It’s been said that “Darlin’ it’s better, down where it’s wetter” and “that’s why it’s hotter, under the water.” It may be possible that the singing crab to which those words of wisdom are generally attributed to wasn’t exactly referring to a submersible fuck sub, but there’s no proof that he wasn’t either.
So, you’ve punished that pie way up in the sky. Well why not conquer that “C” down under the sea! Because the “Mile-High” club is SO Wright Brothers, a new travel company is offering you the chance to join the “Mile-Low” club.
Money, and the having of it must be nice. To be able to just decide one day “I have a minimum of $284,000 that I VERY don’t need, and an aching desire to stick my parts into another someone’s near a sunken battleship” and then make that a reality must be a hell of a life to have.
In a press conference announcing this luxury aquatic bang bus, Oliver Bell, co-founder of Oliver’s Travels told the common note scratching clods: “All of our handpicked, luxury properties have something unique and quirky about them, but Lovers Deep really stands out as one of our quirkiest yet.” And by quirky I assume Mr. Oliver’s doesn’t so much mean “wearing your own handmade clothes and noodling around on a ukulele” as “fucking in a submarine”.
And for those quirk seeking, high lifers, the UK based Oliver’s Travel has just the package to give to you and your temporary life mate’s packages. Aboard these “Lovers Deep” love subs the rich and pampered will have all of their wildest unnecessary dreams catered to, including oyster dishes, caviar, “chocolate fondant with essence of pomegranate”, all the way down to a “petal-scattering service” for those who are unable, or unwilling to lay hands upon the unplucked petals of flowers or the below their station act of “scattering” anything but the finest Colombian nostril dust across the lower back of their underwater frolic bunny. All to be followed, of course, by a champagne breakfast in bed. Natch.
Thanks to Dave Chappelle for the title of this blog. I had to steal his end of show sound bite because “Bitch, I’m Rich” sounded kinda rude and “I’m a Rich Bitch” sounded like I was a Kardashian, and I really don’t like the taste of unbleached all purpose flour all up in my mouth, sooooooooooooo … let’s get back to discussing the California Lottery shall we?
I understand that many of you are rushing around like little ants whose little hill has been kicked by a rogue 12 year old pick-nick’r trying to put together 5 numbers with a Mega number that will make you a half a billionaire without even having to own a child labor run corporation in Korea. But why do you think you even have a chance? I’m going to win tomorrow night, and when I do, we will officially change our name to Van Full of Fuck-You Money. The expletive is very necessary, because that’s the kind of money that I spend and say “fuck you” to it when it goes away because it doesn’t mean shit to me. $100 tip on a $5 lunch … fuck you. $300 haircut … fuck you. Wipe my ass with $20’s … fuck you. I couldn’t waste $500 million fast enough before I go to the big 70’s van in the sky.
When they show my ugly mug on the news asking what I’m going to do with all that scratch, I’ll just say “not giving any of this shit to charity, that’s for sure” and then make out with the hot reporter that they sent to interview me LIVE on air, then later send her home the next morning with a couple of Benjamin’s, and a Jackson for the cab fare, hey, I’m a nice guy, I know cabs are pricey.
Now look, before you get all shitty and think I’m a non-caring asshole who only thinks about his selfishness, I’m going to give you the opportunity to share the wealth with me. Yes. You heard if right here from me. I’m going to share with you the winning lottery numbers. If you choose to use them, then my friend, we’ll both be rich assholes/asshole’ettes, but if you choose not to use them, then you my friend, are going to be working for another 30 years to a retirement of nothingness. Hookers and champagne? Or food stamps and government cheese? Your choice. Here you go …
6 9 25 34 37 (40)
The official day of love, as told to us by a major greeting card corporation, comes once a year and here we are standing three people deep in an aisle of pink picked over rectangles. We stand there with glazed over eyes, a smidge of drool forming in the corner of our mouths, hoping that there is more than a “Love You Mom” left over. Why must we be reduced to this Hallmark? Is this some sort of sick ass joke?
Well, we’re not gonna take it anymore! Men! Unite! Say NO! to Valentine’s Day!!
As a guy, when I first heard about this story, my first impression is “fuck yeah, let’s do this!”, but when I didn’t get a return call, I had a lot of time to reflect on the situation. Let’s rewind shall we?
As I stumbled around my living area this morning, I, what my grandparents would say, “turned on the news”. Turning on the news back in day meant walking up to a huge wooden box and pulling a button and waiting 30 seconds for the tube to warm up and an image to appear on the screen. But when I say it, turning on the news means swiping the “slide to unlock” on my little black half pack of cards made of glass and plastic. And that’s a lot of words to have to go through to get to the girl with the double-vagina part of the story. A young Australian woman, Hazel Jones, revealed that she has an extremely rare medical condition, two vaginas.
Now, back to the beginning, as a guy when you hear a story about a woman with a double-va-J-J, you get really close to your computer monitor and hope to see how you can buy tickets to the ride, and you hope that there’s a freaky clip on YouTube somewhere, not because I’m a perv, but because I enjoyed science class as a kid. But then I got to thinking of the logistics of having a 3-sum with one other person, it’s perplexing and stressful all at the same time.
1. Finding the Grafenberg Spot is practically impossible for a mere mortal, but when you’ve got two spots to find on a non-existent map, fogettahboutit, get me a beer and something that makes me feel good about myself.
2. Hand cramps and lockjaw. Look, I’ve got some serious skills but trying to sing all the parts of a barber shop quartet by yourself is like trying to fill the van’s gas tank by farting in it, it’s possible, but it’s gonna take a LONG time. If you wanna make this woman happy, you’ve got to be a concerto pianist and a champion yodeler. Yodelers use their tongue to yodel right?
3. And the final word on the stress of all this, what seems to be awesome situation, pregnancy.
Porn. It’s naughty, it’s fun, it’s my best friend on a late, lonely Wednesday night whilst sadly looking through yearbooks of all the friends I never had and all the empty pages without signatures and cool sayings like “Stay Cool this Summer”. Play, pause, fast forward, oh wait, yeah, just like that, pause, on your FACE! You like that don’t you ??!!
Porn. My real pretend friends who never let me down and are there when I need them. Men and women of all ethnicities and statures, making me feel like I’m part of their hot threesomes, nun exploitation, and lesbian trists in a locker room, while at the same time making me feel small and stamina-deprived, but they don’t judge.
Porn. No rules, do who you want, how you want, when you want, where you want. Midgets, horses, bound in leather, wearing costumes, on your back, in your back, bare back, shack a lack. Except for now … there is a rule, a NEW rule.
Condoms. Necessary. MANDATORY !!
Here’s all the verby verbage … The “Safer Sex In The Adult Film Industry Act” would require “any person or entity directly engaged in the creation of adult films who is issued a permit” to “maintain engineering and work practice controls, including the provision of and required use of condoms, sufficient to protect employees from exposure to blood or other potentially infectious materials consistent with state law.” This was laid out by the city council of Los Angeles City stating that all that above nonsense has to be done if filming within the city. Whatever the fuck that means. And where do I get a permit? I’d like a permit.
It’s quite apparent that these “people” who “voted” and made this into a law have never seen porn where the dude is wearing a condom. It’s horrible! How much feeling do you think he’s really experiencing? None. And what if the receiver has a latex allergy? HMMMMM? Think how depressed these actors are going to become. Where is the fun in waking up, heading to work and knowing you’re gonna have boring old condom sex? Nowhere, that’s where. That’s like asking a Starbuck’s employee to come to work but not being able to drink any of the coffee, asking a dentist to show up to put in a cavity but not getting to use a drill, or worse, taking away a lawyers ability to sue !!
Come on LA, give the porner’s a break. Let them hump away the way they were meant to, naked and slippery. Nobody wants to see a lite green sheathed pecker goin’ in and out of anything, it’s just wrong. What’s next? You gonna pass a law mandating that porn stars get married before they film?
Evolution, it’s happening right now, right under our stupid little noses, which will naturally one day evolve the ability to smell color so that the blind can understand rainbows.
But yesterday, Science thought it would share what it had found out about evolution happening a little farther under our noses. Around the area that I’ve often refered to as the “nose of the pelvis”. Ask anyone, that’s what I call it.
Genitals and Science: two of our favorite topics here at Van Full of Candy converging in one handy study. If only alcohol had somehow been involved in these findings it would have been a perfect storm of topicry. But really, when ever there’s a story of the study of the evolution of beetle genitalia, it’s pretty likely that alcohol was in there at some point, and more likely at the genesis of the idea. And not surprisingly when it’s nerds examining groin importance, the first finding is that size doesn’t matter. Predictable nerds. Shape, these minisculely hung lab hermits at Indiana University say, is what matters more in genitalogical evolution.
Now, many of us have seen more than our own particular configuration. Whether it be at he gym, in the pelvic inspection office you work in or at your weekly orgy pot luck get togethers, we’re seen several other varieties of our own style of bits. In those instances when you have seen someone else’s unmentionables, either by unfortunate chance, or by very careful observation finally bearing fruit… crotch fruit… You have likely seen something that both horrified and intrigued you and then horrified you again.
A penis bent at an impossible angle, boggling your mind at what positions this unfortunate might have to maintain in order to accomplish what could charitably be called “humpin'”. Or perhaps labia so out of control you can’t be certain it’s not growing toward you every time you take your eye off of it, leaving you in a horrible position of not wanting to look away, while at the same time wanting nothing more in the world than to look away and burn your top layers of eye off.
Those, are apparently evolved genitalia.
Now, no where in this study or article does it SAY that. The research and findings are based entirely on “data from scarab beetle populations”, but I like to think that I’m merely extrapolating the next obvious conclusion based on my general lack of knowledge and daring leaps in logic that is truly the basis for all advancements in the understanding of our world around us. Only I seem to have the bravery to call these knotted, floppy bits of confusing flesh what they seem to be, a great leap forward in future boning.
According to these findings in beetles, which, as we all know, share over 99% of the genetic markers of humans*, genital divergence between species is noticable in at little as 50 years of “genital evolution”. Which naturally got me to thinking, which generally speaking is never any good for anyone.
The X-Man; follow me on this one. Mutants in the X-Men line of comicy books as produced by the Marvel company, are often refered to as the “next step in human evolution”. These X mans first appeared in the Marvel brand comiced book “The X-Men #1” in 1963, NEARLY 50 years ago. So in addition to the strange and unusual powers that these mutant threats possess, you can add strange and unusual junks in the worn on the outside of their pants, trunks! Just extrapolating from the powers that we know these mutants possess I can probably fairly accurately imagine the horrible mutant penis powers they have concealed from the public. Wolverine and his three metal dongs, springing from his hips on command being just the tip of the penisberg!
It all used to be so easy. We all knew that when the pants came off, everything would work itself out just fine. But now, science tells us that even that is no guarantee anymore. Way to go science, just because you weren’t getting any was no reason for you to go and make me wary of potential interconnectivity issues I may have with the lady friend I bring home after a night of plying her with “get ta know ya” juice at my local alcohol room. How I miss the good old days when my only worry was whether or not she was going to pass out before she threw up on me, or throw up on me before she passes out… Simpler times…
* Likely not true, but don’t quote me one way or the other. But if you do want to quote me, feel free to use this one: “You won’t be enslaving the beautiful Nymphomians TODAY, Evil General Gross! Prepare to be pummeled about the face and neck by the Amazing POWER ROD!”
Alright every body, hold on to your things which are easily ejected from your person by sudden shock from wholly unbelievable news! Socks, hats, balls and all other comically loose items secured? Alright, you can’t say I didn’t warn you. Here goes…
Drinking booze, makes people want to fuck, stupidly!
I know. I lost nine good pair of work socks when I heard that news and I wasn’t even wearing half of them, they were just blown clean out of my sock drawer by the power of that revelation.
A new Canadian study says specifically that “how much alcohol a person drinks directly affects how likely they are to have unsafe sex”. Now sure, this research is based on twelve vague studies with no real numbers or “facts” backing up anything, and all of these findings are based on the participants of these studies (how ever many there might have been) self reporting their theoretical likelihood of partaking in raw intercourse after tipping back a couple adult beverages. And of course, their loosely assembled findings say that the effect of alcohol on one’s possible knowing abandonment of a baby shield disease prevention sack might be somewhere in the neighborhood of a 3 to 5 percent increase in “I don’t give a fuckitude”, which they immediately tie to how “the role of alcohol consumption and risky sex intentions can be applied to better understanding important public health issues such as the transmission of HIV.”
Now, I’m not a Doctor of Science, and I don’t claim to be. Sure, I like to run around in the lab coat I bought at the flea market and nothing else screaming about how a single injection from my flesh needle will cure what ails ya, but that should never be taken as intended to treat or diagnose any potential illness. I mention the last sentence about “understanding public health issues” almost exclusively because I love the term “risky sex intentions” and for no other reason. The writing in the article in which I found this information is piss poor and mockable on its own, regardless of the content, but every time I see the phrase “risky sex intentions” I can’t help but giggle and take another drink.
The biggest “revelation” in this “research” is the ground breaking finding that “the more alcohol participants consumed, the higher their willingness to engage in unsafe sex”.
“Alcohol is influencing their decision processes,” said a no doubt stunned Jürgen Rehm, director of the Really Long Sciencey Title at, I can only assume, Canada’s Centre for Things We All Pretty Much Already Know.
So let me get this straight. A substance that loosens inhibitions and impares cognitive ability somehow effects how much you think squeezing your reproductive organs into a tight latex sock is a good and important idea? I was unaware that this sort of thing needed researched, but fine, papers have to be written, research budgets have to be spent.
The dumbfounded doctor of the well known later went on to say that:
“Drinking has a causal effect on the likelihood to engage in unsafe sex, and thus should be included as a major factor in preventive efforts for HIV.”
And it’s at this point that I think we need to settle down just a little bit. Now alcohol awareness is a “major factor” in preventing HIV? Really? This study of yours Canadian Umlaut, based on little more than what drunk people say they might do with their drunken parts, is what you’re going to hang your science hat on and call a “major factor in preventative efforts for HIV”? Now, I don’t have HIV (Ladies…) but I know people who do, and I’m pretty certain that a couple drinks isn’t going to make them forget that their dicks are poison. People with a virus as potentially dangerous as this one, if they know they are carrying it, are generally pretty careful about what they put on their appendages and into whom they place them. Of course, I suppose part of the argument could be that it increases the likelihood of those who are unaware that they are infected might pass it unknowingly because booze told them to, but I think this study is being a lot more irresponsible than most infected individuals will be.
I freely admit that there’s probably more to this study than this article, apparently scribbled by a ninth grade english student being chased around his school newspaper class, has shared, so I’m not entirely sure whether I should be blaming poor reporting or poor research for screaming AIDS in a crowded bar. So I guess all I’m saying is this: Booze isn’t the bad guy. The bad guy is the bad guy. Be careful who you insert a part of your body into and vicey versey. Stranger danger extends to the inside of the pants of your new friend. You may have just shared a drink or nine with this nice person, but you don’t know where their moving pieces have been. You’re just meeting them for the first time now, so don’t assume they’ve always been on their best behavior.
Van Full of Candy says, PYP: Protect Your Parts! Because if you don’t, who will?