Alcohol

VFoC Video — "Conversation Starter"

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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.

Articles Schmarticles … Show Us The Boobs !!!

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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 !!!

With that gleam in Jill's eyes, Mark knew it was Deep Fry Time !!

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!

New Study Confirms Drinking Linked to Sex, Sun Linked to Daylight

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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!

What the HUH?!
What the HUH?!

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”.

Uh-huh…

I don't know, he seems like a responsible enough Warrior of the Realm.
I don't know, he seems like a responsible enough Warrior of the Realm.

“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?

Party People! You Win Some, You Lose Some: Headaches vs. Mistake Babies

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This week has been an uneven one for those who like to party first and deal with party related consequences eventually. We at Van Full of Candy are known to be fans of both “Party” and “Consequences”. The first is fun, the second is hilarious and the combination of the two is often hilariously fun. That is, as long as those hilarious consequences of party are being felt by others. The amount of fun and hilarity one experiences as a result of party consequences is in direct relation to exactly how much it effects you personally. Party Fact.

Not so fast rapedy, where's your doctor's note? Clock's tickin'.
Not so fast rapedy, where's your doctor's note? Clock's tickin'.

First, Wednesday, Party People who like to put their Party Parts in the parts of other Party People got the bad news that the Plan B Party Pill was going to have to stay behind the pharmacy counter. The FDA had ruled that anybody who had $50 and a need to unhappen a late night baby could pick up the pill in their local anywhere without having to let the Pharmacist know how much they like to Party. But “Health and Human Services Secretary Kathleen Sebelius”, thinking of course, of the children, decided that it was best to avoid the impulse buy madness that allowing just anyone to toss a couple de-preggers in your basket would most certainly cause, you know, because it’s best to stock up for those times when you just don’t want to pull on one of those Pesky Pecker Party Ponchos.

I can naturally understand the Human Services Lady’s point of view. Sebelius’ concern was apparently that “girls as young as 11 are physically capable of bearing children and Plan B’s makers didn’t prove that younger girls could properly understand how to use this product without guidance from an adult”. Completely fair and rational and understandable. Eleven year olds like to party. Party Fact. Also a fact, all over the counter drugs that can be harmful to children without proper guidance from an adult must be proven to be properly understandable to eleven year old girls before it can be sold to the public. Never mind that the use of this product, a pill, is covered by one of humanities most basic function, the “forward swallow”, or that said pill can in no way do any sort of damage what so ever to a tween whether taken properly or improperly (unless I guess, ingested into the brain stem through a child’s blow hole perhaps), the fact that the product does not explicitly explain that fact is apparently tragically unsafe and worthy of keeping it off of shelves.

Party People 17 and older that want to exterminate impending womb vermin can still do so without prescription, as before, by simply telling the “doctor” behind the counter that she had a party in her pelvis and everyone was invited. Those under 17 will continue to need a prescription from their local clinic. Don’t mind the van parked outside with pictures of inside out fetus parts or all of the lovers of invisible sky persons calling you a whore, they’re just there to make sure you don’t let the next guy get away with saying that he can’t feel anything when stuffed in his Party Prophylactic. And hey, don’t worry if the doctor calls to inform your parents that you’ve just picked up a life unruiner pill, if one of ’em’s the reason you’re there, they’ll probably love to hear the news!

But fret not lovers of all things party! The FDA, yes, the same FDA that tried to let you decide for yourself whether or not you knew how to operate a pill properly, just today approved a drinky don’t hurt disk for mass consumption following a night of massive consumption. “Blowfish” an “Alka-Seltzer like tablet” is a hangover cure on its way to a non Plan B stocked store shelf near you!

Plop plop, fizz fizz, oh what a LOUD FIZZ THAT IS!
Plop plop, fizz fizz, oh what a LOUD FIZZ THAT IS!

No longer will you have to pay for your night of heavy drinking with head aches and tummy aches and mysterious muscle strains and bruises that you can not explain and continuously tell your friends not to explain. With its (not at all) patented combination of 1,000 milligrams of Aspirin, 120 milligrams of caffeine and an unspecified (in the article that I found this information at least, and I’ve used up all of my research coupons for the year) quantity of antacid, “Blowfish” is set to take a prominent place in Van Full of Candy’s Party Purse, which is actually a medicine bag that we bought at a gas station inside an Indian reservation that we were assured was not only blessed by the tribe’s shaman, but was very masculine and didn’t at all look weird for us to be wearing. This’ll fit in quite nicely with our embarassingly purchased Plan B pills and notarized consent forms. With a name like “Van Full of Candy” written authorization to consensually violate another human being sets a lot of minds at ease.

Now the “Blowfish” product didn’t actually NEED to be approved by the FDA since it’s “composed of ingredients already aveilable for over the counter sales”, but instead needed approval of its packaging.

“Like all drug packaging, it has a lot of warnings for people with certain conditions,” Brenna Haysom, creator of Blowfish said. “And pregnant women should not take it, but hopefully they don’t need to be taking it!”

An excellent point. Women who are pregnant shouldn’t take a fizzy pill with a cup of coffee’s worth of caffeine, because that would be bad. Oh, and naturally, as Brenna so wryly points out, tongue planted firmly in drunken cheek, pregnant women shouldn’t be NEEDING to take the product in the first place since it’s a hang over cure and as most Party Preggos know, they shouldn’t be drinking beer. It’ll make the baby too fun and charismatic.Party Fact.

So Party People, get out there and have a good time knowing that the consequences that need the most urgent attending to are covered. If bright lights and loud noises make your head an itty bitty bit ouchy, the FDA approved product that can help you will soon be at the 7-11 register next to the energy shots and scratchers. But if you get pregnant inadvertently or against your will, the FDA approved product that can help you will still be un-readily available to you because, you know, God.

The Death of Winehouse, Parte the Third: The Resolutioning

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A pathologist says Amy Winehouse consumed a “very large quantity of alcohol” prior to her death.

What? Wait, what? No, wait… WHAT?! NO!? WHAT?! Wait, WHAT!?! NO!?

Suhail Baithun has told an inquest into the singer’s’ death that blood and urine samples showed she was 4.5 times over the legal drunk-driving limit.

Are you– But how could– You’re not saying– That isn’t– I was told– WHAT? Wait, WHAT? No!? That can’t possibly– NO!?

WHAT?!

WHAT?! Wait, what? NO!
WHAT?! Wait, what? NO!

In quite possibly THE single most shocking news story that I have ever heard in my eight thousand years of immortality, a professional in the medical field, with what one would assume is some level of training and expertise has apparently found that the reformed Lady Winehouse had “resumed drinking in the days before her death after a period of abstinence.”

BUT THAT’S IMPOSSIBLE!

I was told by “family sources”, whom I trusted implicitly, that our fragile flower was killed by sobriety when she went against doctor’s orders to gradually decrease her alcohol intake from “like air” to “like water” and eventually to “like a normal responsible human being” but instead went cold wild turkey. Her family full of apparent booze scientists were convinced that her lack of spirits was to blame for her “unexpected” demise.

“Family sources”! Who would know better about what killed their family member than a her neglectful, useless family?! I considered the case closed. Clearly she had died due to lack of personality potion. I know the feeling, my liver threatens to shoot my spleen and pistol whips my gal bladder every time I go more than three hours without a flower pot full of vodka.

Then came PROOF INDISPUTABLE that tragelebrity and leathery garbage bag full of fermented juice drinks, Dame Winehouse had been sobered to death! That proof of course came in the form of a complete and utter lack of illegal substances found in what was laughably referred to as her “body”. The initial toxicology results showed absolutely nothing, nada, zilch, ZERO illegal substances in her body, what more proof do you need that she was brutally murdered in a street fight with not drinking?!

SURE, alcohol was “present” in her system, but we detailed exactly how the alcohol found in her system was the work of her own internal organs, so starved for conversation started drops that it began internally brewing and bottling its own Amy Lagger. We were assured by further “family sources” that she simply could not have been killed by alcohol since she hadn’t touched the stuff despite reportedly being seen on a non-stop three day personal liquor reunion tour immediately before her death! Those stories were clearly lies told by liars who lie!

But this is apparently it. The end of life’s last great mysteries. Evidence that the only thing that I have ever in this long, lonely life, believed to be indisputably true, was in fact– Wait! I see it now! Oh my god I’m suck a fool! The apparent confusion and contradiction. The lies and cover ups. The deception! It’s as plain as the drink in your face! Amy Winehouse didn’t die from an over abundance OR utter lack of alcohol. AMY WINEHOUSE ISN’T DEAD AT ALL! I’ve seen this played out so many times, I’ve PLAYED this out so many times, I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. Over eight thousand years on this planet, you live many lives, pass in and out of the lives of so many fragile mortals. That’s it, don’t you see!?

Finally Amy, we see each other plain!
Finally Amy, we see each other plain!

Amy Winehouse is a Highlander!

Usually people like Amy and I are able to shed our past lives quietly, simply, typically leaving only a few loved ones behind when we can no longer live the lie that would eventually put them through so much pain. But in some cases, our “escape” is so much more public and baffling. This is exactly how it happened when I was Elvis.

Oh Amy, sweet Amy. I understand now, I get it. The sadness, the self destructive tendencies. But alcohol will not kill us Amy. Only we can do that. I will meet you some day in battle, Amelia of the House of Wine, and my blade will grant you the freedom you so desperately seek.

There can be only one.

This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things (Stupidity On Parade)

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Stupid people come in all shapes and sizes. In fact, stupid people are just like you and me…

Alright, who’m I kidding, they’re nothing like me, and for me to even suggest that they could be is just stupid. And of course, since you had the head full of smarty brains to come here and read our funny type ha-ha scribbles, you’re clearly nothing like them either. Also you’re a sexy minx whose beauty and charm is only rivaled by your comedy website decision making abilities. So then, if it’s not us and it’s not you, then who are these stupid people on which I’d just words ago based my entire argument, and the remaining 1100 words or so, on bitching about? I’m glad you asked, though you didn’t have to be so ill tempered about it. Stupid.

Like I said, stupid comes in all shapes and sizes, whether it be too large to safely fit into something not designed for them but too stupid to realize their own personal dimensions or too drunk with power and moronic to know that you shouldn’t tell someone that you rubbed your balls on something of theirs while “lawfully” rifling through their shit.

Have you ever been bet to do something you knew was not only stupid, but would no doubt result in certain pelvic harm? And no, we don’t mean a rollicking, good natured, “turkey basters full of HPV” fight. Most of us have a general working knowledge of our basic physical displacement volume, so no matter how much we’re egged on by our worst friends, no matter how many hundred of dollars you’re offered to wedge yourself into a space not designed for your mass, we understand that that way lay only pain and humiliation. That long after that Benjamin is spent on cast cutter rental, the psychological scars will remain. Fortunately for those of us who enjoy the suffering of the stupid, not everyone puts quite so much thought into their hip safety as we do.

The Widowmaker.
The Widowmaker.

A 21 year old, living adult male, was dared by his friends to wedge himself into a baby swing at a local park with the promise of a TEN THOUSAND COPPER LINCOLNS reward! What he received instead was an embarrassing 6am rescue by a groundskeeper who heard him screaming for help from deep within his swingy tomb.

Let’s examine this now shall we? No matter how drunk you are, and let us make no mistake, this individual was at very least drunk at the outset of this adventure, when the amount of the stakes involved in your stupid wager reaches the entirely unrealistic level of “$100”, you have to realize that you are being completely fucked with by people who simply know your price to do anything, no matter how moronic. No $100 bet in the history of idiots has EVER been paid in full. But even beyond the inherent flaw in this scenario of this ever actually being an honest challenge, this dufus is twenty-one years old and is hanging out in a public park at nine in the evening drunk enough to be convinced that this was a good idea. Twenty-one is too old to be duped into something so YouTubely idiotic, and nine is too early to be drunk enough to be coaxed into it. So I’m not going to blame my good friend booze on this one and will simply lay the fault at the dangling feet of this simpleton who I now can’t help but imagine waddling painfully toward the EMT van still in the baby swing harness freshly cut down by the firefighters.

Meanwhile a New Jersey TSA baggage screener thought it would be hilarious to anonymously harass a woman who discretely stowed her joy buzzer in her checked luggage, expecting, apparently wrongly, that some pervert wouldn’t go rooting through her shit like a creep with a license to do so.

Hey, at least the slip seems stain free. The sign of a true professional.
Hey, at least the slip seems stain free. The sign of a true professional.

Now, many of us have opened our bags after getting off a flight to find a slip inside thanking us for the good times that the Transportation Security Administration just had with all of our personal belongings. And while I generally don’t carry my varied assortment of tender bit tantalizers when I travel that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to some day (I miss them when I’m gone). But I feel raped enough when I find that strangers have been fingering nothing more intimate than the tooth brush I use to keep the inside of my butthole spotless. So when Jill Filipovic found that not only had the TSA notice of legal privacy invasion had been crammed in her belongings, but that it also came emblazoned with a hand written love letter reading “GET YOUR FREAK ON GIRL” by the “baggage handler” who apparently discovered her bullet vibe packed therein, she was surprisingly not as thrilled by the message of masturbation encouragement as the writer had surely expected she should be.

Now, I understand how the TSA agent might have been excited seeing a sex toy in a piece of luggage. That’s not where they usually live, so that’s titillating as shit! Plus, it’s a lady toy, so it’s probably been all up against lady parts. And while it must be like pervert Christmas to find this magical device when rifling through stranger clothes looking for things small enough that they won’t be missed long enough when they disappear that the victim has enough time to forget it was in their searched bag, you still have to have enough wits about you to only THINK these things, rather than writing them down and placing them in with your victim’s befouled belongings. As witty and cute as you think cheering on future diddling is, and while in your pervy imagination you’re sure that the owner of this device is going to do all the leg work necessary to track you down and pleasure herself in front of you with this device that you have found and instructed her to partake in its pleasure giving settings, the odds of that happening versus you having to inform every new neighbor you have for the rest of your life that you’re a registered sex offender just don’t make it a worthwhile gamble.

“It was a $15 bullet vibe from Babeland,” Jill said. “About the most basic sex toy you can imagine. It has now been officially retired, since I have no idea if the TSA agents manhandled it.”

A very wise move on her part, because no matter how long you boil that one, you’re never going to completely remove the cocktail of saliva and testicle smear left by the screener as he hurriedly molested himself with shaky hands.

Those who know me are aware that I have long said “We’re only still alive because an idiot hasn’t killed us yet.” but it’s also equally safe to say that we only still have playgrounds or un-secretly desecrated sex toys because an idiot hasn’t been able to jam themselves into it for an imaginary c-note or found it innocently tucked away in our own airborne personal belongings… Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, but the sentiment is certainly the same.

This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things (Stupidity On Parade)

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Stupid people come in all shapes and sizes. In fact, stupid people are just like you and me…

Alright, who’m I kidding, they’re nothing like me, and for me to even suggest that they could be is just stupid. And of course, since you had the head full of smarty brains to come here and read our funny type ha-ha scribbles, you’re clearly nothing like them either. Also you’re a sexy minx whose beauty and charm is only rivaled by your comedy website decision making abilities. So then, if it’s not us and it’s not you, then who are these stupid people on which I’d just words ago based my entire argument, and the remaining 1100 words or so, on bitching about? I’m glad you asked, though you didn’t have to be so ill tempered about it. Stupid.

Like I said, stupid comes in all shapes and sizes, whether it be too large to safely fit into something not designed for them but too stupid to realize their own personal dimensions or too drunk with power and moronic to know that you shouldn’t tell someone that you rubbed your balls on something of theirs while “lawfully” rifling through their shit.

Have you ever been bet to do something you knew was not only stupid, but would no doubt result in certain pelvic harm? And no, we don’t mean a rollicking, good natured, “turkey basters full of HPV” fight. Most of us have a general working knowledge of our basic physical displacement volume, so no matter how much we’re egged on by our worst friends, no matter how many hundred of dollars you’re offered to wedge yourself into a space not designed for your mass, we understand that that way lay only pain and humiliation. That long after that Benjamin is spent on cast cutter rental, the psychological scars will remain. Fortunately for those of us who enjoy the suffering of the stupid, not everyone puts quite so much thought into their hip safety as we do.

The Widowmaker.
The Widowmaker.

A 21 year old, living adult male, was dared by his friends to wedge himself into a baby swing at a local park with the promise of a TEN THOUSAND COPPER LINCOLNS reward! What he received instead was an embarrassing 6am rescue by a groundskeeper who heard him screaming for help from deep within his swingy tomb.

Let’s examine this now shall we? No matter how drunk you are, and let us make no mistake, this individual was at very least drunk at the outset of this adventure, when the amount of the stakes involved in your stupid wager reaches the entirely unrealistic level of “$100”, you have to realize that you are being completely fucked with by people who simply know your price to do anything, no matter how moronic. No $100 bet in the history of idiots has EVER been paid in full. But even beyond the inherent flaw in this scenario of this ever actually being an honest challenge, this dufus is twenty-one years old and is hanging out in a public park at nine in the evening drunk enough to be convinced that this was a good idea. Twenty-one is too old to be duped into something so YouTubely idiotic, and nine is too early to be drunk enough to be coaxed into it. So I’m not going to blame my good friend booze on this one and will simply lay the fault at the dangling feet of this simpleton who I now can’t help but imagine waddling painfully toward the EMT van still in the baby swing harness freshly cut down by the firefighters.

Meanwhile a New Jersey TSA baggage screener thought it would be hilarious to anonymously harass a woman who discretely stowed her joy buzzer in her checked luggage, expecting, apparently wrongly, that some pervert wouldn’t go rooting through her shit like a creep with a license to do so.

Hey, at least the slip seems stain free. The sign of a true professional.
Hey, at least the slip seems stain free. The sign of a true professional.

Now, many of us have opened our bags after getting off a flight to find a slip inside thanking us for the good times that the Transportation Security Administration just had with all of our personal belongings. And while I generally don’t carry my varied assortment of tender bit tantalizers when I travel that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to some day (I miss them when I’m gone). But I feel raped enough when I find that strangers have been fingering nothing more intimate than the tooth brush I use to keep the inside of my butthole spotless. So when Jill Filipovic found that not only had the TSA notice of legal privacy invasion had been crammed in her belongings, but that it also came emblazoned with a hand written love letter reading “GET YOUR FREAK ON GIRL” by the “baggage handler” who apparently discovered her bullet vibe packed therein, she was surprisingly not as thrilled by the message of masturbation encouragement as the writer had surely expected she should be.

Now, I understand how the TSA agent might have been excited seeing a sex toy in a piece of luggage. That’s not where they usually live, so that’s titillating as shit! Plus, it’s a lady toy, so it’s probably been all up against lady parts. And while it must be like pervert Christmas to find this magical device when rifling through stranger clothes looking for things small enough that they won’t be missed long enough when they disappear that the victim has enough time to forget it was in their searched bag, you still have to have enough wits about you to only THINK these things, rather than writing them down and placing them in with your victim’s befouled belongings. As witty and cute as you think cheering on future diddling is, and while in your pervy imagination you’re sure that the owner of this device is going to do all the leg work necessary to track you down and pleasure herself in front of you with this device that you have found and instructed her to partake in its pleasure giving settings, the odds of that happening versus you having to inform every new neighbor you have for the rest of your life that you’re a registered sex offender just don’t make it a worthwhile gamble.

“It was a $15 bullet vibe from Babeland,” Jill said. “About the most basic sex toy you can imagine. It has now been officially retired, since I have no idea if the TSA agents manhandled it.”

A very wise move on her part, because no matter how long you boil that one, you’re never going to completely remove the cocktail of saliva and testicle smear left by the screener as he hurriedly molested himself with shaky hands.

Those who know me are aware that I have long said “We’re only still alive because an idiot hasn’t killed us yet.” but it’s also equally safe to say that we only still have playgrounds or un-secretly desecrated sex toys because an idiot hasn’t been able to jam themselves into it for an imaginary c-note or found it innocently tucked away in our own airborne personal belongings… Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, but the sentiment is certainly the same.