Oh boy, are you in for an extra special, super sensational treat of an occasion of an extravaganza! You’ve joined me just in time to witness the introduction to you, our fine, loyal, theoretical fan, of my very own all new brand of sugary snacking cakes! They’re going to be a delicious chocolate brownie, smothered in peanut butter and and drizzled with a ribbon of fudge. They’re going to be packaged in the customary bright primary colors that trigger a deeply ingrained response in your reptilian brain and inspire impulse purchases. And since I’m just a little Joe Nobody, making delicious junk food in the washing machine in my four plex’s laundry room, I’m not going to have a lot of money to market this new, mouth wateringly nummy num num, so I’m going to use a little trick that I’ve been pointing out for the year and a half that I’ve been candying vans and vanning candy. So look for my brand new sweet treat in your local grocery and convenience stores, sold under the name: “Tard Farms: GNYUUHH Squares”. Fifteen minutes after my new candies hit the store rooms of Kroger and Safeway I’ll have more free advertising than I could pay for with a thousand farms filled with a thousand tards!
As exampled by VFoC’s new OFFICIALLY ENDORSED (Give us a call Ogden’s Own, I’m double fucking serious) Vodka Brand: Five Wives Vodka.
All of the familiar tropes are here in this story of another “accidentally” offensively named thing. The easily predicted over reaction to something stupid by someone stupid, which in this case is for some reason the state of Idaho. The faux shock of the manufacturer, caught completely off guard by someone being offended by their strategically “accidentally” offensively named thing. The one pleasant, yet still infuriating twist in this story is the acknowledgment by both sides that they recognize that this is being done for the sake of cheap publicity, but that they’re still making that cheap publicity possible; which just makes me believe that somehow the state of Idaho has a financial stake in “Ogden’s Own Distillery”, because otherwise Five Wives Vodka is never heard of by anyone except a drunk wandering through CVS who accidentally glances up from the Gran Legacy on the bottom shelf to get a fleeting chuckle from the name as they stumble on past.
And I expect Idaho is actually making a pretty penny from their investment. Five Wives Vodka, made by the Utah based Ogden’s Own Distillery, was approved for sale in Utah, apparently without a word. The justification for Idaho’s rejection is that Five Wives, which takes inspiration from Mormonism’s dirtiest little non-secret, is that it would be too offensive to Mormons, which make up about 25% of Idaho’s population. When last I counted, which I actually did, because I count pointless things, Mormons make up roughly 1400% of Utah’s population. On top of that well known fact is the much less well known (except by those at Ogden’s Own, you can be damned sure) that the Utah Department of Alcoholic Beverage Control, which regulates the sale of hard liquor, which are available ONLY in state-owned stores. So when Mormontah, Five Wives’ target outrage demographic didn’t give fuck all about a tasty fire water celebrating multi-wiving, I can damned well guarantee you the folks at Ogden’s Own began seeping excrement, seeing their banked on disputatories jackpot liesurely shrug off the blatant goading. So it was either a lucky coincidence that Idaho decided to be pissed off for no reason, or they’re now gonna be cashing $10 for every $20 bottle of Five Wives sold nation wide.
Jeff Anderson, Idaho State Drinky Cop is quoted in the story saying in reference to the controversy that he himself created by calling this inoffensive thing offensive: “It’s masterful marketing on their part. But it doesn’t play here.” Well shit man, you just made it play. You, your very own self, with your very own action. You made it play. Because if you hadn’t said shit, no one would have ever known shit.
And just co-incidentally:
Ogden’s Own Distillery is trying to make the most of the rejection with a media campaign and sale of “Free the Five Wives” T-shirts.
You don’t say. Wanna check the receipt on those t-shirts and bet they were printed before the bottles were shipped?
So the two options we have here are collusion or stupidity. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t care which is which, I personally love “Five Wives Vodka” and look forward to pickling myself with it as soon as I can find a state approved retailer brave enough to carry it. I generally approve of the blatant manipulation of those easily manipulated. My only problem here is just how sloppy it’s been done in this case. It makes all of the other well orchestrated, masterfully played examples of people really fucking with someone and fooling them into giving them free national publicity just look as cheap as this one, which is just a damned shame, because I’ve already got all of my hypothetical profits from Tard Farms’ “GNYUUHH Squares” going into financing my follow up product: a joint collaboration with Duraflame to produce quick light fireplace logs shaped like the Quran!
Available in time for Christmas!
Let’s be honest with ourselves, coffee tastes like shit! But that black liquid crack ass drink can be doctored up enough with 4 or 5 Splenda, 1/4 cup of half & half, a little cinnamon on top and BAMMM!! Something tolerable. But then you really need to take into consideration all the time and preparation it takes to get your fix to that point of consumption.
First, if you don’t have a coffee maker in your nasty little apartment, you’ll need to venture out into the world. Yes that’s right, that horrible place where people are, and they judge, you KNOW they judge, especially those snobs at Peet’s and Starbucks. Who the F do they think they are, record store workers? And don’t even get me started on those bitches!! Next you’ll need to walk, bike or drive to said coffee place, and that’s never fun because to get to that point you have to get dressed enough to not be arrested for public indecency. Then the wait! Oh that goddamned wait in line can take up to 3 or 4 minutes sometimes, and we all know we don’t have the time, patience or energy for that shit. I suppose you COULD do a drive-thru, but are there really any Starbuck’s drive-thru’s when you need one? No. The only ones you ever see are about 7 minutes after you’ve had your coffee, or a McDonald’s trying to trick you into drinking their coffee made out of corn. EFF!! And lets not mention the $3.47 price tag for said drink of choice.
Those days are finally over people. Let us rejoice in the newly found brilliance brought to us by the fine people at Aeroshot Energy. These brilliant people have put together some coffee sorcery and created a shotgun shell full of instant pizzazz. You take this bullet of happiness, put it in your mouth, and inhale. Instant cup of coffee in your lungs. YES! Breathe it all on in kiddy’s. And the icing on the cake? No calories. Yeah, nada, zip, zilch. So you can now live like a complete guilt free wired beyond comprehension recluse.
Best. Episode. Yet! And no, I’m not just saying that because a sexy Van Fan professed her attraction for Candy Man, Jesse Jones in the second half of the episode, but that sure as hell doesn’t hurt its quality!
In tonight’s episode of “The Van Full of Candy Show” we discussed our respective Valentines Dayses. Jesse’s was filled with drunken debauchery, Jason’s was filled with Walmarts. Who won? You decide. Jesse drank his “Conversation Juice” straight from his newly invented empty “Kleenex Box Booze Koozie”, uploading it via technology to twitter, LIVE during the show to the entertainment of no one… Jason brought up a story of a hoarding woman buried under her own crap and went on about how he watches Hoarders to shame himself into cleaning his apartment and the existence of a confusingly named 1800Hoarders.com while Jesse invented a new hoarder clean up business “Clutter Busters” without knowing that it already existed…
After a quick word from our sponsors we returned with a semi-announcement of our intentions of hitting the road in the Van Full of Candy 20(grumblemumble) US Tour! Live shows, roaming the country, coming to your town, we’re gonna party down, we’re an American Van! We offered the Tesla Motor Company and the BAND Tesla the chance to jump in on the sponsorship ground level! Then segued beautifully into a story about a pussy who suffered an ironic heart attack at Man vs. Food cliché, “The Heart Attack Grill”, who we would also love as a sponsor of our United States tour.
THEN the show really got started when looking up from that nonsense story, we discovered a caller waiting for us. An unnamed woman with wonderful taste in men who professed her “attraction” for the Van’s resident stud muffin Jesse Jones. An attraction that astonishingly began with our first video, “Disgusting Beard”. While nervously dancing around responses to the wonderful lady’s questions, Jesse managed to plug Chinatown Newspaper and their desire to stop in the Bay Area, where the caller resides, on their non-existent US Tour. He then danced around his availability and his confusing relationship status. Unfortunately in his flustered, mildly drunken state he didn’t even manage to get the lady’s name though she did promise to call back next week, which Jesse hopes very much will be the case.
So tune in next week to follow the further developments of this crazy love rhombus on “The Van Full of Candy Show “Episode 4: Conversation Hearts”!
This week has been an uneven one for those who like to party first and deal with party related consequences eventually. We at Van Full of Candy are known to be fans of both “Party” and “Consequences”. The first is fun, the second is hilarious and the combination of the two is often hilariously fun. That is, as long as those hilarious consequences of party are being felt by others. The amount of fun and hilarity one experiences as a result of party consequences is in direct relation to exactly how much it effects you personally. Party Fact.
First, Wednesday, Party People who like to put their Party Parts in the parts of other Party People got the bad news that the Plan B Party Pill was going to have to stay behind the pharmacy counter. The FDA had ruled that anybody who had $50 and a need to unhappen a late night baby could pick up the pill in their local anywhere without having to let the Pharmacist know how much they like to Party. But “Health and Human Services Secretary Kathleen Sebelius”, thinking of course, of the children, decided that it was best to avoid the impulse buy madness that allowing just anyone to toss a couple de-preggers in your basket would most certainly cause, you know, because it’s best to stock up for those times when you just don’t want to pull on one of those Pesky Pecker Party Ponchos.
I can naturally understand the Human Services Lady’s point of view. Sebelius’ concern was apparently that “girls as young as 11 are physically capable of bearing children and Plan B’s makers didn’t prove that younger girls could properly understand how to use this product without guidance from an adult”. Completely fair and rational and understandable. Eleven year olds like to party. Party Fact. Also a fact, all over the counter drugs that can be harmful to children without proper guidance from an adult must be proven to be properly understandable to eleven year old girls before it can be sold to the public. Never mind that the use of this product, a pill, is covered by one of humanities most basic function, the “forward swallow”, or that said pill can in no way do any sort of damage what so ever to a tween whether taken properly or improperly (unless I guess, ingested into the brain stem through a child’s blow hole perhaps), the fact that the product does not explicitly explain that fact is apparently tragically unsafe and worthy of keeping it off of shelves.
Party People 17 and older that want to exterminate impending womb vermin can still do so without prescription, as before, by simply telling the “doctor” behind the counter that she had a party in her pelvis and everyone was invited. Those under 17 will continue to need a prescription from their local clinic. Don’t mind the van parked outside with pictures of inside out fetus parts or all of the lovers of invisible sky persons calling you a whore, they’re just there to make sure you don’t let the next guy get away with saying that he can’t feel anything when stuffed in his Party Prophylactic. And hey, don’t worry if the doctor calls to inform your parents that you’ve just picked up a life unruiner pill, if one of ’em’s the reason you’re there, they’ll probably love to hear the news!
But fret not lovers of all things party! The FDA, yes, the same FDA that tried to let you decide for yourself whether or not you knew how to operate a pill properly, just today approved a drinky don’t hurt disk for mass consumption following a night of massive consumption. “Blowfish” an “Alka-Seltzer like tablet” is a hangover cure on its way to a non Plan B stocked store shelf near you!
No longer will you have to pay for your night of heavy drinking with head aches and tummy aches and mysterious muscle strains and bruises that you can not explain and continuously tell your friends not to explain. With its (not at all) patented combination of 1,000 milligrams of Aspirin, 120 milligrams of caffeine and an unspecified (in the article that I found this information at least, and I’ve used up all of my research coupons for the year) quantity of antacid, “Blowfish” is set to take a prominent place in Van Full of Candy’s Party Purse, which is actually a medicine bag that we bought at a gas station inside an Indian reservation that we were assured was not only blessed by the tribe’s shaman, but was very masculine and didn’t at all look weird for us to be wearing. This’ll fit in quite nicely with our embarassingly purchased Plan B pills and notarized consent forms. With a name like “Van Full of Candy” written authorization to consensually violate another human being sets a lot of minds at ease.
Now the “Blowfish” product didn’t actually NEED to be approved by the FDA since it’s “composed of ingredients already aveilable for over the counter sales”, but instead needed approval of its packaging.
“Like all drug packaging, it has a lot of warnings for people with certain conditions,” Brenna Haysom, creator of Blowfish said. “And pregnant women should not take it, but hopefully they don’t need to be taking it!”
An excellent point. Women who are pregnant shouldn’t take a fizzy pill with a cup of coffee’s worth of caffeine, because that would be bad. Oh, and naturally, as Brenna so wryly points out, tongue planted firmly in drunken cheek, pregnant women shouldn’t be NEEDING to take the product in the first place since it’s a hang over cure and as most Party Preggos know, they shouldn’t be drinking beer. It’ll make the baby too fun and charismatic.Party Fact.
So Party People, get out there and have a good time knowing that the consequences that need the most urgent attending to are covered. If bright lights and loud noises make your head an itty bitty bit ouchy, the FDA approved product that can help you will soon be at the 7-11 register next to the energy shots and scratchers. But if you get pregnant inadvertently or against your will, the FDA approved product that can help you will still be un-readily available to you because, you know, God.
We all overate this past week, and we’re all still eating the leftovers pretending those calories don’t count, well, because they’re leftovers and only the original three meals make us fat. Well if you want to melt those holiday pounds right off your skeleton, then look no further. We here at Van Full of Candy always have our finger on the pulse of healthy living and lean muscle mass … gaining. Trust me, it sounds bad, but it’s actually good.
Our friends at Optimum Nutrition really love us, so they’re always keeping us up to date on the latest health supplements and products that make you feel wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiired, in a healthy way, not like that other drink that Jesse likes so much. This shit is legit. So thank you to our dear friends, and hopefully future SPONSORS, hint hint, Optimum Nutrition for hookin’ us up with the real good junk.
Upon opening the envelope of nutritional bounty, many yummy products spilled out like little packs of crack. Once you get a small taste of the pure uncut stuff you’ll be back for more.
I didn’t have time to read the actual “directions” that Optimum Nutrition carefully places on every packet, but once I got past having to get a glass of water and a spoon to stir, I lost interest and did it the Van Full of Candy way.
Now for you video entertainment enjoyment, please enjoy my award winning video that won me 100 lbs. of Optimum Nutrition Whey Protein. You’d think I’d be in better shape with all this healthy stuff, but apparently you’re supposed to workout, psh, who has time for that?
During the winter break of my Sophomore year at the University of Nevada, Reno (go fighting Soft Sixteens!) I took a backpacking excursion through the inhospitable wilderness of the South American rainforest. I hiked for nine days with my trusty guide Tuo Uu-nu Eepchak. I was but a fool child, ill prepared for the conditions I would face in these endangered woods. Tuo became more than a guide to me, through our perilous journey he became mentor, teacher, father, lover, and the night that he boiled his freshly severed foot to provide us the nourishment we would need to see us home, I knew not to refuse the plate, and ate every last bite without once breaking eye contact.
As Tuo carried me, in an uncomfortable one footed hobble, back to civilization we collapsed, unable to journey any further. I was certain this was the end, so as to not let any of my brave friend go to waste, I began chewing on his left hand. As I drifted off into unconsciousness, suckling upon the sweet, caramel colored digit I was prepared to welcome death’s clammy embrace. But to my surprise I awoke again, laying on a straw thatch that a pungent combination of my profuse perspiration and seeping diarrhea had bedamped. Beside my bed of natural fibers sat a woman of indeterminate age and coffee complection. Her heavy, naked breast swayed gently as she reached into a loosely woven basket that sat in her lap, retrieved a single nut and carefully fed it through my cracked, blistered lips.
Over the next week I was nursed back to health by this plump, wizened woman and adopted by her tribe. I received a native name, “Kuh Naya”, which I chose to believe translated to “Brave Explorer” but which I knew was more likely to have meant “Oozer of Liquids”. My strength returned almost immediately as my diet of native legumes replenished my vitality. When I was finally well enough to resume my journey home I asked the elders for their permission to take a supply of their restorative food back to the states to offer the civilized world a chance at the restorative effect of these native people’s hidden miracle bounty. The elders refused, but I could not take no for an answer. As the tribe slept I filled my back pack and slipped off into the night.
Upon returning to Reno I packaged my ill gotten prize for presentation to a friend in the grocery business. I told him about my adventures in the jungle and my encounter with the natives and offered him a taste. The flavor assaulted his dulled western taste buds and the burst of vim and vigor shot through his body with one bite. He grasped at my collar, begging me for my secret, offering me anything in the world for this wonderful prize.
“What do you call these?” he pleaded, tears welling in his eyes.
With no small swell of pride I straightened up and smugly replied.
“These are the native nuts of the ancient and wise Haree tribe of South America.” I beamed. “What you have in your mouth, are my Haree Nuts.”
A group calling themselves One Million Moms is leading a boycott against Ben & Jerry’s over their new limited edition ice cream flavor based on a Saturday Night Live sketch; “Schweddy Balls”.
“The vulgar new flavor has turned something as innocent as ice cream into something repulsive,” the group of humorless hags said. “Not exactly what you want a child asking for at the supermarket.”
One Million Moms, a “division of the Mississippi-based American Family Association” also hates Ben & Jerry’s commemorative flavor “Hubby Hubby”, a special edition of “Chubby Hubby” celebrating gay marriage.
“It seems that offending customers has become an annual tradition for Ben & Jerry’s.
One Million Moms (which I am almost certain, does not consist of one million actual mothers) hate fun or gay ice creams.
People actually live their lives hating jokes, being offended by tasty frozen treats that don’t hate gays and threatening people that sell things that others rightfully don’t think are insulting them, that they’re not going to buy something that they likely weren’t buying in the first place. This is important to these people. It makes me want to punch everything, ever.
I do not know what my parents expected me to learn from the people of your planet when they launched my escape rocket only moments before my birth home exploded millions of miles from here. But what I have learned so far I do not like.
Hey you, shut up, I have a penis and it demands to be heard!
I am a man, and as such, it is my god given duty to not care about a woman’s pleasure! My divinely given external genitalia are my genetic signal to all of the animal kingdom that I am strong and make fire and am not to be fucked with. Like the tails of lesser animals, my phallus is expressive, so without even having to speak you can know exactly when I am happy or sad, frightened or rapey, simply by looking at my manhood. Mine is to be feared and worshiped at all times, which is why I do not approve of the attention that the frightening, confusing female crotchular region seems to be getting lately.
The in flight movie is the domain of Kevin James and cable repairman themed comedians. These films engage the penis on its own level, while not challenging it with feelings or story or entertainment. The male reproductive organ configuration likes things simple and dumb. Our dong can keep up with that and still split its concentration with rating the physical attractiveness of every female passenger within’ spitting distance, and that makes Mister, Happy.
But in Australia, airplanes are trying to teach people that women can enjoy sex times too.
This filthy propaganda is being carried by Australian airline “Qantas” (which I now understand is Australian for “Vagina”) in the form of a 50 minute French film entitled “The Female Orgasm Explained”. I have long heard of this mythical creature called “The Female Orgasm”, a fantasy concocted by mad sorcerers and damaged explorers returned from insane quests for lost relics. I myself have never been in the same room as one, have you? Of course not! Because we all know that this creation of the liberal media, long a puppet of Big Vagina is about as “real” as a leprechaun riding a unicorn through a field of fresh, spring Clitori… Which I assume is the plural for clitoris, ANOTHER fabrication of the vast Labial Conspiracy!
The film is available on long-haul “Video on Demand” on “The Edge” channel. And while it’s dumb and evil and I hate it, I am also naturally drawn to it. I enjoy science fiction pornography, so this premise intrigues me. And the article says that the film includes “naked scenes” which are my penis’ favorite kind! You see, this is exactly how these animals lure you in. Offering you titillation and groinal excitement, and then delivering their message of hate while your blood flow is diverted away from your brain skull. But I know their tricks, I see through their ploys. Besides, with this being a French film, it’s very unlikely that the nudity will meet my American genital grooming standards.
The flight crew are apparently able, at the request of parents, to block the content to the seats of minors. Which is comforting, because the only thing more frightening than the threat of genital equality is the possibility of future generations being taught that women are capable of sexual pleasure.
But the horrors of female pleasure don’t stop there!
I have always believed that unnecessary sex-tech should be reserved for the appendages of the hairier sex. If there is a robot capable of repetitive tugging motions, it should be equipped with a soft silicone sleeve and placed in doctor’s offices around the globe. But the people at “Crave” an upstart “adult product” company is trying to introduce plug and play technology to the lady port.
Their new device, the “Duet” has “four different patterns of vibration, five power levels, and runs almost silently”. Which I don’t understand at all. How complicated are your parts that you need so much trickery and flim flammery to achieve excitism? If this “female orgasm” is such a real, existing thing, why do you need to be able to conduct a vibrational symphony to lure it out of it’s cave? Why can’t you just rub your pelvis up against something sturdy for a couple minutes until you have to change your pants, like a NORMAL person?
And one of its main features is it’s discrete design and silent running. To which I say my bologna has a first name, it’s “Bullshit!” If you want a machine to do your dirty work, it should stand three feet tall and make obscene gestures so that all the world knows what it’s all about. I don’t want to accidentally pick up a rubber paper clip off your desk, completely unaware that until I knocked on your office door your “executive assistant” was buzzing away at your little chairman in the boat in a near infinite number of possible pattern and intensity combinations!
So please, can I just review my report on my plane ride without being bombarded by things explaining the inner working of, or having possibly been recently IN your twat! Just let me just watch “Zookeeper” and ogle the well tanned sleeping student three rows up in peace, vaginas!
Wow, I can’t believe that it’s been four whole years since we started dating. It only seems like yesterday when your camera only had 2 megapixels and you still had your cute baby fat which I was really attracted to. You were such a simpler girlfriend back then, so much nicer, you used to be so attentive to my needs, God I miss those days. Over the years you’ve changed. You started working out, tanning, getting your hair colored and even started yoga even though you said you hated it. You’ve started dressing different now that you’re so svelte and it seems you hardly even notice me anymore since you’ve become so “Hollywood”. I’ve just become “that guy who carries me around”, and that really hurts because I have a name damnit.
I remember when you used to weigh 135 grams. Yes I said it, I know you don’t want anyone to know how big you used to be, but since our relationship is going downhill, I’m going to air out all of our dirty laundry right here, right now! I used to lovingly lug you around in my pocket, and trust me it wasn’t easy back then, but sacrifice is how relationships work. I loved you, and you loved me and nothing else mattered. But now you have competition with that new sexy Android slut, and even though I would never look at her in a lustful way, your jealousy is getting the best of you. I understand if you’re looking for a way out of what we have, but let me tell you, you’re making a huge mistake. She’s sexy yes, but you are my true love! True, I may have held her a couple of times and commented on her gigantic screen, but none of that matters. You’re way hotter than her. I don’t care if you enlarged your screens, got lasik surgery for better sight, increased your knowledge with those fancy French and pottery classes you’ve been taking. I don’t care that you’ve lost 3.5 mm from your waist, I used to adore those cute love handles. Remember how I would grab on to those babies? Smacking that ass, your loud ringtones going off, and how hot your battery charger used to get when I was all up in … sorry … I’m losing focus, but you know what I mean.
I hope this letter reaches you well, and I really do hope that you’ve found your true happiness out there wherever it may be. But just know that there’s a guy out there that still really cares about you regardless of what you look like, because he knows the real you and I don’t even care that you’ve gained 2 grams over the years. A guy who will always be there for you if you ever choose to return, and still smiles when he thinks about the fun times we used to have in the car with Shazam.
It’s no secret that the rich despise the poor. This hatred stems from a couple very different, very dark places in the place that at one time may or may not have housed a soul. Either 1) the rich person was once poor, and the very sight of the un-monied sends shivers down their spine, reminding them of the life they fought out of, frightened every day that someone will take it all away from them and send them back to the horrors of non-richness. of B) they have never known a minute of want in their entire privileged life and are so out of touch, with no reference for the plight of the soiled dirty people, they don’t understand how everyone doesn’t own a drawer full of platinum dipped, emerald encrusted cock rings, except that their abject lazy and unwillingness to make something of themselves makes them despise them and their worn more than once clothing.
There’s really no other way to explain the mind rapingly unnecessary extravagances that the rich continue to treat themselves to when surrounded by a world that at best is barely scraping by and is at worst, scraping off a bite of those who failed to scrape by.
The latest luxury item being offered to the bored rich collector of things that they should be ashamed of is this beaut…
Feast your eyes on the majesty of the only razor greater than yourself.
Now, you may be asking, “Why has a razor for the wasteful wealthy pissed you off so very much Mr. Blog? It’s just a razor, what harm could it possibly do to you and your constantly yelly face?” And it’s a fair question. Just looking at this face deforestation utensil, it looks no more special than your average Gillette. Frankly, it actually looks kind of ugly. A razor is generally a fairly harmless bathroom expenditure and this one looks like you could probably buy a bag of three of them for five bucks at CVS. But if that were the case, I wouldn’t have been shouting at the sky for the last three hours, now would I? Well, okay, I probably would have, but at least this gave me a somewhat defensible reason.
You see, if you’d like to scrape the whiskers from your face in the most luxurious, exclusive way known to the abhorrent excess of man, you can get yourself your very own Zafirro Iridium for the bargain basement price of JUST… $100,000.
No, I didn’t just have a stroke and lean on the zero key for a comically long period of time: that’s the real fucking price. For only $100,000 you can stride confidently across the face of your own bought and paid for planet with chops as smooth as a starving child’s malnourished ass cheeks.
And you know what, you get your very last penny’s worth, because the Zafirro Iridium isn’t made with space age technology, that’s for poor assholes. No, the Zafirro Iridium is made from fucking SPACE! See, if Zafirro’s razor sounds sort of familiar in a weird, sci-fi kind of way, that’s because it gets its name from the material it’s made from “Iridium”. What is iridium you may be wondering? Well you see, most of the iridium found on our planet is “the result of crashed meteorites”… That’s right, this razor is made of space rocks. Actually, scratch that. The HANDLE is made of space rocks. The fucking handle is made of iridium, an “extremely scarce and expensive metal that is so dense, it could survive a drop into molten lava”. Not the business end of this $100,000 indestructible face smoother but just the HANDLE, the LEAST IMPORTANT PART of this thing is made of a Superman metal from a doomed planet far, far away that has crash landed on Earth.
So then, if the thing that holds the blade is made of metal that can leap tall buildings in a single bound, what the hell fuck could the actual blade be made of? Sharpened unicorn bones? Laser carved shards of a brown dwarf star? Jesus’ finger nail clippings? No, that’s ridiculous, nothing quite so extravagant and fantastical, the blades of this $100,000 dollar shaver are simply made from artificially grown sapphire… That’s all… I don’t even know what that means or if the reality of what the blades actually are is even less insane than the other options I threw on the table.
Zafirro, which apparently only exists to sell these razors, is only offering 99 of these grotesque impulse buys to the money soaked “public”, adding one more irresistible feature to lure in the bahudratrillionaires: exclusivity. The only thing the super rich love more than buying more comically expensive things that shouldn’t cost nearly so much, is knowing that they will be one of only a handful of people on the planet to own it.
To say this is unnecessary is a gross understatement, but that doesn’t mean that people don’t have the right to spend their money how ever they see fit. What makes me so angry is when I see something like this and then, foolishly, put it in perspective. The poverty line in the contiguous United States for the year of our lord 2000 and 11 for a family of 4 (with all family members 18 years of age or over) is $22,350. So, give those four families a couple extra bucks in walkin’ around money to waste on frivolous nonsense that the poor are known to throw their money away on, such as food and electricity, and 16 people could live the lavish life of the just barely not impoverished for an entire year for the price of a single, solitary, volcano proof grooming tool…
It’s better not to think about these things, I wish I didn’t. But I do, and that’s why I’m angry all the time. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go get a ten pack of Bics at the dollar store and try to resist the urge to cut my hands off with them… BYE NOW!
So Montel William’s television show, monotonously named, “The Montel William’s Show” ended a few years ago. Not that anybody had any clue, hence, me letting you know. You probably know him better for his infomercials pushing his Healthmaster Blender to people who are too lazy to actually go to a grocery store, buy the ingredients to make a healthy soup or smoothie, peel, chop and blend those ingredients and then wash out the Healthmaster, dry it, and put it away so they can be healthier by making better food choices. But the motivation to do so is there everytime you pick up the user-guide/menu with thoughts of “oh that’s easy, I can totally do that”, but the blender just ends up depressed in a cupboard collecting dust right next to that salad spinner you really needed to start making your own salads, it then gets moved from apartment to apartment with well wishes of using it one day, only to be put in a box
and transplanted to the garage where it sits for another two years before another apartment move to where one says, “let’s put it on Craigslist”, but doing that takes so much freakin’ effort that it ends up next to the apartment dumpster you’re moving out of with a FREE sign on it only to be seen by another “wanna be healthier” person, picked up and put in their cupboard. Thanks Montel, but Burger King meal deal #4 is sounding really good and easy right about now.
So as I’m perusing my local rag today, I read that Mr. Blender Man wants to open a medical-cannibas dispensery in Sacramento. Hey wait! I freakin’ live in Sacramento. Montel just totally showed up in my backyard and wants to get me stoned. SWEET!! But wait, it gets better. I also find out that Montel is going to be a special guest for the improv comedy company we used to be a part of. We had better get some sort of sweet-ass-pot-ex-employee discount, that’s all I can say. You hear me Montel? Or better yet, you better give me a sweet rate on my cash advance of $1,500 that I can get through your Montel Williams Cash Advance Website … Wait! WHAT??!! You’re also a Check-Into-Cash? I’m starting to get really confused with all your different business ventures and websites and health and psychics on your old show and blunt rollin’ and … damn, I need a smoothie. (And in that instant it all became very clear to me).
Montel has a “Downward Spiral Ponzi Multi Level Marketing Healthy Stoner Scheme” going on. It’s a very rare one, but one that I’ve only heard about in biblical scrawls. Here’s how it works: The show, The Montel William’s Show, was the credibility draw. We’re drawn in with all your good deeds of people-helping, and even bringing in mediums who can predict the future and talk to our deceased loved ones. That’s the hook, you’ve got us to love you, the kind of love which never goes away. THEN … you open a Wacky Tobacky store to get us all nice and lit and ready for some munchies. As we’re sitting on the couch unable to more than giggle at our ferns, you buy some commercial time and tell us about your snack making Healthblender, which we absolutely need because we’re munchy’er than shit at that point, but we don’t have quite enough to buy it, so we go online to your Money Dealin’ store and get a quick loan that is quickly deposited into our bank account which we then immediately use to purchase our high speed fruit mixer, sending that money directly back to you. You’re a clever one Mr. Williams, a clever one indeed. Now, about that discount.