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Happy Birthday iPhone, You Skinny Bitch

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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.

Happy Birthday

Hey Poor People: Go Fuck Yourself

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Montel Williams Wants To Get You Stoned

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Let's make a smoothie outta this beotch

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

Would you mind blending me up a nice hot bowl of "STFU"?

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).

I got money, blenders, blunts, whattchuwant ??

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.

Your #2 Is NOTHING For Our New Russian Toilets !!

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No thanks, I'll just shit my pants tonight.

Indestructible toilets … finally!!!

Not only can these toilets from the future take the blast of a terrorist bomb, but I can finally piss on the lid and have absolutely no guilt. Seriously! These toilets are made of “ultra-strong fibrous concrete” so they can take the biggest load you could ever conceivably dump into them, and the “fittings are hewn from a mixture of steel and reinforced plastic”, so I can slam that lid down as hard as I want when I’m finished and it wont break. These baby’s are “vandal proof and terrorist-proof”. Wow! Terrorist proof? That’s a pretty balls’y claim. Where were these during Sept 11?

So I guess the natural question would be … why in the world would we need to have toilets, of the public type, to be fortified fucking bunkers? Is there that much anarchy happening within the confines of the #1/#2 variety that we need to take such extreme measures?

“If somebody leaves a bomb inside the lavatory and it explodes, then the toilet won’t be destroyed.” Well thank fuckin’ Christ Russia. You can’t imagine how many times I’ve sat on the pot in a public place and thought “Eff … I certainly pray to Gawd that this gawddamn porcelein pot of bowel-catchings doesn’t explode.” And certainly not on my watch … well … not that I’m watching … but I hope you get the gist. Butt apparently, the drive to “introduce bomb-proof toilets in the city follows a spate of deadly bomb attacks in recent years.” I’m actually a bit confused right now as I type this out. I can’t actually remember the last time I’ve ever even heard about a toilet-bombing. Can you dear reader? No seriously … can you? If so PLEASE leave us a comment because I feel so out of the shitter-loop right now. CNN Moscow reports … “In the most recent incident, a suicide bomber struck Moscow’s main airport killing 37 people.” So, you’re trying to make me believe that there were, at ONE time, 37 people sitting on the toilet at the same time in an airport? Not believing that!

Hey Russia ... We're sending over our secret weapon ... Patty Poopster

They go on to say that “The high tech facilities will also be kept above 16 degrees centigrade ­ (about 60 degrees Fahrenheit), important in a city where winter temperatures often plunge below -30 degrees centigrade.” … So in a freakin’ winter wonderland of hypothermia, you’ll always know that if you’re out and about wandering the streets, you’ll always have a warm place to snuggle up with your honey and warm your tootsies together and share a warm cup of cocoa? Man! How nice is that? But wait … there’s more … “City officials say an extra security feature of the new unisex toilet is that members of the public will be able to spend a maximum of 30 minutes inside before the doors automatically open and an alarm sounds.”

Well I don’t know about you fellas out there reading this .. but … shit … I’m not gonna throw down the $39.99 for a night at a Holiday Inn with a lady of the night or a lady of the drunk-bar variety. I’m gonna be a chivalrous man and drag her into a public port-a-potty, knock out some business which usually only lasts 7-9 minutes anyway, and totally not set off any alarms and be home before Wheel of Fortune starts. Sha-blamm!!

Thanks Russia!

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.

I'm A Rocket Man !!

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Early Jetpack Prototype : "Assburner 3000" - Could launch you 11 ft. in the air for approximately 6 seconds

Holy freakin’ Buck Rogers In The 25th Century, our Jetpacks have finally been made and are available for order right now!! Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to fly like Superman? Well, not EXACTLY like Superman because he didn’t have to strap on a 535 lb. Honda Civic engine the size of a refrigerator to his back that only goes 63mph, but still, it’s pretty much exactly the same! A human flying through the air for 30 minutes, 5,000 feet in the air?!? I totally just piddled myself like an overly excited dog. Besides the ability to be invisible, this has got to be the best thing ever, only because this is actually happening and, well, invisibility has yet to happen, except, if someone has the ability to turn invisible we’d never know because we couldn’t see them, and seriously, if you COULD become invisibile would you EVER tell anyone? Hells no!! Exactly! So … this is the best thing for right now.

As if white people we didn’t need another way to tragically kill ourselves, such as jumping out of planes, jumping off bridges with a springy cord tied around our waists, climbing tall, jagged rocks with a little purse of white chalk, riding boards with sharks, and even driving to work, we had to invent a way to play chicken with airplanes. Now don’t get me wrong, I know I was hella excited about a paragraph ago to soar with the birds, but when it comes down to it, I’d be scared shitless. Sure, there’s a parachute that will “save your life” by slowing you down to 15 mph when you smash the ground, but just think of all the other bullshit flying around up there with you. Helicoptors just waiting to chop your head off, killer swarms of geese waiting to pounce, another rookie Jetpacker, JetBlue flight #225, that random skydiver … oh yeah, and let’s not even mention if that flying backpack of death gets squirrley, you lose complete control and start a new career in skywriting curse words, or worse … that damn thing runs out of gas at 5,000 ft. Oh yeah … did I mention it only costs $100,000?

No thank you science! You can just take your steampunk hubu-jubu flying contraption and stick it straight up your stank-box ingenious aeronautical asses and see how far in the air THAT gets ya.

Free autographed Rocket Man record with every purchase of a Martin Jetpack

I’m A Rocket Man !!

Posted on Updated on

Early Jetpack Prototype : "Assburner 3000" - Could launch you 11 ft. in the air for approximately 6 seconds

Holy freakin’ Buck Rogers In The 25th Century, our Jetpacks have finally been made and are available for order right now!! Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to fly like Superman? Well, not EXACTLY like Superman because he didn’t have to strap on a 535 lb. Honda Civic engine the size of a refrigerator to his back that only goes 63mph, but still, it’s pretty much exactly the same! A human flying through the air for 30 minutes, 5,000 feet in the air?!? I totally just piddled myself like an overly excited dog. Besides the ability to be invisible, this has got to be the best thing ever, only because this is actually happening and, well, invisibility has yet to happen, except, if someone has the ability to turn invisible we’d never know because we couldn’t see them, and seriously, if you COULD become invisibile would you EVER tell anyone? Hells no!! Exactly! So … this is the best thing for right now.

As if white people we didn’t need another way to tragically kill ourselves, such as jumping out of planes, jumping off bridges with a springy cord tied around our waists, climbing tall, jagged rocks with a little purse of white chalk, riding boards with sharks, and even driving to work, we had to invent a way to play chicken with airplanes. Now don’t get me wrong, I know I was hella excited about a paragraph ago to soar with the birds, but when it comes down to it, I’d be scared shitless. Sure, there’s a parachute that will “save your life” by slowing you down to 15 mph when you smash the ground, but just think of all the other bullshit flying around up there with you. Helicoptors just waiting to chop your head off, killer swarms of geese waiting to pounce, another rookie Jetpacker, JetBlue flight #225, that random skydiver … oh yeah, and let’s not even mention if that flying backpack of death gets squirrley, you lose complete control and start a new career in skywriting curse words, or worse … that damn thing runs out of gas at 5,000 ft. Oh yeah … did I mention it only costs $100,000?

No thank you science! You can just take your steampunk hubu-jubu flying contraption and stick it straight up your stank-box ingenious aeronautical asses and see how far in the air THAT gets ya.

Free autographed Rocket Man record with every purchase of a Martin Jetpack