Class

Lowered Social Standards: Thy Name is UFC

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Have you ever been publicly praised by your boss and heralded as “one of the classiest people on Earth!”, for choosing not to continue to savagely pummel an unconscious rival until being forcibly removed from their carcass by authorities? UFC fighter Brian Stann has, and that seems like a bad thing to me.

Now, I enjoy fighting to the ultimate as much as the next reptile brained hair covered mammal. If there is an individual with whom I have an otherwise readily resolvable difference, my first, natural and only instinct is ALWAYS to elbow it until the problem is easily wiped off of my arm joint. I also want to make sure that any ultimately fighting men that might happen to read this know that I don’t have any problem with the entirely rational and completely thought through decisions you make to continue raining uncontested blows upon the face of your opponent until you are tackled off of them. That’s your call and I think it is a completely right and handsome call of you to make, so please, ask your friends “Lefty” and “Widow Maker” to unclench and enjoy the rest of this article with the warm understanding that everything you punch had it coming and I completely support your punching it until you see fit to be forced to halt your hard wired programming of “skull liquefaction”.

I’m familiar with the ultimate fight, I’ve watched several in my day. Highlight DVDs are made entirely of muscular gentlemen wailing away at the craniums of the forcibly sleeping. It’s just a little weird, to me at least, to heap so much praise upon someone doing something that should really be the rule, rather than the exception.

In his fight with Alessio Sakara, Mr. Stann completely overwhelmed his opponent in the first round, putting him to painful bed with a series of elbows. It was after this that Brian did something that initially, most spectators couldn’t wholly understand. Without any out side provocation from the official who should have been leaping across the octagon at him, Brian Stann simply stopped demolishing Alessio Sakara’s brain pan.

"Guys! I'm done punching! Seriously!"
"Guys! I'm done punching! Seriously!"

This unexpected act of humanity by fighting man Brian Stann, one of the apparent universally regarded “good guys” of the sport of hitting other people with every blunt edge of your anatomy, prompted UFC President Dana White to announce to the Twitter machine how classy a gesture not taking liberties with the defenseless husk of Alessio Sakara was.

Now, obviously I’m not suggesting that UFC needs to be toned down, it’s infinitely more controlled than it was in its infancy, I’m just saying that it shouldn’t be such a shocking show of sportsmanship for a guy to wave a lazy, neglectful referee over to show him that he should have done his job already, that the sport itself feels like it should give this guy a trophy for having even a shred of human decency.

“He’s such a good guy, you almost want to hate him.” wrote “MMA Fighting”s Ben Fowlkes, I assume while breaking kittens legs and ensuring that they healed incorrectly. “Except, he’s also the kind of good guy who will stop a fight when he sees his opponent has been knocked out.”

That shouldn’t be a thing. What he just said. There shouldn’t be a place where it should be astonishing if someone stops fighting someone who no longer possesses the ability to fight back. Rule number one in every sport played by anyone every where should be “If your opponent has the motor function of a soggy dish rag and is unresponsive to any form of visual or aural stimuli, please stop punching them until they can be officially declared dead.”

So, good fight Mr. Stann, congratulations on being a rational individual, capable of remorse and able to recognize when your fists have transitioned from sporting equipment to state’s evidence. Now might I suggest you sit down with Dana White for a dish of delicious frozen yogurt and explain to him why being so excited about one of his employees choosing of his own accord to be a human being shouldn’t be so god damned tweet worthy.

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.

Hey Poor People: Go Fuck Yourself

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It’s no secret that the rich despise the poor. This hatred stems from a couple very different, very dark places in the place that at one time may or may not have housed a soul. Either 1) the rich person was once poor, and the very sight of the un-monied sends shivers down their spine, reminding them of the life they fought out of, frightened every day that someone will take it all away from them and send them back to the horrors of non-richness. of B) they have never known a minute of want in their entire privileged life and are so out of touch, with no reference for the plight of the soiled dirty people, they don’t understand how everyone doesn’t own a drawer full of platinum dipped, emerald encrusted cock rings, except that their abject lazy and unwillingness to make something of themselves makes them despise them and their worn more than once clothing.

There’s really no other way to explain the mind rapingly unnecessary extravagances that the rich continue to treat themselves to when surrounded by a world that at best is barely scraping by and is at worst, scraping off a bite of those who failed to scrape by.

The latest luxury item being offered to the bored rich collector of things that they should be ashamed of is this beaut…

The "Zaffiro Iridium": More luxury than your face could ever need.
The "Zaffiro Iridium": More luxury than your face could ever need.

Feast your eyes on the majesty of the only razor greater than yourself.

Now, you may be asking, “Why has a razor for the wasteful wealthy pissed you off so very much Mr. Blog? It’s just a razor, what harm could it possibly do to you and your constantly yelly face?” And it’s a fair question. Just looking at this face deforestation utensil, it looks no more special than your average Gillette. Frankly, it actually looks kind of ugly. A razor is generally a fairly harmless bathroom expenditure and this one looks like you could probably buy a bag of three of them for five bucks at CVS. But if that were the case, I wouldn’t have been shouting at the sky for the last three hours, now would I? Well, okay, I probably would have, but at least this gave me a somewhat defensible reason.

You see, if you’d like to scrape the whiskers from your face in the most luxurious, exclusive way known to the abhorrent excess of man, you can get yourself your very own Zafirro Iridium for the bargain basement price of JUST… $100,000.

No, I didn’t just have a stroke and lean on the zero key for a comically long period of time: that’s the real fucking price. For only $100,000 you can stride confidently across the face of your own bought and paid for planet with chops as smooth as a starving child’s malnourished ass cheeks.

"Oh good, my shaving razor's HANDLE has arrived. Send someone poor to fetch that for me."
"Oh good, my shaving razor's HANDLE has arrived. Send someone poor to fetch that for me."

And you know what, you get your very last penny’s worth, because the Zafirro Iridium isn’t made with space age technology, that’s for poor assholes. No, the Zafirro Iridium is made from fucking SPACE! See, if Zafirro’s razor sounds sort of familiar in a weird, sci-fi kind of way, that’s because it gets its name from the material it’s made from “Iridium”. What is iridium you may be wondering? Well you see, most of the iridium found on our planet is “the result of crashed meteorites”… That’s right, this razor is made of space rocks. Actually, scratch that. The HANDLE is made of space rocks. The fucking handle is made of iridium, an “extremely scarce and expensive metal that is so dense, it could survive a drop into molten lava”. Not the business end of this $100,000 indestructible face smoother but just the HANDLE, the LEAST IMPORTANT PART of this thing is made of a Superman metal from a doomed planet far, far away that has crash landed on Earth.

So then, if the thing that holds the blade is made of metal that can leap tall buildings in a single bound, what the hell fuck could the actual blade be made of? Sharpened unicorn bones? Laser carved shards of a brown dwarf star? Jesus’ finger nail clippings? No, that’s ridiculous, nothing quite so extravagant and fantastical, the blades of this $100,000 dollar shaver are simply made from artificially grown sapphire… That’s all… I don’t even know what that means or if the reality of what the blades actually are is even less insane than the other options I threw on the table.

Zafirro, which apparently only exists to sell these razors, is only offering 99 of these grotesque impulse buys to the money soaked “public”, adding one more irresistible feature to lure in the bahudratrillionaires: exclusivity. The only thing the super rich love more than buying more comically expensive things that shouldn’t cost nearly so much, is knowing that they will be one of only a handful of people on the planet to own it.

To say this is unnecessary is a gross understatement, but that doesn’t mean that people don’t have the right to spend their money how ever they see fit. What makes me so angry is when I see something like this and then, foolishly, put it in perspective. The poverty line in the contiguous United States for the year of our lord 2000 and 11 for a family of 4 (with all family members 18 years of age or over) is $22,350. So, give those four families a couple extra bucks in walkin’ around money to waste on frivolous nonsense that the poor are known to throw their money away on, such as food and electricity, and 16 people could live the lavish life of the just barely not impoverished for an entire year for the price of a single, solitary, volcano proof grooming tool…

It’s better not to think about these things, I wish I didn’t. But I do, and that’s why I’m angry all the time. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go get a ten pack of Bics at the dollar store and try to resist the urge to cut my hands off with them… BYE NOW!

Reaching 100 With Class

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Cooler than that hundred. Not quite as cool as the hundred he got shortly after taking this picture.
Cooler than that hundred. Not quite as cool as the hundred he got shortly after taking this picture.

It’s been almost exactly four months since this Candy filled Van of hilarity and yuks hit the road. We like to think in that time we have firmly established ourselves as one of the class acts of internet humor sites.

It is with that standard of excellence in mind that we come to you today to celebrate our 100th bloggy contribution to the world of internet chuckles. Naturally, on such a momentous occasion, we at Van Full of Candy wanted to celebrate our 100th post in the classiest way we could think of. And after much pinky extended thought and salad fork musing, we finally settled on how best to mark this special moment in keeping with the lofty standards of excellence that we have established for ourselves and our viewers over the previous 99 classy missives.

So ladies and gentlemen, in honor of our 100th post Van Full of Candy is proud to present 100 newly minted terms for our favorite private parts in no particular.

Please, enjoy.

Dumb & Dumber
No Shoes No Shirt No Service
BAM SUCKA!!
T-shirt Tents
Earl Grey
The Baby Laser
Squeezy Toys
Bajing-jangs
Whistle Rocket with Report
The Comfy Sisters
Big & Slightly Bigger
Clackers
Moist Cave
The Orbs of Testicleez
The Stinky Off Ramp
Justice Gavel
Two Percent & Skim
Foul Mouthed Cheeky Bastard
The Womb Wick
DJ Spunky on the Ones and Twos
Wrong Turn of the Taint Junction
Convex Happiness
Marble Madness
The Good Kind of Fatty Sacks
Dangly Bits
Two Cups of Cream
Professor Blumpkin’s Mine
Low Hanging Fruit of the Vine
Cashew and Pistachio
Vangina
Groin Uvula
Comfort Food
Happy Dampy
The Batcave
The Fellas
Gashy
Smeary sandwich
Cave of Wonder
Turtle Crowning
Red Velvet Cake Taco
The Goal
Rusty Busted Pipe Burst
Abalone Avenue
The Enchanted Forest
Kielbasa Holder
Sack Religious
Germany’s Main Event
Kate Spades
Hefty Cinch SAK
Don King
Jack LaLanne’s Power Juicer
Non Almond Joys
2 Egg Omelette
Happy Time Fun Factory
Flotilla
Slip n Slide
Uncle Peen’s Humid Summer Cabin
Jack’s Magical Beans
The Mystery Spot
The Brothers Bouncy
The Joy Chasm
Puddin’ Pie
Easy Bake Oven
Corn Smuggler
The Tender’s
Spitter of Unborn Souls
Target Practice
Bag o’ Fun
Salami Sleeve
Bread Box
Bologna Rollup
Manual Transmission Stick
Daddy’s One Time Only Drunken Birthday Promise
Splinterless Totem Pole
The Sprinkler
Duncan Hines Brownie Factory
Chilean Mine Collapse
You’re Welcome
The Log Ride
Severe Tire Damage
Tijuana Pony Show
The ol’ Mouth Full
Silky Soft Semen Satchel
Sneezy
The ex’s Speed Bag
Cream filled Flesh Twinkie
The Inside Out Uterus
Please Hammer Don’t Hurt ‘Em
Flappy Hand Warmer
The Dream Eater
The Rib Cage Ridge
Stargate: Pooplantis
Spare Eyeballs
Open Face Tuna Melt
The Path of Least Resistance
The Apology Hole
The Pink Piston
Torso Speed Bumps
The Llama
Perky Poncho Protrusions
The Man Handle