Van Full of Candy’s Last Minute Zombified Costume Ideas

Halloween has become big business in recent years as adults have stolen away a holiday intended for children to play dress up by scaring parents with tales of abduction and tainted treats to the point where most juvenile trick treating takes place in well lit suburban malls at two in the afternoon on February 9th. In its place a parade of whores in inches of fabric vaguely associated with some sort of  honorable profession, crime fighting, fire fighting, hamburglaring, and guys wearing just enough of a costume to legally grind against those scantilly clad heroes for as long as legally allowed.

Now, we’re not here to pass judgement on this changing of the holiday, because really, no matter what we say is wrong. We’re either endorsing whore fest costumed VD transmittal gatherings or children being used as candy retrieval devices for lazy parents. So whether or not it’s right is irrelivent, what’s important now is that Zombies are in and we want a piece of that multi-trillion dollar costuming pie! Every body wants to be a zombie, but you also want to stand out in the endless horde of flesh eating monsters. And with that in mind Van Full of Candy would like to present our last minute costume ideas, infected with just enough Zombie to make you the life of any undead party!

iPhone Zombie: You want people to touch all your buttons? Well there’s an app for that. Push it here, slide it here, yeah now THAT’s a costume! Oh but wait … your trap worked. You got people close enough to you, the trusted iPhone and as soon as they start manipulating your front side, it’s too late for them. Not only are you an iPhone, you’re a goddamned zombie grabbing your victim and pulling them in towards your life size retina display whilst eating them alive spilling blood all over yourself, in turn voiding your warranty.

Baby Kitteh Zombie: Everybody who has a baby during Halloween needs to dress them up in a cutesy little Elmo outfit, or perhaps a baby sunflower so all their friends and family can koooo and awwwww and MAKE ME SICK !! This year, for those parents who need something a little more … exciting … should choose the Baby Kitteh Zombie costume. Secure that neck biting baby zombie in an adorable little kitteh suit and when friends and family get close to get a closer look … unleash the flesh eating fury of Baby Kitteh Zombie.

Can of Zombie Spam: As much as people pretend that they don’t like SPAM, we all know deep down that the congealed pink meat will always be one of our favorites. It looks like cat food, smells like food and well … It doesn’t matter because we still love it, so much so that we dress up like it for All Hallows Eve. The great thing about this costume is that the love for the pink meat juice is so strong, it’s a natural attractant for a zombie massacre. Not only can you eat the laymen who get too close to your Fancy Feast aura, you can also eat yourself if you are still hungry afterwards.

Zombie Flower: Some ladies just want to look pretty and dainty and delicate and not like a slutty version of something that is usually associated with not slutty traits. But naturally, they still want to be zombies. Our solution: the “Zombie Flower”. The cold hard truth of the matter is that when you pick a flower, you have just commited murder. So that pretty, delicate, dainty thing now wants it’s sweet smelling revenge! I think the costume would come with a bee with it’s skull ripped open, dripping delicious honey comb shaped BEERAINS!

Zombie Ghost: To be honest, I’m not entirely sure how the back story logistics work on this one. What I do know is that the ghost, while formerly a staple of the halloween costume hirearchy, has sort of fallen out of favor in recent years due to the wearer often being beaten savagely in a case of confused racist. So clearly the ghost could use a little costume rehabilitation. And the ghost lends itself to Zombification in a couple ways. First, you only get a ghost if somebody dies. That’s ingredients one through seven of Zombie! So it could either be that the zombie bite not only transforms the flesh, but also infects the SPIRIT and then you’ve got a whole afterlife of souls for the Zombie ghost to hunt and devour! OR perhaps the ghost zombie is the result of an exorcism where a ghost is sort of, kind of killed. So the GHOST comes back to life. OR OR, the result of an exorcism performed by a ZOMBIE PRIEST! Wow, the ghost is kind of kick ass now. You’re welcome ghosts. Now stop haunting everything we own!

Zombie Battery: … ‘Cause batteries die. And, zombies… And… batteries.

“BrAAAins!”

Come on! It’s hilarious if you don’t think about it!

Happy Trick or Treat! Reach way down in that candy bucket to get the best candy! Trust us, you’ll thank us later.

The War on Fake Drugs Doesn’t Claim Another Victim

Before we get started let me just say I am not mocking the death of a thirteen year old boy here. I would just like to make that perfectly clear right away. I don’t know how many times just this week I’ve been wrongfully accused of celebrating teen deaths and I’m sick of it. It is irresponsible and hurtful to my loyal fan base of thirteen year old boys. I would never wish ill on any of their cherubic little faces. Now, with that little bit of house keeping out of the way.

A thirteen year old Pittsburgh boy was murdered by his own stupidity and his parents’ neglect.

The headline reads: “Teen dies after smoking synthetic pot”. At first glance, that’s horrible. The death of a teen is rarely hysterical and that he was killed by some sort of Franken-dope created in a lab specifically to murder thirteen year olds with no parental supervision just makes it all the more tragic. The only problem with this headline is that it’s entirely false.

The subhead sheds slightly more light on the what might be slightly closer to the truth: “13-year-old boy sustained chemical burns to his lungs after smoking from plastic candy dispenser”. Ah, well, okay, now we’re getting somewhere slightly less sensational aren’t we?

Then as we get into the poorly written body of the “story” we discover: “The boy smoked the fake marijuana out of a plastic candy dispenser and suffered chemical burns to both lungs. He was put on a respirator in June and had a double lung transplant in September. The boy’s mother says anti-rejection drugs he’s taken since the transplants weakened his immune system and made him unable to fight off a recent infection.”

So, now we have slightly more information here. Still not much in the way of reporting, but at the very least it is more information. With these new tid bits, we can slightly modify the sensational headline to read “Teen who inhaled burning plastic dies of infection following double lung transplant”.

This fake drug has killed more teens than polio and sadness combined! True? It must be, I just reported it!

I actually did some research on this one, something I often, plainly refuse to do, and found another article about this kid. The second article goes into a little more detail, saying that the boy “injured his lungs in August after smoking a substance known as K2.” mentioning no where in THIS story that he smoked it through the thin flimsy plastic neck slot of Batman villain Two Face (allegedly) and that “Shortly after smoking the drug, the teen developed nausea, a full body rash, headaches and high fever. His father said the substance caused a chemical burn in his son’s lungs.”

All of this forced me to do further research, which only served to anger up my blood some more. In looking up the side effects or potential risks of “synthetic marijuana” I found that the products, “often sold as “herbal incense” and smoked like traditional marijuana, can produce seizures, hallucinations, tremors, paranoia, convulsions, high blood pressure and rapid heart rate.” And while very few of these are good side effects, exactly none of them are what dad said happened to his boy.

Then, after this parentally neglected 13 year old got sick from inhaling a PEZ dispenser, Pennsylvania Governor Tom Corbett signed a bill outlawing synthetic marijuanas.

All of this leaves me with a lot of “Why?”s. Why does everyone believe that baby-juana did something specifically to this kid that it’s never done to anyone else ever. Why, when this child’s actual cause of death was hospital infectionitis brought on by the total removal and replacement of his entire respiratory system in a building literally slopping over with infectiousness, is every news source saying that bullshit fake weed put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger now he’s dead? Why are “news” people just allowed to assign blame to a substance with no actual proof and get away with it. Saying “Teen dies after smoking synthetic pot” in relation to this story is only slightly more crazy than if, say, I were to put on a pair of my favorite asbestos gloves, massage the mucusy orifice of your choice, and several months later you were to die of mecca pneumonia due to your body rejecting your new radio controlled bionic sphincter valve and the headline reading “Blog reader dies after loving, tender, attentive butt hole fingering”.

"Riddle me this! When is a throat chute like a water pipe?" "Oh please shut up."

Now, don’t get me wrong, none of this is meant to be in defense of synthetic marijuana or a condemnation of robotic poopers. I personally think these “K-2″ and “Spice” and what have you are cute and dumb and mostly harmless as long as you ask your parent’s permission before sucking it through a fiery Lego. What bothers me is the lazy, irresponsible nature of this reporting and how nobody will call these people out on their bullshit. And please know, if it does in fact turn out that this kid’s death was caused specifically and solely by the proper, appropriate implementation of this legal product, then I’m just a bigger asshole than most give me credit for and I’m sorry for ever questioning the validity of this third hand hearsay being passed off as investigative journalism. But if I’m not: if I’m right… Well, we’ll never hear about it. Because first people would have to admit that they’re wrong, which they won’t. And death not being the result of evil future drugs sent back through time to kill our children just doesn’t fit the narrative being built by those that don’t like this product for what ever reason. But just because something’s legal, doesn’t mean it’s good for you either, I mean, take cigarettes or having children that you have no intention of properly raising, but just because you don’t like a thing, doesn’t mean it murdered somebody.

God damn, this has been a week. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go take a nap, because in my dreams I’m an 8 time gold medal Olympic vampire puncher with the uncanny psychic ability to sense when and where lesbian sex is transpiring and a magical doorway that can take me there. Then I’m gonna wake up Monday hoping that most of the sharp objects in the apartment are still up too high for me to reach them…

See you then, if any of us make it there without being killed by something whose fault it isn’t.

You Got Your Racism In My Costume … You Got Your Costume In My Racism [Halloween Edition]

We here at Van Full of Candy are just completely NOT OKAY with the way that we’re portrayed out in the, what you people call, the regular world. Constantly being called, the creepy van, the molester van, the rapist kidnapper old man with puppies and candy with a mustache van who wants to kill you with duct tape van … yeah that’s right, a double van. We are just completely fed up with this horrific name calling and all of you should be ASHAMED !!! Here’s a few examples of the hurt that you people aim at us with your hurt … guns.

Are we not allowed to enjoy the remarkable savings at Target too?

Go away? We just want to say "hello" and make you smile ... jeez !!

Murder van ?? Really ?? That's a bit extreme !!!

So when I heard today about what, who are probably the most boring students in college history, Ohio University students were doing, I totally had to get behind their poster campaign – “We’re a Culture, Not a Costume”. I’m sure they’re all running around campus with their “proud faces” on and how they’re making a radical change against racism and cultureism and not-ever-having-fun-again-on-Halloween-ism. Strutting their stuff thinking their VOICE is being heard and it will ripple throughout the world and possibly end global warming with love and “no more war” with their “about to cry” faces.

Cheer up, it's F'ing Halloween man !!

Go ahead you crazy little nerds, you did your duty, and you’ve probably completely ostracized yourselves from any invites to ANYTHING on campus EVER AGAIN. But hey, you got one follower, and that’s me, the misunderstood Van Full of Happy Fun Time, a Van Full of Giggles and Fingerpuppets, and gawd fucking damnit, we’re gonna make ourselves heard too. So here’s our sign you Ohionians, please add it to your well intentioned movement that will probably turn into meme’s making fun of you. And oh yeah, please consider ours, thanks. Now where’d I put my black shoe polish?

The Death of Winehouse, Parte the Third: The Resolutioning

A pathologist says Amy Winehouse consumed a “very large quantity of alcohol” prior to her death.

What? Wait, what? No, wait… WHAT?! NO!? WHAT?! Wait, WHAT!?! NO!?

Suhail Baithun has told an inquest into the singer’s’ death that blood and urine samples showed she was 4.5 times over the legal drunk-driving limit.

Are you– But how could– You’re not saying– That isn’t– I was told– WHAT? Wait, WHAT? No!? That can’t possibly– NO!?

…

WHAT?!

WHAT?! Wait, what? NO!

In quite possibly THE single most shocking news story that I have ever heard in my eight thousand years of immortality, a professional in the medical field, with what one would assume is some level of training and expertise has apparently found that the reformed Lady Winehouse had “resumed drinking in the days before her death after a period of abstinence.”

BUT THAT’S IMPOSSIBLE!

I was told by “family sources”, whom I trusted implicitly, that our fragile flower was killed by sobriety when she went against doctor’s orders to gradually decrease her alcohol intake from “like air” to “like water” and eventually to “like a normal responsible human being” but instead went cold wild turkey. Her family full of apparent booze scientists were convinced that her lack of spirits was to blame for her “unexpected” demise.

“Family sources”! Who would know better about what killed their family member than a her neglectful, useless family?! I considered the case closed. Clearly she had died due to lack of personality potion. I know the feeling, my liver threatens to shoot my spleen and pistol whips my gal bladder every time I go more than three hours without a flower pot full of vodka.

Then came PROOF INDISPUTABLE that tragelebrity and leathery garbage bag full of fermented juice drinks, Dame Winehouse had been sobered to death! That proof of course came in the form of a complete and utter lack of illegal substances found in what was laughably referred to as her “body”. The initial toxicology results showed absolutely nothing, nada, zilch, ZERO illegal substances in her body, what more proof do you need that she was brutally murdered in a street fight with not drinking?!

SURE, alcohol was “present” in her system, but we detailed exactly how the alcohol found in her system was the work of her own internal organs, so starved for conversation started drops that it began internally brewing and bottling its own Amy Lagger. We were assured by further “family sources” that she simply could not have been killed by alcohol since she hadn’t touched the stuff despite reportedly being seen on a non-stop three day personal liquor reunion tour immediately before her death! Those stories were clearly lies told by liars who lie!

But this is apparently it. The end of life’s last great mysteries. Evidence that the only thing that I have ever in this long, lonely life, believed to be indisputably true, was in fact– Wait! I see it now! Oh my god I’m suck a fool! The apparent confusion and contradiction. The lies and cover ups. The deception! It’s as plain as the drink in your face! Amy Winehouse didn’t die from an over abundance OR utter lack of alcohol. AMY WINEHOUSE ISN’T DEAD AT ALL! I’ve seen this played out so many times, I’ve PLAYED this out so many times, I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. Over eight thousand years on this planet, you live many lives, pass in and out of the lives of so many fragile mortals. That’s it, don’t you see!?

Finally Amy, we see each other plain!

Amy Winehouse is a Highlander!

Usually people like Amy and I are able to shed our past lives quietly, simply, typically leaving only a few loved ones behind when we can no longer live the lie that would eventually put them through so much pain. But in some cases, our “escape” is so much more public and baffling. This is exactly how it happened when I was Elvis.

Oh Amy, sweet Amy. I understand now, I get it. The sadness, the self destructive tendencies. But alcohol will not kill us Amy. Only we can do that. I will meet you some day in battle, Amelia of the House of Wine, and my blade will grant you the freedom you so desperately seek.

There can be only one.

This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things (Stupidity On Parade)

Stupid people come in all shapes and sizes. In fact, stupid people are just like you and me…

Alright, who’m I kidding, they’re nothing like me, and for me to even suggest that they could be is just stupid. And of course, since you had the head full of smarty brains to come here and read our funny type ha-ha scribbles, you’re clearly nothing like them either. Also you’re a sexy minx whose beauty and charm is only rivaled by your comedy website decision making abilities. So then, if it’s not us and it’s not you, then who are these stupid people on which I’d just words ago based my entire argument, and the remaining 1100 words or so, on bitching about? I’m glad you asked, though you didn’t have to be so ill tempered about it. Stupid.

Like I said, stupid comes in all shapes and sizes, whether it be too large to safely fit into something not designed for them but too stupid to realize their own personal dimensions or too drunk with power and moronic to know that you shouldn’t tell someone that you rubbed your balls on something of theirs while “lawfully” rifling through their shit.

Have you ever been bet to do something you knew was not only stupid, but would no doubt result in certain pelvic harm? And no, we don’t mean a rollicking, good natured, “turkey basters full of HPV” fight. Most of us have a general working knowledge of our basic physical displacement volume, so no matter how much we’re egged on by our worst friends, no matter how many hundred of dollars you’re offered to wedge yourself into a space not designed for your mass, we understand that that way lay only pain and humiliation. That long after that Benjamin is spent on cast cutter rental, the psychological scars will remain. Fortunately for those of us who enjoy the suffering of the stupid, not everyone puts quite so much thought into their hip safety as we do.

The Widowmaker.

A 21 year old, living adult male, was dared by his friends to wedge himself into a baby swing at a local park with the promise of a TEN THOUSAND COPPER LINCOLNS reward! What he received instead was an embarrassing 6am rescue by a groundskeeper who heard him screaming for help from deep within his swingy tomb.

Let’s examine this now shall we? No matter how drunk you are, and let us make no mistake, this individual was at very least drunk at the outset of this adventure, when the amount of the stakes involved in your stupid wager reaches the entirely unrealistic level of “$100″, you have to realize that you are being completely fucked with by people who simply know your price to do anything, no matter how moronic. No $100 bet in the history of idiots has EVER been paid in full. But even beyond the inherent flaw in this scenario of this ever actually being an honest challenge, this dufus is twenty-one years old and is hanging out in a public park at nine in the evening drunk enough to be convinced that this was a good idea. Twenty-one is too old to be duped into something so YouTubely idiotic, and nine is too early to be drunk enough to be coaxed into it. So I’m not going to blame my good friend booze on this one and will simply lay the fault at the dangling feet of this simpleton who I now can’t help but imagine waddling painfully toward the EMT van still in the baby swing harness freshly cut down by the firefighters.

Meanwhile a New Jersey TSA baggage screener thought it would be hilarious to anonymously harass a woman who discretely stowed her joy buzzer in her checked luggage, expecting, apparently wrongly, that some pervert wouldn’t go rooting through her shit like a creep with a license to do so.

Hey, at least the slip seems stain free. The sign of a true professional.

Now, many of us have opened our bags after getting off a flight to find a slip inside thanking us for the good times that the Transportation Security Administration just had with all of our personal belongings. And while I generally don’t carry my varied assortment of tender bit tantalizers when I travel that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to some day (I miss them when I’m gone). But I feel raped enough when I find that strangers have been fingering nothing more intimate than the tooth brush I use to keep the inside of my butthole spotless. So when Jill Filipovic found that not only had the TSA notice of legal privacy invasion had been crammed in her belongings, but that it also came emblazoned with a hand written love letter reading “GET YOUR FREAK ON GIRL” by the “baggage handler” who apparently discovered her bullet vibe packed therein, she was surprisingly not as thrilled by the message of masturbation encouragement as the writer had surely expected she should be.

Now, I understand how the TSA agent might have been excited seeing a sex toy in a piece of luggage. That’s not where they usually live, so that’s titillating as shit! Plus, it’s a lady toy, so it’s probably been all up against lady parts. And while it must be like pervert Christmas to find this magical device when rifling through stranger clothes looking for things small enough that they won’t be missed long enough when they disappear that the victim has enough time to forget it was in their searched bag, you still have to have enough wits about you to only THINK these things, rather than writing them down and placing them in with your victim’s befouled belongings. As witty and cute as you think cheering on future diddling is, and while in your pervy imagination you’re sure that the owner of this device is going to do all the leg work necessary to track you down and pleasure herself in front of you with this device that you have found and instructed her to partake in its pleasure giving settings, the odds of that happening versus you having to inform every new neighbor you have for the rest of your life that you’re a registered sex offender just don’t make it a worthwhile gamble.

“It was a $15 bullet vibe from Babeland,” Jill said. “About the most basic sex toy you can imagine. It has now been officially retired, since I have no idea if the TSA agents manhandled it.”

A very wise move on her part, because no matter how long you boil that one, you’re never going to completely remove the cocktail of saliva and testicle smear left by the screener as he hurriedly molested himself with shaky hands.

Those who know me are aware that I have long said “We’re only still alive because an idiot hasn’t killed us yet.” but it’s also equally safe to say that we only still have playgrounds or un-secretly desecrated sex toys because an idiot hasn’t been able to jam themselves into it for an imaginary c-note or found it innocently tucked away in our own airborne personal belongings… Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, but the sentiment is certainly the same.

Pornflix … I Mean … Netflix !!

"I should'a listened to those assholes at Van Full of Candy"

You like Netflix? I like Netflix. All I know is that they need a new “genre” in their schtick, and that’s the one that would have kept them from losing 800,000 subscribers. For reals. Remember when you were a kid and you’d go to the movie rental store? In my case it was a furniture rental store that had videos for rent, don’t ask, and there was the Action section, the Family section, the Sci-Fi section and that section in the back, with dim lights and a black velvet curtain or even Old Western style saloon doors with a laminated hot pink printout labeled “18+ Only”, “Adults Only”, “No Kids Allowed”. Yeah … that section. The one that the dirty old men would hang out in and when they walked out, you would look at them in awe and wonder how they’d get their mustache to smell like salmon Marlboro’s. That secret place that you would peak in with virgin eyes and see covers of VHS movies that had baby oil’d body parts of all different sizes and different colors, except for the BIG parts that were a SPECIFIC color, but am I jealous now? Well sure, yeah. But did I get over it? No. So fuck your stupid judgement about my little white boy junk.

Just do it already ... FUCK !!!

I guess what I’m getting at is that Netflix should have the dirty section so I can watch an entire skin-flick without having to hunch over my smartphone for 20 secsonds at a time and watch little bits of dirty’ness with one hand while I mix pancake batter with the other and try to keep my back from tightening up during the whole ordeal. Regardless if it’s daily or not all I want is the naughty place for guys like me … guys like you … hell, girls like you. Oh and for the 800,000 people who decided that Netflix wasn’t for them anymore. Hey Netflix, sex sells, dirty, filthy, hardcore-porn sex sells, so get with the fucking program bitches. For now, I’ll watch Prince of Persia and pretend that some good shit’s about to happen.

This Time For Realzies: Judgement Day, Part 2: The Judgementing

Uh-oh, remember back in May, how the world was supposed to end with a bunch of goody goodies floating up into heaven and flashing their balls at us? And then remember how that didn’t happen and it was all hilarious? And remember how we all laughed at the guy who said the world was going to end with sack flashing god flights? And he was all like, “Well fuck you, it did happen, it was just invisible and you’ll see in six months when you’re starin’ up at my taint!” And we were all like, “Yeah, what ever crazy man, go be crazy somewhere else while we get back to not worrying about angry invisible rapture.”

"Who's got two thumbs and is gonna fuck your shit up? This God!"

Well, do you remember what day he said it was going to really happen for realzies this time? Well you know who DOES remember? Jesus.

Tomorrow, at “when ever you see believers in the sky” o’clock, this stupid little stupid planet full of stupid is gonna be over! It’s really going to happen this time! Seriously guys!

Have you noticed how many earthquakes there’ve been recently? Why, I read that just today there was one in San Francisco. SAN FRANCISCO of all places, experiencing an earth quake, co-incidentally the DAY BEFORE THE PREDICTED END OF THE FUCKING WORLD!? Did I say co-incidence? I meant NOT A GOD DAMNED CO-INCIDENCE AT ALL! And what about those floods and hurricanes and, you know, stuff. The world is flying apart at the seams people! Open your eyes!

I for one am here and now proclaiming my life long love of God and Jesus and everybody. Peter and Luke and who ever else. John, there was a John, right? I love all those mother fuckers. I always have, and I know that they’d never let their biggest fan be swallowed whole by this dying shit ball that I’ll be so glad when its gone! I’m gonna be kickin’ it up in heaven, with like, eighty tight angel ladies all complimenting me on my love of god and my indeterminate amount of abs. Me and JC and the Father, we’re all gonna hang out and laugh at the world writhing in agony below us, tip back a couple Four Lokos and play a little game of “No YOU’RE more awesome.” It’s gonna be so amazing and you’re not even gonna be there.

What? Wait, what? God’s not accepting any more applicants. On May 21st we were all judged and he’s just needed the last six months to warm up his planet splitter chain saw? Well that’s, that’s not really fair. I mean, I’ve just been comparison shopping. Like any good spiritual being, I’ve been pricing out deities, trying to find which one was right for me. ‘Cause, isn’t that what it says in the Bible, “Thou shalt have a fair amount of time to look around and make sure that you’re absolutely positive that you’ve made the best decision for you about having no other Gods before me.”? That’s in there somewhere, right?! RIGHT!?!

"Sorry bro, you are ska-rood,"

Oh science, I’m fucked! I’m fucked, you’re fucked, we’re all double plus super fucked! Alright, you know what? Fine. I’m good with that. I’ve lived a full, meaningful… productive… happy… life.

NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! Oh Darwin! Oh Einstein! Newton help me! Alright, it’s not too late. I’ve got, I don’t know, some amount of time between eight and thirty-two hours left. If I’m going to hell I’m going there like I’ve got a god damned rocket strapped to my balls!

If I hurry, I’ve still got enough time to murder a drug dealer, have sex with the corpse, steal their drugs, sell them to a kindergarten class, maybe blow up a petting zoo. Oooh! I know! I’ll steal a car with a baby in the back seat, drive it through a handicapped nun picnic before finally crashing it into the river and lighting it on fire. Then, I’ll take a stack of Bibles that I’ve been saving for just such an occasion and give them a gathered crowd of homosexuals and feminists and activist judges and abortion doctors and we’ll all stand around in a big circle and jerk each other off onto them! Afterwards, we can sacrifice a new born lamb to, I don’t know, the wind or some shit.

Unless of course you’ll still have me Jesus, in which case, I’ll try not to do most of that.

Good luck with Hell suckers! Or… See you in Hell suckers!

Van Full of Candy’s Celebrity Sex Tape Auditions

Pamela likes our van candy ... so should you !!

First it was Pamela & Tommy, then Paris, and then that one Kardashian chick. Rock stars, television stars, and others who ride the coattails of their father and become reality TV stars. Two glaring things stick out like a sore thumb … that I’m assuming have been smashed by a hammer, because how else would a thumb be sore? Well, there’s always the explanation that you were sitting around with your thumb up your ass and you were startled when somebody actually asked you to do something, and you moved too fast and broke your thumb causing it to stick out like a sore thumb. So there’s two idioms for you to enjoy for the price of one. You’re welcome. Now, speaking of things in one’s ass, lets get back to the main gist of this talk, Sex Tapes, and the two things that stick out like … god I hate repeating myself !!

#1. Not one of the stars of any of the celebrity sex tapes are comedic blog writers/sketch comedy performers … and …

#2. All of the aforementioned “accidental” porn stars have only BENEFITED their careers from having their sex taped “accidentally” leaked … so …

In an effort to level the playing field and get this celebrity porn industry into other aspects of the entertainment world, Van Full of Candy does hereby declare that we will be holding auditions for hot starlet types who are looking to take their career to a whole new level, which level that might be is still yet to be determined but please know it will be a WHOLE NEW ONE !!

We have the perfect props and the perfect premise. We have the piece de resistance first of all … a goddamn van full of candy, and then the story line just writes itself, not that there’ll be much story if you know what I’m sayin’. So … if you’d like to be one of the lucky chosen ones to star in our celebrity sex tape, then you’ll need to leave us a comment on this blog letting us know how to get in touch with you so we can meet in person and … well … rehearse a little. That’s just part of the process, the dirty, metal smelling, why is this gas can next to me tedious process. Now don’t get discouraged if you don’t make it … we will have literally thousands of applicants and it takes a long long LONG time to “interview” each and every one of you, but please know … we won’t NOT interview a single one of you soon to be starlets. And remember, first come … first served.

Which Angry, Hurtful, Bitter Lover Type Are You?

We’ve been seeing each other for a while now, 10 1/2 months is an eternity for most relationships. We like to think we’ve been a very attentive partner, but we know there’s been times when we’ve taken you for granted. It’s nothing conscious, it’s not because you’ve gained weight, we think that’s sexy, it means you’re comfortable with us. What we’re saying is, we’re taking this relationship seriously and are trying to take a look at ourselves, and see if this is going to work out.

I found a survey this morning on CNN.com from health.com. Now, if this were some bullshit from health.org or health.net or bonerstrengthsuperplus.edu I wouldn’t be taking it anywhere this seriously. But these guys clearly had to be around since the dawn of the internet to get that kind of prime URL real estate, so they can obviously be trusted to be experts on all subjects related to the health of any living thing. It’s pretty all encompassing, and when you think about the magnitude of their promise to the internet, you almost have to kind of feel sorry for them. But I’m digressing, and while I know you think that’s one of our more indearing qualities, I need to focus, this is for us. So shushy now, baby. Shushy shush.

Their article explains:

Experts say there are six different ways you can be in love, and your love style may change over the course of your relationship.

The purest, most beautiful example of true love ever recorded on film.

Oh, to be a love expert. It seems that all of life’s little problems would certainly be solved were one to be an expert in love. I wonder what type of schooling a love expert must complete to earn the title of “Dr. Love”. I’ll tell you what type, the school of life, brother. Because that’s where love happens. Love doesn’t happen in a book, or a web site, or an alley behind the coffee shop where you and your new friend just sat through your court appointed AA meeting. Love happens in your face, and occasionally on your face, and you’ve got to be ready to see it, know it and tell it “Hey, I know you, you’re love, I’m all up in everything you are.” And love will see you and blush and smile, and Jack, you’re all up in love’s under panties from there until the universe fucking explodes as long as you don’t stick your love in any of love’s friends.

I like to think of myself as a semi-professional expert on all things love and romance. In the school of love I major in romance with a double minor in “Uhh” and “You like that?” And being a pursuer of this elusive thing called love, I am always learning, always striving to answer the questions that love presents me. So when no less than health.com asks me, “Which is your love style?” well you better believe that I’m going to answer the hell out of that mostly rhetorical question. And hard.

The romantic

You love being in love. You may be swept away by your new lover’s looks or other appealing physical attributes — and disappointed when they change over time.

I do, indeed, LOVE being in love. If someone were to ask me the thing that I loved most in life, without blinking I would say “love”. If they were to ask what I loved second, I would blink and tell them “loving love”. And while physical attributes are certainly one of the things that I love loving, it’s not the only thing to be loved. Certainly breasts, the “Hey there” and “Look at me” of the female anatomy catch the eye like two suckable mounds of flesh aching to be ogled, and the shapely bottom, so curvy and spankable scream at the top of their butt lungs, “I am personality, I am things that we have in common!” but… what were we saying again? Ah yes, butt lungs.

The list-maker

“You have criteria that are important, and you won’t change them,” Schwartz says. Even if you’re in a committed relationship, you may put too much pressure on your partner to live up to your standards.

The “Schwartz” referenced above is apparently “Dr. Pepper Schwartz, Ph.D., a sociology professor at the University of Washington in Seattle”. I can only assume that she would be one of the experts in question, since she is being presented as such. But it seems to me that this is more a complaint about past experiences rather than an honest classification of lover. I am deeply sorry that ”Pepper” has been hurt in the past for not trying to reach even the most simple and basic requirements of love, but I hardly think that here, now, in this arena of love expertism, is the proper place to air her grievances against an ex who has supposedly wronged her. She does not so much seem to classify this as a “type of love person” as calling this “type” of lover ”a fucking prick who I could never fucking satisfy no matter how hard I never tried!”

 The obsessive

You want to spend all your time with your partner. And you constantly worry about your relationship, even when you’ve been together for years. Schwartz says this kind of partner can be overbearing or have highs and lows that drive her significant other crazy.

Oookay. I am starting to see a pattern here. This is clearly not a list of the types of lover you may or not be, but the types of people who have hurt Dr. Pepper Schwartz, Ph.D., sociology professor at the University of Washington in Seattle. I came into this article expecting to explore the many varied ways in which we as human animals legitimately love one another, emotionally, spiritually, in the butt, and instead have simply found the tear soaked rantings of a “love expert” repeatedly hurt by the very thing she professers her unquestioned knowledge of. Your expertise is in question Pep, by no greater authority than I, Loveiticus 9, defender of love in all of its dirty, sticky forms.

The giver

You may give more than you get. “At some point, you find that it’s all going one way,” Schwartz says. You’re constantly working selflessly to meet your partner’s needs, but you’re not looking after you.

How much more can Pepper do for you? You ungrateful slovenly fuck! She has no life outside of professing sociology inside the claustrophobic walls of the University of Washington in Seattle, and coming home to find you in your under pants playing Call of Duty and talking dirty to some fourteen year old boy over the headset! No she won’t play too, she doesn’t like video games, she likes sociology and love and being an expert. Did you even look for a job today? How many pizza boxes are you going to stack before Dr. Pepper Schwartz, Ph.D., sociology professor at the University of Washington in Seattle is killed by their inevitable toppling?

The player

You love courtship. “For these lovers, the chase is a lot of it,” Schwartz says. You’re easily bored in long-term relationships, though, and your eye may roam.

You son of a bitch! Fine, you know what? Fine. Just fine! Go ahead then, run off with her, she’s nineteen, her tits are firm and perky, she doesn’t smell like sociology books and vending machine sandwiches. After everything Pepper has done for you, she just wasn’t enough? She let you put your finger in her butt just to make you stop begging and this is how you treat her!? Well we hope this “barista” skank has syphilitic herpes crabs and your balls fall off!

The pal

Love seems to creep up on you. One day you think, “Wow, I’ve really been spending a lot of time with Jack,” then realize you’re in love. In the long term, your relationship may be quiet, but it’s strong.

Oh Jack, it’s always been you hasn’t it? I can’t believe Pepper never noticed it until now. The way you open the door for her or nod hello when she passes you in the halls of the University of Washington in Seattle. But you’re from two different worlds. You’re a maintenance man, rough hands bending materials to your will, solving complicated mechanical problems with your hard earned knowledge and lateral thinking. And she’s a Ph. D. in sociological professoring. It could never work, could it? Oh, I guess she’s just a dreamer. THE DREAMER! Type 7! Oh Pepper, you’ve got a WHOLE ‘nother paper on your hands!

Ain’t love horrible and inequitable?

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