Let Daddy Make It All Better [VIDEO]

Martin Luther King Jr. Disses America

Today was an historic day as the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial was unveiled to the public today at the National Mall in Washington D.C. . It is an awesome 30 foot granite statue of MLK Jr. showing his strength, and it’s based upon the “I have a dream” speech.

Perhaps the way I view the world is a bit skewed by prescription medication and high volumes of whiskey, but the first two things that came to my mind this morning when I saw the memorial was …

The Han Solo Memorial - "Laugh it up Fuzzball"

and …

And I'm the Kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing ... of rock !!

The fact that both Star Wars and RUN DMC were two of my favorite forms of entertainment growing up, I think they totally compliment the memorial. Two no nonsense figures who kicked ass and made it through hardships and tribulations. One in a futuristic setting who flied spaceships and comes to realize the importance of being part of a group and helping for the common good, and another who overcame the streets of Hollis, Queens, NY and rose above to become “The Greatest Hip Hop Group of All Time”. So WTF am I trying to say here? I really have no idea, except, I’m glad MLK is dissin’ us, “Cause it’s like that, and that’s the way it is … HUHHHHHH !!”

For the Last Time: Kanye West is Not Hitler

Shootin' down bein' Hitler noise wit Laser Beams-- PEW PEW!

People, this has simply got to stop. It seems a week doesn’t go by that I don’t have to step up and say the unpopular, but almost impossibly obvious to one and all: Kanye West is not Hitler. I thought we went over this. I thought we had all come to an understanding, that while Kanye West may very well have an over inflated sense of self worth, while Kanye West quite possibly believes he has super powers and the ability to rock it with the ferocity of ten super star, genetically enhanced crocodiles and though he almost certainly has exterminated his fair share of Jews; Kanye West is NOT Hitler.

Let’s take a look at the facts, shall we? First of all, Kanye West is alive, baby. Not only that, he’s super alive, he’s livin’ harder than the next eleven Kanye Wests out there. Meanwhile, Hitler is almost certainly dead. I haven’t seen his mustachioed bones, but it seems to me if he were otherwise, we would probably have heard something about it by now. So, exhibit A of thesis: Kanye West is not Hitler.

See, I’ve been trying to squash this before it reached the hardcore aural receptors of Kingye Best, but even my ever vigilant crusade to assure the universe that Kanye West was not Hitler could not keep the man from having to address it personally. I expect to be punished thoroughly for my failure, and I know that I will deserve it.

This last Saturday, while performing at the Big Chill music festival Kanye took a well deserved break from jam kicking, to let the audience know what was on his incredibly talented mind. You’re welcome audience.  

“I walk through the hotel and I walk down the street, and people look at me like I’m (expletive) insane, like I’m Hitler,” Not Hitler said. “One day the light will shine through and one day people will understand everything I ever did.”

Now sure, alright, yeah, you could argue that the last half of that sentence could maybe, kinda sorta sound a little bit like something Hitler might have said. But that doesn’t make the man Hitler! Not ONCE in the recorded history of Hitler, did Hitler ever say he wasn’t Hitler! Not once! Not Hitler case rested.

Of course, the audience, already well aware that there is no possible way that Kanye West COULD be Hitler, not after the multi-million dollar PSA campaign, returned to the be-Kanyed stage, a smattering of what the untrained ear might call “Boos”. We in the business of audience reactioning like to call those “Round Cheers”. They’re a way that crowds that don’t understand how thoroughly they’re being entertained express their momentary confusion and fear.

The crowd may also have been confused with excitement, by the fact that Mr. Not Hitler’s set started approximately 30 minutes late. But as he explained upon his eventual arrival, he was only “late” because he “needed to make sure his performance was great.” Again, you’re the fuck welcome. This man, this non-genocidal, misunderstood and underappreciated giver of himself unto you is not just dicking around, depriving you of your enjoyment of him because he’s busy clearing his name of Hitler accusations, though that does account for almost eighty-five percent of his waking hours, he is keeping you waiting to make sure that you get the best possible Kanye West experience that Kanye West can possibly Kanye West!

Could Hitler do that? I think we all know the answer to that…

…

No. No he couldn’t, is the point I was trying to make… Kanye West isn’t Hitler. Please, don’t make me have to go over this again…

 

Nicki Minaj “Pullin’ a Janet Jackson” on Good Morning America

For no other reason than to have a gratuitous boob picture in our post today, here’s Nicki Minaj doing what I’d like to coin right here and now “Pullin’ a Janet Jackson”. And if somebody else has coined it then show me the damned proof, otherwise consider it coined right here and now on this fifth day of August, 2011 and about 3:30pm.

Honestly, I don’t know if I’ve ever even a heard a song of hers, and if I did, I couldn’t tell you one way or another, but who cares? She looks like Lady Gaga, Cher, Beyonce, a softball and a pack of Bubbalicious all rolled into one. And since I’ve seen her boob, I’m over her, no more mystery. NEXT !!

Well good f'ing morning to you there lefty ... oh ... and America

An Open Letter To Katy Perry & Kenny G : Last Friday Night

Don't worry, I'll get those uncomfortable bottoms off of you soon enough!

Dear Super-Hott Katy Perry & That Spiral Permed Douchebag Kenny G.:

I was so fuckin’ pissed quite disappointed today when I finally got to see your new, super perky, bubble-gum 80′s themed music video “Last Friday Night”. Now don’t get me wrong, there was absolutely NOTHING you did personally wrong Katy, I mean, you were so pettable in your little day-glo outfit which made you look like a smokin’-hot bottle of Maybelline Great Lash Mascara, and that headgear, good god yummy potaotes girl! And please understand that I wasn’t disappointed with your ever pleasing tonal qualities with just a little hint of sex-growl at the end of each stanza that makes me feel you’re singing sweet-nothing’s in my ear, and my ear alone. No, none of that. Here’s how you completely crushed my utter soul you bitch hurt my extra brittle feelings today Katy. You chose Kenneth Bruce Gorelick, or better known as his stage name: Kenny G., over me! That dude is done! Time to cut your hair loverboy, sometimes you just have to know when to snip the ponytail and donate it to Locks of Love you selfish sax blower. EFFFFFFF !!!

Did you not see my audition video? I brought the new noise, I brought the cutting-edge-sexy-sounding-sax-sauce, and I slopped it all over your BBQ! Maybe your agent didn’t get it in time? That must be what it is, I just know it, because how could you ever pick a mopped-top-skeleton to blow the brass love instrument, when he isn’t even as close to being as talented as I? Sure, that must be it … there’s no other explanation. God, I just want to smack those braces straight out your head I feel so crushed, but now that I’ve talked it out loud to myself, I’m feeling much better. I mean sure, he’s been around a long time, and yeah he might be somewhat of an icon, and maybe he can blow a note for 45 minutes straight which got him in the Guinness Book of World Records, but he’s definitely no Clarence Clemons who just recently passed, God Rest His Soul … or me for that matter. Didn’t you notice during the filming of the video how “Uncle Kenny” annoyingly blows out the right side of his mouth? Yuck! It’s so nasty! It’s like he’s playing it the way Sherlock Holmes would smoke his pipe, almost like he does it so he can sip his prune juice on the other side, or maybe eat a sandwich without ever having to stop, or like he’s suffered a stroke but just won’t quit … YOU FUCKING WEIRDO KENNY G!!

Anyway Katy, that’s about all I  have to say about this, so when you’re ready to get some serious sax action all up in your business in your next music video, give me a call, check out my audition again because I’m sure there’s plenty of impressive material in there that will make you all soppin’ wet want to cast me. Hope to hear from you soon, and just in case you lost the link to my audition video, here it is … LINK-TO-BAD-ASS-SAX-BOY

I will forever love you, Hope to hear from you soon,

Jason

Introducing … The Audition Guy !! [VIDEO]

When you work hard and put in your time, good things usually happen to you. Here at Van Full of Candy we have a really dedicated young man who really, really wants to make it big time in the entertaiment world in any way shape or form that they’ll take him. You may remember him from certain auditions like the Charlie Sheen Intern audition or maybe his attempt to become the AFLAC Duck voice. Well his super intense persistence to his craft has landed him his very own “show” here in our van. So without further ado … well … here ya go …

The “Justify Your Existence” Tours – Britney and Charlie, on the Road.

The live concert. It’s where you make your connection with the artist, where you, for one brief shining moment, share the same space with your heroes and become a part of one another’s world. Then, afterwards, you drunkenly limp around Lot F all night looking for your car which six hours and nine, $15 beers ago you parked in Lot B, while Ricky Rockstar is back in his bus being blown by the twelve least repulsive of your town’s well worn groupie brigade with a gravity feed coke dispenser gently filling each precious, million dollar nostril. Basically what I’m saying is that tours are fun for everybody.

Some "musician" musicing. Yawn!

Sure, there are hundreds, you know what, I like you so I’ll give you thousands, of acts on the road right now, as we speak. “Popular”, “successful”, “relevant” performers busting ass night in and night out entertaining people who have come out to be entertained by entertainers who can entertain. But who wants to see that? Because while those suckers are out there relying on their “talent” to “put on a good, worthwhile show, memorable for the quality of the performance and the soul enriching feeling of seeing someone gifted with talents beyond reason sharing them with an appreciative world” there are two others hitting the road soon that are easily the most anticipated upcoming tours of the year. And they’re not letting any of that “having nothing to contribute to anything” keep them from selling tickets and renting expensive equipments and what not.

Britney Spears and Charlie Sheen. They’re coming to your town, they’ll help you party down. They’re an American train wreck.

Now naturally, critics are already trying to convince us, the unwashed masses who prefer their entertainment tragic, that we shouldn’t see these shows. They say that Britney’s show lacks what one might call a “live performance element”. Her moves are half-hearted and dead eyed, her vocals are canned. To that I say, “uh-huh”.

And as for Mr. Sheen, they point out that his record sell out shows are in fact not sold out, or records, or shows. They openly question what his performance will entail, since Charlie hasn’t really made it clear himself what he’ll be doing live in front of thousands of screaming on lookers. I expect he’ll do what he does best. Porn stars.

But it’s clear to me that the people deriding these shows don’t fully understand exactly why we would want to see these two “performers” live in concert in the first damned place. If we wanted to see people singing and dancing with feeling and love for the arts, we would go to some bullshit ballet or opera or what ever other cultural nonsense exhibition is going on at the local community center. If we wanted to see someone tell us something coherent and well thought out, with a “point” or “vague understanding of the string of words desperately escaping their face”, we’d go watch a street corner apocalypse crier. 

The pageantry.

NASCAR is the most popular spectator sport in the world. And while some people do honestly come out to the tracks week in and week out to witness the majesty of counter-clockwise vroom vrooms, there’s a certain percentage of motor sports fans (that percentage being as near to 100ish as is statistically allowable) who watch these events hoping beyond hope, that they’ll finally get to see their favorite brightly colored star’s vehicle explode while simultaneously, praying they’re not inadvertently murdered by the spectacular showers of debris. But that’s the chance you take when you’re rooting for something horrible to happen during something you supposedly love not specifically for the potential horrible that could occur.

What was I saying?

Oh, yeah, people want to see Charlie Sheen explode in a fiery ball of green flame. Not literally of course, but wouldn’t that be fucking awesome!? You go to work the next day and people are talking about Charlie Sheen’s spectacular immolation, asking you if you saw it and you can just point to the festering wound on your arm and tell them, “See it!? I’ve been infected with a Sheen shard which is slowly dissolving my mind!” then you would fall over and scream in agony as the self replicating nano-Sheen slowly ate away at your being, replacing your very cells with his extra dimensional laser Samurai essence.

You see, people aren’t snapping up tickets to these events to see an unparallelled talent deliver the performance of a lifetime, they’re going in the hopes that something fucking crazy will happen at the one show that they get to be at. And it’s a crap shoot. You’re buying a ticket hoping that you get to be at the show that turns out to be the unscheduled last of the tour, so you want to be to one of the earlier performances. If your town is on the latter half of the itinerary, you might as well not bother. I’m laying 3 1/2 to 2 that neither of these tours ends when scheduled. Lay your money down if you’re tired of it cluttering up your pocket.

And keep your judgements of the over all worth of these shows to yourself, those of us hoping to be splattered with Brit juice don’t give a damn.

St. Patrick’s Day Butt Dial [AUDIO]

Click Here To Listen

Oooh, Oooh, Pick Me Teacher, Pick Me!

It seems that every few months or so another headline pops up about some “inappropriate” female teacher getting it on with their prepubescent male students. What the hell is going on these days? Is there some sort of weird ‘hot for student’ bug going around? AND WHERE IN THE HELL WERE THESE TEACHERS WHEN I WAS IN HIGH SCHOOL?? It’s so unfair I tell you.

Ok kids, eyes up here!

Now granted, when I was in high school, I probably wouldn’t have wanted Mrs. Borkowski, who was well into her 60’s asking me to stay after class and teaching me about bees and birds with her Jean Naté After Bath Splash permeating my young, susceptible senses; and with my luck, that’s the teacher who would have done the philandering, and I still would have been

You totally smell like Grandma, in a good way

flattered. But nowadays these lucky sons-a-bitches get these younger, hot, and just found out today, DRUNKEN teachers playing Hungry Hungry Hippos with them at private recess. Yes, drunk. Just this morning I read how three lucky Mission Viejo sixth graders had a substitute music teacher show up drunk and “engaged in misconduct” with them. It says that students were seen dancing on chairs when Miss ‘Boozer’ decided that a dance contest was in order. Well crap, when ISN’T a dance contest in order during music class when teacher is trashed and wants to make out? I mean come on; you want your kids to have an interest in their studies right? Well holy percussion section, this teacher has got it dialed in.

First of all, to deal with annoying teenagers these days, you got to get down to their level, and nothing says immature and whiny better than a few Cosmopolitans at lunch time. They bring you right back to your high school days. And what better way to get rid of the dance floor jitters than a couple shots of Jäeger after a Subway Sandwich run? Done and done! It was a Friday for Christ’s sake, loosen up! What we need to realize is that this unidentified teacher was getting into character to relate to these kids and by the sounds of it, she did a bang up job. Do you

And your fingers go right here

think these kids will ever forget this class? Exactly!

Now what exactly is “misconduct”? A little dirty dancing? A little grab-ass? Come on, she was drunk, it’s ok, the boys just needed a little lesson of the harsh real world that they’re soon to be graduating into. Now if anybody knows this teacher’s phone number, I really need some French horn tutoring.

A Critical Examination of the Bruno Mars Song “Grenade”

Pop music was first invented when a trio of our early, ape like ancestor, while trying to impress the least hideous of the tribe’s women, all simultaneously, and quite by accident, sat on their balls, produced a strangely melodic high pitched howl. In those early days the genre was very hard on it’s pioneering performers, but the reward was all of the cave gash you could eat. As pop music evolved it was discovered that genital trauma was not an essential component of the process, thus opening the flood gates for anyone who could howl and whine as if they had just mangled their testicles.

But with this new influx of weaker, less hardened performers came whiney puss pop. Rather than singing about how they would sex up their next conquest with their still marginally functional bags of reproductive organ mush, these new pop stars, with their almost entirely unbruised gonads, had the sack to whine about being dumped, and as a byproduct, inventing the pity fuck.

This is the source of the ringing in your ears.

Which brings us to today’s most infectious assault on our senses from the world of whine pop. Now, just to put this in some sort of context, I don’t listen to the radio and on average I sleep 19 hours a day, yet I still somehow manage to hear the Bruno Mars song “Grenade” no less than 400 times in any given late afternoon. I can’t always ignore it, try as I might, and it was in one of these forced listenings that I first began to examine the lyrical content of this latest ear virus. So I thought I would take an opportunity to delve fully into just how violently insane this “song” is.

To give these lyrics the proper context I think it’s best to imagine receiving them in one long series of increasingly erratic text messages. And it’s with that in mind that I delve into the sadness of Bruno Mars’ “Grenade”:

Easy come, Easy go,
that’s just how you live
oh, take take take it all,
but you never give.

From here I think it’s immediately safe to say that Mr. Mars was the dumpie. It’s a tough position to be in. With it comes a lot of self doubt and questions. It can make you kind of crazy, lashing out blindly and often stupidly, trying to find reasons when really it’s as simple as, “you’re kind of a lunatic.”

Should’ve know you was trouble,
from the first kiss, had your eyes wide open,
why were they open?

Gave you what I had and you tossed it in the trash,
you tossed in the trash you did,
to give me all your love is all I ever asked, ‘cos,

I think an equally valid question for Mr. Mars is “why were YOUR eyes open?” Already this is a sign of mistrust and paranoia. These seem to be symptoms of a history of bad relationships, which you are now bringing into this new one, thus dooming it to failure from the very beginning.

What you don’t understand is
I’d catch a grenade for ya
Throw my hand on a blade for ya
I’d jump in front of a train for ya
You know I’d do anything for ya.

I’ve found, in my admittedly limited experience with relationships, that screaming about the numerous ways in which you would mutilate yourself to prove your love, often doesn’t have the desired positive reaction that you would assume it naturally would. Honestly, what woman wouldn’t swoon when being shouted at that you would be exploded, lacerated or pulverized simply to show them how much you enjoyed their company?

Oh, oh, I would go through all this pain,
take a bullet straight through my brain,
yes I would die for you baby,
but you won’t do the same.

No, no, no, no.

If you had read this in someone’s mistakenly open e-mail, you would either laugh your ass off, or you would immediately call the police. This looks like someone backed out of a suicide pact and you should naturally be afraid for the life of the person that thought better of trading artillery to prove just how very much in love they were because it’s pretty clear that Bruno will finish this job.

Black black, black and blue,
beat me ’till I’m numb,
tell the devil I said hey when you get back to where you’re from,
Mad woman, bad woman, that’s just what you are,
yeah, you’ll smile in my face,
then rip the brakes out my car.

 This is all at best speculative, and at worst prosecutable slander. And really, do you think you’re that important Mr. Mars that satan himself has sent a demon to break your little heart? A little perspective Bruno.

Gave you what I had and you tossed it in the trash,
you tossed it in the trash yes you did.
to give me all your love is all I ever asked,
cos, What you don’t understand is

I’d catch a grenade for ya
Throw my hand on a blade for ya
I’d jump in front of a train for ya
You know I’d do anything for ya.

Oh, oh, I would go through all this pain,
take a bullet straight through my brain,
yes I would die for you baby,
but you won’t do the same.

The lunacy of the lyrics aside, I’m left to wonder in what situation would it be necessary to catch a grenade for someone, with the intention of proving your love for them or otherwise. Grenades, as far as I understand, are very difficult to come by in America, even in the inner city. Perhaps this lost love of Mr. Mars’ was a summer fling in some war torn middle eastern country, where the metaphor of catching a grenade for a loved one would ring a little more plausible.

And in what context at all would throwing your hand on a blade be an acceptable way to show one’s devotion for someone else? That’s called “cutting”, and it’s predominantly practiced by attention starved teenage girls, which I guess, now that I think about it, goes a long way to explaining Bruno’s affinity for the imagery.

If my body was on fire,
ooh, you’d watch me burn down in flames,
You said you loved me, you’re the liar,
‘cos you never, ever, ever did baby.

It’s so sad, that even now, in his final verse, his unwavering, stalker love will not be denied. Even while calling this poor, lucky to have gotten out alive ex of his a liar and stopping short of accusing her of being an arsonist, and instead only labeling her a pyromaniac, still, even then he calls her “baby”. She’s not comin’ back Bruno, you’ve gotta let her go. And since by this point you’ve lost both of your hands to concussive explosives and poorly executed knife blocking, letting go shouldn’t be a big problem for you.

But darling, I’ll still
catch a grenade for you
Throw my hand on a blade for you
I’d jump in front of a train for you
You know I’d do anything for you.

Oh, oh, I would go through all this pain,
take a bullet straight through my brain,
yes I would die for you baby,
but you won’t do the same.

No you won’t do the same,
You wouldn’t do the same,
ooh, you never do the same,
no, no, no, no.

I’m oh so sorry, Bruno Mars,
your fates weren’t written in the stars.

You would not catch not one grenade,
not that the act would get you laid.

Not with a knife or on a train,
not with a bullet through your brain.

She hasn’t tampered with your cars,
she thinks you’re crazy, Bruno Mars.