Articles Schmarticles … Show Us The Boobs !!!

When I think of great reading material the only true publication that jumps out at me without even giving it a second thought is Playboy. Month after month, year after year they churn out some of the  most interesting and in depth articles covering the gamut from polictics to Super Bowl MVPs, from how to get your woman off in 30 seconds to tips for deep frying a turkey on Thanksgiving. And in some circles “deep frying a turkey” just happens to be a term for getting your woman off involving Crisco in a bathtub with a turkey baster, so you see, they’re pretty damn smart without even knowing it. So you could probably understand my utter glee when I discovered that the double edition, holiday anniversary issue of Playboy for Jan/Feb 2012 was going to feature Elmore Leonard and George Pelecanos … HOLY SHIT !!! Not to mention the 20 greatest cocktails and cars of the year … CARS OF THE FUCKING YEAR PEOPLE !!!

With that gleam in Jill's eyes, Mark knew it was Deep Fry Time !!

The truth of the matter is, without Playboy, I wouldn’t even know what “cocktail” actually meant unless it had the words Pabst Blue Ribbon painted on the glass with an all American red, white and blue label to let me know that it was worthy of pouring down my gullet. Cock … tail … to the untrained ear that could really be misconstrued as some sort of weird rooster appendage, or even worse, a tail that looked like a … you get the idea. So thank you Playboy, thank you for making a silly layman like me into a cultured sophisticate looking refined when I order a Vieux Carre at the Keefer when I’m jet-setting in BC, or when I make simple conversation about how one should never even THINK of mentioning the Bentley GT V8 in the same breath as the Carrera 4 GTS, two completely different animals, and if you don’t understand the subtleties then please excuse yourself from this conversation sir. Oh, and apparently some drunk chick who’s spent the last 2 years failing to make it to court hearings got paid a cool million for showing us her tits. Yay America!

New Study Confirms Drinking Linked to Sex, Sun Linked to Daylight

Alright every body, hold on to your things which are easily ejected from your person by sudden shock from wholly unbelievable news! Socks, hats, balls and all other comically loose items secured? Alright, you can’t say I didn’t warn you. Here goes…

Drinking booze, makes people want to fuck, stupidly!

What the HUH?!

I know. I lost nine good pair of work socks when I heard that news and I wasn’t even wearing half of them, they were just blown clean out of my sock drawer by the power of that revelation.

A new Canadian study says specifically that “how much alcohol a person drinks directly affects how likely they are to have unsafe sex”. Now sure, this research is based on twelve vague studies with no real numbers or “facts” backing up anything, and all of these findings are based on the participants of these studies (how ever many there might have been) self reporting their theoretical likelihood of partaking in raw intercourse after tipping back a couple adult beverages. And of course, their loosely assembled findings say that the effect of alcohol on one’s possible knowing abandonment of a baby shield disease prevention sack might be somewhere in the neighborhood of a 3 to 5 percent increase in “I don’t give a fuckitude”, which they immediately tie to how “the role of alcohol consumption and risky sex intentions can be applied to better understanding important public health issues such as the transmission of HIV.”

Now, I’m not a Doctor of Science, and I don’t claim to be. Sure, I like to run around in the lab coat I bought at the flea market and nothing else screaming about how a single injection from my flesh needle will cure what ails ya, but that should never be taken as intended to treat or diagnose any potential illness. I mention the last sentence about “understanding public health issues” almost exclusively because I love the term “risky sex intentions” and for no other reason. The writing in the article in which I found this information is piss poor and mockable on its own, regardless of the content, but every time I see the phrase “risky sex intentions” I can’t help but giggle and take another drink.

The biggest “revelation” in this “research” is the ground breaking finding that “the more alcohol participants consumed, the higher their willingness to engage in unsafe sex”.

…

Uh-huh…

I don't know, he seems like a responsible enough Warrior of the Realm.

“Alcohol is influencing their decision processes,” said a no doubt stunned Jürgen Rehm, director of the Really Long Sciencey Title at, I can only assume, Canada’s Centre for Things We All Pretty Much Already Know.

So let me get this straight. A substance that loosens inhibitions and impares cognitive ability somehow effects how much you think squeezing your reproductive organs into a tight latex sock is a good and important idea? I was unaware that this sort of thing needed researched, but fine, papers have to be written, research budgets have to be spent.

The dumbfounded doctor of the well known later went on to say that:

“Drinking has a causal effect on the likelihood to engage in unsafe  sex, and thus should be included as a major factor in preventive efforts for HIV.”

And it’s at this point that I think we need to settle down just a little bit. Now alcohol awareness is a “major factor” in preventing HIV? Really? This study of yours Canadian Umlaut, based on little more than what drunk people say they might do with their drunken parts, is what you’re going to hang your science hat on and call a “major factor in preventative efforts for HIV”? Now, I don’t have HIV (Ladies…) but I know people who do, and I’m pretty certain that a couple drinks isn’t going to make them forget that their dicks are poison. People with a virus as potentially dangerous as this one, if they know they are carrying it, are generally pretty careful about what they put on their appendages and into whom they place them. Of course, I suppose part of the argument could be that it increases the likelihood of those who are unaware that they are infected might pass it unknowingly because booze told them to, but I think this study is being a lot more irresponsible than most infected individuals will be.

I freely admit that there’s probably more to this study than this article, apparently scribbled by a ninth grade english student being chased around his school newspaper class, has shared, so I’m not entirely sure whether I should be blaming poor reporting or poor research for screaming AIDS in a crowded bar. So I guess all I’m saying is this: Booze isn’t the bad guy. The bad guy is the bad guy. Be careful who you insert a part of your body into and vicey versey. Stranger danger extends to the inside of the pants of your new friend. You may have just shared a drink or nine with this nice person, but you don’t know where their moving pieces have been. You’re just meeting them for the first time now, so don’t assume they’ve always been on their best behavior.

Van Full of Candy says, PYP: Protect Your Parts! Because if you don’t, who will?

Party People! You Win Some, You Lose Some: Headaches vs. Mistake Babies

This week has been an uneven one for those who like to party first and deal with party related consequences eventually. We at Van Full of Candy are known to be fans of both “Party” and “Consequences”. The first is fun, the second is hilarious and the combination of the two is often hilariously fun. That is, as long as those hilarious consequences of party are being felt by others. The amount of fun and hilarity one experiences as a result of party consequences is in direct relation to exactly how much it effects you personally. Party Fact.

Not so fast rapedy, where's your doctor's note? Clock's tickin'.

First, Wednesday, Party People who like to put their Party Parts in the parts of other Party People got the bad news that the Plan B Party Pill was going to have to stay behind the pharmacy counter. The FDA had ruled that anybody who had $50 and a need to unhappen a late night baby could pick up the pill in their local anywhere without having to let the Pharmacist know how much they like to Party. But “Health and Human Services Secretary Kathleen Sebelius”, thinking of course, of the children, decided that it was best to avoid the impulse buy madness that allowing just anyone to toss a couple de-preggers in your basket would most certainly cause, you know, because it’s best to stock up for those times when you just don’t want to pull on one of those Pesky Pecker Party Ponchos.

I can naturally understand the Human Services Lady’s point of view. Sebelius’ concern was apparently that “girls as young as 11 are physically capable of bearing children and Plan B’s makers didn’t prove that younger girls could properly understand how to use this product without guidance from an adult”. Completely fair and rational and understandable. Eleven year olds like to party. Party Fact. Also a fact, all over the counter drugs that can be harmful to children without proper guidance from an adult must be proven to be properly understandable to eleven year old girls before it can be sold to the public. Never mind that the use of this product, a pill, is covered by one of humanities most basic function, the “forward swallow”, or that said pill can in no way do any sort of damage what so ever to a tween whether taken properly or improperly (unless I guess, ingested into the brain stem through a child’s blow hole perhaps), the fact that the product does not explicitly explain that fact is apparently tragically unsafe and worthy of keeping it off of shelves.

Party People 17 and older that want to exterminate impending womb vermin can still do so without prescription, as before, by simply telling the “doctor” behind the counter that she had a party in her pelvis and everyone was invited. Those under 17 will continue to need a prescription from their local clinic. Don’t mind the van parked outside with pictures of inside out fetus parts or all of the lovers of invisible sky persons calling you a whore, they’re just there to make sure you don’t let the next guy get away with saying that he can’t feel anything when stuffed in his Party Prophylactic. And hey, don’t worry if the doctor calls to inform your parents that you’ve just picked up a life unruiner pill, if one of ‘em’s the reason you’re there, they’ll probably love to hear the news!

But fret not lovers of all things party! The FDA, yes, the same FDA that tried to let you decide for yourself whether or not you knew how to operate a pill properly, just today approved a drinky don’t hurt disk for mass consumption following a night of massive consumption. “Blowfish” an “Alka-Seltzer like tablet” is a hangover cure on its way to a non Plan B stocked store shelf near you!

Plop plop, fizz fizz, oh what a LOUD FIZZ THAT IS!

No longer will you have to pay for your night of heavy drinking with head aches and tummy aches and mysterious muscle strains and bruises that you can not explain and continuously tell your friends not to explain. With its (not at all) patented combination of 1,000 milligrams of Aspirin, 120 milligrams of caffeine and an unspecified (in the article that I found this information at least, and I’ve used up all of my research coupons for the year) quantity of antacid, “Blowfish” is set to take a prominent place in Van Full of Candy’s Party Purse, which is actually a medicine bag that we bought at a gas station inside an Indian reservation that we were assured was not only blessed by the tribe’s shaman, but was very masculine and didn’t at all look weird for us to be wearing. This’ll fit in quite nicely with our embarassingly purchased Plan B pills and notarized consent forms. With a name like “Van Full of Candy” written authorization to consensually violate another human being sets a lot of minds at ease.

Now the “Blowfish” product didn’t actually NEED to be approved by the FDA since it’s “composed of ingredients already aveilable for over the counter sales”, but instead needed approval of its packaging.

“Like all drug packaging, it has a lot of warnings for people with certain conditions,” Brenna Haysom, creator of Blowfish said. “And pregnant women should not take it, but hopefully they don’t need to be taking it!”

An excellent point. Women who are pregnant shouldn’t take a fizzy pill with a cup of coffee’s worth of caffeine, because that would be bad. Oh, and naturally, as Brenna so wryly points out, tongue planted firmly in drunken cheek, pregnant women shouldn’t be NEEDING to take the product in the first place since it’s a hang over cure and as most Party Preggos know, they shouldn’t be drinking beer. It’ll make the baby too fun and charismatic.Party Fact.

So Party People, get out there and have a good time knowing that the consequences that need the most urgent attending to are covered. If bright lights and loud noises make your head an itty bitty bit ouchy, the FDA approved product that can help you will soon be at the 7-11 register next to the energy shots and scratchers. But if you get pregnant inadvertently or against your will, the FDA approved product that can help you will still be un-readily available to you because, you know, God.

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.

Hey Sugar Twat, Can Van Full of Candy Buy You a Drink?

Well, look at this, heaven must be missing it’s sexiest, most charming, best hung angel… ’cause here I am.

"I get knocked DOWN, but I get up again!"

But seriously though, I couldn’t help but notice you checking me out from across the bar. I get that a lot. I thought I’d make my way over here before you strained something molesting my delicious visage with your molesty eye hands from twenty yards. You’re welcome. Or, you will be, SEVERAL times… I mean sex. Oh, you got that, sure, of course you did. Oh you WILL get it, SEVERAL times… Again, sex.

Oh, come on, no need to be shy, I look good. I know it, you know it, our pants know it. If I looked any better in this shark skin smoking jacket I’d have to travel with a highly trained squad of sexy kung fu body guards just to keep the other squads of sexy kung fu body guards at bay. Fortunately, I’m fresh outta sexy kung fu body guards tonight, so it’s just you, me and the luscious feel of shark skin. You know, me and sharks have a lot in common. Oh yeah, it’s true. Just like a shark I can smell my prey’s warm, viscous fluids from miles away and like a shark I can never fall asleep because if I do I’ll drown… Doctor’s say it’s because of a gap in my glottal flap, but I like to think it’s because God knew I was just too smooth to waste a minute on my back without someone else on top of me.

Hey, where you going? Oh, I get it, you’re intimidated. You don’t think you’re good enough for me. Well, I’m not gonna lie, most of my regular class of lady are either models, super models, or have been black balled from the super model community for being too god damned sexy. But don’t be discouraged, I’m here to tell you right here, right now, you’re not nearly as fat as you think you are. That’s the truth, and that is a compliment. That’s a high compliment, believe that. I don’t say that to just any lady. I think you’re special. I think it’s your many, MANY flaws that drew me to you in the first place. You’re like a Picasso, you’re exotic because most of your shit isn’t where it’s usually supposed to be and while it makes me want to throw up all over you while screaming in utter horror, it’s also intriguing.

sweat... condensate...

Look, I get your game. It’s cute, but hard to get has always been one of my least favorite forms of foreplay. I did you a favor coming over here, you know? I could have just stayed in my corner booth, sippin’ my Old Milwaukee Gimlet while silently continuing to judge the fellatio contest going on under the table. Oh yeah, that’s what was happening. That is what was happening for absolute realsies. There’s a table cloth on there for two reason. One, because I’m the classiest mother fucker in this whole damned place, and two, because fellatio contests are a serious form of sexual competition that I have great respect for and I know that concentration and privacy are the key. But I saw you seeing me and I thought, “This chick’s got the mouth of a champion.” But maybe I was wrong. I don’t use the “R” word often missy, but I’m usin’ it here. I’m usin’ the shit out of it. I see now that you’re just stuck up, kind of a bitch, probably a lesbian and not even in my league any way. That’s alright, I knew that before I came over. I just thought I’d give you a thrill. Just a little tale you can tell your grand daughters someday about how they could have been much more attractive and charming if only their stuck up bitch dyke gran hadn’t been all uppity and shit that fateful night.

That’s alright, no skin off my naturally chiseled nose. Did I mention I’m a nose model? Yeah, that’s right, you’ve probably seen some of my work. Ever seen billboards? Yeah, well that’s me, all the time. No shit.

Hey, nice taser. You get a bowl of soup with that? Ha-HA! Oh, oh I see, it shoots mace too. Mace that is then electrified by the taser, that’s a new feature. Touche.

Alright, well I’m in excruciating pain now. I’m not sure if I’m actually on fire, or if it just FEELS like I head butted the sun. So let’s just call this a rain check. I come here a lot, I’m sure we’ll bump into each other again some time. Oh, hey, that’s a second volley of electrified non lethal liquid repellant. And that’s my cue to call it a night.

Sorry ladies, we’re going to have to pick the suck games up another time, this nice lady just melted my face off, two times. You’ve disappointed a floor full of super foxy dick suckers toots.

Hey, could somebody bring my car around? It’s the sky blue Taurus with the “CNTPNDR” plates. Give me a holler when we’re ready, I’ll just be over here screaming into this mop bucket full of ice until my throat bleeds. Check you on the flip chicky poo.

Smooches.

Van Full of Booze *hic*

I’m very committed to Van Full of Candy. I’ve been on vacation. I went to Burning Man last week and left a couple articles in my stead to keep my presence up. I am exceptionally drunk on my 4th Long Island Ice Tea of the evening. But here I am, drunk blogging at nearly midnight because of my commitment to the Candy filled Van. So really, what I’m saying is that I’m a hero.

I don’t use the term hero loosely. I reserve the word for exceptional circumstances like running into a burning building to save a pile of orphan puppies, or blogging on a full stomach of alcohol. These feats are equal in my blurry, blurry eyes.

I’m a saint. Statues should be built in my honor. Seriously. I’m kinda awesome.

My vacation will be over next week. I will resume my regular broadcast day Monday, but in the mean time, I am drinking for you, and me, and me some more, because that is what you expect from we at Van Full of Candy…

You’re welcome…

See you Monday. If I don’t die of alcohol poisoning. Which of course I won’t… For you, the loyal reader.

You’re welcome.

I love you guys. I can totally drive home guys, I live like 5 blocks from here. I’m totally fine, seriously…

*pass out* *fall down* *vomit* *roll me over so I don’t die*

PROOF That Amy Winehouse Was Murdered by Not Drinking!

I don’t want to say I told you so. I mean, I’ve told you time and time again about how I hate to be the one to tell you that I told you. If there’s one thing that anyone who knows me can tell you that I’ve told them is that the thing that I enjoy least in the world is telling them that I don’t want to tell them that I told them I wouldn’t tell them…

But I fuckin’ told you so.

Amy Winehouse: murdered by sobriety! Case closed! How is it case closed? How do we now know beyond a shadow of a doubt that Amy was killed in cold blood by the absence of alcohol? Because the family “says toxicology tests show there were no illegal drugs in her system when she died”.

BOOYAKA!

Air tight, non-smoking gun of smoke filled guns. No illegal drugs in her system = assassination by lack of alcohol. One plus one still equals two, does it not? … Does it not? It’s been a long time since I’ve had a math class, things may very well mean different things than how I remember them.

Absolute definitive proof that a lack of alcohol killed our Ms. Winehouse… Especially when you consider that according to the tests “alcohol was present” in her system. FURTHER PROVING that quitting alcohol “cold turkey” killed her!

“Abstinence gave her body such a fright they thought it was eventually the cause of her death,” a family source told  The Sun, one of Brittain’s always trustful newsesque Tabloid publications.

See, her family still believes that Amy dropping the sauce “completely for three weeks” was such a “shock for her tiny body” that it simply could not cope with “such a dramatic withdrawal”. And they are clearly pointing to the absolute lack of illegal drugs in her system as proof positive that she was killed by not drinking alcohol… So, the fact that alcohol was found in her system can mean only one thing, and is the final piece to the puzzle of the death of Amy Winehouse. TO THE VFoC SCIENCE LAB OF IMPOSSIBLE OCOURANCES!

Overcome by exhaustion from finding so much booze a loving home.

Amy Winehouse, singer of songs, drinker of things; seeing that her life was in grave danger at the mouth of a bottle, decided to muster the power of her famed self control and restraint, and kick booze right between the o’s. So, the first several weeks was spent disposing of all of the alcohol that heretofore had been her only source of nourishment. This process went on for some time, unfortunately spilling into her professional life, as evidenced by video of her stumbling and incoherent during her aborted European tour approximately a month before her death, which was clearly brought on by the exhaustion of humanely disposing of so very much alcohol back into the wild.

Then, as the weeks of clean living piled up, her treacherous body, unwilling to live as her will demanded, began to turn against her. Seeing clearly that alcohol would not be provided externally any longer, as Amy’s unwavering determination refused to waver in the face of waverable circumstances, her organs knew that they had to begin producing their own fermented good times. And so her liver, in conjunction with her pancreas, kidneys, large intestine, spleen and the master mind of it all, her appendix began the process of transforming her internal fluids into alcohol.

Visual approximation of Amy Winehouse's current state of being.

Being in perfect tune with all of her various inner workings, Amy was immediately aware of the nefarious plot of her internal moving parts. Knowing that the mutinous squishy parts of her could not be reasoned with, and determined to never again be turned to the drunk side, Amy understood what she had to do. Focusing her essence, channeling her universal flow and harnessing the forces of being as only one who has achieved a 407th level consciousness as Amy had, can, choosing to simply halt her corporeal functions before being corrupted again by her easily corruptible flesh.

So weep not for Amy, she was ultimately a hero, saving the world from drunken organs that would certainly have eventually over run her body and taken over the world, their unquenchable thirst driving it ever forward until it enveloped this world and eventually, swallowed whole all of reality.

Thank you Amy, thank you for your service to sentient beings everywhere.

And I fuckin’ told you so.

Amy Winehouse: Sobered to Death!

What is the only thing more dangerous than washing down a quart of vodka with a gallon of gin? NOT doing that exact thing.

Fully topped off with "Star Fuel" and ready to rock it out!

Amy Winehouse, VOICE of a TENTH of a generation and general pile of human mess, did not die as a result of the excesses of a lifestyle that made her biggest hit so ironic and adorable. She was MURDERED by SOBRIETY! CAPITAL LETTERS EXCLAMATION POINT!

According to “family sources” the shock to her body of not being pickled in delicious alcoholic beverages was just too much for it to bear, and after sucking every possible drop of life giving booze from every tissue in what was left of her musculature, her addled frame simply seized, unable to handle being separated from the only form of liquid inside it and tragically took the life of our precious, precious flower. To try to give you an example of what to compare this to, just imagine a car without oil, a Hybrid without hippie urine, or a Sheen not filled with Tigers,

You see, the family is saying that despite reports of Amy indulging in a 72 hour drink-a-thon prior to her “surprising” death, that the real reason for her demise is that she’s a stupid fuck. Their words, not mine. See she was supposedly instructed to gradually decrease her alcohol intake from “Norse Myth” levels to “Roman Orgy” levels and so on down the drunken scale, to carefully reduce the levels of fun in her body. And the woman that said “No, no, no.” to previous offers of assistance (according to FAMILY MEMBERS) told medical professionals that it’s all of nothing. She either never stops drinking or she never stops never drinking. And her family’s well reasoned hypothesis is that the sudden halt of personality swallows was too much of a shock to a self ravaged system.

And really, their “logic” is hard to argue. Alcohol is, after all, one of the essential building blocks of life. The human celebrity is composed of 62% alcohol, with the remaining 38% comprised of mainly amphetamines, opiates, cannabis and an over inflated sense of self worth and misguided feeling of invincibility. Exact amounts vary on a case by case basis. So asking a celebriwreck to abstain from alcoholic consumption, is tantamount to telling the Earth to go fuck it’s oceans. And then where would this fine planet of ours be? A shriveled, brown, husk of it’s former glory. Just like Amy Winehouse.

Satellite photograph of Mrs. Winehouse hours before her time of death...

Now again, just to be perfectly clear, that’s not ME saying that; that’s “family sources”. I would never say such things, because I’m mostly not a lunatic. But I’m also not an alcohol doctor, so I don’t know, it may be entirely possible that suddenly stopping killing yourself could kill yourself. I’m not qualified to say one way or the other. The same way I’m not qualified to say that Amy Winehouse was a liquor fueled zombie who cruelly had her life source yanked away from her by “professionals” and “people who cared for her well being”, causing her to dry up like a neglected tin man, before falling over, shattering into a cloud of crusty, dehydrated slivers and being blown away on the breeze like a Spider-Man villain. That’s not for me to say, that’s for HER OWN FAMILY (according to a “source”) to say, which they have, in not so many words…

So what have we learned then from this brave, flimsy song drinker? Hmm? Well, we’ve learned that if you have flushed your system of all vital fluids and replaced them with 300 proof drinky fun times, apparently it’s better to quit gradually, allowing your body the opportunity to replenish your juices as the fermented happy liquids fighting the endless struggle of keeping you upright while simultaneously trying to knock you down, are being drained.

Secondly, if you have a family who in interview after interview kept telling who ever would ask them “It’s not a matter of if she’s going to die young and tragically, but when. If only there were something that I could do, because I apparently care ever so much, but alas, there isn’t.” and you expect them to have any sort of rational reaction to the “sudden” and ”unexpected” news of their relative passing, then you’re going to wind up with them blaming not being shot with bullets as the most likely cause of sudden acute deadness.

And third, and I think most importantly: as long as you keep drinking, you will never die. So pour me another glass of immortality juice and let’s party like if we ever stop it’ll kill us!

It’s Raining Baseball Fans

Soon helmet giveaways at the ballpark won’t just be novelty promotions, but mandatory equipment given out before every game to protect lunatics from accidentally murdering themselves diving from rafters for collectible garbage.

I don’t know if you’ve heard the news, but there’s a hot new trend at the nation’s basedballing sport complexes: face diving onto cement from heights unsurvivable!

Last week at a Texas Rangers game, nearly seventy-five percent of the fans in attendance fell to its death from the upper deck. I’m sorry, I read that wrong, one man at a Texas Rangers game last week fell from the upper deck to his death. I apologize, that’s closer to 50%. Then, yesterday, during the Homed Running Derby of Hitting Competitions in someplace called “Phoenix” another idiot tried to hurl himself at a $5 souvenir laughably out of his reach and was only saved by the mistaken instinctive actions of those around him trying to protect him from his own unbridled stupidity as if his life were worth preserving.

This is really a guy you're going to try to save from what he's about to do?

Sports memorabilia is a very big, very dumb obsession, I know; I still have the bandana full of bottle openers that Charlie Hough hit me with at a Scottsdale Rite Aid back in ’98, and I cherish it as if it shattered my very own ocular bone: which it did. But these aren’t a home run ball that Mark McGwire kept his used steroid needles in after he’d already filled up the cat litter bucket he used to dispose of them in but before he had a new empty to fill, or the ball that Babe Ruth choked to death on when he mistook it for a heroin caked cheeseburger. The guy at the Rangers game was diving for a foul ball that Rangers outfieldman Josh Hamilton was throwing into the crowd and the idiot that tried to kill himself yesterday was at least ten rows away from a meaningless homerun derby dinger. Both of which, on the open market would fetch just about as much as any slightly used baseball listed on craigslist right now: “free, you pick up”.

Naturally, people hurtling themselves over railings, thirty or more feet above anything at all, is causing Major League baseball to look into the safety and security of their ball parks. Rather than simply, say, holding up these cases of the dip shitity of launching yourself from your insanely priced seats and understanding that the ball that the player that time will never remember just leisurely lobbed in your direction is the exact same one as those in the souvenir stand and probably isn’t worth a shattered face and traumatic, nationally televised orphanism.

And think of the players; won’t you? A quote from an actual article reporting the Rangers fan’s death:

There is also concern for Josh Hamilton, the player who tossed the ball. He’s battled his way back from addiction, and now has to deal with potential feelings of guilt over what happened.

Now please, don’t get me wrong, I understand that a professional atheletist must naturally feel some level of personal guilt that comes from shorting a throw, but I think the main thrust of the story is that a man just threw himself to his death in front of his six year old son in pursuit of a sports sphere of zero importance. Yes, it’s sad that the man DIRECTLY RESPONSIBLE for this otherwise perfectly dexterous and well reasoned bat bases swing ball enthusiast’s untimely spine compression might want to have a drink after witnessing, someone so willing to put their life at risk, trusting completely in his ability to competently do what he is paid millions of dollars to do just a single time in a way that the recipient would not have to put himself in mortal danger, be so terribly wrong; but the story is about this suddenly shorter ex-father and his inability to see the ball into his glove like a four year old t-ball player. Focus up news story. If anything, this experience should certainly make Mr. Hamilton an infinitely better fielder as from now until he exhales his final dying breath he will envision every recipient of his throw as potentially falling to their untimely, comical death directly in front of their barely comprehending toddler as a direct result of his precision or lack thereof. That’s gonna make him throw all the way through from here on out I think.

Not a speck of awareness of his own mortality in his eyes.

I don’t blame Josh Hamilton for one Texas man’s lack of a self preservation instinct, that’s dumb. I also don’t blame baseball stadiums. I, as usual, blame idiots. They come in all shapes and sizes and they’ll accidentally assassinate themselves no matter how impossible the world tries to make it. Admittedly, a thigh high railing over a 30 foot fall is not the BEST tool to fight tools, but what WILL keep the stupid from jumping after the pretty approaching orb? As we have continued to moron proof the world, I don’t doubt at all that in the near future all baseball stadiums will be built with chain link enclosed bleachers, locking the crowd in like the animals they are for their own good. And of course, it still won’t be enough, because as any Giants fan at Dodger Stadium will tell you once they’ve regained the ability to speak, not all of the danger is on the field.

So over react as quickly as you can baseball. Encase the stands in memory foam and packing peanuts double time, because before you can say “problem solved” some forehead is going to choke to death on a hunk of NASA technology that his buddies bet him a beer he couldn’t snort.