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    <title>Jay Pinkerton.com</title>
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   <id>tag:jaypinkerton.cracked.com,2007://15</id>
    <link rel="service.post" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://blogs.cracked.com/cgi-bin/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=15" title="Jay Pinkerton.com" />
    <updated>2007-04-19T18:07:04Z</updated>
    <subtitle>Comedy, essays, cartoons and more from professional comedian and satirist Jay Pinkerton.</subtitle>
    <generator uri="http://www.sixapart.com/movabletype/">Movable Type 3.2</generator>
 
<entry>
    <title>Hello Again</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/2007/04/hello_again.php" />
    <link rel="service.edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://blogs.cracked.com/cgi-bin/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=15/entry_id=6357" title="Hello Again" />
    <id>tag:jaypinkerton.cracked.com,2007://15.6357</id>
    
    <published>2007-04-19T17:50:39Z</published>
    <updated>2007-04-19T18:07:04Z</updated>
    
    <summary></summary>
    <author>
        <name>Jay Pinkerton</name>
        
    </author>
            <category term="2007" />
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/">
        <![CDATA[<p>Our former IT guy dropped by the office this morning to say hi. He'd left earlier in the year for a better-paying job, but had the day off and was in the area, so thought he'd stop in.</p>

<p>So I'm sitting at my desk watching him walk in and receive excited greetings from everyone, and I'm totally confused, because I remember incredibly clearly that he'd <i>already dropped by this week:</i> he'd even stopped by my desk. We'd shaken hands, I'd asked him all about his new job. We'd had an elaborate, detailed conversation for upwards of fifteen minutes.</p>

<p>Or wait... <i>had</i> we? Doubt set in. Had I just dreamed it? </p>

<p>It was possible. The memory of it seemed incredibly lucid. On the other hand, I routinely have stultifyingly boring dreams about going to work: commuting in on the subway, returning email, laying out articles for the web, goofing off online. Often I'll have gotten almost a full day's work done and will just be returning a few final phone calls before calling it a day, when I'll wake up suddenly and realize with mounting depression that I now have to go to work and do it all over again.</p>

<p>Not wanting to come off rude, I walked over to our former IT guy to feel out the situation. If we'd already talked this week, my greeting should obviously be more subdued; after all, we'd  caught up with each other two days ago. I'd look like a callous ass if I came off like I'd completely forgotten about our conversation. </p>

<p>On the other hand, If I'd dreamed it, that would mean we <i>hadn't</i> actually talked in over four months. Casually waltzing over with a cursory head nod and a "What's up?" would come off pretty rude. The situation would require tact and delicacy if I wanted to come off non-crazy here. I thought for a minute about what my best opening volley should be.</p>

<p>"Hey! So, did you already stop by this week or did I just dream that?" I ended up going with, because to hell with tact and delicacy. It's not like I'm not <i>intimately</i> familiar with looking like an idiot in social situations. As regular readers of this site might remember, you're reading the website of a guy who's been caught masturbating by construction workers. Once you walk away from shame like that, admitting you can't separate dreams from reality to work friends is a cake walk.</p>

<p>Our former IT guy's confused, slightly frightened look told me everything I needed to know: I <i>had</i> in fact dreamed his previous visit, and, yes, now sounded like a dangerous, unbalanced psychotic. Hoping to rally the situation, I immediately ramped up the enthusiasm level and greeted him, now confident we hadn't seen each other in months. "Heyyyyyy!" So how <i>is</i> everything?" Then I sat back and listened—feeling more than slightly pissed off, however unreasonably, about getting locked into the same goddamn conversation twice.  I didn't want to be rude. It was simply that from my perspective, however caked with lunacy it might be, this entire reunion was pretty redundant. In my head I kept thinking, "Damn it, we just <i>did</i> this! I want to get some lunch." </p>

<p>And so, after ten minutes of catch-up, I did just that. (Luckily I didn't wake up at this point. I have a bad memory and lucid dreams, it's not like I'm living in a <i>Twilight Zone</i> episode or anything.)</p>]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>
<entry>
    <title>Action Hero Showdown</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/2007/04/action_hero_showdown.php" />
    <link rel="service.edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://blogs.cracked.com/cgi-bin/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=15/entry_id=6350" title="Action Hero Showdown" />
    <id>tag:jaypinkerton.cracked.com,2007://15.6350</id>
    
    <published>2007-04-13T15:46:20Z</published>
    <updated>2007-04-13T16:02:06Z</updated>
    
    <summary></summary>
    <author>
        <name>Jay Pinkerton</name>
        
    </author>
            <category term="Cracked" />
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/">
        <![CDATA[<div align="center"><a href="http://www.cracked.com/index.php?name=News&sid=1838"><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/rambopainting.jpg" width="450" height="297" border="0"></a></div>

<p>It is widely recognized in academic and scientific circles that I have gifts. Powerful gifts involving prose, and its crafting. With this burden in mind, I decided it was damn well time I gave back something to the community: hence an article exhaustively analyzing which '80s action movie hero is the hardest badass. </p>

<p>I must point out: this article was written at <em>no great personal risk to me</em>, and was written in my capacity as <em>an authority on absolutely nothing</em>. By this I mean to say that this article should be read as its author intended: as unvarnished, objective <strong>fact</strong>. If you disagree with the article in any way whatsoever, it is important that you understand this is <em>your</em> moral or intellectual failing, and that with proper counselling you can be brought back from the abyss of improper views on Rambo, and rejoin society as a fully functioning person with correct views.</p>

<center><a href="http://www.cracked.com/index.php?name=News&sid=1838" target="_blank"><strong>Click Here to Read<BR>
"Action Hero Showdown"</strong>(at Cracked.com)</a></center>]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>
<entry>
    <title>It Came From My C Drive 2</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/2007/04/it_came_from_my_c_drive_2.php" />
    <link rel="service.edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://blogs.cracked.com/cgi-bin/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=15/entry_id=6316" title="It Came From My C Drive 2" />
    <id>tag:jaypinkerton.cracked.com,2007://15.6316</id>
    
    <published>2007-04-01T18:42:17Z</published>
    <updated>2007-04-01T19:01:18Z</updated>
    
    <summary></summary>
    <author>
        <name>Jay Pinkerton</name>
        
    </author>
            <category term="Misc" />
    
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        <![CDATA[<p>Once again (read the first one <a href="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/2006/01/it_came_from_my_c_drive.php">here</a>), the results of a leisurely stroll through my C Drive over coffee this morning. </p>

<h6>Old Sci Fi Novels</h6><br />

<center>
  <img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/cuntcrazy.jpg">
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<center>
  <img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/sexpredator.jpg">
</center><br />]]>
        <![CDATA[<center>
  <img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/talesmildsuspense.jpg">
</center><br />
<center>
  <img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/nobodybelieved.jpg">
</center><br />
<center>
  <img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/marsisstupid.jpg">
</center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/andaliens.jpg"></center><br />

<h6>Date Quest</h6><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/datequestsmall.jpg"></center><br />

<h6>Hollywood Pitch Meeting</h6><br />
<p>Too wide to fit here, so I had to give it its own page. Also, watch your back, sports fan: it's <a href="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/pitchmeeting.php">not work safe.</a></p><br />

<h6>Microsoft Holocaust</h6><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/paperclip.jpg"></center><br />

<h6>Oscar Contenders</h6><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/vaginalies.jpg"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/rapedwomen.jpg"></center><br />

<h6>Probably Not Oscar Contenders</h6><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/kattanvertigo.jpg"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/vandammegrad.jpg"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/toomanykids.jpg"></center><br />

<h6>New Board Games</h6><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/dontgetbleached.jpg"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/pileashitz.jpg"></center><br />

<h6>Prince's Car</h6><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/princesportscar.jpg"></center><br />

<h6>Racially Insensitive Superheroes</h6><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/takethatblackpeople.jpg"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/wassupthing.jpg"></center><br />

<h6>Apparently I Don't Think Much of Devry</h6><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/devry.jpg"></center><br />

<h6>Comics I Read Now That I'm Old</h6><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/crediblehulk.gif"></center><br />

<h6>Someday My Solos Will Be Like This. (Right Now They're Like Frozen Margarine.)</h6><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/hendrixsteamy.jpg"></center><br />

<h6>Gelcorp Sales Campaign</h6><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/gelcorp01.jpg"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/gelcorp02.jpg"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/gelcorp03.jpg"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/gelcorp04.jpg"></center><br />

<h6>Getting To The Point</h6><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/usualsuspectsend.jpg"></center><br />

<h6>My Girlfriend's Performance Review</h6><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/wagonperformance.gif"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/wagonperformance4.gif"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/wagonperformance5.gif"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/wagonperformance6.gif"></center><br />

<h6>History of the Internet</h6><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/history1.jpg"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/history2.jpg"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/history3.jpg"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/history4.jpg"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/history5.jpg"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/history6.jpg"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/history7.jpg"></center><br />

<h6>Invisible Poop</h6><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/invisiblepoop.jpg"></center><br />

<h6>No Idea How This One Came About</h6><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/wheelies.jpg"></center><br />

<h6>Rick James: Biography</h6><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/james1.jpg"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/james2.jpg"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/james3.jpg"></center><br />

<h6>Me</h6><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/jaypic1.jpg"></center><br />

<h6>War is Hell</h6><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/maeling.gif"></center><br />

<h6>Captain America's Head Keeps Getting Smaller!</h6><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/newav02.jpg"></center><br />

<h6>There Might Be a Thinly Veiled Commentary in These...</h6><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/overhyped-letdown.jpg"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/sexpistols.jpg"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/zephouses.jpg"></center><br />

<h6>My Hidden Secret...</h6><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/quizwentworth.jpg"></center><br />

<h6>That's All For Now, Folks! Let's Get Drunk!</h6><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/pinkercran.jpg"></center><br />]]>
    </content>
</entry>
<entry>
    <title>Stupid Detective Mysteries</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/2007/03/stupid_detective_mysteries.php" />
    <link rel="service.edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://blogs.cracked.com/cgi-bin/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=15/entry_id=6291" title="Stupid Detective Mysteries" />
    <id>tag:jaypinkerton.cracked.com,2007://15.6291</id>
    
    <published>2007-03-20T17:21:44Z</published>
    <updated>2007-03-20T17:26:14Z</updated>
    
    <summary></summary>
    <author>
        <name>Jay Pinkerton</name>
        
    </author>
            <category term="Original Comics" />
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/">
        <![CDATA[<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/obviousdick01.jpg"></center>]]>
        <![CDATA[<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/obviousdick02.jpg"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/obviousdick03.jpg"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/obviousdick04.jpg"></center>]]>
    </content>
</entry>
<entry>
    <title>Put My Blarney Stones In Your Mouth</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/2007/03/put_my_blarney_stones_in_your.php" />
    <link rel="service.edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://blogs.cracked.com/cgi-bin/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=15/entry_id=6284" title="Put My Blarney Stones In Your Mouth" />
    <id>tag:jaypinkerton.cracked.com,2007://15.6284</id>
    
    <published>2007-03-17T16:17:19Z</published>
    <updated>2007-03-17T16:36:53Z</updated>
    
    <summary></summary>
    <author>
        <name>Jay Pinkerton</name>
        
    </author>
            <category term="2007" />
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/">
        <![CDATA[<p>Happy St. Patricks Day! How are you? I'm ridiculously hungover, It's fucking cold out, and I'm going back to bed. </p>

<p>But first: a scathing holiday-themed piece of mine is up at Cracked called <a href="http://www.cracked.com/index.php?name=News&sid=1729">St. Patrick's Day Exposed</a> (it's a shit title, I know), as well as another holiday-themed piece of mine from last year that one of the Cracked editors exhumed and reposted. It's mostly just an excuse to tell a <a href="http://www.cracked.com/index.php?name=News&sid=1730">lot of filthy jokes about pooping and sexual assault</a>. (Guess which article's getting linked around more?)</p>

<p>Anyway, thats all I got. By the sound of it, two feral cats are clawing themselves to death in the alley outside my apartment. I might referee that for a while if they let me. Otherwise, some aspirin and a warm bed beckon.</p>]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>
<entry>
    <title>Getting Angry About Things I&apos;m Unqualified To Discuss</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/2007/03/getting_angry_about_things_you.php" />
    <link rel="service.edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://blogs.cracked.com/cgi-bin/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=15/entry_id=6283" title="Getting Angry About Things I'm Unqualified To Discuss" />
    <id>tag:jaypinkerton.cracked.com,2007://15.6283</id>
    
    <published>2007-03-15T15:47:38Z</published>
    <updated>2007-03-15T16:00:10Z</updated>
    
    <summary></summary>
    <author>
        <name>Jay Pinkerton</name>
        
    </author>
            <category term="2007" />
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/">
        <![CDATA[<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/wahlberg.jpg"></center>

<p>Like most superhero team-ups, when Peter Lynn and I get together to co-write something, it usually involves us beating up on each other for a while before channeling our powers towards the defeat of a common enemy. In this case, movie trailers. Be sure to check out our snap judgments and harsh condemnations of the world of film based only on a cursory viewing of a blurry YouTube clip in <a href="http://www.cracked.com/index.php?name=News&sid=1724">Trailer Trash: Cruel Reviews of Upcoming Movies</a> over at Cracked.com.</p>

<p>Or, at least, as much as you’re able to check out before the sun sets. Frankly, it’s a touch long. We each took ten trailers to review, assuming they’d be about a paragraph in length apiece, somehow forgetting our respective longwinded prose styles. It now sits towering and blotting out the sun, an imposing <i>War & Peace</i> of catty film review.</p>

<p>If you <i>do</i> manage to get through it and, against all reason, decide it <i>still wasn’t long enough,</i> do yourself a favor and surf over to <a href="http://manvsclown.cracked.com/2007/03/post_30.php">Pete’s blog link to the same article,</a> where—Pete being Pete—he’s helpfully posted all the weaker bits I cut out of the damn article in the first place, this time as an introduction to the article proper: as the old maxim goes, put your club foot forward.</p>]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>
<entry>
    <title>In Times Of Crisis, You Can Count On Me (To Be A Big Pussy)</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/2007/03/im_a_big_pussy.php" />
    <link rel="service.edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://blogs.cracked.com/cgi-bin/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=15/entry_id=6268" title="In Times Of Crisis, You Can Count On Me (To Be A Big Pussy)" />
    <id>tag:jaypinkerton.cracked.com,2007://15.6268</id>
    
    <published>2007-03-11T19:15:34Z</published>
    <updated>2007-03-15T15:52:12Z</updated>
    
    <summary></summary>
    <author>
        <name>Jay Pinkerton</name>
        
    </author>
            <category term="2007" />
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/">
        <![CDATA[<center><img src=http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/subway02.gif></center>

<p>I didn’t know it when I woke up Friday morning, but in less than an hour I would be tested. </p>

<p>Tested as a man. A <i>real</i> man. The kind with chest hair, muscles and an actual chin. The kind of man that women look at and think, “You better believe I’d let him drill me.” It was to be a morning where, in the space of a single split-second moment, my character would be called daringly into question. An “Oh my Christ look, a woman’s screaming from the top floor of a burning building, WHAT TO YOU DO, HOTSHOT?” moment. A “You're walking home from a game of catch at the park when you notice a baby flying off the balcony of Eric Clapton's house, WHAT DO YOU MOTHERFUCKING DO, SPORTS FAN?” moment. (And no, I’m not sure who specifically is yelling at you so angrily in either of these scenarios, or why they can’t get off your back and catch the damn baby themselves. Probably just some asshole.)</p>

<p>This was also to be a morning where, in addition to measuring my instinct for cool-headed bravery in the face of crisis, I would learn that I don’t have any. It turns out I’m sort of a huge pussy, and that if given one of the above scenarios, I’d stare blankly in confusion while women fell, burning and shrieking, from the windows of fire-engulfed condos, or look on with ineffectual concern while Eric Clapton’s baby picked up speed. Yes, surprising nobody but myself, it turns out I’m the sort of can-do hero who, when called to action, will immediately freeze like a tender-eyed fawn in terrified brain-lock. If placed in a highly metaphysical conundrum involving a collapsing bridge, a loved one hanging off of either side and the choice of saving only one, I would in all likelihood cause both to plummet, cursing me, to their deaths, having opted to “hang back a little and mull over my choices” until the time for action had long since sprinted past. </p>

<p>I am, it seems, incapable of reflexive bravery. This is never good news to hear. And it certainly doesn’t make the medicine go down any easier if you’re reaching this epiphany while an old man buries his face, deeply and lovingly, into your crotch. Let me explain that.</p>]]>
        <![CDATA[<p><b>Figure 1: Subway Car Layout</b><br />
<center><img src=http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/subway02.gif></center></p>

<p>Here’s how it went down. On the left is me, reading a book and minding my own business. Second from the left, another commuter, also reading and minding his own business. Further down the subway car bench is an old man and a young boy, presumably either his grandson or a child he’s elected to abduct. In either case, I’m not aware of them yet. As I mentioned, I’m reading a book and minding my own business. The layout looks more like this from my perspective:</p>

<p><b>Figure 2: Subway Car Layout (My Perspective)</b><br />
<center><img src=http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/subway01.gif></center></p>

<p>It’s helpful to keep this image in your mind when I tell you the next part of the story, so you can understand the limited amount of information I had when my character was suddenly tested and I responded by acting like a laughably enormous rose-scented pussy.</p>

<p><b>Supplemental Information:</b> It’s also helpful to note, if you’ve never ridden public transportation in New York City before, that it’s prudent to adopt the Fifty-Yard Ignoring Stare at all times (a <a href="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/2006/05/people_i_have_decided_to_kill.php">topic I’ve touched on before</a>). Why? Because fully 30% of the population of any given subway car is pants-shitting crazy. On this particular subway ride, I’d already ignored no less than three homeless people, one crazy person (probably, let’s face it, also homeless) and one really angry dude who, for reasons lost on the rest of us, wanted to fight the shit out of someone, anyone at all, as soon as possible. </p>

<p>One homeless guy even walked up and down the car for three stops singing old Motown hits at the top of his lungs, explaining that he wouldn’t use the money he expected us to give him to buy drugs, and assuring everyone present, against all current evidence, that God was a loving God. (I never give these assholes money on the simple principle that they’re taking advantage of our helpless captivity to beg for money, which makes them selfish pricks no matter how pathetic they look. As far as I’m concerned, waiting until a hundred people are locked in a moving subway car before you pull out a guitar unprompted, butcher something by Leonard Cohen and beg me for a dollar is tantamount to breaking into my house, barging into the bathroom while I’m crapping and asking to borrow the magazine I’m reading. I don’t care why you want what you want or when you ate last, Three-Finger Pete. Get the fuck out of my bathroom.)</p>

<p>So for perspective’s sake—and by that I mean, “for the sake of somewhat excusing what a big pussy I’m about to act like”—note for the record that I’d been quietly ignoring a continuous stream of homeless people and short men with anger issues for at least twenty minutes when, apropos of absolutely nothing, I suddenly found a man’s head buried face-first in my dick and balls.</p>

<p>The car hadn't jolted to a sudden stop or anything. There was no logical explanation for it, other than a man had suddenly decided, without including me in the decision-making process, that the best place for his face was nestled, like lettuce on sandwich meat, on top of my groin. My first thought was that one of the crazy homeless guys had tripped while making his begging rounds. Actually, that’s a lie—this was my second thought. My <i>first</i> thought was “Aghhhh Jesus Jesus!”, and my first reaction was to leap up reflexively like my dick was on fire.</p>

<p>As it turned out, what had happened was that the older gentleman two seats down had... fuck, I don’t know, done one of those old people things. I have no idea what happened to the guy. My only experience with something like this isn’t even firsthand; apparently my grandmother did something similar two Thanksgivings ago. She was at the dinner table with everybody else, eating turkey and complaining about how dry it was to everybody, when suddenly something went <b>LINE 298 ERROR</b> in her brain, she spoke a few sentences of utter nonsense and just… turned off. The lights were on, but there was nobody home. I couldn’t make it up for Thanksgiving that year, so I only heard about it afterwards: 911 was called, she was completely unresponsive for about a half hour—then, just as suddenly, the back-up generator flickered to life and she was herself again, complaining about the doctor’s presence and wondering where the fuck her pumpkin pie was. It weirded my family right out, and I mention it only to illustrate that sometimes old people get up to some wacky shenanigans, and all medical science can do is keep them away from sharp cutlery. </p>

<p>Anyway, it looked like this:</p>

<p><b>Figure 3: I Don’t Know What the Deal is With Old People, I Seriously Don’t</b><br />
<center><img src=http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/subway03.gif></center></p>

<p>In case you were getting impatient with the constant anecdotes and asides and started impatiently scrolling down to read the part where I was a huge pussy, this is the part where I was a huge pussy. I leap up from my seat, making a strangled “Gah!” noise and basically freaking out, like I’d woken up to find a huge spider on my face. The old guy, disgorged from my lap and still in freefall, sails downward to the floor of the subway, where his head connects with the base of one of those upright steel poles in the middle of the floor with this extremely nasty, extremely loud, extremely wet <b>K-RRK!</b> noise. Imagine dropping a watermelon down a flight of steps, and it doesn’t split open or anything, but when it hits a step it makes a sound that lets you know it’s probably at least leaking a little now. That was the sound. It was stomach-churningly gross.</p>

<p>I’m standing stock-still, book in one hand, the subway train still moving. About three-quarters of a second has passed, and it dawns on me that I’ve just killed a guy. He’s not moving. Someone shouts “Oh my God!” and then someone else shouts “Oh Jesus God!” while the first person says “Oh my God!” again, but louder. </p>

<p>Then the old guy <i>does</i> start moving, just a little, and groaning. (Hooray! I’m not a murderer!) I immediately start wracking my brain for whatever half-remembered safety tips I might have filed away for situations like this. <i>Wallet under the tongue?</i> I think. <i>No, that’s for epileptic seizures.</i> I remember I’m supposed to not let him go to sleep if he’s suffered a concussion, though this doesn’t seem immediately helpful. </p>

<p>I also suddenly recall a plot point from one of those procedural cop dramas about not moving someone with spinal injuries. They need to lift you up with one of those special paramedic gurneys after your head’s in a brace and you’re all strapped in. Again, not immediately helpful, so I leaf through more mental files. I recall that whenever this happens to someone in the NFL, the medical procedure is to talk very quietly while showing his injury from multiple angles in slow motion. Everyone waits for him to get up on his own and give the crowd a thumbs-up sign, at which point you cheer his bravery and he’s helped off the field. </p>

<p>While I’m thinking all this, in the space of a few seconds, some handsome young guy stands up, walks calmly over to the old man, wrenches him upright, sits the dazed old guy back down in his seat, chucks him on the shoulder, laughs “Hey, we’ve all been there, oldtimer” in a comforting, stage-whispery voice to help the old guy keep his dignity, tousles the grandson’s hair and tells him he's a pretty brave little kid.</p>

<p>That <b>motherfucking jerk.</b> </p>

<p>The handsome young guy smugly walks back to his seat, where he pretends to ignore the quiet admiration of everyone else on the subway car. Elsewhere on the train, five attractive women get down to the business of imagining what the handsome young guy would feel like inside them, drilling them right there in the car. Meanwhile, I’m standing around like a moron, wearing a dumb “woke up with a spider on my face” expression and still internally debating whether I’ll break the old guy’s spine if I move him. (Apparently not.)</p>

<p>Calmly, hoping to save as much face as I can, I put my book down, smooth out my jacket, walk over to the handsome young guy and punch him as many times in the throat as I can before I’m pulled off his quivering, bloody body. (Note: this doesn’t actually happen, I just sit back down.)</p>]]>
    </content>
</entry>
<entry>
    <title>&quot;...And You Can Take That to the LAKE.&quot;</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/2007/03/and_you_can_take_that_to_the_l.php" />
    <link rel="service.edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://blogs.cracked.com/cgi-bin/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=15/entry_id=6250" title="&quot;...And You Can Take &lt;i&gt;That&lt;/i&gt; to the LAKE.&quot;" />
    <id>tag:jaypinkerton.cracked.com,2007://15.6250</id>
    
    <published>2007-03-06T16:56:39Z</published>
    <updated>2007-03-15T15:52:12Z</updated>
    
    <summary></summary>
    <author>
        <name>Jay Pinkerton</name>
        
    </author>
            <category term="Cracked" />
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/">
        <![CDATA[<center><img src="http://cracked.com/jp/holmes02.jpg"></center>

<p><a href="http://www.cracked.com/index.php?name=News&sid=1682" target="_blank">Larry Holmes' GrillMaster XL</a> makes its advertorial debut over at Cracked.com. With acknowledgement to JP.com forum regular Scott Feenstra for the idea, since he actually talks like this in casual conversation.</p>]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>
<entry>
    <title>Two-Fisted Tales of Fisting</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/2007/01/twofisted_tales_of_fisting.php" />
    <link rel="service.edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://blogs.cracked.com/cgi-bin/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=15/entry_id=6160" title="Two-Fisted Tales of Fisting" />
    <id>tag:jaypinkerton.cracked.com,2007://15.6160</id>
    
    <published>2007-01-28T20:30:15Z</published>
    <updated>2007-03-15T15:52:12Z</updated>
    
    <summary></summary>
    <author>
        <name>Jay Pinkerton</name>
        
    </author>
            <category term="Original Comics" />
    
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        <![CDATA[<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/fisting00.jpg"></center>]]>
        <![CDATA[<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/fisting01.jpg"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/fisting02.jpg"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/fisting03.jpg"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/fisting04.jpg"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/fisting05.jpg"></center>]]>
    </content>
</entry>
<entry>
    <title>Tales Written With the Express Intent of Astonishment</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/2007/01/tales_written_with_the_express.php" />
    <link rel="service.edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://blogs.cracked.com/cgi-bin/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=15/entry_id=6154" title="Tales Written With the Express Intent of Astonishment" />
    <id>tag:jaypinkerton.cracked.com,2007://15.6154</id>
    
    <published>2007-01-25T17:07:29Z</published>
    <updated>2007-03-15T15:52:12Z</updated>
    
    <summary></summary>
    <author>
        <name>Jay Pinkerton</name>
        
    </author>
            <category term="Original Comics" />
    
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        <![CDATA[<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/timeapparatus00.jpg"></center>]]>
        <![CDATA[<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/timeapparatus01.gif"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/timeapparatus02.gif"></center><br />
<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/timeapparatus03.gif"></center><br />]]>
    </content>
</entry>
<entry>
    <title>Dogs Are Idiots</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/2007/01/dogs_are_idiots.php" />
    <link rel="service.edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://blogs.cracked.com/cgi-bin/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=15/entry_id=6141" title="Dogs Are Idiots" />
    <id>tag:jaypinkerton.cracked.com,2007://15.6141</id>
    
    <published>2007-01-17T20:25:37Z</published>
    <updated>2007-03-15T15:52:13Z</updated>
    
    <summary></summary>
    <author>
        <name>Jay Pinkerton</name>
        
    </author>
            <category term="Essays" />
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/">
        <![CDATA[<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/retardeddog.jpg"></center>

<p>Whenever I try to leave my apartment, my dog will dart out of the closing door with alarming, Indiana Jonesesque speed. Nine times out of ten I won’t even notice it. I’ll be out in the hallway, fumbling through my pockets in the dark for my keys. (The hallway lights have been out in our building since September—I think our super is either dead or long since escaped to Tijuana with a suitcase full of lightbulbs.) At some point I’ll remember that I keep my keys in my jacket pocket, and have in fact done so for fifteen years. (It’s early, and I’m legally retarded before noon.) I’ll finally get the door locked and turn around, where I’ll find my dog sitting in the middle of the hallway with a pleased, curious look on his face—as if saying “Man, that took you some <I>time</I>, huh? Can we go now?” </p>

<p>My wife, who watched the dog escape when I left, will now be listening from the couch with (evil, small-minded) amusement as I try to re-find my keys in the dark (front jacket pocket again), unlock and open the door, then walk back in, grumbling and calling for the dog—who knows damn well that staying in the hallway equals Walk, and so sits motionless, staring at me like I’m some idiot who likes to stand in doorways shouting “Come!” for no reason.</p>

<p>“He’s so <I>smart</I>,” my wife will say, after my faux-enthusiastic shaking of a rubber dog toy eventually convinces him to pad his furry ass back into the apartment. To my mind, given the battle of wills that’s just taken place, this of course leaves hanging in the air the implied addendum <I>He’s so much smarter than you.</I><br />
 <br />
<img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/walnut.gif" align="right">“He’s not smart,” I’ll say. “He’s <I>fast</I>. Cars are fast. That doesn’t mean they understand algebra.” It’s not, in other words, like the dog has calculated his escape with flowcharts for when I open the front door. He has a brain the size of an under-ripe walnut. More likely he was just thinking <b>OH BOY DOOR WALK GO POOP WALK DOOR OH BOY</b>, his legs moving independently of his brain the second he heard the doorknob turn. </p>

<p>He’s a moron, is what I’m trying to say, because all dogs are morons. Sure, my wife and I enjoy swapping stories with other dog owners about how smart and observant our pets are, but all bullshit aside, of course they aren’t. In the context of pet ownership, having a smart dog means he can sit or poop when you tell him to. When you’re gauging the intelligence of a mammal on its ability to understand that it should walk towards you when you flail your arms and make noises, I’m sorry, but that’s a low-set bar. The buck-toothed Hispanic woman from the Subway near me with the horseshoe-shaped divot in her forehead can sit and poop on command, as well as punch up to five distinct sandwich-themed buttons on a cash register, but I don’t think anyone’s making any convincing arguments that she isn’t as fuck-dumb as a pile of sticks. The difference between the buck-toothed woman and a dog is that we’re disappointed when the woman forgets to shit in the right place, but astounded beyond belief when the dog manages to remember. </p>

<p>Compared to other dogs, sure, our dog is pretty sharp. But whatever. Compared to humans—meaning me—my dog is, I’m sorry, an idiot. I can poop in designated areas as well as he can or better. I’m also able to perform any number of simple tasks that, frankly, soar right over his tiny bullet head—and I don’t mean reading <I>The Iliad</I> or programming my VCR to tape <I>24</I> or what have you. I’m talking about basic survival instincts he should possess as a mammal but doesn’t, like how you shouldn’t decide to eat something based exclusively on the criteria that it’s directly in front of you and not on fire. </p>

<p><br><h6>The Entirety of a Dog’s Thought Process</h6></p>

<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/dogthink.gif"></center>]]>
        <![CDATA[<p>I have no idea what a festering pigeon carcass tastes like, but I can’t imagine “delicious” tops the list. If the only thing stopping my dog from gobbling broken glass or lapping up a puddle of bleach is me reefing like a crazy guy on his leash, I’m curious how dogs have lasted as a species all these millennia when I wasn’t around to yank rat poison, car keys or pinless grenades out of their mouths.</p>

<p>Another example: I stepped on my dog a dozen times yesterday, resulting in a high-pitched “YIP!” sound and a betrayed expression from floor level. It was accidental every time, and I do make an honest effort to feel guilty about it—but at the end of the day, one of us keeps veering into the path of the other before diving headfirst under their descending feet. As the latter person in this scenario, I put forward: seriously, what kind of idiot does this more than once? The first time I put my finger on a hot stove outlet, it resulted in a high-pitched “YIP!” sound and a betrayed expression from me level. The take-away point from this experience wasn’t “Next time I’d better try that with my face.” It was “Pain = Bad.” My dog’s cumulative experience from me stomping on him like a burning oven mitt, on the other hand, seems closer to something like “Pain = Dog Food” or “Pain = I Can See My Reflection in The Mirror, Hooray For Toys”.</p>

<p><br><h6>Me vs. a Dog: Dumb Shit We Did Yesterday</h6></p>

<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/mevsdog.gif"></center>

<p>To summarize, I’m way fucking smarter than a dog. The reason? Unless you do something a thousand times in a row for their benefit, dogs don’t have the capacity for pattern recall. Their inability to remember basic cause-and-effect lessons makes them, as a species, ridiculously easy to outsmart. If I tried distracting my wife with a rubber ball every time she complained that I never listen to her, I realistically couldn’t see it working past the seventh or eighth time. But when the dog annoys me, the rubber ball trick’s worked consistently now for something like three months, with no indication he’ll catch on any time soon. There’s something touching about the naked trust my dog has that when I throw a ball for him to fetch, I’m not suddenly going to leave the apartment and lock the door behind me once he runs after it—and I receive immense satisfaction from abusing this trust on a daily basis without any consequences at all. </p>

<p>Last week I lopped his balls off—not personally, I just took him to a place where someone else did—and the poor little guy trusted me every step of the way to the animal hospital. The only one of us feeling anxious about the future was me, as I’d been quoted a price of $200 over the phone. This struck me as high, since I knew from the research I’d done that most animal shelters would neuter my dog for $75. But the pet store we’d bought him from had given us a deal for a year’s worth of free vet visits (operations not included) if we went to a specific animal hospital for the entire year. Going elsewhere would annul this deal, so $200 now meant free visits for the next six months. </p>

<p>Once I got there with the dog, the receptionist handed me a list of “optional” services I could purchase, including an IV and pain medication for the dog. Under the IV description, the list made a point of explaining that, in the event of a complication during surgery, this option could mean the difference between life and death. Under the description for pain medication, the text stressed that “if YOU were getting neutered, wouldn’t YOU want pain medication?” Never mind that if I was getting neutered, I wouldn’t want pain medication so much as a pistol, six bullets and five surgeons. But come on. Since when are IV stands and medication considered <I>optional</I> for surgery? I’m surprised they didn’t try to rent me the pillow or charge me extra for the scalpels.</p>

<p>Since the list was phrased in such a way that refusing any of the not-really-optional “optional” perks inferred you’d be about to wave your dog off to a painful, drawn-out death, the price tag for the operation was now up to $300. So imagine my dubious look when the pet surgeon introduced herself to me soon after, then asked me if I’d be purchasing a pet ID microchip for an additional $50 that would be implanted in my dog during surgery.</p>

<p>“I’m not sure I understand,” I said, although in fact I did understand: my bill was now $350 and climbing steadily with no end in sight. “If I lose the dog, this will find the dog?” I asked, looking behind the kiosk for radar equipment.</p>

<p>“No, not exactly,” she said.</p>

<p>“Because we live in New York City,” I clarified. “It’s bumper-to-bumper traffic outside of our apartment all day and night. If our dog escapes, he’s dead in five minutes. I’m not sure if it’s worth $50 to help find his corpse.”</p>

<p>Apparently this little piece of logic came off a little coldhearted, if the looks of shock and horror on everyone around me were any indication. I might have imagined it, but I think the surgeon, who was holding my dog, tightened her grip a little.</p>

<p>“No, it’s if your dog goes to an animal shelter,” she explained. In my mind, I imagined someone from the shelter taking dogs out of a box and running them over one of those check-out counter lasers like at the supermarket. It all struck me as ludicrous, but realizing that I’d already come off a bit troll-like, and aware that the unfairness of life dictated that I’d probably need this thing some day <u>only</u> if I decided not to get it now, I agreed to the microchip. After this I kept glancing at the door, waiting for another in a series of dog specialists to come in and coax money out of me for another twelve optional choices that my dog would die during surgery without. But apparently I’d reached the cap-off point, and managed to walk out of the place minus $350 and a pair of dog testicles.</p>

<p>The whole affair was incredibly depressing, in the end. At no point did my dog really understand what was happening, what he’d lost or my involvement in the transaction. As a proud owner of my own pair of testicles, part of me <I>wanted</I> him to be angry at me—to cast me immeasurably betrayed looks for robbing him of his manhood, to look down at his poor shriveled little nutsack, then stare me in the eyes as if to say, “I know what you’ve done, and frankly, sir, you should be ashamed of yourself.” </p>

<p>But nothing like that happened. He jumped around beforehand, thinking we were going for a walk. He had no idea I was leaving him at the vet until I actually left. He was oblivious to what was coming next when they put him under. Afterwards, snoozing on the couch with his swollen crotch, he never connected me to the pain. He was just happy to be home and snoozing on the couch. I’m not sure how I expected it would play out—possibly with him getting drunk and taking a swing at me—so the fact that he doesn't blame me for, or is even remotely aware of, his own castration means I don’t have any option but to shoulder the guilt for it until one of us dies.</p>

<p>Maybe he’s not as stupid as he looks.</p>]]>
    </content>
</entry>
<entry>
    <title>Shameless Hype #3</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/2006/12/shameless_hype_3.php" />
    <link rel="service.edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://blogs.cracked.com/cgi-bin/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=15/entry_id=6072" title="Shameless Hype #3" />
    <id>tag:jaypinkerton.cracked.com,2006://15.6072</id>
    
    <published>2006-12-15T21:30:57Z</published>
    <updated>2007-03-15T15:52:13Z</updated>
    
    <summary></summary>
    <author>
        <name>Jay Pinkerton</name>
        
    </author>
            <category term="Cracked" />
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/">
        <![CDATA[<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/iss3/cover.jpg"></center>

<p>Hot on the heels of Shameless Hype #2 is Shameless Hype #3, detailing my involvement with Cracked #3, which hits newsstands officially next week (though it looks like most of the comic book stores are already stocking it). This officially catches me up on my self-congratulatory navel-gazing until Issue #4 in two months. What will I do in the meantime? Rape things, maybe. I don't know. Maybe I'll knit a pair of socks. </p>

<p>Click below for the Issue #3 rundown. As before, if you're not interested, no hard feelings. Actual updates on their way.</p>]]>
        <![CDATA[<h6>Stuff I wrote for this issue</h6>

<ul>
<li><b>Pg. 1:</b> "Stealing Money From Old People" ad</li>

<p><li><b>Pg. 9:</b> "Larry Holmes GrillMaster X-L" fake ad<br />
Our Art Director is extremely talented and a bit of a perfectionist, so I think I shorted something out in her brain when I submitted the script for this and specifically asked that she make the ad look awful. "Like an ad in Reader's Digest," I suggested. I think it came out looking awful (i.e. great). I love Larry Holmes' slow descent into unintelligible nonsense, and the phrase "You can take that to the LAKE" got tossed around the office quite a bit.  </li></p>

<p><br><center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/iss3/grill.jpg"></center><br></p>

<p><li><b>Pg. 10:</b> Cracked Photo All-Stars comic; about half of the Rachel Ray quotes<br />
Writing the Stock-Photo All-Stars comics has quickly become one of my favorite parts of the job. My personal favorite doesn't show up until Issue #4, but there ain't nothing wrong with a little melon farming jocularity.</p>

<p>The Rachel Ray one was just something getting passed around the office that I contributed to. Mine are #1, #4, #5, #6 and #7.</li></p>

<p><li><b>Pg. 11:</b> "Resolution Reality Check"<br />
Not much to say about this one, other than it's based more on my actual life than anything else in the magazine. I always tend to get myself roped into Herculean self-improvement plans this time of year, and I invariably backslide around February. As a side note, I invite you to try "No thanks, I don't need a Scotch. I brought some in a Thermos" sometime. It's a pain in the ass to carry around the Thermos prop all the time, but well worth it on the off-chance someone asks you if you'd like some Scotch.</li></p>

<p><li><b>Pg. 12:</b> "CelebScoop"<br />
At the time of its writing (two months ago), the idea of an actor promoting racism seemed like a crazy-hilarious idea. Post-Michael Richards, of course, the punchline comes off a bit tame. All the same, I have to admit I'd be at least a little curious to watch a show calling itself the 2006 Racism Awards.</li></p>

<p><li><b>Pg. 13:</b> "Celebrity Intervention: Jon Heder"<br />
I seem to always get lumped with the Celebrity Interventions (see <a href="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/2006/12/post_1.php">Shameless Hype #2</a> for more of my inability to avoid eye contact at meetings), but I actually thought this one turned out pretty well. I enjoy the sandwich metaphor, anyway. The bit about picking up runaways on the subway used to be a lot more graphic, perhaps excessively so, but was wisely edited out by reasonable men.</li></p>

<p><li><b>Pg. 23:</b> "Maddox's The Big Rant" (photoshops)<br />
Maddox had supplied his own photoshops for this, but we hadn't paid for the images, so I had to redo them from scratch. I had a fun time shopping the lettuce one. Look at him mash that shit in there.</li></p>

<p><li><b>Pg. 30:</b> "So You've Regained Consciousness" (writing/photoshops)<br />
<img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/iss3/regained.jpg" align="right">A letter from me to the person I've just hit with my car, attempting to buy them off with expired Hamburger Helper if they don't go to the cops.</p>

<p>This marks the last article appearing in Cracked Magazine that has previously appeared on my site. As of Issue #4, I'd officially run out of backlog I could sell off as new stuff ("It's new-<i>ish</i>") and was forced to, <i>gasp</i>, come up with original material. So in Issue #4, there's an original article about St. Patrick's Day that I wrote, much in the style of "My Vagina, The Prison" or "How To Buy a Mexican Child for 300 Pesos." I love writing these for the sole reason that the narrator's always such an oblivious asshole. Coming up with new ways for him to be cruel to people for no reason is the highlight of my daydreams on the subway ride into work.</p>

<p>Photoshopped picture also by me. That I was able to find a picture of a guy actually pumping his fist into the air while driving is no less than an act of providence.<br />
</li></p>

<p><li><b>Pgs. 36-37:</b> "Super Bowl Primer"<br />
I believe I had to punch up some of this article, though if you strapped me to a lie detector, I doubt I could recall what I added. (I do distinctly remember adding a "the" in paragraph five, though. Watch out for it!) This was a big "group-write" article that went through many many drafts, and is discussed by one of the authors, Jake Bell, in his <a href="http://yeoldecomicblogge.blogspot.com/2006/12/published.html" target="_blank">blog.</a> (I know, I tend to commission work by comic bloggers a lot. What can I say? I read a lot of comic blogs.)</li></p>

<p><li><b>Pgs. 50-52:</b> "Fastman: Rogues Gallery" (co-written with Peter Lynn)<br />
Credit where it's due: Pete Lynn actually wrote most of this, from the idea of the rogues gallery to all the backstories; my major contribution was to take his story outline and try to cram it down to three pages of story and add a few throwaway gags into the dialogue here and there.</p>

<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/iss3/fastman2.jpg"></center>

<p>One of the jokes here might have suffered a bit from being a bit too regional, I later discovered. Growing up in Canada, the "Face Wash" was as famous a torture technique as a Wet Willy or a Titty Twister. Essentially, you sit on someone's back and scoop snow into their face, and laugh like a cock. Apparently it's unknown here in the States, as I got nothing but blank stares from the reference. "Why is Fastman washing that guy's face?" </li></p>

<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/iss3/facewash.jpg"></center>

<p><li><b>Pg. 53-57:</b> <i>New Yorker</i> parody<br />
I'm sure I contributed something to this. I had to edit a lot of it, anyway. I know I wrote the fake ads, at least. I was particularly proud of Iain Sinclair's Ribbed Condoms. </p>

<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/iss3/sinclair.jpg"></center>

<p>"Great for sex," assures Sinclair.</li></p>

<p><li><b>Back Cover:</b> "Exposing Yourself at Burger King" ad<br />
That's two Burger King references in one magazine. Jesus, Pinkerton, get it together.</li><br />
</ul></p>

<h6>Pieces I commissioned</h6>

<p><b>Kupperman Komiks, Michael Kupperman</b><br />
See <a href="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/2006/12/post_1.php">Shameless Hype #2</a> for my thoughts on Michael Kupperman.</p>

<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/iss3/drunkio.gif"></center>

<p><b>"New Sex Foods", Maddox</b><br />
See <a href="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/2006/12/post_1.php">Shameless Hype #2</a> for my thoughts on Maddox.</p>

<p><b>"Marketing Consultant For The Homeless", Sir John Hargrave</b><br />
John Hargrave, who runs the website zug.com, was one of those guys that proves how vastly big a place the web can be; he'd been doing professional-level pranks for years, had gotten linked all over the place, was the subject of interviews and articles, and had a book out, and I'd never heard of him. Only after I'd commissioned a piece from him and met the guy did I actually sit down and read his book, <i>Prank the Monkey</i>. It was incredibly smart and funny. "Holy shit, this guy's amazing," I thought. "How could I never have heard of him before?" Because the net's a big place. And because I'm an antisocial, self-absorbed little troll.</p>

<p>His piece, "Marketing Consultant For The Homeless", ended up being hysterical. Dude actually got dressed up in a suit and went out badgering homeless people, trying to get them to expand their homeless earning power. He even made a Powerpoint presentation. It was absolutely brilliant.</p>

<p><b>"Unintentional Comedies," Michael J. Nelson</b><br />
See <a href="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/2006/12/post_1.php">Shameless Hype #2</a> for my thoughts on Mike Nelson.</p>

<p><b>"Laugh Audit: Romantic Comedies", Chris Sims</b><br />
See <a href="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/2006/12/post_1.php">Shameless Hype #2</a> for my thoughts on Chris Sims.</p>

<p><b>"White Face, Red Nose", Peter Lynn</b><br />
I'll let Pete <a href="http://manvsclown.cracked.com/2006/12/cracked_3_is_now_available.php" target="_blank">tell you about this one</a>.</p>

<p><b>"More Information Than You Require: Interview with John Hodgman," Max Burbank</b><br />
Max Burbank is/was one of the writers over at Roger Barr's I-Mockery.com, and I'd worked with them both a few times while at National Lampoon. Max contacted me about a potential interview he thought he could get with John Hodgman, the frequent <i>Daily Show</i> correspondent, "PC" in the Mac/PC ads and writer of the funny almanac spoof <i>The Areas of My Expertise</i>. I'm always more of a fan of humorists (i.e. writers) than comedians (i.e. stand-up comics) anyway, so it was nice to get an interview with someone who's more comfortable in front of a word processor than a microphone.</p>

<p><br />
<h6>Final Thoughts</h6></p>

<p>Working for a magazine like Cracked starts to feel a bit like a reality TV show after a while—you're a contestant trying to get as much of the stuff you've either written or commissioned into the mag, while competing with other editors who are trying to do the exact same thing. Because comedy's so subjective, this sort of creative tug-of-war ultimately makes the magazine a lot better, since there's probably a lot of stuff you find hilarious that I wouldn't, and vice versa. The more people contributing, the more varied it becomes.</p>

<p>The downside of this, though, is that there are always one or two things that make it into the magazine that I <i>just didn't think were funny</i>, either because I felt they were too pandering, or too "easy," or too lowbrow (I'm a bit of a comedy snob). Then they get the biggest response of anything else in the magazine, and I hate humanity just that much more. </p>

<p>Issue #3, for me, had the highest ratio to date of shit I either loved or really liked over stuff that I thought was lacking. Leafing through it now, it's just really strong. It feels like we started to hit our stride a little, and I liked the fact that we got adventurous with some higher-brow comedy (like our <i>New Yorker</i> parody) that might not be the most popular thing in the issue, but damn it, it was funny and smart. John Hargrave's "Homeless Marketing Consultant" is probably the funniest infiltration we've done yet; I liked being able to get Fastman in for another story (even if he does only have a walk-on appearance in it); Michael Ian Black's got a hilarious essay in there; Neal Pollack has an extremely cutting spoof column of the <i>New Yorker's</i> David Remnick. There's just a lot of stuff in here I enjoy an awful lot. </p>]]>
    </content>
</entry>
<entry>
    <title>Shameless Hype #2</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/2006/12/post_1.php" />
    <link rel="service.edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://blogs.cracked.com/cgi-bin/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=15/entry_id=6071" title="Shameless Hype #2" />
    <id>tag:jaypinkerton.cracked.com,2006://15.6071</id>
    
    <published>2006-12-15T16:25:57Z</published>
    <updated>2007-03-15T15:52:13Z</updated>
    
    <summary></summary>
    <author>
        <name>Jay Pinkerton</name>
        
    </author>
            <category term="Cracked" />
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/">
        <![CDATA[<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/iss2/cover.jpg"></center>

<p>A few months back, I posted an update aptly titled "<a href="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/2006/08/post.php">Shameless Hype</a>", where I walked through the first issue of Cracked Magazine explaining what I did and how it came about. Surprisingly, I've gotten a lot of email from people who wondered why I didn't do the same thing for Issue #2. Honestly? I just got busy and forgot.</p>

<p>So here's my behind-the-scenes, <i>DVD special feature</i>-style breakdown of Cracked #2. Those of you who never bought Issue #2 and couldn't care less about what I wrote in it, please skip this entry entirely, confident in the knowledge that I won't hold it against you.</p>]]>
        <![CDATA[<h6>Stuff I wrote for this issue</h6>

<ul>
<li><b>Pg. 1:</b> "Making Babies Cry" ad</li>

<p><li><b>Pg. 7:</b> "Do It All Over Again" ad</li></p>

<p><li><b>Pg. 12:</b> CelebScoop<br />
<img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/iss2/celebscoop.jpg" align="right">CelebScoop's one of the bits I brought along with me from my NewsSkim writing days at <a href="http://www.pointlesswasteoftime.com" target="_blank">Pointless Waste of Time</a>—a single-page <i>Us Weekly</i> spoof that essentially serves as a fun excuse to make up incredibly slanderous lies about celebrities. I hate to start things off here on a low note, since there's a lot of great stuff in Issue #2 I'd like to talk about, but for the record (I guess I can say this now), I was really unhappy with the way CelebScoop turned out in Issue #1. </p>

<p>The fault's mine: I'd written about twice as much copy as I should have, forcing me and the rest of the staff to edit the jokes down at the eleventh hour on the laid-out page. Now, writing a 30-word joke isn't that difficult; cutting a 100-word joke <i>down</i> to 30 and still having it make <b>any kind of fucking sense</b> requires a skill I freely admit I do not possess. Having to trim down copy under a tight time frame is a recipe for "Whoops, where'd the joke go?" moments.  Here's one of the original bits, to give you an idea:</p>

<p><i><b>SUPER-SCOOP!<br />
We’re All Going to Die!</b><br />
The largest ice shelf in the Arctic is now melting, according to top scientists in actual lab coats! "On a cosmic scale, the human race is little more than a blip," explains Oxford geologist Bill Cunningham. "A stray meteorite, environmental collapse, over-population and even a devastating virus are all very real concerns. To ensure our survival we absolutely must, within the next five years, put into place a…”</p>

<p>Blah blah blah, Bill! The only danger we’re in is of you boring us to death! Here’s an exclusive pic of CHLOE SEVIGNY in something we like to call FASHION DON’TS!</i><br />
 <br />
Okay—so admittedly, it's not a <i>great</i> joke. The world's going to end and all the celeb rags care about is what Chloe Sevigny's wearing, ho ho. Here's what ended up in the first issue:</p>

<p><i><b>We're All Going To Die!</b><br />
Global warming is causing ice caps to melt and blah blah blah! The only danger we're in is of being BORED to death! Here's DENISE RICHARDS in something we like to call a "FASHION DON'T!"</i></p>

<p>Notice anything missing? If you guessed "The joke," give yourself a big pat on the back. Since then, I've learned a valuable, valuable lesson about not writing the CelebScoop section too long. I think Issue #2's  is a <b>lot</b> better.</li></p>

<p><li><b>Pg. 13:</b> "Will Work For Food: AC Slater" (photoshop); "Celebrity Intervention: Adam Sandler" (writing)<br />
I was never a big fan of <i>Saved By The Bell</i>—the show always struck me as the sort of thing you might put on a loop at a cancer ward so people don't feel as bad about dying.  I was pretty proud of my photoshop skillz here (the <i>Variety</i> headline reads: "Mark-Paul Gosselaar Signs $20M Deal"). AC's hands still bug me, though—the original photo was of a homeless dude in his late-50s. I offer no explanation for why Slater's hands have been ravaged by time, leaving his face a boyish, dim-looking 25:</p>

<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/iss2/acslater.jpg"></center>

<p>As for the intervention: for the record, I don't actually feel that Adam Sandler's constant employment of his C-level comedian friends is a scandal meriting righteous outrage. But, you know, it's a magazine. A piece about Adam Sandler needed to be written. I was unlucky enough to make eye contact right when my boss said "Who wants to write this?" at a meeting. Doodly-doodly-doot, I'm writing a piece about Adam Sandler. Tell me you haven't gotten yourself in this position at your job occasionally. However, the piece did allow me to use the phrase "clenching out turds like <i>The Longest Yard</i>," and since it's one of the worst films I've ever seen, it all worked out in the end.</li></p>

<p><li><b>Pg. 16:</b> "Souldering Pistol: Jonathan Frakes MySpace page"<br />
<img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/iss2/frakes.jpg" align="right">Co-written with Sean Crespo about a year ago, when I'd first moved to New York City. The piece was labeled "evergreen"—meaning that, unless Frakes died or had his face ripped off by monkeys or something, it could pretty much go to press any time at all and have the same result. It got bumped from Issue #1 for something more timely (a Paris Hilton sex contract, I believe), but I kept annoying everyone about it until it resurfaced in Issue #2. What can I say? I think it's pretty funny.  Something about imagining Jonathan Frakes living an existence this pathetic makes me laugh in a way that could only bring him misery and pain if he heard it. I am a <b>small man</b>.</li></p>

<p><li><b>Pgs. 20-21:</b> "A Letter of Apology" <br />
A mock-letter I wrote last year about a guy apologizing to parents after an all-hamster production of <i>Hamlet</i> he put on at a public library resulted in casualties and a firefight with the police. </p>

<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/iss2/hamster.jpg"></center>

<p>I wasn't the biggest fan of the Photoshop work on this, but to be fair, I remember the poor guy who did it was swamped with about a million other things for the magazine. This was one of the last he got to. It's alright, I suppose. I've never really been happy with the slapped-on look of the POLICE logos on the cars, but I freely admit it's the sort of detail nobody else is going to give a shit about. Plus, in the artist's defense, the skull-holding hamster he came up with is kick-ass.</li></p>

<p><li><b>Pg. 39:</b>"The Freemason Lodge" (photoshop)<br />
<img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/iss2/freemasons.jpg" align="right">I volunteered to do the psychedelic Freemasons photo collage, on the grounds that those photo collage things you always see in magazines look like they were thrown together in like ten minutes. How hard could it be? </p>

<p>Harder than you'd think, it turns out. Anyway, it is what it is. You can sort of <i>just</i> make out a horned devil figure superimposed over the old white guy in the center. If I'd had more time to dick around with it, I probably would have made that stand out more.</li></p>

<p><li><b>Pgs. 44-46:</b> "Christmas Around the World"<br />
Another piece co-written by me and Sean Crespo, essentially mocking other cultures for daring to have holiday traditions slightly different from ours. The article blatantly skips over the most obvious counter-argument—that our Christmas traditions are just as senselessly insane as anything Brazil could come up with—but I think that's part of its charm. Any article that ends with an all-caps "USA! USA! USA!" is probably requesting that you don't take it too seriously.</li></p>

<p><li><b>Pg. 81:</b> "Kids Love It!" ad</li><br />
</ul></p>

<h6>Pieces I commissioned</h6>

<p><b>"The Four Most Simultaneously Awesome and Shitacular Gifts to Give This Christmas," Maddox</b><br />
<img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/iss2/maddox.jpg" align="right">George "Maddox" Ouzounian is about as nice a guy as they come, and pretty much the antithesis of his online persona. It was a real pleasure getting him for the magazine, for two reasons. First: I've always thought his hilarious "<a href="http://www.thebestpageintheuniverse.net/c.cgi?u=cam_whore" target="_blank">How to become an obnoxious internet cam whore in five easy steps</a>" was right on the money, and his book, Maddox's <i>Alphabet of Manliness</i> was the sort of filthy, funny guy-humor book CollegeHumor <i>should</i> have put out. </p>

<p>Second: he told me he really liked my website, and I always go all girl-crushy when established net humorists lavish praise on me. (To this day, getting a nice email from Erik "Old Man Murray" Wolpaw telling me he and his co-workers still use the "Why don't you find a cure for me fucking your mom in the ass!" catchphrase from my Superman parody ranks up there with the nicest all-time compliments I've ever gotten.) </p>

<p>George is just about the nicest, down-to-Earth guy you could ever meet, full of helpful advice and self-deprecating wit. It was great to get him for the mag.</p>

<p><b>"My Life of Failure", Michael Kupperman</b><br />
I first got turned on to Michael Kupperman through the JP.com forum, where a few guys were just <i>lavishing</i> praise on this comic called <i>Tales Designed To Thrizzle</i> by Michael Kupperman. I was sufficiently intrigued to hunt it out the next time I visited my local comics store, and holy shit, it is <b>hilarious</b>. I don't think I've ever laughed so hard, so often, in years. My favorite bits from <i>Thrizzle</i> were these ridiculous one-page ads, done in the mock-style of advertisements from old comics, so I located Kupperman and asked if he could whip a few of them up for us (they've so far appeared in Issues #1, #3 and I believe the upcoming Issue #4).  </p>

<p>While commissioning the faux-ads, Kupperman asked me if I'd be interested in some of his written work. Unaware he even did non-comics-based comedy, I said sure, and he sent over a hilarious, surreally meta piece called "My Life of Failure," a mock-review of a non-existent biography about a fictional film director who, by his own admission, makes the worst films of all time. The dumb-as-shit film titles end up making the piece: my personal favorites are the swinging sex comedy <i>Swingers Love Doing It</i> and the crime caper <i>Murder Irritates My Sinuses</i>.</p>

<p><b>"The Freemason Lodge", Harmon Leon</b><br />
I've been a fan of Harmon Leon ever since I read a piece of his called <i><a href="http://www.thewavemag.com/printarticle.php?articleid=24594" target="_blank">Blind Date, Leiderhosen and Me</a></i>, where he manages to get on the show <i>Blind Date</i> and thoroughly embarrasses both the show and himself in the name of comedy. I'd bought pieces off him during my time at the National Lampoon, and when I found out that Cracked wanted to do regular features called "Infiltrations"—where the writer disguises himself and causes trouble somewhere incognito—I knew Harmon would be perfect for it. </p>

<p>I remember this piece was originally called "The Freemason Code" until I realized I had two articles with the same damn word in the title (see "The DiCaprio Code", below). Cue one frantic, last-minute search through thesaurus.com for substitutes.</p>

<p><b>"The DiCaprio Code", Justin Skinner</b><br />
<img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/iss2/dicaprio.jpg" align="right">Justin Skinner is an old college friend who worked on a campus comedy paper called <i>Golden Words</i> with me. He was a few years older than me, and so served as a bit of a comedy mentor during those first few fumbling years when I was still learning how to write humor articles. He remains a good friend, and he's always been a reliable go-to for me, whether at Cracked or the National Lampoon or for my now-defunct trailer review website, <i>The Trailer Trash</i>, when I need a few pages of good comedy fast. </p>

<p>In this case, we realized we had a lot of sports, pop culture and political comedy in the issue, but not a lot of relationship stuff. I emailed Justin with the extremely vague task of coming up with something "relationshippy" for me, and he returned with this two days later. It was a pretty funny article about what your girlfriend's celebrity crush says about her and, more importantly, you. Justin Skinner: no-nonsense professional, ladies and gentleman.</p>

<p><b>"Snob Comedies", Michael J. Nelson</b><br />
I've written so many love letters to <i>Mystery Science Theater's</i> Michael J. Nelson in the forum by now, anything I say here would be redundant, but: Michael J. Nelson is one of the funniest people alive. I love his books, I love his work on MST3K, and I'll buy pretty much anything he puts out there for me to purchase. Getting him to write for the magazine was about as awesome as it gets.</p>

<p><b>"Laugh Audit", Chris Sims</b><br />
Chris Sims writes the incredibly funny <i><a href="http://the-isb.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Chris's Invincible Super-Blog</a></i>, a comic book blog that, when I first started reading it, was something of an underground word-of-mouth site. His considerable comedic talent has since gotten noticed, earning him mentions on TV shows and freelance gigs with other media, so I'm just happy I got in on the ground floor.</p>

<p><br />
<h6>Fond Remembrances</h6></p>

<p>A lot of good comedy articles were already purchased and banked long before I took a job at Cracked, and Cracked #2 was the issue where, as I recall, we managed to use up the last of them. So there's not as much of my handiwork here as there would be in future issues, and consequently, not as many memories of putting it together. Still, looking through it now, it's a pretty strong issue. There's a lot to like here.</p>

<p>One thing I do remember about Issue #2 were the repeated discussions of which issue should be our Holiday Issue. See, Cracked is a bi-monthly, meaning that any given issue stays on stands for two months. Issue #2 hit stands in mid-October and has stuck around until mid-December, so it's just now, as I write this, being replaced on the racks by Issue #3. </p>

<p>This meant that if we saved the Holiday Issue until #3, it'd hit stands right in time for Christmas—but then linger on until mid-fucking-February, long past when anyone would give a crap about Santa Claus and eggnog. Conversely, by making Issue #2 our Holiday Issue, we managed to be on stands with it throughout November and December—but also through <i>half of October,</i> which, seriously, come on, is a bit early for a magazine with jokes about Christmas. It was a real "damned if you do, damned if you don't" puzzle. We ended up going with Issue #2, which we felt was the lesser of two evils.</p>

<p>Whew! Okay, that's it. Issue #3 hits stands this week, so watch out for Shameless Hype #3. Thanks for reading.</p>

<p>Jay</p>]]>
    </content>
</entry>
<entry>
    <title>No, I&apos;m Not Dead</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/2006/12/no_im_not_dead.php" />
    <link rel="service.edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://blogs.cracked.com/cgi-bin/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=15/entry_id=6058" title="No, I'm Not Dead" />
    <id>tag:jaypinkerton.cracked.com,2006://15.6058</id>
    
    <published>2006-12-11T21:23:57Z</published>
    <updated>2007-03-15T15:52:13Z</updated>
    
    <summary></summary>
    <author>
        <name>Jay Pinkerton</name>
        
    </author>
            <category term="2006" />
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/">
        <![CDATA[<p>I've gotten a lot of emails recently wondering if I'd died or was otherwise incapacitated grieviously. I suppose it's a reasonable enough conclusion, given that I haven't posted anything new and have barely visited my own forum in weeks and weeks and weeks. Below, then: what I've been doing instead of updating the website.</p>

<p><br><h6>We Bought a Dog</h6></p>

<p><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/notdead01.jpg" align="right">We recently brought home a four-month-old rat terrier named Orwell. We chose him at the pet store because, unlike the other dogs we looked at who ran all over the place in a flurry of barking and sprayed urine, he was ridiculously mellowed out. <i>Surely this dog will be the perfect addition to our alcohol-basted, low-energy lifestyle,</i> we thought. </p>

<p>We were played like chumps, of course—having settled into our home for over a month now, Orwell has abandoned his relaxed facade in a manner similar to a cackling '30s villain removing his false moustache and hat; and has revealed himself to be a biting, sprinting, barking little poop factory. I'd had no idea, but caring for a puppy is terrifyingly similar to looking after a baby, the only differences being the amount of fur and length of prison time if, after having found a ripped-up pile of your favorite comic books scattered around the bedroom, you logically decide to drown it.</p>

<p>The Jay Pinkerton with time to spare in the mornings and evenings is gone, in other words, at least until the little dude grows up into a dog and learns how to entertain himself for five goddamn minutes without destroying something valuable or getting his head caught in a closet door. My free time can now be broken down into the following categories:</p>

<ul><li>Taking the puppy for walks;</li>
<li>Training the puppy not to shit all over the place;</li>
<li>Cleaning up vast, mountainous piles of shit when he, with willful defiance, shits all over the place anyway;</li>
<li>Telling the puppy "No bites" when he bites me;</li>
<li>When this fails, simply ignoring the puppy when he bites again;</li>
<li>When this also fails, entertaining the idea of simply hiding the puppy in the freezer until Karla gets home;</li>
<li>Idly wondering how the ungodly hell a small handful of kibble can somehow become eight pounds of wet, creamy fecal waste in less than three hours. (I suspect he must be eating shit when I'm not looking.)</li></ul>

<p><br><h6>Travelling</h6></p>

<p><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/notdead02.jpg" align="right">We flew up to Kingston, Ontario for Canadian Thanksgiving with my parents, then over to Indianapolis for American Thanksgiving with Karla's mom. I'm sure there are some webmasters who can fly off for a few days without it interrupting their update schedule. I am not one of those people. </p>

<p>In all honesty, I can barely maintain a regular posting schedule in the absence of any interruptions. Relatively minor lifestyle adjustments like losing the can opener or setting the clocks back an hour can transform my life into a bleak, chaotic wasteland that takes weeks to crawl out of. Given that a trip to Indianapolis has the raw potential to destroy a healthy, organized mind, I didn't honestly stand a chance.</p>

<p><br><h6>My Day Job</h6></p>

<p><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/notdead03.jpg" align="right">Back when I wasn't writing comedy for a living, I'd come home from work bursting with creative energy. There's nothing quite like spending a day writing business proposals outlining the consumer benefits of value-added technologies to make you want to let your hair down and make fun of the Bible or put raunchy dialogue in Spider-Man's mouth. Now that I'm at Cracked Magazine, though, I'm pretty much writing, editing, commissioning and designing Photoshop work for humor articles all day. When I get home from work, I don't even want to <i>think</i> about jokes.</p>

<p>Worse, the sheer number of submissions I read every day tends to sour you a little on comedy writing. Namely, you start to read the same articles over and over and over and over again. If I see one more fucking guide about how hilarious ninjas or pirates are, I'm going to lose it and pull someone's dick off with my bare hands. As you can probably imagine, it tends to damper one's incentive to sit down and write something funny about, say, Michael Richards, or the latest James Bond movie, when you've spent the day reading 30 articles apiece about them.</p>

<p><br><h6>JayPinkerton.com is Five Years Old</h6></p>

<p><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/notdead04.jpg" align="right">I can't believe it either. I know some people who've happily crawled into their blogs like a second womb, recording every aspect of their existence for future generations to pore over (they won't, of course, but isn't it nice to think they would?). Personally, I've just gotten a bit tired of it lately. Have you ever hit that horrible, depressing point where you realize you've spent the majority of every day for the better part of a decade staring at a computer screen? I look back on my 20s and realize I spent every weekday in front of a computer at work; every night at the computer writing comedy; and every weekend at the computer, playing video games, surfing the internet and writing more comedy. This isn't to say I'm becoming a Luddite; simply that I've learned the benefit of unplugging the computer for a bit on weekends to enjoy the finer things in life. Watching DVDs, for instance.</p>

<p>Anyway, with 2007 rolling around, I'm at a point where I'd like to try something a little more ambitious. I'd like to produce a comic book, or try writing an actual novel. Of course I'll continue to update the site, if only to keep enough of you around long enough to try out something a bit longer. Truth be told, I really just need to kick my ass to get back in the writing groove. </p>

<p>So that's the deal, folks. Sorry I haven't posted in so long, and thanks for checking in occasionally to see if there's anything new. Hopefully I'll be back with regular updates soon enough, and by this time next year, I'll maybe even have tried out something a bit more ambitious for you to look at. (It'd be nice to turn Back of the Bible into a full-length book, for instance.)</p>

<p>Oh, I've been getting a lot of email about posting another one of those "What I Did In the Latest Issue of Cracked," like I did for Issue #1. So I'll post that tomorrow.</p>

<p>Jay</p>]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>
<entry>
    <title>Why I Am Not Allowed To Shop By Myself</title>
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    <link rel="service.edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://blogs.cracked.com/cgi-bin/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=15/entry_id=5973" title="Why I Am Not Allowed To Shop By Myself" />
    <id>tag:jaypinkerton.cracked.com,2006://15.5973</id>
    
    <published>2006-10-29T19:30:16Z</published>
    <updated>2007-03-15T15:52:13Z</updated>
    
    <summary></summary>
    <author>
        <name>Jay Pinkerton</name>
        
    </author>
            <category term="2006" />
    
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        <![CDATA[<center><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/wallet.jpg"></center>

<p>The wife and I got paid recently, and—since the Los Angeles government has <a href="http://jaypinkerton.cracked.com/phpBB/viewtopic.php?t=2757">yet to incarcerate me for tax fraud</a>—we spent the weekend stocking the larder. I admit it: I’m a commerce whore and love spending money. Whenever I have a legitimate excuse to go out and burn through some cash, it is, I assure you, like Christmas morning in my pants. </p>

<p>I don’t necessarily <i>care</i> what it is I’m buying—ten pounds of couch wax, flammable candlesticks, a karaoke deep fryer, I honestly don’t give a damn. What’s important is that I have <b>bought something</b>. I have placed money on a table and, as a result, now hold in my hands a big, beautiful, expensive-looking <i>thing</i> (preferably covered in buttons, fully collapsible and featuring a digital display of some kind). It is shiny and glorious, and I don’t honestly care what it does, if it even does anything, because the lights dim when I plug it in. It is mine, and you are never allowed to use it.</p>

<p>Keeping that in mind, I hope you can imagine my unbridled, pigtailed-girl-skipping glee when we headed over to our local Costco yesterday. In a momentary flirtation with insanity, Karla let me load up a shopping cart (until it made a satisfying SKREEE noise) with as much barely useful shit that would reasonably fit into our apartment. Christmas morning, I’m telling you. Christmas morning in my pants.</p>

<p>Having lugged all this crap home, we’ve since discovered that we might have miscalculated the available storage space in our small New York apartment. Finding room for eight drums of black olives, for instance, has meant having to completely re-organize the kitchen shelves. (We now have room for a plate and two cups.) A tankard of shampoo the size and weight of a guitar case now stands upright in the bathtub. I don’t mind sharing the real estate but live in perpetual fear of it collapsing on me while I’m showering, pinning me naked under its weight while I’m pelted with hot water, my only option being to shampoo my hair until the fire department arrives. Because I usually order cheesesticks when we’re out at the local pub, we’re now the proud owners of two mammoth boxes full of the damn things. They take up fully half of the available space in our freezer, and will likely mean having to incorporate cheesesticks into every meal I’ll cook this month in an effort to free up room. The next time you’re in New York, drop by for some double-decker cheesestick sandwiches with a side of cheesestick-stuffed cheesesticks, as well as a drink I’ve invented called Puréed Brownish-Orange Surprise. (The secret ingredient dies with me.)</p>

<p>In short, as inexpensive as Costco is, it deals out harsh and brutal lessons in owning too much of a good thing. There are some items that you simply can’t justify purchasing in bulk, regardless of the savings. It is a lesson Karla’s managed to learn with disarming speed, but for some reason continues to elude my grasp. For this reason, I usually keep my credit cards in a sealed envelope nailed to the kitchen wall, and am not under any circumstances allowed to go shopping by myself. </p>

<p><img src="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/img/batmanxbox.jpg" align="right">If this seems a bit harsh, keep in mind that a few months ago I left the apartment to do a little preliminary research on buying us a puppy, and came back hours later with a used Xbox and a stack of video games, one of which was a puppy-owning simulator. I’d felt at the time to have intelligently weighed the issue at hand and come up with the most obvious solution (no early morning walks or barking; getting to pretend I’m Batman in no less than two different games). I would later have it explained to me that I had direly miscalculated, and as a result would get to pretend I’m a version of Batman who fights crime while not getting to have any sex.</p>]]>
        <![CDATA[<p>Even when supervised, I am not to be trusted at Costco; Karla is familiar enough with my weakness for impulse buys to watch the shopping cart like a noir detective, ready to interrogate yours truly at the first hint of retail idiocy. “Why do we need this again?” she’ll ask dubiously, holding up one of my awe-inspiring finds like a dead salmon. The triumphant orchestral swell that’s been playing in my head in accompaniment to my bargain-hunting prowess will taper off at this point to a low, fat and embarrassing tuba sound, like a bear farting sadness. I’ll find myself having to make a case for why precisely we need a box of 20 cast iron salad tongs designed for the cooking staff at a large restaurant, or a ten-liter bottle of industrial-strength bleach. (“So I can make <b>these</b> white!” I’ll argue defiantly, holding up a fifteen-pound barrel of price-slashed argyle socks.) </p>

<p>A madness overtakes me, gentle readers. A madness. Except, for some reason, when it comes to clothes shopping. I can’t figure this out. Ask me to buy you a plasma-screen television and I’ll spend the afternoon in a blissful halcyon fog, comparing various models for obscure features I don’t understand, or pestering the salesmen with irrelevant questions—“I can’t help but notice the buttons on the remote are round instead of rectangular—will this affect performance?”—to the point where they’ll invent imaginary bargains at non-existent competitors just to get me to leave. (“You didn’t hear this from me, but SuperShitz Video Warehouse on Steinway has the same model with <i>triangular</i> buttons. It’ll be like channel-surfing through <i>God</i>.”) Yet make me go pants shopping and I’ll invariably grab whichever pair looks near my size and is closest to the entrance. I can’t explain why this is; only that I hope it helps clear up why I dress like a Goodwill exploded on me and have a closet full of oversized clown pants.</p>

<p>To summarize: I’m really bad when it comes to purchasing goods. What’s depressing is how much <i>worse</i> I am with services: I have no facility whatsoever for haggling. I’ve passed it off as Canadian politeness since moving to America. My American friends accept this explanation at face value, even though, of course, it’s a load of crap. Canadians aren’t genetically bred to politeness—I’m sure most of us can talk the price down on a used car like anything. The truth is that I personally just suck balls at it. </p>

<p>I can never remember to negotiate the price beforehand, and invariably end up getting stuck with an enormous bill I’m too embarrassed not to pay. I’ll hop into one of those discount limos at the airport and rattle off a destination, forgetting to ask how much something like that might cost. I’ll tell a butcher I want “two big ol’ thick steaks,” neglecting to add that I’d rather not spend $40 a cut. I’m well aware I might as well be writing cab drivers and butchers out a blank check when I do this, yet I nevertheless feel guilty when presented with whatever ludicrously inflated price they give me. I mean, I <i>did</i> ask for it, and they’ve already cut the meat up for me/driven me to my destination/built me a non-functioning clock radio that also sharpens my toothbrush in the shower and plays new country. </p>

<p>I just can’t bring myself to quibble about the price after they’ve already performed the service, and tend to just hand over an upsettingly thick sheaf of bills, making a brain-note to myself that next time I’ll ask what something costs beforehand, knowing I am doomed to repeat the same mistake in an endless loop. My only salvation, really, is that the envelope with all my credit cards in it is nailed to the wall securely. This is realistically the only way that Karla can even leave the house without coming home to an “I bought magic beans with our rent money” scenario. </p>

<p>As for me, I’m happy enough to have relinquished the money management in the household. Our Xbox puppy simulator is engaging enough that I barely have the time to go shopping now anyway. </p>

<p>Now if you’ll excuse me, Batman needs a walk. </p>]]>
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