August 30, 2007

I Bow Down

So, in our video Porn Vblog, during the title sequence, we (very briefly) used the song "Little Spanish Flea" by Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass. While I found the song choice hilarious, I have to admit, this youtube clip may put it to even better use.

Alternate theory: The song "Little Spanish Flea" is funny no matter what video it's put to. I expect a thousand video responses proving this.

A Bittersweet Farewell to a Rising TAM! Star

Hello, massive fanbase!

Just wanted to let you know we're planning on expanding the cast a bit around here, and introduce you to one of our newest acquisitions: the multitalented, bescruffed Brett Rader. Above, the best picture of him we could possibly locate. You can see him French Stewart-ing it up in our latest video update The Pimp, and expect more of him in the months to come.

Well...eventually. Unfortunately B-Rader is going overseas for the Fall (to “England” or some such nonsense), but watch for him in our next update (already shot, suckas!) and in January when he returns, almost certainly with an unbearable accent.

In the meantime, we wish Brett godspeed as he ventures forth to do the Lord's work in the heathen lands across the pond.

August 28, 2007

And So Dawns a New Age

Please let me, the disembodied, collective voice of Those Aren't Muskets, be the first to welcome you to the official Those Aren't Muskets! blog! This post is meant to be a transition of sorts, between the backlog of humor articles from Michael's old CRACKED blog The Specious and the glorious future that is this site's affiliation with the sketch troupe of the same name.

To those of you coming here from the TAM! main page:

Hey, check it out, it's our blog! This is where Abe, Michael, and I (who am both and yet paradoxically neither) will post funny internet shit, minutiae about our own lives or the progress of the site/troupe, and the occasional humor article. In fact, if you aren't acquainted with Michael's old blog, you'll notice a near-infinite trove of humor articles stretching out beneath this post, all pirated straight from The Specious archives for your viewing pleasure.

Feel free to explore! Dig deep enough and you may even find the fabled 2006 articles, which prove that Michael was a shitty, fumbling hack of a comedy writer no more than a year ago!

To those coming from The Specious:

Michael still loves you very much. The Specious hasn't gone away; it's here in spirit, and it lives on through Those Aren't Muskets! Michael plans to keep cracking out humor both for this blog and for CRACKED. Consider this an evolution; an awakening, if you will, into a world of multimedia synergy.

Speaking of multimedia, if you have somehow gotten all the way to this blog without checking out our main video sketch page, allow me to plug. Educate yourself, friend.

And so a toast: to growth, change, and comedy. May the videos be viral, the posts be e/n, and the authorial voice be unnecessarily formal.

6 Video Game Gimmicks That Went Away Too Soon (And 6 That Need to Die)

Hey all! put a new article of mine on their front page today, so I thought I'd drop you a link. It's about gaming tropes that disappeared too soon, and their counterparts, the gaming tropes that we wish would die a screaming death. Enjoy!

August 21, 2007

Most Memorable Non-Actor Cameos

Sure, an actor can be great in a movie. Big deal; that's what they're paid for. On the other hand, it takes a particular brand of savoir faire for a non-actor to really shine in a role. Those profiled in my latest CRACKED article, however, are not those great non-actors. These, rather, are the non-actors whose performances were memorable for being short, gimmicky, and often helping define the term "non-actor." Let us honor them, and their brief moment of fame.

August 5, 2007

The Sado-Masochistic Fisherman

Howdy, you worthless worms! Welcome to another installment of the Sado-Masochistic Fisherman, the only syndicated late-night fishing program that hurts so good! Today, we’re fishing in desolate Pyramid Lake, California, a barren waste of a place with nothing but highway and desert in every direction. They say the only fish you can catch here are sour-tasting, miserable bastards made hard by their hellish existence, and that’s just what we’re looking for!

Today I’ve chosen as my craft a small, aluminum dinghy I found behind a warehouse. It’s about six feet from bow to stern, and the only seat is a splintered strip of what I believe is house siding. It’s about a hundred and four degrees out today, so the metal’s heating up nicely. As always, I’ve got my black leather assless chaps on, so I’m getting a pretty intense burning sensation in the old rump. Mmm, yeah, that’s nice. Really grind those metal shavings in there.

As you can see, I’ve modified the self-flagellation whip from our craft section to serve as my pole today. All I did was I took the bits of glass and leather strips from the end of the whip and attached them to the grip with some hot glue. Then I simply ran a line through the hooks we used to hang ourselves from the ceiling for our “Waterless Scuba Dive” last week. Now this pole here doesn’t have a reel, but I prefer to just wrap the line around my forearm; that way it digs in a bit when the fish pull.

Now of course you could go buy something like this in a store, but I think there’s a lot of fun to be had making your own pole, and all you really need is some time, patience, some barbed wire to punish yourself if you make a mistake, and a big tube of bactine. And then, look, you’ve got this beauty sinking it’s lovely teeth into my palm as I grip and cast. Oh god yes. Do it pole. More. Mmmm.

Alright, so while we’re waiting for a bite, let me just tell you a bit about the hooks and lures we’ll be using today. The hook is a special-made German rotary blade, first used by Nazi forces in World War Two to extract information from prisoners. Of course this is a much smaller version of that, but the fourteen rusty spring-loaded blades work much the same way. As an added feature, they’re all carefully positioned to avoid fatally wounding the victim, or, in our case, the small mouth bass.

For bait today I’m using just some nightcrawlers I had nailed to the wall a few feet away from a mound of moist soil in my garden shed. I’ve kept them alive, since the wriggling helps attract the fish, but I’ve soaked them in bitters overnight. You can usually get bitters from your local liquor store, and I’ll tell you, the fish just hate it. To mask that, I’ve got some store-bought fish lure on there, which I’ve spiked with a powerful laxative.

Ooh, looks like we’ve got a bite! Boy howdy, he’s a rascal! That’s right, you little maggot, pull! Pull! Oh, god, yes. Oh, you like that? You like that, you little fish piece of crap? Mmm, yeah, gimme more. That’s it. Make it hurt...All right! Well, that was a tough bout there, but it looks like we won the day. And see, you can tell by the grimacing expression on the fish’s face, he didn’t like those bitters at all. And see the blades there, all popping out at different angles? It’s amazing, but this little guy can live for up to six hours with those blades in. So, let’s watch, shall we?

That’s right, flop. Just flop away boy. Mmm. As you can see, I’ve done a little set dressing here around the fish. I’ve just put up some framed photos of other fish, possible family members, what have you, and some glasses of lake water. The trick is to put everything just out of reach, so you get the most vigorous flopping out of your bass. Oops! There goes the laxative! Well, he’s flopping pretty good now, so I’m going to manually pleasure myself. Join us next week, when we convince a Marlin that his wife has been killed by a Carbon Monoxide leak!

August 3, 2007

Author Mashup 1: John Grisham Writes a Fantasy Novel

Mitch Gavelneck sank deeper into the lacquered wood of his seat. How had he, son of Roland Districtattorney and star litigator for the firm of Warlock, Liebniz and Shambling Wight, come to this? He shot a quick glance to his right, hoping his client was behaving himself.

In the seat next to him, Grimwald had his leg up to his face and was picking his overstuffed feet with one of his sharp front teeth. Mitch grimaced and pulled his Giorgio Armani pinstripe cloak tighter about himself.

A goblin, for Baal's sake. And an all-dwarf jury, too. Their beady eyes gleamed at him like coal across the dusky air of the courtroom. Each one spotted Grimwald in turn, invariably fluffing their beards in disgust.

“Must you do that?” Mitch said to his client in broken Goblish. Unfortunately, he only knew what little of the language he'd picked up on the streets of Ta'Kalaaan'Shaaz as a thieving orphan, and what he actually said amounted to an offer of boiled prunes and manual release. In any case, Grimwald payed no heed, and instead applied himself vigorously to the other foot.


The booming voice of Judge Hill Giant snapped Mitch out of his self-pity. He shot upright in his seat and spoke in a tone of practiced deference.

“Yes, your honor?”

Hill Giant pointed the business end of his enormous gavel at Mitch. “Me eat you!”

“Are you saying you want to hear closing statements, your honor?”

“GAVELNECK!” He shouted again, the force of his voice sending the entire room into a tremble. He dropped his gavel. “EAT! GAVEL...EAT?” He scooped the gavel up with a meaty paw and stuffed it into his mouth.

The old bastard wasn't going to cut him any slack, Mitch thought bitterly.

“Of course, Sir,” he said, “I'll limit my statements.”

Sighing, Mitch took to his weary feet. If he was going to pull this out, he had to make some magic happen, and it he had to do it now. He turned to address the jury, all of whom looked grim and several of whom were giving him the finger in ways he assumed they thought subtle.

“Dwarves and Dwarvettes of the jury. May I say your beards are looking very fine today? I'd just like to say that right out of the gate.”

Mitch steepled his slender fingers and grinned in the way that had never failed to attract the interest of a lusty tavern wench at the local Inn. He plowed on.

“I'll be brief. My client Grimwald, like all of us, exists at the behest of the Ancient and All-Knowing Elder Gods. And I believe it was Gairan, God of the plains, who put it best when at the dawn of time he spoke forth the word of law. And that holy writ, as we now interpret it in the form of Ta'Kalaaan'Shaaz City Zoning Statute J9-A, maintains that no one, not even a filthy, horrible goblin, can be forced from their rightful property due to malignancy, foul odor, or enchanted night-howls without due financial compensation from the Council of Lords. And, considering the immense emotional hardship Grimwald has undergone, he is entitled to no less that three hundred silver pieces in punitive damages.”

The room was as silent as if someone had cast a Ward of Darkness enchantment. Tension filled the air. Had he persuaded them? The Dwarves looked at one another, psychically communicating, their hive mind buzzing with argument and conclusion. Even Judge Hill Giant's gavel chewing seemed somehow thoughtful.

A minute of tense silence passed. Mitch fumbled in his robe pocket for his magic, jury-reading amulet. He couldn't wait for the verdict; he had to know. He stole a glance at the talisman's faceted face: blue. Guilty.

“Uh,” he stammered quickly, “also, may I remind the jury that this is not a criminal trial, and so cannot end in a 'guilty' verdict.”

A ripple of grunts swept over the jury, and the amulet flashed from blue to pink.

Damn. They were going to screw him. Grimwald would get nothing, and Mitch would likely lose his choice job at the firm. As the jury foredwarf rose from his seat, heightening him a full two inches, Mitch rapidly pondered his options. Before the stocky dwarf could open his mouth to render the verdict, Mitch had acted.

Arm raised, he spoke an incantation, and a massive sphere of roiling flame sprouted from his fingers. It grew as it tumbled towards the jury, their shocked faces now bathed in orange light. A few seconds later, and the jury box had become little more than a used tinderbox, filled with twelve perfect dwarf skeletons, each knee-deep in the ash of its late owner.

Judge Hill Giant spit his splintered gavel out in shock, spraying Grimwald and Mitch with bits of soggy wood.

In the dying glow of his own fireball, Mitch smiled.

“The defense rests.”
2009 Those Aren't Muskets!