Paranormal

Well, Tomorrow's One Better, Isn't it?

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Every year there’s a magic number date that the numerological treat special because completely by accident the calendar did something interesting. Most of the time I couldn’t care less and silently root for the passing of this magical day so that I don’t have to hear about it again for another hundred years. But this year is different, this year actually IS special? Why? What makes this year’s coincidental chrono peculiarity more special than previous years? Simple: I care about it. And that makes all the difference in the world.

Tomorrow is the eleventh day of the eleventh month of the eleventh year of this twenty first century. The century does nothing to help this holiday, so it was scarcely worth mentioning, but I did it anyway because I have no control over the things that my brain tells my fingers to clickity clack. The important thing is that, if you’ve been listening to my points between the pointless, tomorrow is 11/11/11.

These etherial whisps just want to show you a good time. Now let's shimmy out of those pants, mortal.
These etherial whisps just want to show you a good time. Now let’s shimmy out of those pants, mortal.

Believers in new age mysticism and synchronicity will no doubt have their crystals all shiny and at the ready tomorrow, primed to the optimus for the opening of an intradimensional gateway at the stroke of 11:11:11 am when all 1,111 “fun loving” Spirit Guardians will pour into our plane of existence handing out puppies and chocolate to all the good little boys and girls and giving hand jobs to the less fortunate. No shaky oldling will go unhelped across the street and everyone will win the lottery! Twice! And if you don’t believe that the world around you is flooded with billions of highly trained invisible Celestial beings here to assist you with all of your every day needs, then you’re missin’ out Jack! I haven’t had to blend my own iced cocktail in years because they just love doin’ it for me, I feel like a dick any time I do anything for myself!

But that’s not why I’m looking forward to tomorrow’s accidentidate, not that I don’t enjoy a good chocolate hand job, because I do, it’s two great tastes that taste great together. For me, tomorrow is important because of one 1984 film which was brave enough to ask the question, “How much more black could this be?” and wise enough to answer, “None, none more black.”

For tomorrow, the eleventh day of November in the year of our lost something eleven; is Nigel Tufnel day.

For those of you that don’t know and love “This is Spinal Tap”, shut up. Shut up and never speak to me about anything you deem important ever again because you have forfeit your right to be taken seriously for the rest of what you charitably call your life. For those that do honor and obey the film, thank you for your service to your country, you’re a true patriot and may the sound track of your life always be in doubly.

Tonight we're gonna rock you, tonight!
Tonight we’re gonna rock you, tonight!

You may say that you’ve never seen, never heard of, and never liked Spinal Tap, but I’ll bet dollars to other, rounder dollars, that at some point in your life you have heard, or even used yourself, the term or slight variation of, “This one goes to eleven.” In which case, you are worshiping at the altar of Nigel Tufnel and the almighty Tap, which is why tomorrow will be, for me and millions like me, a celebration of the Majesty of Rock, and to a slightly lesser extent, the mystery of roll. My only regret for tomorrow is in not having the forethought when I began working on ‘staching my visage for the month of Movember, to grow a magnificent “Derek Smalls”, and now I feel like an idiot… AND I have a mustache…

But celebrate I shall and persevere I must, for tomorrow is quite possibly the single most important day in the history of all of… history… not to put it in too much fucking perspective now. Unfortunately it looks like too few others put it in the proper perspective as a quick Fandango search revealed no showings of “This is Spinal Tap” in the Los Angeles area tomorrow so it’s up to me to plan my own little celebration and recognition of this holy of holies, which I’m sharing with you in the hopes that you will adopt it as your own.

I will be spending the day in my favorite t-shirt depicting a 100% accurate reproduction of my skeleton, doing everything as hard, loud and dumb as I can, and when I get home and settle in with some appropriately proportioned sandwiches and properly stuffed olives, I am going to back time my “This is Spinal Tap” DVD so that at exactly 11:11 pm tomorrow night the famous dialogue exchange in question will announce to every Midwayer standing imperceptibly by my side at the ready to assist in anything I may need, that everything will be all right. Because when others are all the way up with no where else to go, I know that when ever I need that extra push over the cliff, I can just reach down for that one louder, on this day more than any other.

But if that doesn’t work, I could always use a chocolate handy to brighten up my day…

Maybe these new age folks are on to something with this thing that I just invented that they believe in…

Happy Nigel Tufnel Day everybody!

Well, Tomorrow’s One Better, Isn’t it?

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Every year there’s a magic number date that the numerological treat special because completely by accident the calendar did something interesting. Most of the time I couldn’t care less and silently root for the passing of this magical day so that I don’t have to hear about it again for another hundred years. But this year is different, this year actually IS special? Why? What makes this year’s coincidental chrono peculiarity more special than previous years? Simple: I care about it. And that makes all the difference in the world.

Tomorrow is the eleventh day of the eleventh month of the eleventh year of this twenty first century. The century does nothing to help this holiday, so it was scarcely worth mentioning, but I did it anyway because I have no control over the things that my brain tells my fingers to clickity clack. The important thing is that, if you’ve been listening to my points between the pointless, tomorrow is 11/11/11.

These etherial whisps just want to show you a good time. Now let's shimmy out of those pants, mortal.
These etherial whisps just want to show you a good time. Now let’s shimmy out of those pants, mortal.

Believers in new age mysticism and synchronicity will no doubt have their crystals all shiny and at the ready tomorrow, primed to the optimus for the opening of an intradimensional gateway at the stroke of 11:11:11 am when all 1,111 “fun loving” Spirit Guardians will pour into our plane of existence handing out puppies and chocolate to all the good little boys and girls and giving hand jobs to the less fortunate. No shaky oldling will go unhelped across the street and everyone will win the lottery! Twice! And if you don’t believe that the world around you is flooded with billions of highly trained invisible Celestial beings here to assist you with all of your every day needs, then you’re missin’ out Jack! I haven’t had to blend my own iced cocktail in years because they just love doin’ it for me, I feel like a dick any time I do anything for myself!

But that’s not why I’m looking forward to tomorrow’s accidentidate, not that I don’t enjoy a good chocolate hand job, because I do, it’s two great tastes that taste great together. For me, tomorrow is important because of one 1984 film which was brave enough to ask the question, “How much more black could this be?” and wise enough to answer, “None, none more black.”

For tomorrow, the eleventh day of November in the year of our lost something eleven; is Nigel Tufnel day.

For those of you that don’t know and love “This is Spinal Tap”, shut up. Shut up and never speak to me about anything you deem important ever again because you have forfeit your right to be taken seriously for the rest of what you charitably call your life. For those that do honor and obey the film, thank you for your service to your country, you’re a true patriot and may the sound track of your life always be in doubly.

Tonight we're gonna rock you, tonight!
Tonight we’re gonna rock you, tonight!

You may say that you’ve never seen, never heard of, and never liked Spinal Tap, but I’ll bet dollars to other, rounder dollars, that at some point in your life you have heard, or even used yourself, the term or slight variation of, “This one goes to eleven.” In which case, you are worshiping at the altar of Nigel Tufnel and the almighty Tap, which is why tomorrow will be, for me and millions like me, a celebration of the Majesty of Rock, and to a slightly lesser extent, the mystery of roll. My only regret for tomorrow is in not having the forethought when I began working on ‘staching my visage for the month of Movember, to grow a magnificent “Derek Smalls”, and now I feel like an idiot… AND I have a mustache…

But celebrate I shall and persevere I must, for tomorrow is quite possibly the single most important day in the history of all of… history… not to put it in too much fucking perspective now. Unfortunately it looks like too few others put it in the proper perspective as a quick Fandango search revealed no showings of “This is Spinal Tap” in the Los Angeles area tomorrow so it’s up to me to plan my own little celebration and recognition of this holy of holies, which I’m sharing with you in the hopes that you will adopt it as your own.

I will be spending the day in my favorite t-shirt depicting a 100% accurate reproduction of my skeleton, doing everything as hard, loud and dumb as I can, and when I get home and settle in with some appropriately proportioned sandwiches and properly stuffed olives, I am going to back time my “This is Spinal Tap” DVD so that at exactly 11:11 pm tomorrow night the famous dialogue exchange in question will announce to every Midwayer standing imperceptibly by my side at the ready to assist in anything I may need, that everything will be all right. Because when others are all the way up with no where else to go, I know that when ever I need that extra push over the cliff, I can just reach down for that one louder, on this day more than any other.

But if that doesn’t work, I could always use a chocolate handy to brighten up my day…

Maybe these new age folks are on to something with this thing that I just invented that they believe in…

Happy Nigel Tufnel Day everybody!

This Time For Realzies: Judgement Day, Part 2: The Judgementing

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Uh-oh, remember back in May, how the world was supposed to end with a bunch of goody goodies floating up into heaven and flashing their balls at us? And then remember how that didn’t happen and it was all hilarious? And remember how we all laughed at the guy who said the world was going to end with sack flashing god flights? And he was all like, “Well fuck you, it did happen, it was just invisible and you’ll see in six months when you’re starin’ up at my taint!” And we were all like, “Yeah, what ever crazy man, go be crazy somewhere else while we get back to not worrying about angry invisible rapture.”

"Who's got two thumbs and is gonna fuck your shit up? This God!"
"Who's got two thumbs and is gonna fuck your shit up? This God!"

Well, do you remember what day he said it was going to really happen for realzies this time? Well you know who DOES remember? Jesus.

Tomorrow, at “when ever you see believers in the sky” o’clock, this stupid little stupid planet full of stupid is gonna be over! It’s really going to happen this time! Seriously guys!

Have you noticed how many earthquakes there’ve been recently? Why, I read that just today there was one in San Francisco. SAN FRANCISCO of all places, experiencing an earth quake, co-incidentally the DAY BEFORE THE PREDICTED END OF THE FUCKING WORLD!? Did I say co-incidence? I meant NOT A GOD DAMNED CO-INCIDENCE AT ALL! And what about those floods and hurricanes and, you know, stuff. The world is flying apart at the seams people! Open your eyes!

I for one am here and now proclaiming my life long love of God and Jesus and everybody. Peter and Luke and who ever else. John, there was a John, right? I love all those mother fuckers. I always have, and I know that they’d never let their biggest fan be swallowed whole by this dying shit ball that I’ll be so glad when its gone! I’m gonna be kickin’ it up in heaven, with like, eighty tight angel ladies all complimenting me on my love of god and my indeterminate amount of abs. Me and JC and the Father, we’re all gonna hang out and laugh at the world writhing in agony below us, tip back a couple Four Lokos and play a little game of “No YOU’RE more awesome.” It’s gonna be so amazing and you’re not even gonna be there.

What? Wait, what? God’s not accepting any more applicants. On May 21st we were all judged and he’s just needed the last six months to warm up his planet splitter chain saw? Well that’s, that’s not really fair. I mean, I’ve just been comparison shopping. Like any good spiritual being, I’ve been pricing out deities, trying to find which one was right for me. ‘Cause, isn’t that what it says in the Bible, “Thou shalt have a fair amount of time to look around and make sure that you’re absolutely positive that you’ve made the best decision for you about having no other Gods before me.”? That’s in there somewhere, right?! RIGHT!?!

"Sorry bro, you are ska-rood,"
"Sorry bro, you are ska-rood,"

Oh science, I’m fucked! I’m fucked, you’re fucked, we’re all double plus super fucked! Alright, you know what? Fine. I’m good with that. I’ve lived a full, meaningful… productive… happy… life.

NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! Oh Darwin! Oh Einstein! Newton help me! Alright, it’s not too late. I’ve got, I don’t know, some amount of time between eight and thirty-two hours left. If I’m going to hell I’m going there like I’ve got a god damned rocket strapped to my balls!

If I hurry, I’ve still got enough time to murder a drug dealer, have sex with the corpse, steal their drugs, sell them to a kindergarten class, maybe blow up a petting zoo. Oooh! I know! I’ll steal a car with a baby in the back seat, drive it through a handicapped nun picnic before finally crashing it into the river and lighting it on fire. Then, I’ll take a stack of Bibles that I’ve been saving for just such an occasion and give them a gathered crowd of homosexuals and feminists and activist judges and abortion doctors and we’ll all stand around in a big circle and jerk each other off onto them! Afterwards, we can sacrifice a new born lamb to, I don’t know, the wind or some shit.

Unless of course you’ll still have me Jesus, in which case, I’ll try not to do most of that.

Good luck with Hell suckers! Or… See you in Hell suckers!

Kirk Cameron vs. Soviet Russia vs. Stephen Hawking vs. Space Aliens vs. Sense of Any Kind

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In American culture, there are two widely accepted sky myth stories.

The first of which being that a a giant bearded dude who lives in the clouds said one day “This shit is dark yo, BOOMSHACKALACKA!” and then everything that is happened. Then he made people in his image and decided he didn’t like them and washed them away and started over and sent his kid to check out how it was going and he got stapled to a fence post before floating back up to home until he collected enough crowns and a horse to ride back down from the sky on.

The other popular yarn is that a half dozen decades ago some little space mans in an intergalactic circle were taking in the sights of lovely, scenic New Mexico when they ran out of illudium Q-36 explosive space modulators and broke down on the side of the road. The United States Military was then kind enough to construct them an airbase that they deny exists and built us iPods out of the wreckage.

Each crazy belief system has it’s ardent, devoted followers, and each were under attack this week by nerds.

Crashed turtle person or Nazi mutant?
Crashed turtle person or Nazi mutant?

A new book, “Area 51” by Annie Jacobsen claims that the craft that didn’t crash in Roswell was not in fact a group of drunken, joyriding frat aliens, but instead, a remote control Soviet Russia spy saucer built by Nazi scientists and filled with genetic experiments cooked up by Josef Mengele. Naturally. So we have gone from alien crash landing, to USSR Nazi crash landing “hoax” intended to freak us out “War of the Worlds” style.

Now, I understand that we and Russia were doing some crazy things back in the good ol’ days of black and white, and I get that Nazi’s had a whimsical sense of humor that was often a little heady and it was sometimes hard to see how throwing a Banana cream pie filled with genetically mutated astronauts at Nevada might be hilarious. The main problem with this argument though is trying to replace one fantastical, difficult to believe story, with another story that sounds like was left scribbled on a napkin by Quentin Tarantino after polishing off a plate of crystal meth and Draino lady fingers.

Since we’re clearly not being serious anymore, I’d like to offer my explanation for the Roswell Incident: a race of subterranean turtle people attempting to make contact with the surface world for the first time since sending their lone emissary nearly 2000 years prior with disastrous results, fashioned a land ship which burrowed up to the surface only to burst into flames and explode once being exposed to the atmosphere of the surface world. Fearing that no one would ever believe such a ridiculous story, the United States government, in co-operation with all other world leaders of the day decided it would be best to just tell the world aliens crash landed so as to not send the world’s population into a hysteria trying to dig down into the turtle people’s home and throw the planet into chaos.

Son of god, or misunderstood, murdered turtle person?
Son of god, or misunderstood, murdered turtle person?

Then we have Kirk Cameron. Some of you may remember Kirk as the dreamy Seaver boy on America’s existingest 80s sit-com “Growing Pains”. Since then he’s found god and wants you to know all about it. Oh, and he’s also kind of a lunatic. But he knows what he’s talking about, like most lunatics, and not just because he talks to god like, every day, or because he was already in the pretend rapture in the “Left Behind” movies, no, it’s because he’s not going to give jokes like Stephen Hawking a free ride like everyone else who’s afraid to stand up to him.

“To say anything negative about Stephen Hawking is like bullying a blind man. He has an unfair disadvantage, and that gives him a free pass on some of his absurd ideas.”

Now, to the first sentence, I’m not sure if Kirk thinks that blind people can’t walk, or that he’s also calling Mr. Hawking lazy for riding around in that chair all the time just ’cause he can’t see. And really, to say anything negative about someone else seems kind of un-Jesus like, and counter productive to a reasonable intellectual discussion. But what do I know? I just usually like to interact with human beings who exist in real life rather than spending all day sending telepathic love letters to a character in a story book.

But I think the more entertaining part of Kirk’s insult is the second half of that statement, that because of Mr. Hawking’s hysterical, debilitating blindness which has taken from him the use of just about everything but his eyes, he believes that because of his “unfair disadvantage” nobody calls him on his shit. Kirk Cameron is telling us that the scientific community has just accepted this man’s theories and lauded him as one of the most brilliant minds in the history of the world, because they don’t want to hurt his feelings.

This fountain of crazy continues:

“Professor Hawking is heralded as ‘the genius of Britain,’ yet he believes in the scientific impossibility that nothing created everything and that life sprang from non-life. Why should anyone believe Mr. Hawking’s writings if he cannot provide evidence for his unscientific belief that out of nothing, everything came?”

Always one of my favorite arguments. In this case Kirk calls into question Mr. Hawking’s beliefs, asking how anyone could buy his blind gibberish if he can’t prove any of it. What I don’t think Mr. Cameron understands is that, the bible, for all of it’s nice words and well meaning thought, is not a receipt for the universe. It’s a book. Unless I missed something, it’s as much proof of the existence of god and an afterlife as Mr. Hawking’s assertion that the afterlife is a “fairy story for people afraid of the dark”. Kirk saying it is doesn’t mean it is and his argument is that since Stephen Hawking can’t prove definitively exactly how the universe came into being that makes anything he ever says on the subject nothing more than the ravings of a perpetually pitied blind asshole. And when that’s the position you’re going to start this discussion from, where the hell do we possibly go from there?

So in the end, what do we have? We’re left with the choice between Alien visitation gone wrong or Soviet Nazi prank and the views of the existence of the universe as proposed by Stephen Hawking or not unproved sufficiently to Kirk Cameron. Who wins in any of these arguments? I mean, besides me that is, ’cause I can write about these kinds of crazy all day long.

Science: Making the Impossible still more Impossibler

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"Our chins are leaking science! Run away from us!"
"Our chins are leaking science! Run away from us!"

I’m a scientist. And you know what? So are you.

You see, the heavy lifting of being a scientist isn’t in proving something as fact, most science isn’t fact. Or in discovering something new, you know how hard that shit is? Most of the stuff around you’s probably been discovered by somebody already. No, what apparently makes a scientist scientisty, is the ability to come up with things that could never exist, using elements that they have not yet discovered, to say how neat it would be if everything they were making up could actually happen. SCIENCE!

Last week, scientists working on the Large Hadron Collider (not to be confused with all of those other Hadron Colliders out there, being worked on by what those of us in the scientific community like to call “fucking retards”), apparently bored with smashing sub atomic particles together in an attempt to tear the very fabric of reality apart (in theory) got to thinking. In sciencing, you get a lot of time to think. Mostly because the majority of the time you spend doing science is just in proving the stupid ass thing you thought of last time was stupid and pointless. Science is failure, subsidized.

So the people trying to make black holes in Switzerland theorized that they could potentially use the Hadron Collider to send a particle, a Higgs singlet, back in time. It is believed that the Higgs singlet may have the ability to “jump” out of our mundane, limited, four dimensional existence and into a “hidden” dimension that some advanced physics models believes to “exist” and that by traveling through this “hidden” “dimension” they could then “jump” back into our own at a point “forward” or “backward” in what we “perceive” as “time”. ” ”

Isn’t that fantasmical? Isn’t that astoundishing? Isn’t that completely made up and entirely dependent upon a particle that doesn’t even exist? Yes… SCIENCE!

There is no Higgs boson, and as such, no Higgs singlet. Discovering this Higgs boson was apparently one of the main reasons they built the Hadron Collider in the first place. So scientaints are already moving on to the next cool thing that they’ll be able to do with the thing that their big crazy machine was built to discover before their big crazy machine has even discovered it. Which basically equates to me saying that I am going to use all of those ghost vaginas that my ghost vagina factory discovers to travel to the year eight billion where the ghost vagina will probably be the most valuable commodity in all of what’s left of Earth III, the planet of the cyber undead… as soon as my ghost vagina factory discovers that ghost vaginas do in fact exist like I’ve been saying all along.

“Our theory is a long shot, but it doesn’t violate any laws of physics…” one of the scientinals said, which I suppose is technically true. Making up things that don’t exist to fit into a theory that depends entirely on something that doesn’t exist does not violate any laws of physics that I know of. It does however violate most known laws of logic and sense.

“One of the attractive things about this approach to time travel is that it avoids all the big paradoxes,” he continued, oblivious to the fact that he was still talking about his Star Trek fan fiction to people that weren’t inside his head. “Because time travel is limited to these special particles, it is not possible for a man to travel back in time and murder one of his parents before he himself is born, for example. However, if scientists could control the production of Higgs singlets, they might be able to send messages to the past or future.”

Of course this narrow minded fool never takes into account the very real (hypothetical) possibility that one of these particles, driven mad by its travel across very real (entirely made up) extradimensional planes could then arrive at its past destination, its important future missive long forgotten in that blink of an eye that seemed like seven eternities, and replaced instead by a single command, “Murder Lance Armstrong”. Impossible? Nothing is impossible with the power of imagination, and untethered insanity!

Unfortunately, the one miniscule sticking point that the entire plan hangs up on is that they haven’t yet discovered the thing that they think they might possibly be able to send back in time. A minor thing I know. But these brave men and other men are not deterred by the fact that their big metal circle has yet to discover even one tiny time travel capable ghost vagina. I’m sure, in fact, that they believe because they haven’t found it yet, that means beyond a doubt that it exists. That’s how these people think.

I myself am currently hard at work on a paper that suggests that a pride of miniature dinosaurs made of velcro, spinning at the center of the universe since before time had a name, are the entire reason that the AFL succeeded where the USFL failed, despite the USFL not having debuted until thirteen years after the AFL/NFL merger. You see, my theory, which I will heretofore refer to simply as “Fact Prime”, is that the USFL’s failure reverberated back through time, bouncing off of the soft side of the galactic center Stegasaurus’ back plates and into the head of New York Jets Quarterback and pantyhose model Joe Willie Namath, thus propelling his football club to victories in Super Bowls III, IV and VII. Pieces of this errant history were later corrected by Terry Bradshaw and his Time Stealers. Terry and trusted lieutenants Bo Jackson, Richard Dent and Ray Nitschke restored as much of the original balance of the timeline as they could before Chrono Emperor John Elway could detect their meddlings…

And until someone can prove that all of that DIDN’T happen exactly as I have described, I am right.

Murder Lance Armstrong!
Murder Lance Armstrong!

What’s Haunting You?

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As North America’s foremost certified amateur paranormal investigators (one of the litany of things you have to register for when you buy a windowless van), we at Van Full of Candy feel that it is our sacred responsibility to help safe guard you, our valued fans as best we can from the scourges of your own potentially haunted personal effects. As such, we are here to share some of our hard-earned supernatural knowledge of which of your household items are likely to be haunted by a spirit from the other side. We have devised an easy to understand formula based on the severity and frequency of post mortem activity which we have associated with a ranking on a 100 point scale, with one being least likely to 100, almost certain.

The irony, the house in the painting IS haunted.
The irony, the house in the painting IS haunted.

Thomas Kinkaid Paintings
 
Thomas Kinkaid, the “Painter of Light” in all respects should have one of the higher haunt factors with his paintings. However, they do not expel any signs of haunty’ness or paranormal activity. The only real haunting these paintings do is disgrace one’s living room or formal dining area.  There are rumors however that people “see the light” in his paintings when they are having near death experiences or stare at them too long.
 
Haunt Probability: 2

 

Rustle, rustle.
Rustle, rustle.

Waffle Iron

Most common house hold waffle irons are relatively ghost free, in fact, most breakfast preparation specific small appliances are. Usually the only time a spirit chooses to inhabit a waffle iron for all of eternity is if they were a tree, perhaps hoping to damn all of those who would use their delicious blood to top their breakfasty goodness. But even in those rare occasions, trees are generally one of the quieter haunters, customarily identified by a gentle rustling sound.

Haunt Probability: 6

 

King Tutincoffeetable
King Tutincoffeetable

Stolen Pharoah’s Sarcophagus

I know, most of us have thought about filching an ancient Egyptian king’s coffin at least once or twice in our lives, and the only thing that has deterred us up to this point has been the legends of the great Pharoah curses. Well, one of the other lesser known things that the Egyptians invented, was hype. Very few sarcophagi are in actuality, haunted. I “own” 14 personally, and the only time my walls have bled in the middle of the night was when I made them. So fret not, daring interior decorator, a shiny golden box in the middle of your living room makes a great conversation piece, and there isn’t a beverage known to man that will leave rings on it.

Haunt Probability:  11

 

Resting at peace.
Resting at peace.

Soft Toilet Seats
 
The comfort of a cushion beneath our hind quarters while taking a wiz or a nice healthy BM, can be both comfortable and somewhat unnerving.  What we’ve found in our extensive research in the haunting of this item, is that the seats which were any other color than white, had any sort of embroidery, or any kind of cracks in the cushion cover were, in most cases, slightly haunted. The regular white cushions were completely haunt free.
 
Haunt Probability: 30

 

Twenty minutes before running out and dragging it all back in.
Twenty minutes before running out and dragging it all back in.

Ex-girlfriend’s Shit

That dirty, cheating, cunt whore slut of a cunt! You’ve tried a dozen times to haul her boxes of shit out onto the lawn and burn it or toss it in a wood chipper or mail it back to her with a very delicately worded note, trying to make sure that she knows just how much she hurt you and that you know you can put it all behind you and move on. That we can make this better if you’d just give me one more chance! Please, just call me! I can’t sleep, I don’t eat. I haven’t showered in a month and a half! Why did you do this to me!? Fuck you! You know what? I’m gonna fucking burn this shit! I swear to fucking Christ Almighty I am going to burn this shit to cinders and dance around the pyre, a free man, moving on and taking my life back! … Is that the phone? Don’t hang up, don’t hang up, don’t hang up!

Haunt Probability: 42

 

Boo! Ha-ha, but seriously BOO!
Boo! Ha-ha, but seriously BOO!

Knick-Knack, Chachki, Brick-a-brack

These small glazed porcelain mantle bound figurines are one of the most haunted items in the suburban home. What exactly makes them such a welcome after life hang out is not entirely known. Is it the porous nature of the porcelain, the style or type of glossy glaze or simply the dead punishing the living for owning such creepy ass pieces of useless. Our best guess is that it’s the figurine’s perfect storm of material and form that create a natural phantom trap. That, combined with the inherent heirloom properties of the items leads to them invariably capturing soul after soul, generation after generation. As many observers have noted, any time a Hummel is shattered, it is accompanied by the sounds of the howling of the damned for no less than three business days. 

Haunt Probability: 94

 

Electric Horse Brain!
Electric Horse Brain!

Animal Shaped Furniture
 
Any animal shaped furniture, whether it’s a side-table, lamp or footrest, these items are most definitely haunted. It is a different kind of haunting than we’re accustomed to in modern-day haunt fare.  Instead of the regular moaning or chains rattling, the animal furniture haunting consists of jungle sounds, drinking from toilets and a migration through ones hallway, ending in the kitchen.  During the Middle Kingdom of Ancient Egypt is where we find our first furniture styled in the way of an animal.  It was the Egyptian Bed. The wooden framework stood on “animal shaped legs”. They used to come to life and walk away, and that’s where it all started.
 
Haunt Probability: 97

 

GET OUT!
GET OUT!

The Doily
 
Doilies are ornamental mats from a 17th century London draper.  They are usually used as a buffer to place trinkets on (see Knick-Knack, Chachki, Brick-a-Brack above) without scratching wooden furniture and are also found on the backs of couches and Lazy-Boy’s.  The haunt factor readings for this completely unnecessary house product were off the charts, and by the looks alone, we weren’t surprised. Any doily in any house, completely haunted, period.
 
Haunt Probability: 110
When coupled with Knick-Knacks: 204

What's Haunting You?

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As North America’s foremost certified amateur paranormal investigators (one of the litany of things you have to register for when you buy a windowless van), we at Van Full of Candy feel that it is our sacred responsibility to help safe guard you, our valued fans as best we can from the scourges of your own potentially haunted personal effects. As such, we are here to share some of our hard-earned supernatural knowledge of which of your household items are likely to be haunted by a spirit from the other side. We have devised an easy to understand formula based on the severity and frequency of post mortem activity which we have associated with a ranking on a 100 point scale, with one being least likely to 100, almost certain.

The irony, the house in the painting IS haunted.
The irony, the house in the painting IS haunted.

Thomas Kinkaid Paintings
 
Thomas Kinkaid, the “Painter of Light” in all respects should have one of the higher haunt factors with his paintings. However, they do not expel any signs of haunty’ness or paranormal activity. The only real haunting these paintings do is disgrace one’s living room or formal dining area.  There are rumors however that people “see the light” in his paintings when they are having near death experiences or stare at them too long.
 
Haunt Probability: 2

 

Rustle, rustle.
Rustle, rustle.

Waffle Iron

Most common house hold waffle irons are relatively ghost free, in fact, most breakfast preparation specific small appliances are. Usually the only time a spirit chooses to inhabit a waffle iron for all of eternity is if they were a tree, perhaps hoping to damn all of those who would use their delicious blood to top their breakfasty goodness. But even in those rare occasions, trees are generally one of the quieter haunters, customarily identified by a gentle rustling sound.

Haunt Probability: 6

 

King Tutincoffeetable
King Tutincoffeetable

Stolen Pharoah’s Sarcophagus

I know, most of us have thought about filching an ancient Egyptian king’s coffin at least once or twice in our lives, and the only thing that has deterred us up to this point has been the legends of the great Pharoah curses. Well, one of the other lesser known things that the Egyptians invented, was hype. Very few sarcophagi are in actuality, haunted. I “own” 14 personally, and the only time my walls have bled in the middle of the night was when I made them. So fret not, daring interior decorator, a shiny golden box in the middle of your living room makes a great conversation piece, and there isn’t a beverage known to man that will leave rings on it.

Haunt Probability:  11

 

Resting at peace.
Resting at peace.

Soft Toilet Seats
 
The comfort of a cushion beneath our hind quarters while taking a wiz or a nice healthy BM, can be both comfortable and somewhat unnerving.  What we’ve found in our extensive research in the haunting of this item, is that the seats which were any other color than white, had any sort of embroidery, or any kind of cracks in the cushion cover were, in most cases, slightly haunted. The regular white cushions were completely haunt free.
 
Haunt Probability: 30

 

Twenty minutes before running out and dragging it all back in.
Twenty minutes before running out and dragging it all back in.

Ex-girlfriend’s Shit

That dirty, cheating, cunt whore slut of a cunt! You’ve tried a dozen times to haul her boxes of shit out onto the lawn and burn it or toss it in a wood chipper or mail it back to her with a very delicately worded note, trying to make sure that she knows just how much she hurt you and that you know you can put it all behind you and move on. That we can make this better if you’d just give me one more chance! Please, just call me! I can’t sleep, I don’t eat. I haven’t showered in a month and a half! Why did you do this to me!? Fuck you! You know what? I’m gonna fucking burn this shit! I swear to fucking Christ Almighty I am going to burn this shit to cinders and dance around the pyre, a free man, moving on and taking my life back! … Is that the phone? Don’t hang up, don’t hang up, don’t hang up!

Haunt Probability: 42

 

Boo! Ha-ha, but seriously BOO!
Boo! Ha-ha, but seriously BOO!

Knick-Knack, Chachki, Brick-a-brack

These small glazed porcelain mantle bound figurines are one of the most haunted items in the suburban home. What exactly makes them such a welcome after life hang out is not entirely known. Is it the porous nature of the porcelain, the style or type of glossy glaze or simply the dead punishing the living for owning such creepy ass pieces of useless. Our best guess is that it’s the figurine’s perfect storm of material and form that create a natural phantom trap. That, combined with the inherent heirloom properties of the items leads to them invariably capturing soul after soul, generation after generation. As many observers have noted, any time a Hummel is shattered, it is accompanied by the sounds of the howling of the damned for no less than three business days. 

Haunt Probability: 94

 

Electric Horse Brain!
Electric Horse Brain!

Animal Shaped Furniture
 
Any animal shaped furniture, whether it’s a side-table, lamp or footrest, these items are most definitely haunted. It is a different kind of haunting than we’re accustomed to in modern-day haunt fare.  Instead of the regular moaning or chains rattling, the animal furniture haunting consists of jungle sounds, drinking from toilets and a migration through ones hallway, ending in the kitchen.  During the Middle Kingdom of Ancient Egypt is where we find our first furniture styled in the way of an animal.  It was the Egyptian Bed. The wooden framework stood on “animal shaped legs”. They used to come to life and walk away, and that’s where it all started.
 
Haunt Probability: 97

 

GET OUT!
GET OUT!

The Doily
 
Doilies are ornamental mats from a 17th century London draper.  They are usually used as a buffer to place trinkets on (see Knick-Knack, Chachki, Brick-a-Brack above) without scratching wooden furniture and are also found on the backs of couches and Lazy-Boy’s.  The haunt factor readings for this completely unnecessary house product were off the charts, and by the looks alone, we weren’t surprised. Any doily in any house, completely haunted, period.
 
Haunt Probability: 110
When coupled with Knick-Knacks: 204