It’s a pure science fact that we here at Van Full of Candy do love our alcohol yum-yums. The idea of having them air lifted to our waiting drinking arms seemed like an idea that we should have had. But apparently, the FAA doesn’t approve of our completely under control lifestyle!
America is always on the forefront of snack and alcohol technologies. Whether it be new ways to inject cheese into things, finding things which can be–nay, MUST be battered in beer, or the majesty of a food stuff called “Combos,” which actually manages to somehow combine two non-food stuffs into one “edible” cylinder. Americans have always lead the way in food and beverage-based technological advancements and by the Type-2 Diabetes God, we always will!
So it came as no surprise to hear that a small enterprising micro brew beer company out of Wisconsin had made their beer fly.
The noble, brilliant, merry makers at Lakemaid Beer had a simple vision. That vision was to make it possible for the hearty ice fishing men and other men, out in the frozen wilderness to satisfy their manly thirst without having to leave their chilly ice holes, and without risking delivery personnel’s footing on the treacherous frozen lakes. And personal drones were the answer to this question that we didn’t know we had until they existed.
Unfortunately, the killjoys at the FAA have grounded Lager Air, (if only temporarily) as they review their policies regarding the use of drones for commercial practices.
“They think it’s a great idea, though they’re telling me to stop.” said Lakemaid Beer company president, Jack Supple. And really, it is. I have no doubt that we’ll be seeing Pizza Hut and Budweiser drones buzzing through the skies Super Bowl Sunday, 2015. But until then, I’ll keep tinkering away at my Gran Legacy Vodka Dirigible and Long Island Ice Tea Missile. The booze arms race is on.
Oh boy, are you in for an extra special, super sensational treat of an occasion of an extravaganza! You’ve joined me just in time to witness the introduction to you, our fine, loyal, theoretical fan, of my very own all new brand of sugary snacking cakes! They’re going to be a delicious chocolate brownie, smothered in peanut butter and and drizzled with a ribbon of fudge. They’re going to be packaged in the customary bright primary colors that trigger a deeply ingrained response in your reptilian brain and inspire impulse purchases. And since I’m just a little Joe Nobody, making delicious junk food in the washing machine in my four plex’s laundry room, I’m not going to have a lot of money to market this new, mouth wateringly nummy num num, so I’m going to use a little trick that I’ve been pointing out for the year and a half that I’ve been candying vans and vanning candy. So look for my brand new sweet treat in your local grocery and convenience stores, sold under the name: “Tard Farms: GNYUUHH Squares”. Fifteen minutes after my new candies hit the store rooms of Kroger and Safeway I’ll have more free advertising than I could pay for with a thousand farms filled with a thousand tards!
As exampled by VFoC’s new OFFICIALLY ENDORSED (Give us a call Ogden’s Own, I’m double fucking serious) Vodka Brand: Five Wives Vodka.
All of the familiar tropes are here in this story of another “accidentally” offensively named thing. The easily predicted over reaction to something stupid by someone stupid, which in this case is for some reason the state of Idaho. The faux shock of the manufacturer, caught completely off guard by someone being offended by their strategically “accidentally” offensively named thing. The one pleasant, yet still infuriating twist in this story is the acknowledgment by both sides that they recognize that this is being done for the sake of cheap publicity, but that they’re still making that cheap publicity possible; which just makes me believe that somehow the state of Idaho has a financial stake in “Ogden’s Own Distillery”, because otherwise Five Wives Vodka is never heard of by anyone except a drunk wandering through CVS who accidentally glances up from the Gran Legacy on the bottom shelf to get a fleeting chuckle from the name as they stumble on past.
And I expect Idaho is actually making a pretty penny from their investment. Five Wives Vodka, made by the Utah based Ogden’s Own Distillery, was approved for sale in Utah, apparently without a word. The justification for Idaho’s rejection is that Five Wives, which takes inspiration from Mormonism’s dirtiest little non-secret, is that it would be too offensive to Mormons, which make up about 25% of Idaho’s population. When last I counted, which I actually did, because I count pointless things, Mormons make up roughly 1400% of Utah’s population. On top of that well known fact is the much less well known (except by those at Ogden’s Own, you can be damned sure) that the Utah Department of Alcoholic Beverage Control, which regulates the sale of hard liquor, which are available ONLY in state-owned stores. So when Mormontah, Five Wives’ target outrage demographic didn’t give fuck all about a tasty fire water celebrating multi-wiving, I can damned well guarantee you the folks at Ogden’s Own began seeping excrement, seeing their banked on disputatories jackpot liesurely shrug off the blatant goading. So it was either a lucky coincidence that Idaho decided to be pissed off for no reason, or they’re now gonna be cashing $10 for every $20 bottle of Five Wives sold nation wide.
Jeff Anderson, Idaho State Drinky Cop is quoted in the story saying in reference to the controversy that he himself created by calling this inoffensive thing offensive: “It’s masterful marketing on their part. But it doesn’t play here.” Well shit man, you just made it play. You, your very own self, with your very own action. You made it play. Because if you hadn’t said shit, no one would have ever known shit.
And just co-incidentally:
Ogden’s Own Distillery is trying to make the most of the rejection with a media campaign and sale of “Free the Five Wives” T-shirts.
You don’t say. Wanna check the receipt on those t-shirts and bet they were printed before the bottles were shipped?
So the two options we have here are collusion or stupidity. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t care which is which, I personally love “Five Wives Vodka” and look forward to pickling myself with it as soon as I can find a state approved retailer brave enough to carry it. I generally approve of the blatant manipulation of those easily manipulated. My only problem here is just how sloppy it’s been done in this case. It makes all of the other well orchestrated, masterfully played examples of people really fucking with someone and fooling them into giving them free national publicity just look as cheap as this one, which is just a damned shame, because I’ve already got all of my hypothetical profits from Tard Farms’ “GNYUUHH Squares” going into financing my follow up product: a joint collaboration with Duraflame to produce quick light fireplace logs shaped like the Quran!
Available in time for Christmas!
Thanks to Dave Chappelle for the title of this blog. I had to steal his end of show sound bite because “Bitch, I’m Rich” sounded kinda rude and “I’m a Rich Bitch” sounded like I was a Kardashian, and I really don’t like the taste of unbleached all purpose flour all up in my mouth, sooooooooooooo … let’s get back to discussing the California Lottery shall we?
I understand that many of you are rushing around like little ants whose little hill has been kicked by a rogue 12 year old pick-nick’r trying to put together 5 numbers with a Mega number that will make you a half a billionaire without even having to own a child labor run corporation in Korea. But why do you think you even have a chance? I’m going to win tomorrow night, and when I do, we will officially change our name to Van Full of Fuck-You Money. The expletive is very necessary, because that’s the kind of money that I spend and say “fuck you” to it when it goes away because it doesn’t mean shit to me. $100 tip on a $5 lunch … fuck you. $300 haircut … fuck you. Wipe my ass with $20’s … fuck you. I couldn’t waste $500 million fast enough before I go to the big 70’s van in the sky.
When they show my ugly mug on the news asking what I’m going to do with all that scratch, I’ll just say “not giving any of this shit to charity, that’s for sure” and then make out with the hot reporter that they sent to interview me LIVE on air, then later send her home the next morning with a couple of Benjamin’s, and a Jackson for the cab fare, hey, I’m a nice guy, I know cabs are pricey.
Now look, before you get all shitty and think I’m a non-caring asshole who only thinks about his selfishness, I’m going to give you the opportunity to share the wealth with me. Yes. You heard if right here from me. I’m going to share with you the winning lottery numbers. If you choose to use them, then my friend, we’ll both be rich assholes/asshole’ettes, but if you choose not to use them, then you my friend, are going to be working for another 30 years to a retirement of nothingness. Hookers and champagne? Or food stamps and government cheese? Your choice. Here you go …
6 9 25 34 37 (40)
Anybody who knows us, knows that we at Van Full of Candy like to party. They’re usually tipped off to this fact by us screaming “WE LIKE TO PARTY!” in their face moments before we collapse and begin to evacuate our bladders into our slacks.
Over the years fans of distilled spirits have seen their perception as lovable boozy goofs who’s only problem is not having enough lamp shades in their study, replaced by that of vomitous cretin vehicularly manslaughtering anyone who gets in the way of their dangerous, irresponsible drinking spree. And now the dry mainstream media is at it again, trying to shame Drunken-Americans into believing that they’re lifestyle is wrong.
I stumbled upon an article titled “6 Sneaky Signs You Drink Too Much” which is at best (something) and at worst a disgusting insult to my very personal identity to even begin to tell me that there might only be six. So I feel it is my duty– NAY, HONOUR (with the extra “u” being for EXTRA honor), to meet these slanderous characterizations and defamatory defaming with a six pack of rebuttal, a bottle of truth and a row of shots… of alcohol… talk.
First, the article categorizes 38 million adults as habitual “binge drinkers”, who enthusiastically embibe “an average of four times a month” and define bingeing as having “four or more drinks in a short period of time” for women and five or more for men. Well that’s fine, because I generally only have one, maybe two “daddy beverages” in a sitting from my 32 ounce Harrison Ford, “Cowboys & Aliens” 7-11 collectible Slurpee cup, so clearly there’s no problem here. But onto the “signs”.
#1: You become a daredevil.
Well sure, it’s called “liquid courage” for a reason. And while you may site that the “National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism” (like that’s even a real thing) says that alcohol factors into 60 percent of all fatal burn injuries and drownings, 40 percent of fatal falls and car accidents and 50 percent of all sexual assaults, I say that it’s responsible for 95 percent of all flaming cliff diving vehicular orgies, and the stories of which that will last a lifetime for all those who survive them.
#2: You’re a weekend warrior.
Here I will agree with the booze haters: no one likes a weekend warrior. You can’t just sit behind your desk 5 days a week and then come out and try to party like the big boys when you and the girls head out Friday night to chat about what a bitch Gary in HR is. It’s insulting to those of who practice the fine art of imbibing every day to hone our livers into the iron clad filtration machines that they are. You don’t just pull a helmet out of the closet and run onto the field Sunday morning and expect to hang with the pros. I can crush a bowling ball with the strength of my drinking elbow. It’s like a god damn crocodile’s jaw, all of the power is in it’s closing!
#3: Drinking just “creeps up on you.”
“One of the clues that you may be a binge drinker is not knowing your limits…”
No, that’s one of the clues that you may be an ass. I’m starting to see what’s happening here, you’re blaming this miracle sauce which grants +7 charisma and +2 fire resistance, for the stupidity of it’s users. You can’t just give any moron super powers and then be surprised when they don’t understand the great responsibility that goes along with them. I guess what I’m saying is I support drinking licenses. I’m not sure what the test to obtain one would be yet, but I imagine it would be awesome.
#4: Your memory has temporarily gone missing.
I’m sorry, are you referring to “Tequila Time Travel”: The phenomena of time jumping inside your own body from the end of one drink to an indeterminate time in the future, where you will then be told of your exploits during that period that your consciousness leapt over like you’re some kind of god damned folk hero? I’m accidentally obliterating all known laws of science and religion and somehow I’M the asshole?
#5: You let some responsibilities slide.
Listen, you can’t have it both ways. You can’t tell me not to drive the school bus with my navigator Jim Beam, and then yell at me for not being irresponsible. It seems like I am making the more responsible choice of not careening through the streets, yelling back at the children in my care that if they don’t stop screaming that I’m going to murder their families with the remains of their most beloved pet, by waiting just a tic or two ’till my buzz dies down. So you get to school a little late, I’m a hero that you get there at all.
And #6: People close to you seem concerned.
“If your family, friends, or co-workers have hinted that they’re worried about you…”
They are terrible drinking buddies.
Best. Episode. Yet! And no, I’m not just saying that because a sexy Van Fan professed her attraction for Candy Man, Jesse Jones in the second half of the episode, but that sure as hell doesn’t hurt its quality!
In tonight’s episode of “The Van Full of Candy Show” we discussed our respective Valentines Dayses. Jesse’s was filled with drunken debauchery, Jason’s was filled with Walmarts. Who won? You decide. Jesse drank his “Conversation Juice” straight from his newly invented empty “Kleenex Box Booze Koozie”, uploading it via technology to twitter, LIVE during the show to the entertainment of no one… Jason brought up a story of a hoarding woman buried under her own crap and went on about how he watches Hoarders to shame himself into cleaning his apartment and the existence of a confusingly named 1800Hoarders.com while Jesse invented a new hoarder clean up business “Clutter Busters” without knowing that it already existed…
After a quick word from our sponsors we returned with a semi-announcement of our intentions of hitting the road in the Van Full of Candy 20(grumblemumble) US Tour! Live shows, roaming the country, coming to your town, we’re gonna party down, we’re an American Van! We offered the Tesla Motor Company and the BAND Tesla the chance to jump in on the sponsorship ground level! Then segued beautifully into a story about a pussy who suffered an ironic heart attack at Man vs. Food cliché, “The Heart Attack Grill”, who we would also love as a sponsor of our United States tour.
THEN the show really got started when looking up from that nonsense story, we discovered a caller waiting for us. An unnamed woman with wonderful taste in men who professed her “attraction” for the Van’s resident stud muffin Jesse Jones. An attraction that astonishingly began with our first video, “Disgusting Beard”. While nervously dancing around responses to the wonderful lady’s questions, Jesse managed to plug Chinatown Newspaper and their desire to stop in the Bay Area, where the caller resides, on their non-existent US Tour. He then danced around his availability and his confusing relationship status. Unfortunately in his flustered, mildly drunken state he didn’t even manage to get the lady’s name though she did promise to call back next week, which Jesse hopes very much will be the case.
So tune in next week to follow the further developments of this crazy love rhombus on “The Van Full of Candy Show “Episode 4: Conversation Hearts”!
The official day of love, as told to us by a major greeting card corporation, comes once a year and here we are standing three people deep in an aisle of pink picked over rectangles. We stand there with glazed over eyes, a smidge of drool forming in the corner of our mouths, hoping that there is more than a “Love You Mom” left over. Why must we be reduced to this Hallmark? Is this some sort of sick ass joke?
Well, we’re not gonna take it anymore! Men! Unite! Say NO! to Valentine’s Day!!
Remember Madonna? Yeah, she was that blonde super popstar singer who wore all kinds of crazy outfits and sang about sex and religion and emerged from an egg at the Grammy Awards? No wait, she was the one who made super erotic music videos pushing the boundaries of feminism while wearing crazy makeup and pranced around 3/4 naked in badass shoes. Wait! The one with kind of messed up teeth. SHIT! Oh wait, no, she’s the old buffed one. Remember her?
The old white rich men who run the Super Bowl have decided to let Madonna perform at the half-time show. The spectacle where we’ve seen Janet’s boob, Janet’s famous brother, McJagger’s skeleton and that one old Beatle who’s still alive. Half Time Show Fun Fact: Up until 1984, the halftime show was primarily college marching bands and drill teams. What the hell happened?
Instead of inspiring college musicians with pride for their school and their aspirations to be seen by a large crowd, we get super-stardom shoved down our throats with a chaser of Pepsi and Bud Light. We are consecrated with 30 seconds of $2.7 million dollar brilliance beamed to our eyeballs, whilst reveling with our 7 layer dips, cheeses, meats and sudsy lagers, laughing like royalty with a turkey leg in hand in the merriment of all our festivities watching millionaires run around a field chasing a ball with pretty colored costumes. And we wonder why all the other countries hate America.
I’m still going to watch though in hopes that one of Madonna’s cut pecs falls out.
You’re at a party, you don’t know anybody except Jim, Jose and Bud. You’re fine with that, but some folks like to “strike up conversations” and “talk to other human beings”. Some others still have tricks that make you start talking to them. These devious cunts make uncomfortable, awkward conversation SEEM like YOUR IDEA! Not cool bro… Not cool…
Enjoy Van Full of Candy’s first video offering of the new year, “Conversation Starter”, and share it with someone you don’t really want to talk to.
When I think of great reading material the only true publication that jumps out at me without even giving it a second thought is Playboy. Month after month, year after year they churn out some of the most interesting and in depth articles covering the gamut from polictics to Super Bowl MVPs, from how to get your woman off in 30 seconds to tips for deep frying a turkey on Thanksgiving. And in some circles “deep frying a turkey” just happens to be a term for getting your woman off involving Crisco in a bathtub with a turkey baster, so you see, they’re pretty damn smart without even knowing it. So you could probably understand my utter glee when I discovered that the double edition, holiday anniversary issue of Playboy for Jan/Feb 2012 was going to feature Elmore Leonard and George Pelecanos … HOLY SHIT !!! Not to mention the 20 greatest cocktails and cars of the year … CARS OF THE FUCKING YEAR PEOPLE !!!
The truth of the matter is, without Playboy, I wouldn’t even know what “cocktail” actually meant unless it had the words Pabst Blue Ribbon painted on the glass with an all American red, white and blue label to let me know that it was worthy of pouring down my gullet. Cock … tail … to the untrained ear that could really be misconstrued as some sort of weird rooster appendage, or even worse, a tail that looked like a … you get the idea. So thank you Playboy, thank you for making a silly layman like me into a cultured sophisticate looking refined when I order a Vieux Carre at the Keefer when I’m jet-setting in BC, or when I make simple conversation about how one should never even THINK of mentioning the Bentley GT V8 in the same breath as the Carrera 4 GTS, two completely different animals, and if you don’t understand the subtleties then please excuse yourself from this conversation sir. Oh, and apparently some drunk chick who’s spent the last 2 years failing to make it to court hearings got paid a cool million for showing us her tits. Yay America!
Alright every body, hold on to your things which are easily ejected from your person by sudden shock from wholly unbelievable news! Socks, hats, balls and all other comically loose items secured? Alright, you can’t say I didn’t warn you. Here goes…
Drinking booze, makes people want to fuck, stupidly!
I know. I lost nine good pair of work socks when I heard that news and I wasn’t even wearing half of them, they were just blown clean out of my sock drawer by the power of that revelation.
A new Canadian study says specifically that “how much alcohol a person drinks directly affects how likely they are to have unsafe sex”. Now sure, this research is based on twelve vague studies with no real numbers or “facts” backing up anything, and all of these findings are based on the participants of these studies (how ever many there might have been) self reporting their theoretical likelihood of partaking in raw intercourse after tipping back a couple adult beverages. And of course, their loosely assembled findings say that the effect of alcohol on one’s possible knowing abandonment of a baby shield disease prevention sack might be somewhere in the neighborhood of a 3 to 5 percent increase in “I don’t give a fuckitude”, which they immediately tie to how “the role of alcohol consumption and risky sex intentions can be applied to better understanding important public health issues such as the transmission of HIV.”
Now, I’m not a Doctor of Science, and I don’t claim to be. Sure, I like to run around in the lab coat I bought at the flea market and nothing else screaming about how a single injection from my flesh needle will cure what ails ya, but that should never be taken as intended to treat or diagnose any potential illness. I mention the last sentence about “understanding public health issues” almost exclusively because I love the term “risky sex intentions” and for no other reason. The writing in the article in which I found this information is piss poor and mockable on its own, regardless of the content, but every time I see the phrase “risky sex intentions” I can’t help but giggle and take another drink.
The biggest “revelation” in this “research” is the ground breaking finding that “the more alcohol participants consumed, the higher their willingness to engage in unsafe sex”.
“Alcohol is influencing their decision processes,” said a no doubt stunned Jürgen Rehm, director of the Really Long Sciencey Title at, I can only assume, Canada’s Centre for Things We All Pretty Much Already Know.
So let me get this straight. A substance that loosens inhibitions and impares cognitive ability somehow effects how much you think squeezing your reproductive organs into a tight latex sock is a good and important idea? I was unaware that this sort of thing needed researched, but fine, papers have to be written, research budgets have to be spent.
The dumbfounded doctor of the well known later went on to say that:
“Drinking has a causal effect on the likelihood to engage in unsafe sex, and thus should be included as a major factor in preventive efforts for HIV.”
And it’s at this point that I think we need to settle down just a little bit. Now alcohol awareness is a “major factor” in preventing HIV? Really? This study of yours Canadian Umlaut, based on little more than what drunk people say they might do with their drunken parts, is what you’re going to hang your science hat on and call a “major factor in preventative efforts for HIV”? Now, I don’t have HIV (Ladies…) but I know people who do, and I’m pretty certain that a couple drinks isn’t going to make them forget that their dicks are poison. People with a virus as potentially dangerous as this one, if they know they are carrying it, are generally pretty careful about what they put on their appendages and into whom they place them. Of course, I suppose part of the argument could be that it increases the likelihood of those who are unaware that they are infected might pass it unknowingly because booze told them to, but I think this study is being a lot more irresponsible than most infected individuals will be.
I freely admit that there’s probably more to this study than this article, apparently scribbled by a ninth grade english student being chased around his school newspaper class, has shared, so I’m not entirely sure whether I should be blaming poor reporting or poor research for screaming AIDS in a crowded bar. So I guess all I’m saying is this: Booze isn’t the bad guy. The bad guy is the bad guy. Be careful who you insert a part of your body into and vicey versey. Stranger danger extends to the inside of the pants of your new friend. You may have just shared a drink or nine with this nice person, but you don’t know where their moving pieces have been. You’re just meeting them for the first time now, so don’t assume they’ve always been on their best behavior.
Van Full of Candy says, PYP: Protect Your Parts! Because if you don’t, who will?