True Story

Catching Up With Unfinished Van Tangents: Parte the First

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It’s been a crazy couple months for Van Full of Candy as you may or may not have noticed. Both members are now freshly moved from their previous addresses, having relocated a total of nearly 400 miles. We’re both on the tale end of transitioning from a bullshit existence, to a slightly different bullshit existence. But the point of this is change, moving forward, letting go of the past and scarring the future with our poison infused projectile bile and razor sharp laser tipped talons… Metaphorically.

Since starting this business almost a year and a half ago we’ve posted nearly 300 articles. Over that time often I’ve started an article, found a story that I wanted to explore, but for one reason or another abandoned, fully meaning to go back to it and revisit it, but never getting around to it. So in the spirit of burying the past in a shallow, road side grave and moving onto the quivering future, frightened of the legend of our power which precedes us, I have decided to dig up all of my half finished thoughts and unrealized articles, spill them all out here and start fresh moving forward. So, let’s do that then, I suppose, since I just said I would…

I even still have a mock up of the letter head... Lazy ass...
I even still have a mock up of the letter head… Lazy ass…

My first abandoned post from 4/12/11 is simply titled “UFOs”. Most of my draft articles are untitled, sort of making this one special. What also makes this one special is that aside from the title, there is nothing else in the post. There’s usually a link reminding me what I wanted to talk about for when I DO get back to it. In this case, I apparently thought I would have no problem remembering what random UFO topic I was so excited about two Aprils ago. But as often as I write about space and the people that live there wanting to kill us, that seems irresponsible of me. I believe it had something to do with the anniversary of Roswell, and I was going to do a mock up of the newly released documents celebrating said anniversary… I think. Needless to say, it would have been hilarious… Delete.

Next, last edited August 4th 2011: “A Generation Waiting For Dad to Come Home”. I remember this one. I was very angry with you for some reason. Probably not YOU specifically, but the royal “you”. Including me apparently. This rant went a little something like this:

“I don’t mean any of this personally, I’m not here to point out anything that I don’t also know applies as much, if not more so, to myself. I’m part of the generation waiting for dad to come home. I’m the poster boy for a decade or two of men and women who are now in their quarter to mid life and are still drifting, waiting, praying, screaming for someone to tell them what to do, where to go, how to be, when to act and when to just shut the fuck up and go away. We are not the most irresponsible generation. We are the product of the most irresponsible generation. And we’re making the next one. And if that doesn’t scare the shit out of you, I’m not surprised.”

Now, I’m not sure what you did to upset me so much, but I was clearly unhappy about something. The next piece gives me a little more insight on the source of my rage though:

“Maybe it’s where I grew up, maybe it’s where I am now. Maybe I’m just seeing a concentrated sample of something that isn’t nearly as prevalent as I fear it is. I doubt it. I know this doesn’t apply to everyone in this demographic, but it applies to the great many of us that I’ve observed. I look around me and I see a sea of dudes and bros, chicks and babes and people who have never really known want or hardship, yet know a boundless sense of self importance and entitlement. A great many of you are reading this right now on a box of magic that fits comfortably in the palm of your hand. Technology that our very recent ancestors could never have dreamed of. But it’s not enough for us. For some reason, we’ve been handed everything that the greatest thinkers of all of human creation could ever be laughed at for imagining, and it’s not good enough, we somehow feel entitled to more, without having earned even a fraction of what we have already.”

What passes for esteem in the "Generation Waiting For Dad to Come Home"
What passes for esteem in the “Generation Waiting For Dad to Come Home”

This seems to be pretty clearly influenced by my level of hatred for, but not limited to, the hollow, empty, entitled, worthless denizens of Hollywood California USA. One of the reasons I’ve found myself back in Sacramento now is my fear that if I were to remain in Hollywood for much longer I would simply implode in a brilliant flash of purple light, opening a tear in space time which would almost instantaneously swallow the whole of the universe. And while I wouldn’t normally have a problem with that, saying it out loud just makes it sound selfish.

“We are a developmentally stunted narcissistic gaggle of preening assholes.”

I do believe this about the generations adjacent me. I say adjacent, as in my research, I’ve found that I somehow fall in a gap between Gen X and Gen Y, an empty sliver of time that classification seems to have forgot. I guess that’s what makes it easy for me to lob hate grenades as willy nilly as I do, looking in from the outside at all the stupidity while probably deep down inside just wishing I could belong to anything, no matter how stupid…

“And the problem with a vacuum of power and leadership, is how easily those without direction are steered and controlled.”

And here it looks like I was about to get into the political implications of a Generation Waiting For Dad to Come Home. The need for a father figure leading us to blind, lazy destruction at the hands of anyone who will scare us enough to get us to follow them. Oh, what a glorious, indignant, pointless rant on the lazy ineptitude of me and my peers it would have been… I’m glad I didn’t do more, I’m depressed just reading what I have here… Deleted.

And finally, for part 1:

“It takes a special man to wear a mustache, a brave man.”

This piece from September 22, 2011, was apparently going to be some sort of backhanded tribute to the American Mustache Institute’s “Robert Goulet Award”, which celebrates great achievements in mustachery and mustachioed Americans. My guess is that seemed to be too much of a one note joke for me to do an article on, which is probably why just 5 weeks later we embarked on Movember: an entire month dedicated to the celebration of the face shrub… Makes sense.

So, as this has gone longer than I expected, I will have to pick this up again later, continuing to do some spring cleaning here at VFoC as we return to the grind that IS online humorism. Hope you all find your way back here, we’ve got some fun things on the horizon.

I'm Riiiiich Bitch !!

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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.

I heard you won the lottery

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)

1 Vagina, 2 Vagina, 3 Vagina, 4

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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.

Wait !! Two of them ???
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.

Van Full of Candy’s Top 8 List “Looking Back on My Childhood, I Should Have Called CPS”

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#8 … Being forced to mow the lawn in lederhosen, ’cause it’s cute

#7 … Go make grandma a lowball glass of special medicine, shaken please

#6 … The overnight mayonnaise hair conditioning in a hair-cap treatment

#5 … Take this note and this $5 bill to the gas station and go buy auntie some cigarrettes

#4 … You know why your dog just died? Because you stayed out too late, that’s why !!

#3 … Making friends at school is always harder when you’re packed a sardine sandwich for lunch

#2 … That butterfly leotard costume fits you just FINE for the school play

#1 … If you’re not nice to your grandparents their arms will come out of the graves and find you wherever you are

Van Full of Candy's Top 8 List "Looking Back on My Childhood, I Should Have Called CPS"

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#8 … Being forced to mow the lawn in lederhosen, ’cause it’s cute

#7 … Go make grandma a lowball glass of special medicine, shaken please

#6 … The overnight mayonnaise hair conditioning in a hair-cap treatment

#5 … Take this note and this $5 bill to the gas station and go buy auntie some cigarrettes

#4 … You know why your dog just died? Because you stayed out too late, that’s why !!

#3 … Making friends at school is always harder when you’re packed a sardine sandwich for lunch

#2 … That butterfly leotard costume fits you just FINE for the school play

#1 … If you’re not nice to your grandparents their arms will come out of the graves and find you wherever you are

My Name Sucks Ass … And So Does Yours

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All of our names suck, yours, mine, his, hers, your grandmothers for sure. These ridiculous names passed down from generations, these middle names from an uncle who drinks too much, or grandpa who strangely smelled like Werther’s originals but had no teeth. Agatha, Bertrand, Prudence, Oliver, Sherman … Who in the world would ever keep these for sentimental reasons? You do you say? Well what the hell is wrong with you? You can change your name and you can do it NOW!!

Not only am I a number ... I'm Spanish !!

I wanted to actually write this story about the two professional athletes who have recently changed their names, Ochocinco and Metta World Peace. Even though Ron Artest just recently decided that Ron wasn’t cutting it anymore and went with Metta World Peace, yep, Metta. But these pros get too much attention and money anyway. So, during my extensive research, I stumbled across the most Trans-Am name change you’ll ever find, and he isn’t a superstar, well he is now … in my eyes.

This is what happens when you name your son Ron ... happy mom?

Enter … “Captain Awesome” !! That’s right John, Mary, Jim, Lisa and all the rest of you boringly named unloved people, Captain Awesome is here and he’s kicking ass. Douglas Allen Smith, Jr. from Oregon decided enough was enough, and rightfully so, with one of the most boring names ever, and then insulted with the Jr. at the end, he went out and slapped family history straight in the face, dawned his cape and apparently learned to fly. Did I mention his new signature is “two arrows pointing to a smiley face in the middle”? Dude is awesome and I’m a mere mortal with a name that means nothing. My hat is off to you Doug, err, I mean … Captain … Captain Awesome.

Best signature EVER !!

Free iPhone 4 … All You Have To Do Is Wash Your Hands !!

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If only ...

I know that we have an affinity for our technical devices these days. Not just an affinity, but for most of us, they are an attachment of our arms just past our hands and sometimes to our ears. And for those of us who need this certain device within at least 10 feet of our person to feel any sort of calm, then if you’ve ever been 11 feet or more away from  your little black graham cracker for any more than 5 minutes then you’ll understand the violent withdrawal I had this last  weekend when I actually “lost” my phone for about 40 minutes. Let’s get into the story of this horrible hour.

I was at a pool party this past Saturday at the complex in which I live which was wonderfully catered by El Pollo Loco with sodas and bottled water galore. There was a salsa “bar”, an iPod playing music and … a god damn snow-cone machine with count them … 3 different flavors. This was a downright shindig, not to mention the parade of bikinis and high heels. I partook of the food, the drink, the blue ice, and even took a little dip in the pool to cool my overheating body. As I got out of the pool I decided it was time to take a visit to the clubhouse restroom to relieve the litres of H2O flowing through my bladder. I went to the area where my towel was lying on the grass with my keys, wallet and pacemaker iPhone. I threw on my shirt, slipped into my flip-flops and grabbed my gorgeous, sexy, black little shiny friend and headed to the John.

As I entered the muggy men’s room, I realized I was alone and needed somewhere to place my phone since my swim trunks were soaking wet and would never set it on a urinal. The sink area was wet and the only place that was dry was the soap dispenser mounted on the mirror. I placed my precious on top of the soap dispenser and took care of business. As I started washing my hands, the door opened and a couple of guys entered, we exchanged “how’s it going’s” and went about our summer pool party ways.

My free gift to you if you aren't a filthy man

After the chicken disappeared and the snow cones were nothing more than a pool of bluish fruit punch puddle on the ground, it was time to exit gracefully sans sunburn. I made it back to my humble abode, showered and got ready for the rest of my crazy Saturday. I sat on the couch, turned on the box looking for some sort of sporting event so I could reflect on my own laziness. The dozens of minutes passed when my muscle memory reached for my phone and it wasn’t where it usually lies waiting for my touch. Hmmmm, it must be on the charger in the kitchen. But it wasn’t. Well that’s strange. It must be in the bedroom since I had to change out of my wet bathing suit earlier. But it wasn’t. What the FUCK?? Where could it be? I need my GODDAMN phone and I need it now !!! For what? I don’t know, it’s like my blankie. It wasn’t anywhere, something was wrong, I must have left it at the pool party. FUCK !!! It’s lost, it’s gone forever !! Back to the crime scene.

I ran back to the pool area and asked all the caterers if they had found an iPhone or if some honest person turned it in after finding it. But no, there was no phone turned in. F !! It’s gone forever !! But wait … it hit me … the bathroom … I left it on the soap dispenser in the bathroom. There’s no way it’s still there. A free iPhone just left out for anyone to slip in their pocket and disappear forever, I knew it was gone. I trotted to the bathroom as quickly yet not desperately as I possibly could. I entered the clubhouse, walked swiftly with a forced smile on my face as I passed other people enjoying the cookies and conversastion.

The door swung open as my eyes went straight to the sink area, particularly the soap dispenser. HOLY JESUS CHRIST IT WAS STILL THERE !! How could that be? It was like a pot of honey laid before a bear and the bear decided … “no, I’m gonna pass”. But what I realized, is that the safest place to place anything of value is in a men’s restroom on top of the soap dispenser, because, well, men just don’t wash their hands after they touch themselves during the peepee session. So men, here’s an honest thank you from the bottom of my smartphone addictive heart. Thank you for not washing your hands !!