Your Own Private Amityville Horror

Posted on

It’s no secret; if you own something, it’s plotting right now to kill you. It’s true. If you haven’t heard about the latest cellphone brain cancer epidemic, then you must have heard about the terrorist babies who want you to die in the sky, or the murderous beds of Sleep Number. Let’s face it people, everyday is a fight for survival from the moment we wake up for our morning coffee, until the minute we lie our heads on our pillows of unavoidable suffocation. But we here at Van Full of Candy have recently unearthed some shocking new proof of other household items that want nothing more than to see you lying in your own pool of blood on your designer zebra throw rug. These discoveries came after we did extensive research of household items that are haunting the very house you will probably die in, possibly even tonight if you aren’t careful. We don’t know if they’re exactly related, but shit, it’s a huge coincidence isn’t it? And now we give you the list of household items that will no doubt end up one day on America’s Most Wanted. You’ve been warned.

I dare you to fuckin' drink this coffee

For some people, that morning cup of coffee is as much of a fix as a heroin addict in a back alley on an abandoned mattress. You’ve got your spoon, your “sugar”, your lighter, wait that might just be me. Anyway, your best friend, the automatic coffee maker wants to murder the living hell right out of you in many, many ways, and it all depends what kind of mood it’s in that morning. Sometimes it likes to catch on fire early in the morning when you program it to brew at 6:30am. The smell of a fine French Roast is exchanged for the smell of plastic death smoke, and being that the coffee maker and the smoke alarm are besty’s, the smoke alarm doesn’t go off, because it too wants to murder you. Another way it would like to kill you is to grab your head shove it under the dripper and perform a Chinese water torture on you. But since it knows that only drives you crazy, it turns on the hot plate and starts to slowly cook your brain until you slump onto the kitchen floor only to be found by some random CSI people who can only determine your death to be have been caused by reckless bed-tanning. Guess I’ll just head over to Starbuck’s.

Bedside tables, those extremely convenient and very necessary articles of furniture for your bedroom. That convenient place for

I'm made of glass just to make sure you get REALLY hurt

a reading lamp, a place to put your glass of water, crack pipe, a book, your crazy meds, alarm clock, or what have you. But what the public doesn’t realize is that the bedside table is the most abused piece of furniture in your house. Every single night since you purchased it, your bedside table has to endure 7-10 hours of non-stop snoring, all your spills, the neglect of ever dusting it off, used condoms, whatever. You make it hold all your miscellaneous paraphernalia. It knows that the cell phone that you put on it every night is giving it cancer and it HATES you for it. It wants to bash your skull in with it’s extremely sharp corners. It just sits there like a sniper, ever so quiet, ever so patiently in hopes that in the middle of the night when you have to tinkle, that you’ll trip on that aimlessly placed shoe and that when your ankle gives, you trip and crash down into its awaiting acute ridge, like an axe through a watermelon. It wants you to sleep … forever!!

That neglected piece of furniture, thrown into a corner and used day and night, we want light now, we don’t want light

Nobody left to feed you huh? That's right! I KILLED THEM!

now, we want light now, etc. Your floor lamp, when it’s on, it’s on, and when it’s off, it’s off. Or is it? The floor lamp knows that it’s just about as tall as you, and could probably take you in a brawl. It knows that it has a nice ripe current of suicide spark just waiting to be unleashed on you when you touch it next, perhaps with your glass of wet, electron transferring Cabernet. Maybe when you’re least expecting it while you lounge on your futon, watching America’s Next Top Model, with your night-cap, or bowl of soup, and your floor lamp slooooooowly tips over aiming it’s bulb of phosphorescent fury into your lap. Tzzzzzzzttttttt-zzzpppphhhhhh … and you’re cooked. Hope it was worth it … you addicts of luminosity.

And last but not least, the aforementioned item that is in cahoots with the caffeine killer, your smoke alarm. The sad thing about this tiny little 9 volt battery whore, is that it’s supposed to save your life and your loved ones and maybe even some of the other appliances if the fire can get put out in time. But this sadistic little disc of suicide wants not only for you to die, but it wants to die as well. It hates you, it hates the fridge, it hates itself. You’re probably thinking, well … I always put fresh

I'm getting a contact high

batteries in it, and I test it bi-weekly and it always gives a friendly life saving chirp. That’s only to fool you into a sense of comfort and safety in your own home. It always works when you’re awake, it has to, how else is it going to suffocate you with black smoke? When you lie down and your eyes start REM twitching, it’s all over kids. Your pillow gives the signal to your bedside table, and the bedside table alerts the smoke alarm that you are Oh You Tee, out! The little connection to the battery mysteriously falls off the nasty tasting 9-volt battery and that’s it. The coffee maker then turns it self on into flame mode, the smoke alarm laughs at everything because it now knows it’s all over. And all there is left in the morning is a bunch of black ashy beams of wood and your bones lying in that bed that wanted to murder you itself.

So there you have it. Please heed our warning based on extensive scientific studies and our addiction to horror movies. Don’t come running to us when your DustBuster starts trying to suck your very soul straight out through your nose.  Sleep tight and have a great weekend.

Advertisements

2 thoughts on “Your Own Private Amityville Horror

    Jill Parlove said:
    June 7, 2011 at 9:26 pm

    So, what you’re saying is, if I want to live I need to become Amish? I, for one, choose death. 🙂 Oh, before I forget, have you seen my Skittles?

      Van Full of Candy responded:
      June 9, 2011 at 2:19 pm

      Horses and wagons will kill you too … we’re all doomed. Skittles? Umm, they’re in the van.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s