Death

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.