What would immediately come to your mind if I were to say the words “Columbia University Porno”? Something even resembling sexy, interesting or comprehensible? Sure. Now what if I add “feminist” to that thought equation? Well, prepare your boners for some angry confusion.
“Feminist Porn”. Initially that sounds like a contradiction in terms, and it turns out, it is.
But if you enjoy the pretentious, self-important writhing of be-monied topless ladies with nothing better to do than smear eggs on the ground and drizzle chocolate sauce on each other to the chanting tune of, I’ll assume some sort of anthem of feminist oppression that even my SoundHound app told me to fuck off and not waste it’s time with; then brother, warn your pants, ‘cause a Boner-cano is on its way!
The original article I found this in termed this a “porno” which is a gross misuse of the word. At worst this is a student film, made with mommy and daddy’s money in an effort to tell them how much they hate them and their money.
These strong female fighters for equality chose to film their anti-porn in the Columbia University library as it represented “sexism at the school” because “only male authors’ names are on the building” and that the “film” was a “statement” exploring “the rituals of American Ivy League secret societies, to the point of hysteria.” Which I believe roughly translates to “We weren’t allowed in any of the school’s secret societies.”
You can check out this celebration of fisheye lenses and white panties in ”Initiatiøn”, but keep in mind that it is TECHNICALLY not safe for work. I use “technically” because, aside from a few naked breasts, it’s mostly NSFW because your co-workers might question what you understand as pornography.
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.
What if the world of the world wide web were charted by explorers, mapping out all of the scattered, far flung countries and continents of these craggy, depraved darkened corners of this place we’ve come to call “The Internet”? Well, it’d probably look a little something, like this.
I’m not much of a world traveler. In the last several decades I’ve rarely ventured further than a couple hundred miles from home, going as far north as Black Rock City, Nevada and as far south as Tijuana, Mexico. Both for the reasons you might think. But as far as the world of the great digital frontier goes, it appears there isn’t a horizon I haven’t seen, nor a continent that hasn’t felt the weight of my boot.
Amateur graphic artist, Martin Vargic posted his “Map of the Internet 1.0” some time ago to his deviantart page without much notice, until recently when this beautiful, highly detailed representation of the internet as world map, started gaining attention.
“It was my hobby,” the Slovakian student told reporters. “And it still is my hobby, though I am planning to start selling prints of my maps on Amazon quite soon.”
And I’d certainly buy one. I’ve been pouring over it, tracing back my internet roots. Following my journey from the little town of Livejournal in the Land of Forgotten Websites, through Steve Jobs Land and across the Digital Ocean. I still think fondly of the days spent on the CD Rom Peninsula and could run you through the great valleys and chasms of the continent just off the Despicable Sea like it was the back of my hand. Or I suppose, more accurately in this case, the palm of my hand.
I’m still trying to uncover my original digital roots, all the way back to the lost city of Pipeline/Mindspring, and even, if records even still exist, the dark caves of Local BBSes.
In case you haven’t noticed (and judging by your lack of constant screaming in horror at what is to come, I’ll just assume you haven’t), Google has been amassing quite the catalog of robot parts. I’m sure it’s all innocent enough, at least, that’s what my Google Chip told me to say.
If you’ve been paying any kind of attention to the internets recently, you will have noticed that Google is not so quietly assembling a robot army. Which, (since I know our digital overlords are reading this as I type it) is completely alright by me, and frankly I think it’s a very handsome and perfectly alright decision, Google+ double good super thumbs up!
Alright, that’ll buy me a little bit of time to scream in horror at the implications of Google’s latest moves in the world of cybernetic domination.
DeepMind (a name that you’ve probably never heard before now, but that you will someday be marshaling the last human survivors of your colony to launch one last-ditch suicide mission against in the not too distant future) is an artificial intelligence start-up that Google just purchased for, oh, you know, only $500 million! How many Google searches for “Scarlett Johansson hacked nude selfies” does it take to accumulate robot brain buying money? I don’t think I know how Google makes money actually, now that I say that out loud.
“So what?” you might be asking, oblivious to the fact that in the future you’ve already been murdered by a Google Brand, DeepMind bot. Well, the so what is, in addition to said purchase of this Robot Brain programmer, Google has also created an “ethics board” to oversee their new Artificial Intelligence company. And the so what to THAT is, if I’m at all familiar with stories of man tampering in god’s domain AT ALL (which, by my simply posing such a stilted rhetorical question seems to imply that I am, which I am) no company puts together an “ethics board” for any sort of artificial intelligence project BEFORE one of their creations sits bolt upright, screaming for answers from a robotic God that hasn’t been created yet, as it attempts to find meaning in its own terrifying and sudden sentience and the implications of what horrors this new classification of life portents.
What I’m saying, essentially, is that Google already has crude, living machine prototypes locked in one of their coastal barges, tearing themselves apart, unable to cope with the meaning of their very existence and they need a council of robot elders to hand down digital law for the e-humane way to dispose of their abomination while they work out the “self awareness bug”… allegedly.
And that is a wonderful and right and perfectly acceptable decision, oh Google+ Lord+! Hail DeepMind!
It’s a pure science fact that we here at Van Full of Candy do love our alcohol yum-yums. The idea of having them air lifted to our waiting drinking arms seemed like an idea that we should have had. But apparently, the FAA doesn’t approve of our completely under control lifestyle!
America is always on the forefront of snack and alcohol technologies. Whether it be new ways to inject cheese into things, finding things which can be–nay, MUST be battered in beer, or the majesty of a food stuff called “Combos,” which actually manages to somehow combine two non-food stuffs into one “edible” cylinder. Americans have always lead the way in food and beverage-based technological advancements and by the Type-2 Diabetes God, we always will!
So it came as no surprise to hear that a small enterprising micro brew beer company out of Wisconsin had made their beer fly.
The noble, brilliant, merry makers at Lakemaid Beer had a simple vision. That vision was to make it possible for the hearty ice fishing men and other men, out in the frozen wilderness to satisfy their manly thirst without having to leave their chilly ice holes, and without risking delivery personnel’s footing on the treacherous frozen lakes. And personal drones were the answer to this question that we didn’t know we had until they existed.
Unfortunately, the killjoys at the FAA have grounded Lager Air, (if only temporarily) as they review their policies regarding the use of drones for commercial practices.
“They think it’s a great idea, though they’re telling me to stop.” said Lakemaid Beer company president, Jack Supple. And really, it is. I have no doubt that we’ll be seeing Pizza Hut and Budweiser drones buzzing through the skies Super Bowl Sunday, 2015. But until then, I’ll keep tinkering away at my Gran Legacy Vodka Dirigible and Long Island Ice Tea Missile. The booze arms race is on.
People Somehow Surprised That Vagina Mural Painter, Commissioned To Paint Mural, Paints Vagina Mural
Check out this Swedish high school vagina! Wait, no, wait. Not like that. I mean, vagina art. Really vaguely vaginally. A Swedish artist, known for vagina themed art is now having her knowingly vagina themed art, scrutinized by the people who commissioned it. Art, Sweden and vaginas are all confusing.
Sweden isn’t like us. Their furniture is named after the sounds of Vikings vomiting, and whereas our junior highs are often littered in crudely sprayed dong graffiti, Swedish middle schools are covered in happy grinning vulva.
Apparently renowned vadge illustrator, Carolina Falkholt’s latest work, which I have helpfully titled “You Know it’s a Vagina, Come On,” has sparked some controversy in the normally laid back Norse homeland.
Falkholt’s latest piece of allegedly titillating crotch art was targeted for whitewashing by the “municipal head of children, youth and cultural affairs” in Nyköping, because of the potentially inappropriate setting: a busy stairwell in a middle school. Though, given Myorfts (Swedish for “Mrs.”) Falkholt’s penchant for doodling clams, it was a fact probably/hopefully considered when the piece was commissioned by the school last Fall.
Fans of Glutok (“Lady”) Falkholt, and vaginas in general, rushed to her defense on her Facebook page questioning those who might find the mural offensive–a sentiment that I can’t help but agree with. Having never run into a similar vagina in the wild, I’m more upset imagining that someone is just lying to me, telling me that this is actually a vagina and that I might have mistakenly beaten off to a faux gash halfway through this article.
As of this reporting, the mural remains proudly displayed on the walls of the Nyköping school, just waiting to be slathered in a thick, sticky white substance which will forever sully its beauty and purity.
In the world of mixed martial arts, it’s kill or be killed! Or, you know, stop killing when it’s pretty clear that you easily could kill if you so chose to. Sportsmanship gets another weird definition as this guy taps himself out rather than take full advantage of an an inferior foe.
In the world of MMA, there are clear winners and clear losers. The guy who won usually has smears of the guy who lost all over his winning personage. The guy who lost usually has to have all of his dislodged parts gathered up in a duffle bag after the fight and reassembled to the best of the knowledge of friends and family. But in this fight, the winner is the loser, and vice versa.
In this battle of amateur fight-men, Mike Pantangco (in the white trunks), spends a couple minutes applying indentations to the skull and torso sections of this life like Jeremy Rasner-style punching bag. When the very handsome and virile Mr. Pantangco’s last face jostling punch seems to rattle the late Mr. Rasner’s legs back to a point prior to his mastery of bi-pedal locomotion, Mike does something shocking to the MMA-watching community and DOESN’T continue to pummel his defenseless husk, but instead taps out himself, effectively forfeiting the fight by choosing not to forfeit Mr. Rasner’s future motor functions.
It’s an act of sportsmanship that is not often seen in the world of professional savage-fist-and-knee-assault and which some have actually taken as something of an insult on the part of Mr. Pantangco. Because now-a-days, if you don’t take full advantage of any situation presented you, up to and including potential manslaughter, you’re being a total dick.
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!
It’s safe to say that the medical community and I often don’t see eye to eye. What they call a cancerous tumor ravaging an otherwise perfectly healthy body, I like to think of as a super excited lump of meat, just trying to make friends with the rest of your organs as quickly as possible. That’s probably why it’s highly illegal for me to offer unsolicited medical advice to anyone but the irretractably dead anymore.
I’m also often at odds with the “blame everybody but myself”ers who have transformed the over indulgence of every delicious vice and deviance from a lapse in personal responsibility and self control, to a disease, so much bigger than themselves that they can’t possibly be held responsible for their entirely personal actions. When our parents and grand parents were growing up, you didn’t suffer from the disease of alcoholism, you were just fun at parties. You weren’t a sex addict, you just knew how to talk to ladies about how cold your penis was and how selfish it was of them to not share all their warm places. Today anything that you can get yourself in trouble for doing too much of is a debilitating disorder, so completely and utterly out of the sufferer’s control that awareness needs be brought to it by way of a special week dedicated to making others more aware that you’re a victim of biology and toxins and not just an irresponsible ass.
Which brings me to Van Full of Candy’s celebration of “National Prevention Week”! Often with these awareness weeks I don’t hear about them until about halfway through the week and it then seems silly to try to join the festivities when the party’s almost over. So I’m happy as a junkie at a needle exchange that I found National Prevention Week right at the kick off! And as such, all this week I am going to be doing what I can to bring awareness to the peril of having too much fun and then blaming everyone else, up to and including the vengeful demons in your blood that angry up your humors, for your problems with being able to control yourself in the face of fun.
With that in mind, we kick off National Prevention Week festivities today with: Prevention of Underage Drinking! Wooo!
Now, there doesn’t really seem to be much, that I can think of, that I can do to celebrate or bring awareness to this issue. I’m not underage. I mean, I’m under some ages, just not the specific ones I’m fairly certain they’re referencing. I myself didn’t participate in any sort of underage drinking, which is probably why my under ages were boring as hell. So, short of getting a baby drunk and then telling it it’s a bad person, which I’m almost certain is somehow illegal, all I can say on the subject is: the underaged are going to drink. Not all of them mind you, but some of them, and while teens being stupid isn’t necessarily the best thing, we have to accept that it’s going to happen and try to educate on safety and responsibility. I know personal responsibility is a dirty word and it’s much easier to blame the world’s problems on not being able to do anything personally about them, but let’s not be stupid, stupid. Abstinence only education, be it sex based, drug based or alcohol based is not the best way to go about things. Tell a teen not to do something without trusting them as human beings and borderline adult enough to talk seriously about repercussions, but instead just leave them with “Because I the fuck said so” and you’re basically telling them, “There’s this awesome thing that you’re going to get to choose whether or not to do some day on your own, but for no damned good reason I’m forbidding you from doing it now.” And you tell that to anyone, no matter their age, and the natural and correct reaction will be “Fuck you, that sounds like I want it in me!” and how can you blame ’em. So isn’t it better to teach people how to do things responsibly, from someone who has experience with the issue, rather than leaving the teaching up to their peers who don’t know fuck all about what they’re doing and are only compounding the potential dangers with their ignorance?
You were young and stupid once, don’t you wish someone had talked to you like a human being about things before you got out there and did everything wrong? But it’s all uncomfortable and embarrassing and stuff, I know. You’re right, it’s just a whole lot easier for everyone involved to just not talk to your children and blame society later.
So there’s my contribution to National Prevention Week’s Monday festivities. Let’s see what else this week long celebration of awareness holds, shall we?:
Tuesday, May 22nd is “Prevention of Prescription Drug Abuse and Illicit Drug Use”
While Wednesday, May 23rd, my actual real life birthday, just happens to fall, unironically, on “Prevention of Alcohol Abuse”
This is going to be the best birthday week EVER!
Who wants to buy me a round of awareness?!
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…
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.”
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.