Welcome To (Alleged) Fatherhood Justin

MAZELTOV!

AND Sandy with Keanu?! Well now I've heard everything!

Oh Justin, we’re so very, very (allegedly) happy for you! I’m sorry this is a couple months late, but to be fair, you’re just finding out about it yourself now aren’t you? Wow, who’d a thunk it? Our little Justin Bieber already a daddy. Seems like just yesterday you were also still a child one day younger than you are today… Circles and something about Spring and… sun rise, or something, I think…

Anyway, lazy metaphorical imagery aside, I can’t believe our little Biebs has already grown up. Well, when you think about it, I guess it’s not too surprising to hear that you’re already (allegedly) littering your southern neighbor, these fantasmical United States of the Americas, with Bieber Brood in every town you pass through. I mean, honestly, every night thousands of recently egg producing fans scream at the top of their lungs for your not yet legal loins; does the world honestly expect you not to have a field day with that endless salad and bread sticks of vadge? You are an international pop star, it is fully understood by everyone who purchases a ticket and every parent who sends their lady child to a mega star’s concert venue that by doing so they forfeit their right to not be penetrated by said super star. Why do you think I keep an extra pair of undies tucked into my sock every time I go anywhere that live music could potentially be over heard? Well that’s one of the reasons!

I guess really the only surprise is that we haven’t heard of all of the rest of them yet. But give it ten years or so when American public schools (if such things exists in a decade) are flooded with foreheadless cherubic adolescent song birds, being scooped up in the night by stealth Disney Channel extraction teams. There won’t be enough back streets or numbers of degrees with which to catalog the limitless Boy Banditry!

I do have some sympathy for how your wonderful, life changing, special news has been delivered though Justin. I mean, no body wants the beloved (alleged) mother of their child to tell the entire damned world in a court filing, under the penalty of perjury, that the conception of your child with your fellow procreationist, which also just so happened to be your (alleged) virginal deflorination, had all the romance of a halftime leak and the longevity of the Final Jeopardy theme music. No man wants seven billion human souls to know that the (alleged) half minute grunt and squirt that culminated in your be-fathering was very likely punctuated by the flushing of a nearby urinal by a confused, groggy concert goer.

Now, if I may, I would like to speak directly to the (alleged) mother of your child, Mariah Yeater, for just a moment Justin, if I may. Mariah, Justin is a very special boy to us. We’ve been chronicling Justin Bieber’s crazy year since there’s been a Van Full of Candy. Please, don’t make us have to get our heaviest hair brush and learn you some shit! Don’t you DARE break our Justy Just’s heart! What you got after that show in Los Angeles isn’t just a souvenir! It’s (allegedly) Justin’s first born! The first in line to the Bieber throne! Naturally you will have all of the protection of the “Secret Beliebers” at your back. You will never know we are there, but we will keep you and the child god safe until it is time for its ascension.

Remember, no shaking. Just keep repeating it to yourself, it helps.

Oh the joys you have ahead of you Justin. Parenthood, as I understand it, is a wonderful thing, filled with years of not resenting the unwanted child for its role in robbing you of your youth and your dreams, constant open communication filled with loving respectful conversations about love and respect with never a single moment of feeling taken for granted. There’s also never any nagging thoughts of disappointment in your off spring for the horrible choices they’ve made or fear that your poor parenting might have destroyed the inherent potential of this new life, hamstringing it from birth with your own poorly sculpted psyche, (molded by your own parents’ clumsy, inept guidance) closing doors for it before they ever knew they were ever open at all…

Just remember Justin, every child’s a miracle. And just because this one was (allegedly) conceived in a 30 second tryst in a Staples Center bathroom after a show, doesn’t make it any less so.

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?

We'll all die alone, a lifetime of regrets the last thought in our mind... SMOOCHES!

 

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.

Get Your Digital Diddle On: It’s Only Natural

Birds do it, bees do it, even perverts in the trees do it. Let’s do it, let’s fuck online.

Chances are, if you’re on the internet (which as of this printing is still the only way that I know you could be reading this, though if you know of any others, please let us know), then you’re probably reading this with one hand in your pants, leisurely pleasuring yourself. That’s just a science fact. Because as you know, every new invention since the dawn of man has come about due to a need to advance the field of physical gratification.

A great advancement in porn science.

Fire? Invented so cave perverts could violently flog their pre-historic, barbed procreation utensils to crude vagina wall paintings at night.

The wheel? Walking from one clubbed female’s dwelling to the next had worn out its novelty. The pre-men of yesterage also needed some way to easily signal potential mates of their remaining virility at the ripe old middle age of 14.

Sliced bread? The Manwich.

So it should come as a surprise to exactly no one that the internets too were created solely for the transmittal and reception of pornographic images, thoughts and ideas. As with bread, people have simply adapted sex technologies to be used in other walks of life. Now, a study done by a New Brunswick researcher is attempting to shed some light on the internet’s original purpose for existence: cybersex.

Krystelle Shaughnessy, (clearly a made up name, even by Canadian standards of ridiculous namery) a psychology student at the University of New Brunswick decided to research the role of cybersex in the current internet landscape while, not surprisingly, cybering her sex. Engaged in a long-distance relationship, and being a modern woman of the 21st century Krystelle did what anyone would in her position, try to justify her deviant nature with a college research paper.

Her hypothesis was that, “where her grandmother would have put pen to paper to maintain such an affair, and her mother would have picked up the phone, her natural medium was online.”

"Dearest Eustace, my loins quiver for your absent dong."

And she’s right. As I’ve explained, pen, paper and the telephone were all invented for sexual purposes. Just try not to imagine after this painstakingly detailed recounting, your beloved Nana’s penmanship gradually deteriorate as she furiously scribbled her dirtiest thoughts into a steamy letter of passion and naughtyness, then handing it to the postman with a blush, knowing just what it was that he was holding in his hands to be delivered to Peepaw so that he might feverishly pleasure himself to the naughty words of his beloved, before wondering what this harlot who could spew such filth might be doing with the rest of her time not filled with scribbling her most deviant thoughts. Basically, what I’m saying is that your grandparents were distrustful sickos who traded sex drenched letters while they were apart, and carry with them, even today, secrets that they will be buried with…

Now where was I?

Oh, that’s right, the office chair hand dance.

“A key piece in the research that I’m conducting right now is, who do you have cybersex with? One thing that is across the board — whether I’m talking to researchers, students, anybody — is this notion that cybersex is two strangers hiding from their offline partners engaging in sex online, and I don’t think that’s reality,” she said.

Here, the fine researcher and I differ in opinion. But I suppose our only difference is what percentage of which is what…

Let me clarify.

Cybersex, as it has existed since the invention of the internet, has been largely two men pretending to be lesbians having sexy chat times, sans pants. That has remained the one constant in the ever evolving intertubes. The definition of “stranger” then becomes a sticking point. Obviously there is some getting to know this person pretending to be someone else. So when do we go from fake lesbian intercourse with a stranger to fake lesbian intercourse with an acquaintance or even fake lesbian intercourse with a friend? Fewer instances of cybersex are initiated between people who have known each other before chatting online than vicey versey is what I’m saying. More people have come together with the intention to come together than because distance necessitates it.

“I think my key thing going into this was to try to normalize a behaviour I think is fairly normal,” she said.

And while noble, and understandable, there is no normal on the internet. In a place where the words “two girls” and “one cup” now mean something that we could never have previously imagined, the wild west of human sexual deviances doesn’t want to be normalized and doesn’t need to be justified. We are a creature who evolved thumbs solely so that we could encircle our tingly bits with them. It’s our teachings over the years that that impulse is bad that makes it necessary to write a paper proving what you’re instinctively drawn to do is okay.

So what I’m saying is: human beings, get over yourselves.

Birds do it, bees do it, all the sickos and the sleaze do it. Let’s do it, let’s turn on our webcams and take off our pants!

The “No Cut Off My Penis” Clause

Men, burn this image into your memory !!

This is probably the most painful thing I’ve ever had to write, no seriously !! The lady above, Kieu Becker, decided enough was enough with her marriage and decided to whack her husband’s pecker off and throw it in the garbage disposal. But it gets worse! She then decided to turn the garbage disposal on … HOLY F WOMAN !! That’s some badass shit right there. You wanna talk about somebody’s sex-life going down the drain. I don’t even know if I continue writing this all hunched over the keyboard grabbing my junk.

I guess I can finish this with one hand, so here goes … I don’t know what dude did to his wife, but I think there needs to be a new rule in place for relationships, and that rule is: If you are so dissatisfied with your relationship and you are thinking about cutting the sexual organ off of your partner (man or woman) you have to say it out loud once to your partner so that they have fair warning that it’s a possibility.

Example #1: “I really feel like putting sleeping pills in your dinner tonight, and once you’re passed out I’m going to tie you up and cut off your dick!” … See? Fair warning. This man now has a choice to get the F out of Dodge.

Example #2: “After I talk you into having kinky sex with me tonight and letting me tie you up to the bed, I’m going to cut your vagina off.” …  See how this works? Simple. Just a little warn-warn.

So people, women in particular, please, put the knife down, take a deep breath and give us a quick heads up that you’re thinking of “Bobbit’ing” us so that we will one day be able to get our … heads up … again. Thanks.

Happy Birthday iPhone, You Skinny Bitch

Wow, I can’t believe that it’s been four whole years since we started dating. It only seems like yesterday when your camera only had 2 megapixels and you still had your cute baby fat which I was really attracted to. You were such a simpler girlfriend back then, so much nicer, you used to be so attentive to my needs, God I miss those days. Over the years you’ve changed. You started working out, tanning, getting your hair colored and even started yoga even though you said you hated it. You’ve started dressing different now that you’re so svelte and it seems you hardly even notice me anymore since you’ve become so “Hollywood”. I’ve just become “that guy who carries me around”, and that really hurts because I have a name damnit.

I remember when you used to weigh 135 grams. Yes I said it, I know you don’t want anyone to know how big you used to be, but since our relationship is going downhill, I’m going to air out all of our dirty laundry right here, right now! I used to lovingly lug you around in my pocket, and trust me it wasn’t easy back then, but sacrifice is how relationships work. I loved you, and you loved me and nothing else mattered. But now you have competition with that new sexy Android slut, and even though I would never look at her in a lustful way, your jealousy is getting the best of you. I understand if you’re looking for a way out of what we have, but let me tell you, you’re making a huge mistake. She’s sexy yes, but you are my true love! True, I may have held her a couple of times and commented on her gigantic screen, but none of that matters. You’re way hotter than her. I don’t care if you enlarged your screens, got lasik surgery for better sight, increased your knowledge with those fancy French and pottery classes you’ve been taking. I don’t care that you’ve lost 3.5 mm from your waist, I used to adore those cute love handles. Remember how I would grab on to those babies? Smacking that ass, your loud ringtones going off, and how hot your battery charger used to get  when I was all up in … sorry … I’m losing focus, but you know what I mean.

I hope this letter reaches you well, and I really do hope that you’ve found your true happiness out there wherever it may be. But just know that there’s a guy out there that still really cares about you regardless of what you look like, because he knows the real you and I don’t even care that you’ve gained 2 grams over the years. A guy who will always be there for you if you ever choose to return, and still smiles when he thinks about the fun times we used to have in the car with Shazam.

Happy Birthday

Defenders of Sexy Teachers

I'm a little affraid of a teacher named "Miss Johnson"s potential "pop quiz".

It’s no secret that Van Full of Candy is a supporter of hot teachers.  It’s a brave, bold stance that we have long taken when ever a poor, misunderstood educator is arrested for doing things that we wish had been done to us in school. Of course we couldn’t possibly defend EVERY apple polishing head mistress every time we heard about another one getting carted away. That would become a full time job, a naughty, dirty, naughty, sexy, naughty full time job. Don’t get us wrong now, we fully understand that people being charged with the task of learnin’ yer kids should not be engaging in the befouling of the under aged. That’s wrong in almost every state, and to varying degrees depending on posted age limits in the other blue, orange and green shaded globe blobs that we are told are “other countries”. Which is why today’s attack on sexy teachers has us in such a tizzy.

Brittni Nicole Colleps is a small town Texas girl, a first year English teacher and coach of the Freshman girls’ basketball team– Hey! No silly, pull those pants back up, I didn’t just read that out of a letter to Penthouse, this is fer realzies. Not to imply that Penthouse letters’ authenticity should ever be questioned, I’m not saying that. Each and ever account of steamy escapades reported in that fine publication of note is rigorously fact checked by hand. That is my guarantee to you, the reader.

So Mrs. Colleps teaches Englishes and Basketballery at Kennedale High, a suburban North Texas school near Arlington. She is a mother of three and is married to a no doubt very brave fighting man serving over seas. And when she’s not stressing verb conjugation or an ankle crackin’ cross over, she likes to have as many students as she can count on one hand over for a nice, fun and informative “after school special”. Now before you get all indignant and finger pointy at us and our condoning of this horrible crime against children, let me tell YOU a little something. Each of these five students with which Mrs. Colleps is alleged to have simultaneously banged were all 18 years of age. So there, don’t you feel silly for assuming the worst in this story of teacher student group sexcapades!

Unfortunately her facebook profile seems to be down, otherwise we'd be besties.

So then the natural question is, “Crime wha huh?” That’s certainly what came to MY mind somewhere deep in the list of things that came to mind when first hearing about this story. Usually it goes without saying that a teacher/student romance is bound to somehow involve underagedy. But it seems that proper carding was done in this case and no harm no foul, you’re free to go Mrs. Colleps, we’ll just keep these texted pictures and the camera phone video footage we found on one of the boy’s pocket telephonic devices, you know, for safe keeping and we apologize for any misunderstanding. There was no crime committed here. This was simply good natured hi-jinx between six consenting adults. This is only a crime because the law says it’s a crime. Which I guess makes it a crime…

It seems in Texas, as well as probably a few other places that I’m too lazy to research, even if your students are all sumptuous and otherwise legal in the eyes of god and whom ever, if you’re teaching them either the fundamentals of the English language or of a sound bounce pass, you are not allowed to also guide them in the ways of love and the making thereof. So while I’m sure Mrs. Colleps thought she had all her bases covered, making extra special sure that all of her starting lineup of hot senior studs was all of legal humping age so as not to run into any potential snags that might result in her soldier husband or their three offspring learning of her need for a pentagon of dong, unfortunately Texas forbids teachers from taking home school supplies.

But let’s be fair to the lovely Mrs. Colleps, she’s teaching in a school in Kennedale, a town of 7300. The school itself has a sexy, orgy worthy student body of 3200. She’s new in a town where almost 40% of the population goes to where she works and her husband is off selfishly fighting in some kind of war or another. She has needs, she apparently has LOTS of needs. What is this poor woman supposed to do!?

Sadly, it seems that this love story ends as most do, in jealousy. You see, when you exchange dirty text messages and swap digital photography of your genitalia with another individual, you expect that you have a special connection with those genitals. That’s what Mrs. Colleps’ first boy seemed to believe. After what history books would no doubt declare the most romantic courtship in the history of recorded time, Mrs. Colleps allegedly invited her young, BUT NOT TOO YOUNG, suitor to her home where they got to see first hand, what the small screens of their phones had only hinted at. They made love, mad, passionate love, which in another text Brittni (I feel she would want me to call her Brittni, even if I hate that she spells it with an “i” at the end which, for an English teacher I feel hurts her credibility just a little) said they “had fun” and invited him back for another round of hide the ruler. But when her one and only shower up this time, he found that he was going to be waiting in line and apparently that hurt his little feelings. So rather than sharing, which all of us should have learned at some point in our lives, this sobbing little baby had to ruin it for everybody!

I feel like at this point I need to reiterate that I am in no way condoning anyone’s actions in this act of love, I am merely discondoning the selfish actions of one individual. And now this caring, GIVING, young lady is being charged with five counts of having an inappropriate relationship between a student and teacher, a second degree felony and is facing between two to twenty years per count! Is this really a punishment befitting this “crime”. Especially when this supposed crime is, in the opinion of this non-lawyer, fucking bullshit. The only crime here is loving too much, and if that’s a crime then you can lock me up in a cell with Mrs. Colleps, a camera phone and four of our best friends who have a better working understanding of what a good thing they’ve got and we can be criminals together.

The defense rests, in between sessions of committing more of these heinous “crimes”!

Osama bin Jackin’: The Diary of the “Little Terrorist”‘s Mind

Osama bin Laden was just like you and me. Wait. No. What I meant to say is that, you’re no different than Osama bin Laden. NO! No, that’s not it. Okay, let me start over.

Oh the naughty things that happen behind those walls

Osama bin Laden’s penis. It existed. So does yours. If you were born with one. Or if yours wasn’t lost in a horrible accident that you have changed the details of to sound much tougher than we all really know it was. The point is, Osama bin Laden was a man, a terror man, but a man none the less, and as such, he had a collection of pornography that “consists of modern, electronically recorded video and is fairly extensive”. Or so says Reuters. That’s right, when he wasn’t plotting ways to terrorize otherwise peace loving citizens of the world, he was terrorizing his Jihad junk, in what I can only imagine were dry, sandy, angry sessions of joyless, medically prescribed masturbation sessions. Mostly because when I try to think of it any other way, my brain turns off to protect me from myself and I wake up several hours later in a pool of what ever was in me before I went out.

It's always a surprise inside the dirty dirty burqa!

Of course this is the main reason I hope I’m not killed in a raid on my compound by highly trained military personnel… The embarrassing shit of mine they’ll find… And because I mostly haven’t done anything to warrant such action against me, but mostly because of the embarrassing thing…

But not surprisingly to those who know and understand us by now, we at Van Full of Candy have been able to obtain a list of the confiscated collection through one of our MANY friends in the special operations fields of our nation’s armed forces. We’re big with people who can murder you almost accidentally. So VFoC is proud to present just a very small sampling of some of Osama bin Laden’s personal compound stash entitled: “Osama bin Jackin’: The Pornographic Diary of a Big Terrorist’s “Little Terrorist”‘s Mind.”

“Adiba Does Abbottabad”

In the dusty footsteps of the ongoing saga of the ever popular “Debbie Does Dallas” series, Malik Productions introduces the latest Middle East version. Filmed on location in Abbottabad, this latest chapter follows the sexcapades of a young, hot, rogue, lady of the night as she explores as many Pakistani army men as one desert-hooker can possibly handle, and with a surprise ending that will leave you breathless and sandy in your crevices.

Starring: Foxy Fadiyah, Big Bahir, Ishaq and Salim Stone

“Over Privileged Infidel Cows Gone Wild”

It’s Spring Break and the painted whores of the decadent west are AT IT AGAIN! See them prance about, baring their disgusting flesh for the lascivious enjoyment of the gathered throngs… and YOU! Then, when they get back to the hotel, see ‘em defiling their bodies, wantonly dishonoring their families and ancestors ALL, NIGHT, LONG!

Starring: The yellow haired hussy, the ginger whore, that one who does that horrible thing in the shower and a cast of hundreds of sub human dogs.

“The Towers Twins Explode (Squirter Edition)”

Those hot, sexy, twins of the desert, Pixi Towers and Candy Towers are at it once again! In some of the hottest scenes ever captured on a magic carpet, these girls will blow your mind while they blow their geysers. So sit back, relax, throw on your snorkel gear and grab a seriously absorbent towel, cause it’s about to get explodingly wet up in here!

Starring: Pixi Towers, Candy Towers, Hung Habib and none other than Rafi the Rock

“Martyr Al Kahwai’s Heavenly Reward”

They may be 72 virgins, but you wouldn’t know it by how hot the action is! After exploding himself in a glorious attack on a food court full of non-believers, Yakish Al Kahwai awakens to find he’s late to the party and his 72 ladies have started without him! How will he ever catch up, he’s only got… ETERNITY!

Starring: Amtullah ”Tah-tahs” Afsoon, Muffy Marjaneh, Bambi Banou and Hareesusa laykum Logjammer as Martyr Al Kahwai

“Glory Burqa – Hidden Surprises 2″

If you’re a fan of glory holes, then this is the movie for you. Three possibly beautiful women show up where you would least expect and many lucky little Jihadists get t0 explore their Glory Burqa. You never know what the heck is underneath, it’s the Russian Roulette of oral indulgence, but all you need to know is that this is the most orgasmic Burqa flick you’ll ever lay eyes on, not that that even matters since you can’t see them.

Starring: F Me Fayruz, “Lips” Rubaba, and introducing Tameemah the Tongue

“Beard on Beard: Hot Cave Action #64″

When you’re battling along side fellow Jihadists in the most inaccessible mountains in the world for decades on end, you develop a bond, closer than friends, deeper than brothers, hotter than lovers. It gets hot in the caves of Afghanistan, and when the sun goes down, so does Fareed.

Starring: Yaseen bin Schlong, Aalam Al Throbknob and Imam Suck Puppet bin Qaaid ul Ghur ul Muhjjaleen.

Ugly / Rich x Powerful = Worth it?

If we’ve learned one thing from this morning’s Royal Wedding gala extravaganza hullabaloo, it’s that British parades are kinda sucky. If we’ve learned two things from this morning’s et al, it’s that if your pre-printed near future stationary and business cards read “Mutha fuckin’ KING y’all” you can get away with being more or less homely and borderline fugly, and still get to stick your scepter in a pretty smokin’ commoner. No one’s really out of your league when your stock pick up line is “Wanna be a fer rillz princess? And before you ask, yes, I do in fact own a courtesy hood for your completely understandable gag reflex to my visage.”

This naturally got us to thinking. just how powerful would a person have to be to out weigh the horrifically cruel joke the God of their own personal beliefs played on their face, laughing all the while from their fluffy cloud work bench. So we at Van Full of Candy would like to present our highly scientific Repulsion Negation Calculation Sensation! Or the ”Rich Enough to Make it Worth it-atron 94,000″!

Here we have our control subject. And I just  came three times in writing those last 6 words. He is truly a dream muffin wrapped in a sex cookie, slathered in kissable icing. This example of peak human male somehow managed to escape from the laboratory where secret hansom scientists were hard at work developing the world’s most perfect orgasm machine. We use this example of heretofore unknowable human hunkitude to calibrate our REtMiWi 94000, to ensure it is set at the proper levels to most accurately grade all lesser “men” that come after. And to give the REtMiWi 94000 a little thrill, it’s genitals may be robotic, but they still work.

-= REtMiTi 94000 Value =- 
Primary Employment: Chief Sewage Taster
Assets: $80,000 in outstanding student loans to a central Wisconsin Clown College/Bartending School and seven bankrupcies.

Mmmmmmm, well hello there healthy man. Your dark baggy eyes, that lickable moostache, that … hair. I can just hear the ladies lining up around the building to get a taste of that turkey neck. I guess with a mug like that, you had better have the best summer sausage in town, or at least a large one to feed the multitudes.

-= REtMiTi 94000 Value =-
Primary Employment: Generalissimo of an Oil Dripping Island Republic
Assets: A standing national army of black ops trained ring tailed lemurs. $9 Billion in hoarded humanitarian aid.

Ancient peoples used to raise the “fire headed child” as a special being, a gift from god, handed down directly from his box of “extra good” children. They would pamper it, giving to it all of their tribe’s finest things: the freshest of the kill, the ripest of the gathering. Each morning the fire headed child would be roused from it’s slumber by the gentle rubbings of a smoothed stone across its cheek, and would be lulled to sleep by the hummings of the entire gathered village. Then, upon the dawning of its thirteenth year, or the sprouting of the first orange pube, each of the members of the tribe would gather up the rock that they had collected the day of the special one’s birth and rain the stones down upon the sun set locks of the cursed one, sacrificing the demon to their sky monster for the promise of good harvest for the coming season… And this dude kinda looks like a scary stalker chick…

-= REtMiTi 94000 Value =-
Primary Employment: Actual Wizard
Assets: The eye of a newt, wing of a bat, a private castle in a non-rainy yet constantly thunderous hillside and all of the gold he can spin from the foolish townfolks’ foolishly discarded lead.

Howdy cowboy. Lets rustle up some pretty women, store them in your beehive-fro-velcro-patch and head on out on the dusty trail of love. Don’t pretend you can’t hear me, you can hear a gnat shit at a rock concert two states away Dumbo. I guess with all the extra money you’re earning sniffing out fugitives in the backwoods for the FBI, it’s no wonder the ladies are riding that underbite into the sunset.

-= REtMiTi 94000 Value =-
Primary Employment: First Astronaut on Venus
Assets: A 300 pound, solid platinum Venus rock, secreted home from his self named continent summer home on the shore of the liquid nitrogen sea where he rules all he surveys.

You think you should have any self worth what so ever? Well shut the fuck up stupid, because you’re fuckin’ wrong as usual! This fuckin’ guy will tell you just exactly what the fuck is wrong with you, and your car, and that fucking bullshit matted pile of cum speckled brittle stringy knotted straw bale shit fuck you call a god damned hair do! It’s not his fucking fault that you can’t handle the god damned truth when it’s shouting right in your stupid, fucking, idiot, dumb fuck FACE! God you piss him off so much sometimes. And by sometimes he means all the fucking time.

-= REtMiTi 94000 Value =-
Primary Employment: The Inventer of Money
Assets: A teddy bear from his stolen, and constantly longed for child hood. It is around this bear that any shred of human decency is ever seen in the gentle, innocent interactions he has with it when he thinks no one is watching. And a pile of cash that pokes the moon in the fucking eye.

Nothing smells more like the back of a windowless white creepy van than this guy, holy shit. Hey! Wait a minute! Nevermind. Uncle creepy drives up with offers of puppies and candy and a safe return home to mommy and daddy but you’re only left with Rorschach tests where everything looks like duct-tape, and crying fits whenever anyone mentions a Jolly Rancher. But hey it was worth it because powerful jawlines, red circled eyes and breath of wet kitty food is muy muy SEXXXY!

-= REtMiTi 94000 Value =-
Primary Employment: Time Traveler Bearing the Cures to all known disease.
Assets: A cache of future technology which every year he releases one piece of onto the home electronics market. A seven speed bionic tongue.

The Things We Do For Love

Love. It’ll make you do crazy things. Like, spell out your crush’s name in alphabet soup and text them a picture of it. Maybe hide little love notes in the Sunday classifieds. Or, if you’re really in love, cut off your beloved’s head in front of a school full of people fully not intending to be covered in neck juices today.

I read a lot of headlines when trying to come up with what I’m going to write about in a given day. Here at Van Full of Candy we do an article a day, rain or shine, every week day, without fail. That’s our promise, to you, the viewer. Sometimes the news is boring and it’s difficult to choose what to write about. I personally can only scream about my distrust of space and my legally frowned upon love of Justin Bieber so many times before I start attracting unwanted attention from swarthy, beautiful, Bieber Saucers from beyond the stars. And not again I say.

But scanning the news this afternoon I came upon this story: apparently a man in India beheaded a woman as she was leaving her classroom Wednesday.

"I am GOD here, my cud is final!"

Now, before we get into this, let me just say that I am in no way making light of the loss of life here. This is a horrible thing, without question and this lunatic should be dealt with in the most severe way that Indian courts allow. Which I assume is to feed him to a cow, if I understand my Indian culture correctly, which I almost certainly do not. Now with that out of the way, let me get back to the hahas.

The headline calls this man “lovesick”, which I can only assume is the nicest possible way the AP copy editor can phrase “batshit insane”. Apparently his main, discernible motivation, according to the police was that he so loved this woman that he had by now brutally murdered in one of the most violent and deliberate ways which one can murder another individual, but her parents would not allow them to marry. So naturally, he had to Highlander her. I don’t think you can in good conscience call a guy who bisects his love interest’s head from their body “lovesick” unless while in prison he is clinically diagnosed with a love sickness which causes the infected individual to believe that the removal of vital segments of the human body is the ultimate expression of emotional love for another not long living individual. So how about we not cutesy it up, ay Associated Press?

When flowers just won't do, say "I love you" with a Khykri.

Elsewhere in the brief article the “writer” goes on to say that the swordsman was arrested “on suspicion” of killing the victim and that he “allegedly” attacked her with a ceremonial curved weapon called a khykri. Now, I understand that in America we have to use certain words when describing the actions and perpetrator of said actions because of how our news media and justice system like to fuck with each other. But when you have a gentleman, holding a sword, next to a body with a now detached head that, in all likely hood, did not have that as a standard feature moments before, surrounded by blood soaked students, holding onto this lunatic until police could arrive, and who is now explaining to the police that he had ALSO intended to kill himself, I think it’s fairly safe to drop any sort of lingering suspicion as to whether or not he’s responsible for the untimely weight loss of the student at our feet.

But along with these questions I have of the lax hiring practices at the Associated Press, when I read something like this, I can’t help but have dozens of other, admittedly sort of morbid, but still I think valid questions, come to mind. How, for instance, this guy was just able to waltz onto this campus, what ever size it was, with a ceremonial knife and slicin’ on his mind. I realize this isn’t metal detector high school like we have here in America, but still, a guy with a special blade should draw some kind of attention. Or how this guy running around the halls with a commemorative sword was able to walk right up to this woman and just take her head for a ride BEFORE anyone thought it might be a good idea to make sure she was expecting a meeting between her throat and his simitar. OR, and this is the biggie, as the story simply says “Authorities say the blade sliced her head off and she died instantly” how the fuck the particulars of this case exactly went down. When I think beheading I think of a long drawn out process involving a sawing like motion. I don’t generally think Kill Bill style, slow motion mid air head flipping following one swift, dramatic stroke. Granted, I haven’t seen a lot of beheadings lately, so maybe I’m not the expect on how tenaciously the spine clings to the brain stem, but I expected those bones in our neck were there for more than just show.

You know what, I don’t know what to think about any of this or even why I think it. I just know that clearly, I’ve never truly loved in what I generously call my “life” because not once have I ever entertained the thought of making something six inches shorter because I was told I couldn’t have it… Maybe I just don’t know how to love hard enough.