaded episodes of “House” have? Canes are just that one part of the senior experience which will forever belong to them.

And if the cane also happens to be a sword… hot damn, the ladies will be buying season tickets for a chance to totally gum the hell out of your junk. Good times, here I come!

Seeing as I am now poorer than Hobo McPoorperson after blowing all my money on colorful hats and fancy bed spreads (which are my code words for cocaine and Filipino love-slaves), I no longer can afford a car. I would rather start flossing with used tampon-strings than to take the bus, and I happen to be straight, so the bicycle is also out. Thus, I was reduced to getting everywhere on foot and suddenly remembered why I gave it up in the first place: I am now actually expected to wear pants everywhere I go, and most pedestrians are a breed of particularly retarded cattle.

I have separated the most annoying types of sidewalk mouth-breathers into 3 convenient categories. This is for all of you out there driving cars you didn’t trade for 3 packets of “colorful hats” that one horrible jonesing-afternoon like I did. If you ever get tired of humanity’s shit and decide to plow your vehicle into someone, please, AIM FOR THESE GUYS:

3. The Day Dreamer

With the economy kicking everyone’s butt harder than daddy after his late night whiskey (but it’s OK, I totally deserved that…), more and more people have taken to the sidewalks, and surprise, most often it actually works out just fine. No one wants to spend so much time so close to other human beings, so most pedestrian traffic in more crowded places tends to move smoothly. Until you come by the Day Dreamer.

You see, the Day Dreamer is most likely a coma patient who has woken up from his 20 year slumber and is now fascinated by how much the world has changed. The grass is greener, the squirrels are squirreler and it’s so hard to take it all in once. So he simply has to stop in his tracks to just, like, feel it man, maybe ponder about life a little, because, dude, what’s the hurry? Or more likely he’s an utterly stoned hippy who doesn’t understand that dropping anchor in the middle of a busy sidewalk screws up traffic worse than… some… automatic screw machine. Yeah.

2. The Road Hog

The Road Hog is not merely one person but rather a hive consciousness of pure douchebaggery, compromised of a minimum of 4 people who always travel in groups because they usually share no more than 3 brain-cells between each other. Still, even that is pretty damn good considering how utterly lost and confused they get when separated from each other. A simple solitary stroll down the road for these people might mean their families will soon be identifying their bodies in Venezuela.

The problem is the Borg-like Road Hog group never got around to understanding the simple principle of walking in a line. The only configuration they understand is to spread themselves out on the entire width of the sidewalk, afraid that the one who falls behind his brethren will be the group’s bitch or something. These are also the types of people who will eye you like a draft-dodging cat molester if you try to break them apart and walk through their little defense line of utter misery.

1. Mr. Lightning

Not named for his stunning speed on the non-vehicular highway but for the odd patterns he traverses in. Straight, left, right, back again, a pirouette, and repeat until you’ve bumped into every person imaginable, that is the way to get to places, according to this precious snowflake. Mr. Lightning is actually a close relative of the Day Dreamer in that they both have nowhere special to go. Mr. Lightning simply is more in a hurry to get there.

A short walk on one stretch of the road can mean up to 10 separate encounters with this pedestrian, and no one really knows why. Much like salad in a McDonald’s joint, his presence on the road is a mystery, but it’s more likely one of those Scooby Doo mysteries with a pretty boring and obvious explanation. My guess? He is lost and is following an ant, hoping it will lead him home. Most Mr. Lightnings are actually paranoid schizophrenics.

Ever since the first days of the internet, Men–or rather horny 14 year olds–of the heterosexual inclination, have asked themselves the question: does watching “she-male on female” action make me gay? Let us explore that concept.

The first question we must ask ourselves, is why do we like porn at all. The answer is simple, because porn has lots of soft, curvy women; women who will never reject you or laugh at your small genitalia. But pornography very often also contains males, a fact which forces us to consider the second question of the day: do typical heterosexual males enjoy porn only 50%?

During your typical super happy fun time while watching a lonely housewife get plowed by a delivery boy from a pizza place with the most liberal payment system on the planet, your points of focus are in order: the boobs, the ass, and the area of penetration. I have prepared a diagram:

As you can plainly see, Area #1 and #2 are pretty straightforward. You enjoy them in basically any size, color or context. And until you were made aware of it, #3 was also a no-brainer. In reality though, Area #3 is compromised mainly of Dick. So what’s the deal? Is all porn inherently part gay? Of course not, because Area #3 also has the Vag, a place of great wonders which most of you will never experience in your entire life. True, in porno movies it is being plugged by a penis, but your typical straight viewer automatically erases the male actor from his sight, focusing only on the women and her luscious Area #1 and #2, allowing the dick to be a generic thrusting object on which you can project any face or body, even your own, thus making it possible to jack off without turning queer.

But what about the she-male wank material? Here comes diagram no 2.

Ah, this is quite different. With the addition of a she-male to the typical mix we have gained an extra pair of boobs and one spare ass, making it virtually impossible to mentally delete the actor/ess from our point of focus. In this situation Areas #1-4 are all very desirable and easy to take in separately, enhancing the viewing experience. And Area #5, when viewed in the context of male on female porn, also poses no problem because once more it’s merely a vagina being penetrated by a penis.

So what does all of that mean? Well, the presence of 2 women makes it probably even easier to disassociate the penis in action from its typical owner – a man, making it a faceless, genderless penetration device, upon which we can project any person we please while enjoying twice as many breasts and ass.

The conclusion: As long as our personal fantasies do not turn to thoughts of plowing the she-male on top, in a moment of relaxation when we forget (s)he is connected to a penis, an afternoon with she-male smut doesn’t have to be gay at all. With a sharp mind that doesn’t wander, it might even be less gay than typical heterosexual adult movies.

Be warn that if you do get caught watching it though, you will never live it down. So… probably best to stick to lesbians.

Favila, a local warlord of the Spanish region of Asturias was a dime a dozen 8th century Christian who started the church of Santa Cruz and… that’s about all we know about him. Well, that and the fact he enjoyed hunting bears to foster political ties within the court. Today politicians organize golf games and hooker parties. Then they used to hunt bears. I wonder if the 2 could be combined… probably not the best idea though, seeing as Favila was killed by a bear during one such hunt and everything. But this unexpected death (Killed by a bear?! During a bear hunt?! Whaaaaaaat?!) allowed Alfonso I, Favila’s brother in law, to take the throne of Asturias. And that’s when shit got serious.

Alfonso is generally recognized as the first official “king” of his region, and for good reasons. As a devoted Christian and a pretty fearless leader he started a lifelong war with the Moores who have already been roaming Spain for ages, driving the lot of them from all of the northern regions, subjugating with time large amounts of land under his rule. Then, to keep the Muslim invaders out of his tanned-but-still-white-dammit Spain, Alfonso created a depopulated buffer region between their 2 territories: a giant abandoned strip of land known as the Desert of the Duero, which no large army could easily pass.

This in all reality created a natural defense between Europe and Muslim Africa, assuring that good God fearing Spaniards will never have to meet and learn to tolerate other religions ever again, allowing continental Christianity to grow unchallenged in peace. And as we all know, that worked out beautifully for everyone without a single hitch…

Erected in the 12th century by the Marquess of Monferrato in north-west Italy, the Lucedio Abbey will forever be remembered for its key role in introducing rice crops to the region of Vercelli… and possibly guarding the gates of hell from opening and plunging Earth into eternal darkness. So, big props to those guys.

The abbey has its share of wild ghost stories spanning a couple of centuries, but the most intriguing one (read: vague enough to be misunderstood as occult for comedy purposes) is the history of the crypt under Lucedio, where past abbots were laid to rest. Buried in the sitting position. Forming a circle. Oh, and they apparently became naturally mummified over time. Either a prank in very poor taste by the younger priests or a clear indication of dark magic, there is no other option here.

Look, I’ve seen enough horror movies to know that any circle formation is rarely a good thing, and with so many typical horror tropes like a bunch of “holy men” sitting around shit in a church crypt, you could not pay me to come within 20 feet of the dried-up padre even if I was armed with 5 gallons of holy water and a 12 gauge double barrel Remington (S-Mart’s top of the line). But what are the abbots “guarding” exactly? “Hell” seems like a pretty good guess.

Myths concerning the devil and Lucedio have existed since the 17th century when apparently a bunch of local girls became possessed and convinced the abbey’s monks to convert to Satanism, proving that damn near everything will sound like a good idea if it’s being sold by horny country girls aching to gobble your “rosary beads”, by which I mean testicles.

For Earth’s sake, I hope that among the current occupants of Lucedio there is a tired old priest who has lost his conviction, in case shit down in the crypt gets real one day.

Naming your pet can be a fun activity. Will it be named after your favorite Star Trek race? Or after your beloved comic book character? You could always name it after the kid who used to steal your lunch money and abuse the hell out of the animal as part of your DIY therapy sessions. In 1962 John Kenneth Galbraith faced a similar challenge. A famed US ambassador to India, John mediated a lot of heated political issues within the country, but none so influential as the case of his sons’ cats.

During an official visit to the Indian state of Gujarat, both of John’s sons were presented with a Siamese cat. One of those was then given the name Ahmedabad, to commemorate the town he was born in. And there would be nothing wrong with that, if the family had not shortened the name to Ahmed, which is one of the alternate names for the Muslim prophet Mohammed. And that was apparently a bad thing.

When the name of the feline was briefly mentioned in some newspaper, massive riots erupted in Pakistan, where it has been seen as an insult to Islam. We guess most westerners would also not feel too comfy with a farmer naming his pig Jesus Christ, Savior of Mankind. The American embassy was stoned and the rioters demanded Galbraith’s head. Luckily for Johnny, he succeeded in getting a word in, explained this silly misunderstanding and everyone calmed the fuck down. The cat’s name was changed to Gujarat and everyone pretended this silly incident never happened. Except the families of those who died in the riots…