4 Foot Vajayjay On Marilyn Monroe Sculpture (Porno Edition)

All I need is a ladder and I can get my carkeys.

So this weekend was big for the former actress known as Marilyn Monroe. Not only did the classy city of Chicago erect a 27 foot “upskirt” statue of Marilyn in her “Seven Year Itch” pose, a six minute pornographic film shot in 1946 or 1947 has surfaced with Marilyn Monroe in it. Now this is quite a bit of smut to take in so fast, all at once, but let’s just take a deep breath and gaze it over shall we?

Lets start with the statue. A voyeur’s wet dream come true, out in the wide open public with panties on full display. Where one could just lie down underneath Marilyn’s cooch and go at it until it fell off. I would think that any teenage boy going through puberty couldn’t get within two blocks of it without their divining rod going apeshit. I’d be curious to know the percentage increase in public indecency tickets and/or how many children are conceived during July 2011 in Chicago.

Are you hungry for a bedtime snack?

Now let’s focus on the good stuff, porn. As if a 3 story RealDoll wasn’t enough for one blog post. So apparently when Marilyn Monroe wasn’t Marilyn Monroe, and she was still Norma Jean Mortenson, she made a little 6 minute naughty-naughty movie. The lucky dude who has the original 8mm tape is getting ready to sell it at auction, and the estimate will be over $1 million. Man, for just 6 minutes of silent black and white film? A million bucks?!? Do you not realize how much poon you can get for that, not to mention lap dances and HD full color erotica? But I suppose if you have a mill to drop on 6 mins of unconfirmed Monroe porn, then you probably have a budget setup for the other stuff too.

So thank you Marilyn, or Norma Jean or whatever your porn name was back in the 40′s, thank you for continued legacy of men getting off on your image. And now to quote the great Elton John song about you …

Goodbye Norma Jean
Though I never knew you at all
You had the grace to hold yourself
While those around you crawled
They crawled out of the woodwork
And they whispered into your brain
They set you on the treadmill
And they made you change your name

Sounds like a porno to me … good luck bidders !!

I’m A Rocket Man !!

Early Jetpack Prototype : "Assburner 3000" - Could launch you 11 ft. in the air for approximately 6 seconds

Holy freakin’ Buck Rogers In The 25th Century, our Jetpacks have finally been made and are available for order right now!! Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to fly like Superman? Well, not EXACTLY like Superman because he didn’t have to strap on a 535 lb. Honda Civic engine the size of a refrigerator to his back that only goes 63mph, but still, it’s pretty much exactly the same! A human flying through the air for 30 minutes, 5,000 feet in the air?!? I totally just piddled myself like an overly excited dog. Besides the ability to be invisible, this has got to be the best thing ever, only because this is actually happening and, well, invisibility has yet to happen, except, if someone has the ability to turn invisible we’d never know because we couldn’t see them, and seriously, if you COULD become invisibile would you EVER tell anyone? Hells no!! Exactly! So … this is the best thing for right now.

As if white people we didn’t need another way to tragically kill ourselves, such as jumping out of planes, jumping off bridges with a springy cord tied around our waists, climbing tall, jagged rocks with a little purse of white chalk, riding boards with sharks, and even driving to work, we had to invent a way to play chicken with airplanes. Now don’t get me wrong, I know I was hella excited about a paragraph ago to soar with the birds, but when it comes down to it, I’d be scared shitless. Sure, there’s a parachute that will “save your life” by slowing you down to 15 mph when you smash the ground, but just think of all the other bullshit flying around up there with you. Helicoptors just waiting to chop your head off, killer swarms of geese waiting to pounce, another rookie Jetpacker, JetBlue flight #225, that random skydiver … oh yeah, and let’s not even mention if that flying backpack of death gets squirrley, you lose complete control and start a new career in skywriting curse words, or worse … that damn thing runs out of gas at 5,000 ft. Oh yeah … did I mention it only costs $100,000?

No thank you science! You can just take your steampunk hubu-jubu flying contraption and stick it straight up your stank-box ingenious aeronautical asses and see how far in the air THAT gets ya.

Free autographed Rocket Man record with every purchase of a Martin Jetpack

Look Who’s Siiiiiiiiiiiingle !! The Shrivernegger

I think I'll use this one for Match.com

Ok guys calm down, CALM DOWN!! Please get in a single file line and quit shoving each other. I understand now that Maria Shriver is single that we all can’t wait to get our shot at that Kennedy lineage poontang, but please, have some maturity here, Jesus!!

Oh, hi there dear reader. I’m just trying to organize this line of single men wrapped around the Sacramento Capitol who are just chompin’ at the bit to get their chance to date, and in some cases, to marry thee Ex-Mrs.-Terminator, and by the size of this line I’d say she’ll have her pick of the cream of the crop. And who can blame these guys, hell I’m even throwing my name in the hat for this hottie. What the hell was Arnold thinking? Cheating on his trophy wife. But the strange part is that he did it ten years ago … when she was actually easy to look at. Oh well … his loss and OUR gain. Those teeth, her manly jaw line, her Skeletor hands, those gaunt eyes … seriously, what’s not to drool over? But to her defense I saw the Governator’s mistress/housekeeper and holy crap Arnold, you just like ‘em homely don’t you?

What? Was that too mean? Too bad! This just goes to show that all the power and the money and the success and fame and the Hummers and the movies and the family pedigree and all that shit doesn’t get rid of our basic primal urges of wanting to go around and stick our Conan the Barbarian into some Twins, or to have our Red Heat pounded by a Kindergarten Cop. That’s just the way we’re wired, get over it society! But holy cripe how fortunate for the media and late night talk show hosts and ridiculous bloggers to have something this juicy to just fall in our … I mean … THEIR laps. It’s like that dream you have when there’s just money everywhere and you can’t pick it up fast enough, but the more you pick up the more you realize how worthless it is, but then when you wake up you’re all pissed because you thought it was real and how the good dream turns to shit so maybe it’s actually a nightmare like when your teeth are slowly crumbling out of your mouth when you’re talking to someone and you’re trying to push them back in while trying to not swallow the ones that fall into your mouth, but when you wake up you’re so fucking relieved that it wasn’t real and that maybe THAT one should actually be classified as a dream vs. a nightmare. Either way … where was I going with that? Oh yeah! I’m poor and unhappy so I’m just glad that when normal shit happens to the privileged, we get to jump all over it and talk about how lame they are and blow it so completely out of proportion as to take the focus off of us and project all of our shortcomings onto them which kinda sucks in its own right because now these people are just going to become more popular and make more money off of all this with the books and the shows and the Lifetime channel movies. Ugggggh!! What can’t I get paid for all the fucked up shit in my life?

Oh yeah, back to Maria. Nice teeth.

I vant yo baby !!

When Beds Attack

Are they dead? Or did their Sleep Number Bed save their lives?

If we are to believe everything we see on our Le Tube d’Boob these days, then we are supposed to now be scared shitless that the beds we sleep in are slowly trying to kill us and/or end your marraige, not particularly in that order, and not that either is a bad thing for most people, but let’s continue.

It’s not a quick, overnight, magical killing, no, it’s a long, slow, torturous, water dripping on forehead kind of insanity, not to be CONFUSED with marraige, but the one that could possibly end it. Because our beds are so horrifically uncomfortable and in most cases filled with quicksand, jagged boulders, and the moaning spirits of insomniacs from Xmas past, there is no way that a good night’s sleep will ever be in any of our immediate futures. First the insomnia kicks in, then your back goes, tossing and turning creates the need for your partner to sleep in a different bed, then the snoring, which then escalates into sleeping in seperate rooms, the arguing the bickering and the the complete decomposition of any sort of “makin’ whoopie”. And in that, the obvious demographic targeted for such an utter waste of money has been selected. Let the credit card annihilation begin.

Now that was some convincing theatre. Doesn’t that make you wanna run out and drop $4k on a miracle bed? It sure does for me. But you know who that commercial didn’t fool? The late Osama Bin Laden. That’s right folks, this man knew a thing or four about slumber comfort. He had his sleep number down pat. He is the one sole person that completely debunks any claims that Sleep Number Beds make. Osama spent the last 10 years frolicking in the desserts, hiding out from one cave to the next, then moved up to shacks, and ended up in a million dollar fortress, but did he have a Sleep Number Bed? NO! Could he afford one? Yes! Now granted he didn’t have electricity to run the damn thing, but that’s a moot point. If anyone needed this cushion cloud to sleep on, I’d bet my beat-up futon mattress that it would be Osama, but he didn’t. He didn’t have back pain, his love life didn’t digress, in fact this sleep discomfort avoider had approximately four wives with up to twenty-five offspring with them. There was no mattress getting in his libido’s way, no sir! And up until the very bitter end, his wife, who slept with him on their cardboard mattress defended him to the death, no snoring or tossing and turning was going to “force” her to sleep in another room.

Bin Laden's Sleep Number: Rock2 - His Wife's: Pebble7

Maybe we overprivileged Americans should go spend a week in the forest, sleep on the ground, cook over a fire, bathe in a lake and realize how fucking good we actually have it, and when we return to our “regular” murderous bed, we should give it a big hug and give Sleep Number the finger.

It’s a LUSH Li(f)e

If you find wallet rape offensive, then please, change the channel right now!

My olfactory system was overcome with an overabundance of fruity jungle’ness, lemongrass, vanilla and hints of relaxation. One would think that by the thickness of the aroma that I was actually marinating in a bubbling tub of potpourri right here in the middle of the mall. I was actually three stores away, just passing a Build-a-Bear, when I noticed the foam green, chamomile/lavender stench-fog spewing from another retailer not less than 20 yards on my right.

Who's ready for their $13 bath?

Was this a reincarnation of the long defunct Illuminations candle store? I was confused. I kept watching as this stench-fog slowly came after me, enveloped me, and then gently carried me inside to what I can best describe as a caffeine induced fit of adult Candy Land slumber-partyness. I was greeted by smiles and dancing and the immediate attention of complete strangers wanting to wash me and anoint me with their biblical oils of healing and Zen. I had just entered … LUSH … and from what I can tell, I wasn’t getting away any time soon.

The products looked like yummy cookies and candies and cake frosting all for my very own enjoyment. Every color of the rainbow and every smell imaginable. It was the Willy Wonka of skincare and aromatherapy. Before I knew it, I had a Bath-Bomb contact high as a rolled around on the facial cleanser table like a dog who just found a certain smell in the grass. My arms were being exfoliated and my forehead was being moisturized while happy salespeople bounced around singing the latest happy-song being blasted over their Muzak system. Holy Lord, where have you been all my life LUSH? Why have I never been encapsulated in your peppermint love haze before when making a quick jaunt to the Apple store? I was in a butter cream, lemon fizz, mimosa blossom orgasmic state of mind when I was asked what I would like to purchase. “GIVE … ME … EVERYTHING!!” I exalted to the heavens like a gladiator who had just slain the lions. “EVERYTHING!! … I COMMAND YOU!!”. After the salespeople helped me down from the table in the display window, they guided me over to the table of reckoning where they asked me for my credit card.  Gladly I handed it over to them so that I could quickly get home with my bounty to recreate this dream again in the privacy of my own lavatory.

LUSH's new 12 step program for getting off their smack

What’s this? $76.44?!?! Dost mine ears deceive me? I quickly snapped out of my fool’s paradise and into the stark reality that my senses had been bamboozled into buying little plastic buckets of oatmeal mixed with tea for $50/lb. I was mortified. What do I do? They tricked me, these charlatans. Why would I pay so much for a quick shower when I could easily get a pound of Brie de Meaux for only $17.61/lb or even some Biellese Salumeria Lamb Prosciutto for $29.50/lb. Or even better, I could get a pound of both for $47.11 and eat my way into a gastronomic coma. How could they do this to me?

They say a sucker is born every minute, and, well, this sucker is soaking in a Dreamtime Bath Melt while enjoying another spread of Brie on a Carr’s whole wheat cracker. Cheers!

Celebrity Treatment

Van Full of Candy has been going strong now for well over a week which basically means, I’m pretty much famous now, and as such I expect you to treat me as if I am constructed entirely of deli sliced porcelain egg shells.

Stop it! Stop looking at me!

I am a delicate artiste. I pull from my painful, tragic history to shape and texturalize my performance. I mine feelings and emotions from experiences, sometimes beautiful, most times horrific, to deliver unto you, my adoring public, the most personal and honest portrayal I can deliver. But don’t you ever talk about my past! Don’t you dare! How dare you!? DON’T YOU DARE!

I give and I give and I give, and all I ask for in return is that piles of money be left on my doorstep by an individual that I never see and whom must never see me, and that anything that I have done in the past, present or near future that might be embarrassing to me or could potentially impact the size and quality of my miraculously appearing cash stacks must never be brought back to light once I have courageously been forgiven of them by the easily distracted public.

Every day Van Full of Candy is viewed by tens of people, making it one of the most online web sites in the long storied history of the world-wide internet! I have a personal responsibility to these near score of people to never have any of my gross, childish, irresponsible misdeeds held against me as if I were to be somehow accountable for my actions and their repercussions. As a celebrity I understand that if I were to do something untoward like, say, karate chop an escort in the thorax for calling me by the assumed name that I forgot I told her to refer to me by, that I will have to face the consequence of prolonged television exposure and late night ridicule which will in today’s backward society somehow result in my being even more marketable and desirable, rather than the cautionary tale of unchecked ego and irresponsible enabling by those supposedly charged with protecting my best interests, that it should be. But once I have courageously triumphed over my brief period of ridicule I expect those past misdeeds to never be brought up again in any capacity because it might hurt my ‘iddle feelings. And I think I’ve earned the right to have everyone pretend that they don’t remember that they’ve seen my penis in places society says that it shouldn’t!

I deserve this, I REALLY deserve this!

So when I see my fellow celebrities, coming together for a free meal, to be given awards for pretending to have feelings, only to be ambushed by reminders of their selfish over indulgence, well, it just makes me want to vomit on a Thai prostitute who’s age I continue to refuse to be told! We go to these things (my celebrity brethren and sisthren) to receive trophies from one another for our portrayals of flawed human beings, not to be pointed at and laughed about for things that we have made very careful to erase from the memory of the ticket buying, or link clicking public. Many of us have been forced to do horrible, unspeakable things: family comedies, bullshit fantasy cgi nonsense, to make people forget how much we love hitchhiking lady dudes, or to pay back taxes that we just assumed stopped applying to us once we started being asked for autographs.

If I’d known that I was going to be so outraged by a globally televised stroke session, I would have prepared something. As it is I would just like to thank anyone who would in the future, like to present me with something shiny for something that I did, and to all of those that stood beside me and made this all possible, you will be forgotten and all credit scroungeable will be claimed as my own. Because the second I made it, you all became dead to me. And to the creator for without whom none of this is possible: BOO-YA-KA!