Death

PROOF That Amy Winehouse Was Murdered by Not Drinking!

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I don’t want to say I told you so. I mean, I’ve told you time and time again about how I hate to be the one to tell you that I told you. If there’s one thing that anyone who knows me can tell you that I’ve told them is that the thing that I enjoy least in the world is telling them that I don’t want to tell them that I told them I wouldn’t tell them…

But I fuckin’ told you so.

Amy Winehouse: murdered by sobriety! Case closed! How is it case closed? How do we now know beyond a shadow of a doubt that Amy was killed in cold blood by the absence of alcohol? Because the family “says toxicology tests show there were no illegal drugs in her system when she died”.

BOOYAKA!

Air tight, non-smoking gun of smoke filled guns. No illegal drugs in her system = assassination by lack of alcohol. One plus one still equals two, does it not? … Does it not? It’s been a long time since I’ve had a math class, things may very well mean different things than how I remember them.

Absolute definitive proof that a lack of alcohol killed our Ms. Winehouse… Especially when you consider that according to the tests “alcohol was present” in her system. FURTHER PROVING that quitting alcohol “cold turkey” killed her!

“Abstinence gave her body such a fright they thought it was eventually the cause of her death,” a family source told  The Sun, one of Brittain’s always trustful newsesque Tabloid publications.

See, her family still believes that Amy dropping the sauce “completely for three weeks” was such a “shock for her tiny body” that it simply could not cope with “such a dramatic withdrawal”. And they are clearly pointing to the absolute lack of illegal drugs in her system as proof positive that she was killed by not drinking alcohol… So, the fact that alcohol was found in her system can mean only one thing, and is the final piece to the puzzle of the death of Amy Winehouse. TO THE VFoC SCIENCE LAB OF IMPOSSIBLE OCOURANCES!

Overcome by exhaustion from finding so much booze a loving home.
Overcome by exhaustion from finding so much booze a loving home.

Amy Winehouse, singer of songs, drinker of things; seeing that her life was in grave danger at the mouth of a bottle, decided to muster the power of her famed self control and restraint, and kick booze right between the o’s. So, the first several weeks was spent disposing of all of the alcohol that heretofore had been her only source of nourishment. This process went on for some time, unfortunately spilling into her professional life, as evidenced by video of her stumbling and incoherent during her aborted European tour approximately a month before her death, which was clearly brought on by the exhaustion of humanely disposing of so very much alcohol back into the wild.

Then, as the weeks of clean living piled up, her treacherous body, unwilling to live as her will demanded, began to turn against her. Seeing clearly that alcohol would not be provided externally any longer, as Amy’s unwavering determination refused to waver in the face of waverable circumstances, her organs knew that they had to begin producing their own fermented good times. And so her liver, in conjunction with her pancreas, kidneys, large intestine, spleen and the master mind of it all, her appendix began the process of transforming her internal fluids into alcohol.

Visual aproximation of Amy Winehouse's current state of being.
Visual approximation of Amy Winehouse's current state of being.

Being in perfect tune with all of her various inner workings, Amy was immediately aware of the nefarious plot of her internal moving parts. Knowing that the mutinous squishy parts of her could not be reasoned with, and determined to never again be turned to the drunk side, Amy understood what she had to do. Focusing her essence, channeling her universal flow and harnessing the forces of being as only one who has achieved a 407th level consciousness as Amy had, can, choosing to simply halt her corporeal functions before being corrupted again by her easily corruptible flesh.

So weep not for Amy, she was ultimately a hero, saving the world from drunken organs that would certainly have eventually over run her body and taken over the world, their unquenchable thirst driving it ever forward until it enveloped this world and eventually, swallowed whole all of reality.

Thank you Amy, thank you for your service to sentient beings everywhere.

And I fuckin’ told you so.

Facebook Will Be Murdered in 87 Days

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In an epic “Fight Club” style of badass-anarchy-not-gonna-take-it-anymore blatant threat kind of a way, a kickass movement called Anomymous has publicly pretty much said “We’re gonna murder Facebook in the face and there’s nothing anybody can do about it!” That’s a pretty ballsy claim which made us here at Van Full of Candy stand at attention to it’s Trans-Am’ery.

This isn't your daddy's Alcoholics Anonymous

In a super simple, computer hackery, War-Games’ish kinda video, the challenge is clear, and it’s something that you would only expect to see in a James Bond movie when the villain hacks the airways and jams the good guys transmission with their message of impending doomy doom. I think it’s pretty bold of Anonymous to actually GIVE Facebook almost 3 months to get ready for their impending assassination, like they’re letting Facebook know that there’s nothing they can do except crap their shorts for the next 87 days. But why would you do that? Why wouldn’t you just kill them and take the credit later on? Or even not take the credit and just know that you did what you set out to do?

It’s like any good shoot ’em up movie. The bad guy is trying throughout the entire movie to kill the good guy, and when the chance FINALLY happens, the bad guy savors the moment and doesn’t kill the good guy right away, he drags him to a warehouse where he can gloat in his bad guyness victory. But then the good guy somehow wriggles free like Houdini bound with chains, does a leg-sweep, a quick headbutt and magically wrassles the bad guys weapon from him turning the tables as only Guy Ritchie could direct it. LISTEN!! If you’re the bad guy, and you have the good guy and you can kill him, then kill him !! Period !! No chances, no warnings, no delay !!

So now the only question left is … is this real or a hoax? Is it the work of the most Trans-Am group of badass hackers toying with their victims until bludgeoning time, or is this the tomfoolery of a comedic group of writers who might even have a comedic blog that like to make videos that make people think? Hey, that sounds kinda like ours, but not ours, definitely not ours !! You decide. As for me, I’m gonna get some serious popcorn and Milk Duds ready for the release of this action flick and see what the fuck goes down that day. Guess I better start transferring all our shit over to MySpace.

AAAHHHHHH!!! (Apocalypse Edition: Parte the Somethingth)

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It’s the end of the world! Oh sweet Jesus who up until this very moment when you might actually be of some use to me, I have heretofore ignored and denied, IT’S THE END OF THE MONKEY FIGHTING WORLD!

Don’t believe me?! Well fuck you! ‘Cause it’s real Jack! You’re dead! I’m dead! We’re all fuckin’ dead and we don’t even know it! But I do! I know it! You don’t, but I do! I know it! I know it and now you know it! So fuckin’ disregard the first part of this statement! Because now you know it JACK! WE’RE FUCKIN’ DEAD!

Alright… Okay… Alright… Breathe… Deep breath. New pants. Liquor. More liquor. More pants. Alright.

I can’t stop crying. And I’m not sure if it’s from fear or joy. Or foy… or, jear… But the end of days is at hand people. Oh yeah, call me a lunatic, as I have called many others in the past. It’s easy, just look: “I’m a fucking nut job crazy person who’s blind faith in the unseeable is as sad as it is moronic. Someone should put this pathetic excuse for me out of my misery, if just so that I don’t get to see the coming end of the world that I’m waiting for.” See, just that easy, I’ve belittled and discredited myself in one swift movement… Wow, I’m kind of a dick…

But you may be wondering why I’m now so convinced that the end is here and now. Why, after so often calling fans of the smiting lord blithering nut candy, I am now so certain that I’m going to be paying for my heresy unless I start sucking the blithering nut candy of those who can put in a good word with king nut candy… Who I should probably start referring to as my personal lord and savior, because continuing to call him hurtful names is probably doing very little to help my standing.

Well I’ll tell you why. THIS SHIT IS WHY!

Lake turned to blood. That’s some OT (Old Testament) shit right there son! That’s vengeful, child killing, world flooding, here’s my delicious fruit that you can live around but better not even think of enjoying, mountain top thou-shalt-not shit right there! And this is in Texas, where God is only slightly less worshiped than High School football, so this is some serious business!

Now sure, you can try to use some godless sciencey “facts” and “non-freaking out rational thought” to explain this lake suddenly and miraculously turning to blood. You can SAY that it’s more likely the result of Chromatiacea bacteria thriving in oxygen-deprived water that is killing the fish of this almost dried up stagnant, drought ravaged reservoir giving it the delicious, thick hearty blood like tint. But that’s exactly what a godless heathen like you WOULD say if you weren’t so damned busy killing babies and drinking their juices at your gay orgy weddings for communists!

But you know what, since I’m now a warrior of Christ, ready and waiting to be raised from this damned place to my rightful station in the mutha fuckin’ CLOUDS, I can take your flimsy argument and just Goddize it up any damned way! Droughts? This is the result of droughts? Well, what exactly is a drought, except a reverse flood? And who’s literature’s biggest flood lover? MY SKY MONSTER!– NO! Not… Not sky monster. What’s the other thing, the– OH! My God… person. Lord? Something… And a bunch of dead fish? That’s some kind of tragedy? Fish are a bunch of lazy freeloaders just swimmin’ back and forth over our borders drinkin’ their own poop. Build the dang water fence!

"Oh yeah, that shit is on."
"Oh yeah, that shit is on."

And speaking of the reportedly “Good” book which I fully intend on reading as soon as I get the chance; this is all in there, warning us from Heavenland that this day would come. Indiana preacher Paul Begley went to the YouTubes to tell the world about it.

“The second angel poured out his bowl on the sea, and it turned into blood like that of a dead person, and every living thing in the sea died,” my new best friend Mr. Preacher Pastor Begley Poperson said. “The third angel poured out his bowl on the rivers and springs of water, and they became blood.” 

IT’S RIGHT THERE! The order doesn’t matter, I seem to recall making up something about Jesus or one of the others saying something about “The first being the last and the third being the first.” or some such nonsensical, contradictory shit used specifically to help my narrative! Bowls are being poured people, and that’s the important part. Blood bowls. Angels, with bowls filled with blood, are pouring them into our reservoirs and killing our fish! And if that ain’t 100% scripture proof, then I don’t know what the fuck is… But that’s probably just because I don’t know what the fuck is. 

So this is it folks, it’s fer rillzies this time. End of the world time. Unless it isn’t, in which case next time will absolutely be it. You see, God knows it’s not the eternity of gnashing and wailing that will be the true torment for the nonbelievers and sinners of the world: it’s the anticipation that really gets ’em…

Hail whom ever is willing to accept me into which ever afterlife is true!

Bases covered.

Burn Baby, Burn! (Hitler Inferno)

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Human beings have kind of a sick obsession with dead bodies.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a monster, I get that the rapidly decaying, lifeless corpse over there used to belong to someone you had some fondness for. But at no point forward will that bio degrading fleshy mound of used ta was, ever do anything again that it used to do when previously possessed by the life force of who ever they aren’t anymore. Tickle it all you’d like, it ain’t never gonna giggle that unmistakable titter that you fell in love with. Call it by name, dangle it’s favorite bag of salty treats in front of it, it’s not going to pop up and suddenly begin recirculating all of your favorite bloods and give you a great big knowing hug. And if it DOES, run like hell for a stabbing or shooting utensil because your loved one is now zombified and it’s either you or it Jack!

The point I’m trying to make is this: the second your beloved friend, relative or lover breathes their last, the container they left behind that they used to drive around in to be recognizable to other things living in this plane of existence is no more them than the carton that the milk came in is going to help increase your bone density. You’re just left with an expensive bag of recycling. Feel free to mourn the person you’ve lost, but let’s try to be a little more reasonable about what remains, and treat it more like the ’74 Rambler that it is.

Now that I’ve angered and alienated most of you, let’s get to the two stories I found this morning about the uproar caused by the cremating of one barely dead (and mistaken) infant, and one already excessively dead Nazi…

Appropriateness at this point really isn't an issue I don't think...
Appropriateness at this point really isn't an issue I don't think...

Apparently, last year an Ohio funeral home made an isty bitsy boo boo and set alight the wrong dead baby, which, surprisingly, wasn’t met well by the guardians of said unintentionally reduced child shell. The story states that, due to a morgue mix up the body of a 14 month old was mistakenly released to the Marlan J. Gary Funeral Home, in stead of the 22 DAY old infant intended for a ride on the grill. And because the Funeral Home just cooked the baby they were given, they had their license suspended for six months.

This issue raises a lot of, what I feel are natural questions with me. Now, I’m no baby scientist, I’ve said that time and time again when ever someone runs up to me in a panic, desperately pleading for my expertise in baby science, so I feel it bears repeating: I’m no baby scientist, but I’m fairly certain that there is a decided difference between the density and general volume of the body of a one year and two month old child versus that of a three week and one day old child. I could go to Target right now and pick up a jumper with a tag that says “0-4 months” or something, and compare that to a pair of slacks in the “Pre-pre-pre School to Pre-pre School” section and likely not be surprised by the decided difference in expected sizes.

So, does a hearse just back up to a morgue, wait to hear the thump in the bed and drive off, or are there some sort of checks in place to make sure that not only is the morgue giving away the right dead baby, but that the funeral home is RECEIVING the right dead baby? Just the shere handling of the body seems like it would tip me off if I were a dead baby delivery man. If I’m delivering a deceased 22 day old, I expect I should be able to chuck that bitch in the back of a corpse limo with one hand. Just lob it in under hand and high five myself for another day of life more than that poor bastard. And if it took say, two hands and a little bit of heft, and I checked my clip board and it said “22 dayer” I would probably wonder if I had the right infant cadaver.

Conversely, if I were a crematorier, just thinking from a strictly business stand point, I imagine I use a different amount of fuel to burn the body of a 22 day old than I would for a 14 month old. So if I were intending to roast a 22 day old, put in a bag of 22 day older fuel and just tossed in what I thought was a 22 day old, I imagine if I were to come back later, I would likely find a good deal of 14 month old left uncrematized and wonder if my baby burning fuel supplier was fucking me over.

Aside from all of that obviousness, what gets me the most about the article is where is says:

“A hearing officer noted that cremation is irreversible and said funeral directors must take precautions to ‘get it right.’ ”

I doubt that most people need be reminded that reducing human remains to ash is awful difficult to undo. I’m certain that most of us didn’t think that cremation was just a fancy term for “dehydration” and that a body could just be returned to its former glory by simply splashing it with a Dixie cup of water.

Hmmm, skinheads are different than I remember...
Hmmm, skinheads are different than I remember...

Meanwhile, over in Germany in what seems like one of the more extreme promotional tie-ins I’ve seen for tomorrow’s release of Marvel’s “Captain America: The First Avenger”; the bones of Rudolf Hess, one of Adolph Hitler’s deputies, were exhumed and cremated. Germans don’t quite get the collectible cup level of promotion, and you can’t tell them that they’re doing it wrong or they might murder millions of Jews.

It seems that, with the lease on Hess’ burial plot coming up for renewal in October, and with the grave site having become a pilgrimage site for neo-Nazis, “Hess’ relatives and Lutheran church authorities in the town decided it was best to remove the remains.” And viola, no more neo-Nazis. Right?

“The grave is now empty,” said cemetery administrator Andreas Fabel. “The bones are gone.”

Soooo… neo-Nazis couldn’t still commune at the former grave site of their martyred hero?

They apparently “cremated the remains and scattered them secretly in a lake, whose name and location are not being divulged”, so in a way, they’ve sort of made just about anywhere a fair place to come together and celebrate the memory of Rudolf Hess. He’s now circulating in the water ways of Where Ever Germany, being carried out to sea, and floating about on the breeze. These short sighted Nazi haters have effectively dusted all of us with Nazi particles. Thanks, just what I needed, to breathe Nazi while I’m just minding my own business, hating just fine on my own thank you very much. I really have a hard time believing that neo-Nazis are so sentimental that they’re going to have any difficulty mustering up enough focused drive to gather for a hate fest just because the bones of one of their heroes, that they could never positively confirm or deny the existence of in the first place, might not be where they were last week.

But if it makes you feel any better Lutherans, congratulations, you just re-killed a dead Nazi. You won World War II. And you just spoiled the ending of “Captain America” for me, assholes!

It’s Raining Baseball Fans

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Soon helmet giveaways at the ballpark won’t just be novelty promotions, but mandatory equipment given out before every game to protect lunatics from accidentally murdering themselves diving from rafters for collectible garbage.

I don’t know if you’ve heard the news, but there’s a hot new trend at the nation’s basedballing sport complexes: face diving onto cement from heights unsurvivable!

Last week at a Texas Rangers game, nearly seventy-five percent of the fans in attendance fell to its death from the upper deck. I’m sorry, I read that wrong, one man at a Texas Rangers game last week fell from the upper deck to his death. I apologize, that’s closer to 50%. Then, yesterday, during the Homed Running Derby of Hitting Competitions in someplace called “Phoenix” another idiot tried to hurl himself at a $5 souvenir laughably out of his reach and was only saved by the mistaken instinctive actions of those around him trying to protect him from his own unbridled stupidity as if his life were worth preserving.

This is really a guy you're going to try to save from what he's about to do?
This is really a guy you're going to try to save from what he's about to do?

Sports memorabilia is a very big, very dumb obsession, I know; I still have the bandana full of bottle openers that Charlie Hough hit me with at a Scottsdale Rite Aid back in ’98, and I cherish it as if it shattered my very own ocular bone: which it did. But these aren’t a home run ball that Mark McGwire kept his used steroid needles in after he’d already filled up the cat litter bucket he used to dispose of them in but before he had a new empty to fill, or the ball that Babe Ruth choked to death on when he mistook it for a heroin caked cheeseburger. The guy at the Rangers game was diving for a foul ball that Rangers outfieldman Josh Hamilton was throwing into the crowd and the idiot that tried to kill himself yesterday was at least ten rows away from a meaningless homerun derby dinger. Both of which, on the open market would fetch just about as much as any slightly used baseball listed on craigslist right now: “free, you pick up”.

Naturally, people hurtling themselves over railings, thirty or more feet above anything at all, is causing Major League baseball to look into the safety and security of their ball parks. Rather than simply, say, holding up these cases of the dip shitity of launching yourself from your insanely priced seats and understanding that the ball that the player that time will never remember just leisurely lobbed in your direction is the exact same one as those in the souvenir stand and probably isn’t worth a shattered face and traumatic, nationally televised orphanism.

And think of the players; won’t you? A quote from an actual article reporting the Rangers fan’s death:

There is also concern for Josh Hamilton, the player who tossed the ball. He’s battled his way back from addiction, and now has to deal with potential feelings of guilt over what happened.

Now please, don’t get me wrong, I understand that a professional atheletist must naturally feel some level of personal guilt that comes from shorting a throw, but I think the main thrust of the story is that a man just threw himself to his death in front of his six year old son in pursuit of a sports sphere of zero importance. Yes, it’s sad that the man DIRECTLY RESPONSIBLE for this otherwise perfectly dexterous and well reasoned bat bases swing ball enthusiast’s untimely spine compression might want to have a drink after witnessing, someone so willing to put their life at risk, trusting completely in his ability to competently do what he is paid millions of dollars to do just a single time in a way that the recipient would not have to put himself in mortal danger, be so terribly wrong; but the story is about this suddenly shorter ex-father and his inability to see the ball into his glove like a four year old t-ball player. Focus up news story. If anything, this experience should certainly make Mr. Hamilton an infinitely better fielder as from now until he exhales his final dying breath he will envision every recipient of his throw as potentially falling to their untimely, comical death directly in front of their barely comprehending toddler as a direct result of his precision or lack thereof. That’s gonna make him throw all the way through from here on out I think.

Not a speck of awareness of his own mortality in his eyes.
Not a speck of awareness of his own mortality in his eyes.

I don’t blame Josh Hamilton for one Texas man’s lack of a self preservation instinct, that’s dumb. I also don’t blame baseball stadiums. I, as usual, blame idiots. They come in all shapes and sizes and they’ll accidentally assassinate themselves no matter how impossible the world tries to make it. Admittedly, a thigh high railing over a 30 foot fall is not the BEST tool to fight tools, but what WILL keep the stupid from jumping after the pretty approaching orb? As we have continued to moron proof the world, I don’t doubt at all that in the near future all baseball stadiums will be built with chain link enclosed bleachers, locking the crowd in like the animals they are for their own good. And of course, it still won’t be enough, because as any Giants fan at Dodger Stadium will tell you once they’ve regained the ability to speak, not all of the danger is on the field.

So over react as quickly as you can baseball. Encase the stands in memory foam and packing peanuts double time, because before you can say “problem solved” some forehead is going to choke to death on a hunk of NASA technology that his buddies bet him a beer he couldn’t snort.

It's Raining Baseball Fans

Posted on

Soon helmet giveaways at the ballpark won’t just be novelty promotions, but mandatory equipment given out before every game to protect lunatics from accidentally murdering themselves diving from rafters for collectible garbage.

I don’t know if you’ve heard the news, but there’s a hot new trend at the nation’s basedballing sport complexes: face diving onto cement from heights unsurvivable!

Last week at a Texas Rangers game, nearly seventy-five percent of the fans in attendance fell to its death from the upper deck. I’m sorry, I read that wrong, one man at a Texas Rangers game last week fell from the upper deck to his death. I apologize, that’s closer to 50%. Then, yesterday, during the Homed Running Derby of Hitting Competitions in someplace called “Phoenix” another idiot tried to hurl himself at a $5 souvenir laughably out of his reach and was only saved by the mistaken instinctive actions of those around him trying to protect him from his own unbridled stupidity as if his life were worth preserving.

This is really a guy you're going to try to save from what he's about to do?
This is really a guy you're going to try to save from what he's about to do?

Sports memorabilia is a very big, very dumb obsession, I know; I still have the bandana full of bottle openers that Charlie Hough hit me with at a Scottsdale Rite Aid back in ’98, and I cherish it as if it shattered my very own ocular bone: which it did. But these aren’t a home run ball that Mark McGwire kept his used steroid needles in after he’d already filled up the cat litter bucket he used to dispose of them in but before he had a new empty to fill, or the ball that Babe Ruth choked to death on when he mistook it for a heroin caked cheeseburger. The guy at the Rangers game was diving for a foul ball that Rangers outfieldman Josh Hamilton was throwing into the crowd and the idiot that tried to kill himself yesterday was at least ten rows away from a meaningless homerun derby dinger. Both of which, on the open market would fetch just about as much as any slightly used baseball listed on craigslist right now: “free, you pick up”.

Naturally, people hurtling themselves over railings, thirty or more feet above anything at all, is causing Major League baseball to look into the safety and security of their ball parks. Rather than simply, say, holding up these cases of the dip shitity of launching yourself from your insanely priced seats and understanding that the ball that the player that time will never remember just leisurely lobbed in your direction is the exact same one as those in the souvenir stand and probably isn’t worth a shattered face and traumatic, nationally televised orphanism.

And think of the players; won’t you? A quote from an actual article reporting the Rangers fan’s death:

There is also concern for Josh Hamilton, the player who tossed the ball. He’s battled his way back from addiction, and now has to deal with potential feelings of guilt over what happened.

Now please, don’t get me wrong, I understand that a professional atheletist must naturally feel some level of personal guilt that comes from shorting a throw, but I think the main thrust of the story is that a man just threw himself to his death in front of his six year old son in pursuit of a sports sphere of zero importance. Yes, it’s sad that the man DIRECTLY RESPONSIBLE for this otherwise perfectly dexterous and well reasoned bat bases swing ball enthusiast’s untimely spine compression might want to have a drink after witnessing, someone so willing to put their life at risk, trusting completely in his ability to competently do what he is paid millions of dollars to do just a single time in a way that the recipient would not have to put himself in mortal danger, be so terribly wrong; but the story is about this suddenly shorter ex-father and his inability to see the ball into his glove like a four year old t-ball player. Focus up news story. If anything, this experience should certainly make Mr. Hamilton an infinitely better fielder as from now until he exhales his final dying breath he will envision every recipient of his throw as potentially falling to their untimely, comical death directly in front of their barely comprehending toddler as a direct result of his precision or lack thereof. That’s gonna make him throw all the way through from here on out I think.

Not a speck of awareness of his own mortality in his eyes.
Not a speck of awareness of his own mortality in his eyes.

I don’t blame Josh Hamilton for one Texas man’s lack of a self preservation instinct, that’s dumb. I also don’t blame baseball stadiums. I, as usual, blame idiots. They come in all shapes and sizes and they’ll accidentally assassinate themselves no matter how impossible the world tries to make it. Admittedly, a thigh high railing over a 30 foot fall is not the BEST tool to fight tools, but what WILL keep the stupid from jumping after the pretty approaching orb? As we have continued to moron proof the world, I don’t doubt at all that in the near future all baseball stadiums will be built with chain link enclosed bleachers, locking the crowd in like the animals they are for their own good. And of course, it still won’t be enough, because as any Giants fan at Dodger Stadium will tell you once they’ve regained the ability to speak, not all of the danger is on the field.

So over react as quickly as you can baseball. Encase the stands in memory foam and packing peanuts double time, because before you can say “problem solved” some forehead is going to choke to death on a hunk of NASA technology that his buddies bet him a beer he couldn’t snort.

VFoC “LIVE” on The Comedy Buffet’s Podcast

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The good fellas at The Comedy Buffet were kind enough to let us stink up their otherwise hilarious podcast the other night. We’d like to apologize in advance for our uncontrolable crass behavior, rude language, and complete disregard to fat kids, cross-dressing boys, and religion in general, … yeah right, who am I kidding? Let’s face it, there’s just not enough room for those “types” here on this earth that’s about to overheat anyway, so forget all that bullshit I just said, click the link below and hold the F on because here we go !!!

Click Here to … HEAR !!!

How to be funny on The Comedy Buffet podcast

VFoC "LIVE" on The Comedy Buffet's Podcast

Posted on

The good fellas at The Comedy Buffet were kind enough to let us stink up their otherwise hilarious podcast the other night. We’d like to apologize in advance for our uncontrolable crass behavior, rude language, and complete disregard to fat kids, cross-dressing boys, and religion in general, … yeah right, who am I kidding? Let’s face it, there’s just not enough room for those “types” here on this earth that’s about to overheat anyway, so forget all that bullshit I just said, click the link below and hold the F on because here we go !!!

Click Here to … HEAR !!!

How to be funny on The Comedy Buffet podcast

Your Own Private Amityville Horror

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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.