Anybody who knows us, knows that we at Van Full of Candy like to party. They’re usually tipped off to this fact by us screaming “WE LIKE TO PARTY!” in their face moments before we collapse and begin to evacuate our bladders into our slacks.
Over the years fans of distilled spirits have seen their perception as lovable boozy goofs who’s only problem is not having enough lamp shades in their study, replaced by that of vomitous cretin vehicularly manslaughtering anyone who gets in the way of their dangerous, irresponsible drinking spree. And now the dry mainstream media is at it again, trying to shame Drunken-Americans into believing that they’re lifestyle is wrong.
I stumbled upon an article titled “6 Sneaky Signs You Drink Too Much” which is at best (something) and at worst a disgusting insult to my very personal identity to even begin to tell me that there might only be six. So I feel it is my duty– NAY, HONOUR (with the extra “u” being for EXTRA honor), to meet these slanderous characterizations and defamatory defaming with a six pack of rebuttal, a bottle of truth and a row of shots… of alcohol… talk.
First, the article categorizes 38 million adults as habitual “binge drinkers”, who enthusiastically embibe “an average of four times a month” and define bingeing as having “four or more drinks in a short period of time” for women and five or more for men. Well that’s fine, because I generally only have one, maybe two “daddy beverages” in a sitting from my 32 ounce Harrison Ford, “Cowboys & Aliens” 7-11 collectible Slurpee cup, so clearly there’s no problem here. But onto the “signs”.
#1: You become a daredevil.
Well sure, it’s called “liquid courage” for a reason. And while you may site that the “National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism” (like that’s even a real thing) says that alcohol factors into 60 percent of all fatal burn injuries and drownings, 40 percent of fatal falls and car accidents and 50 percent of all sexual assaults, I say that it’s responsible for 95 percent of all flaming cliff diving vehicular orgies, and the stories of which that will last a lifetime for all those who survive them.
#2: You’re a weekend warrior.
Here I will agree with the booze haters: no one likes a weekend warrior. You can’t just sit behind your desk 5 days a week and then come out and try to party like the big boys when you and the girls head out Friday night to chat about what a bitch Gary in HR is. It’s insulting to those of who practice the fine art of imbibing every day to hone our livers into the iron clad filtration machines that they are. You don’t just pull a helmet out of the closet and run onto the field Sunday morning and expect to hang with the pros. I can crush a bowling ball with the strength of my drinking elbow. It’s like a god damn crocodile’s jaw, all of the power is in it’s closing!
#3: Drinking just “creeps up on you.”
“One of the clues that you may be a binge drinker is not knowing your limits…”
No, that’s one of the clues that you may be an ass. I’m starting to see what’s happening here, you’re blaming this miracle sauce which grants +7 charisma and +2 fire resistance, for the stupidity of it’s users. You can’t just give any moron super powers and then be surprised when they don’t understand the great responsibility that goes along with them. I guess what I’m saying is I support drinking licenses. I’m not sure what the test to obtain one would be yet, but I imagine it would be awesome.
#4: Your memory has temporarily gone missing.
I’m sorry, are you referring to “Tequila Time Travel”: The phenomena of time jumping inside your own body from the end of one drink to an indeterminate time in the future, where you will then be told of your exploits during that period that your consciousness leapt over like you’re some kind of god damned folk hero? I’m accidentally obliterating all known laws of science and religion and somehow I’M the asshole?
#5: You let some responsibilities slide.
Listen, you can’t have it both ways. You can’t tell me not to drive the school bus with my navigator Jim Beam, and then yell at me for not being irresponsible. It seems like I am making the more responsible choice of not careening through the streets, yelling back at the children in my care that if they don’t stop screaming that I’m going to murder their families with the remains of their most beloved pet, by waiting just a tic or two ’till my buzz dies down. So you get to school a little late, I’m a hero that you get there at all.
And #6: People close to you seem concerned.
“If your family, friends, or co-workers have hinted that they’re worried about you…”
They are terrible drinking buddies.
You’re at a party, you don’t know anybody except Jim, Jose and Bud. You’re fine with that, but some folks like to “strike up conversations” and “talk to other human beings”. Some others still have tricks that make you start talking to them. These devious cunts make uncomfortable, awkward conversation SEEM like YOUR IDEA! Not cool bro… Not cool…
Enjoy Van Full of Candy’s first video offering of the new year, “Conversation Starter”, and share it with someone you don’t really want to talk to.
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?
A pathologist says Amy Winehouse consumed a “very large quantity of alcohol” prior to her death.
What? Wait, what? No, wait… WHAT?! NO!? WHAT?! Wait, WHAT!?! NO!?
Suhail Baithun has told an inquest into the singer’s’ death that blood and urine samples showed she was 4.5 times over the legal drunk-driving limit.
Are you– But how could– You’re not saying– That isn’t– I was told– WHAT? Wait, WHAT? No!? That can’t possibly– NO!?
In quite possibly THE single most shocking news story that I have ever heard in my eight thousand years of immortality, a professional in the medical field, with what one would assume is some level of training and expertise has apparently found that the reformed Lady Winehouse had “resumed drinking in the days before her death after a period of abstinence.”
BUT THAT’S IMPOSSIBLE!
I was told by “family sources”, whom I trusted implicitly, that our fragile flower was killed by sobriety when she went against doctor’s orders to gradually decrease her alcohol intake from “like air” to “like water” and eventually to “like a normal responsible human being” but instead went cold wild turkey. Her family full of apparent booze scientists were convinced that her lack of spirits was to blame for her “unexpected” demise.
“Family sources”! Who would know better about what killed their family member than a her neglectful, useless family?! I considered the case closed. Clearly she had died due to lack of personality potion. I know the feeling, my liver threatens to shoot my spleen and pistol whips my gal bladder every time I go more than three hours without a flower pot full of vodka.
Then came PROOF INDISPUTABLE that tragelebrity and leathery garbage bag full of fermented juice drinks, Dame Winehouse had been sobered to death! That proof of course came in the form of a complete and utter lack of illegal substances found in what was laughably referred to as her “body”. The initial toxicology results showed absolutely nothing, nada, zilch, ZERO illegal substances in her body, what more proof do you need that she was brutally murdered in a street fight with not drinking?!
SURE, alcohol was “present” in her system, but we detailed exactly how the alcohol found in her system was the work of her own internal organs, so starved for conversation started drops that it began internally brewing and bottling its own Amy Lagger. We were assured by further “family sources” that she simply could not have been killed by alcohol since she hadn’t touched the stuff despite reportedly being seen on a non-stop three day personal liquor reunion tour immediately before her death! Those stories were clearly lies told by liars who lie!
But this is apparently it. The end of life’s last great mysteries. Evidence that the only thing that I have ever in this long, lonely life, believed to be indisputably true, was in fact– Wait! I see it now! Oh my god I’m suck a fool! The apparent confusion and contradiction. The lies and cover ups. The deception! It’s as plain as the drink in your face! Amy Winehouse didn’t die from an over abundance OR utter lack of alcohol. AMY WINEHOUSE ISN’T DEAD AT ALL! I’ve seen this played out so many times, I’ve PLAYED this out so many times, I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. Over eight thousand years on this planet, you live many lives, pass in and out of the lives of so many fragile mortals. That’s it, don’t you see!?
Amy Winehouse is a Highlander!
Usually people like Amy and I are able to shed our past lives quietly, simply, typically leaving only a few loved ones behind when we can no longer live the lie that would eventually put them through so much pain. But in some cases, our “escape” is so much more public and baffling. This is exactly how it happened when I was Elvis.
Oh Amy, sweet Amy. I understand now, I get it. The sadness, the self destructive tendencies. But alcohol will not kill us Amy. Only we can do that. I will meet you some day in battle, Amelia of the House of Wine, and my blade will grant you the freedom you so desperately seek.
There can be only one.
I’m very committed to Van Full of Candy. I’ve been on vacation. I went to Burning Man last week and left a couple articles in my stead to keep my presence up. I am exceptionally drunk on my 4th Long Island Ice Tea of the evening. But here I am, drunk blogging at nearly midnight because of my commitment to the Candy filled Van. So really, what I’m saying is that I’m a hero.
I don’t use the term hero loosely. I reserve the word for exceptional circumstances like running into a burning building to save a pile of orphan puppies, or blogging on a full stomach of alcohol. These feats are equal in my blurry, blurry eyes.
I’m a saint. Statues should be built in my honor. Seriously. I’m kinda awesome.
My vacation will be over next week. I will resume my regular broadcast day Monday, but in the mean time, I am drinking for you, and me, and me some more, because that is what you expect from we at Van Full of Candy…
See you Monday. If I don’t die of alcohol poisoning. Which of course I won’t… For you, the loyal reader.
I love you guys. I can totally drive home guys, I live like 5 blocks from here. I’m totally fine, seriously…
*pass out* *fall down* *vomit* *roll me over so I don’t die*
I don’t want to say I told you so. I mean, I’ve told you time and time again about how I hate to be the one to tell you that I told you. If there’s one thing that anyone who knows me can tell you that I’ve told them is that the thing that I enjoy least in the world is telling them that I don’t want to tell them that I told them I wouldn’t tell them…
But I fuckin’ told you so.
Amy Winehouse: murdered by sobriety! Case closed! How is it case closed? How do we now know beyond a shadow of a doubt that Amy was killed in cold blood by the absence of alcohol? Because the family “says toxicology tests show there were no illegal drugs in her system when she died”.
Air tight, non-smoking gun of smoke filled guns. No illegal drugs in her system = assassination by lack of alcohol. One plus one still equals two, does it not? … Does it not? It’s been a long time since I’ve had a math class, things may very well mean different things than how I remember them.
Absolute definitive proof that a lack of alcohol killed our Ms. Winehouse… Especially when you consider that according to the tests “alcohol was present” in her system. FURTHER PROVING that quitting alcohol “cold turkey” killed her!
“Abstinence gave her body such a fright they thought it was eventually the cause of her death,” a family source told The Sun, one of Brittain’s always trustful newsesque Tabloid publications.
See, her family still believes that Amy dropping the sauce “completely for three weeks” was such a “shock for her tiny body” that it simply could not cope with “such a dramatic withdrawal”. And they are clearly pointing to the absolute lack of illegal drugs in her system as proof positive that she was killed by not drinking alcohol… So, the fact that alcohol was found in her system can mean only one thing, and is the final piece to the puzzle of the death of Amy Winehouse. TO THE VFoC SCIENCE LAB OF IMPOSSIBLE OCOURANCES!
Amy Winehouse, singer of songs, drinker of things; seeing that her life was in grave danger at the mouth of a bottle, decided to muster the power of her famed self control and restraint, and kick booze right between the o’s. So, the first several weeks was spent disposing of all of the alcohol that heretofore had been her only source of nourishment. This process went on for some time, unfortunately spilling into her professional life, as evidenced by video of her stumbling and incoherent during her aborted European tour approximately a month before her death, which was clearly brought on by the exhaustion of humanely disposing of so very much alcohol back into the wild.
Then, as the weeks of clean living piled up, her treacherous body, unwilling to live as her will demanded, began to turn against her. Seeing clearly that alcohol would not be provided externally any longer, as Amy’s unwavering determination refused to waver in the face of waverable circumstances, her organs knew that they had to begin producing their own fermented good times. And so her liver, in conjunction with her pancreas, kidneys, large intestine, spleen and the master mind of it all, her appendix began the process of transforming her internal fluids into alcohol.
Being in perfect tune with all of her various inner workings, Amy was immediately aware of the nefarious plot of her internal moving parts. Knowing that the mutinous squishy parts of her could not be reasoned with, and determined to never again be turned to the drunk side, Amy understood what she had to do. Focusing her essence, channeling her universal flow and harnessing the forces of being as only one who has achieved a 407th level consciousness as Amy had, can, choosing to simply halt her corporeal functions before being corrupted again by her easily corruptible flesh.
So weep not for Amy, she was ultimately a hero, saving the world from drunken organs that would certainly have eventually over run her body and taken over the world, their unquenchable thirst driving it ever forward until it enveloped this world and eventually, swallowed whole all of reality.
Thank you Amy, thank you for your service to sentient beings everywhere.
And I fuckin’ told you so.
What is the only thing more dangerous than washing down a quart of vodka with a gallon of gin? NOT doing that exact thing.
Amy Winehouse, VOICE of a TENTH of a generation and general pile of human mess, did not die as a result of the excesses of a lifestyle that made her biggest hit so ironic and adorable. She was MURDERED by SOBRIETY! CAPITAL LETTERS EXCLAMATION POINT!
According to “family sources” the shock to her body of not being pickled in delicious alcoholic beverages was just too much for it to bear, and after sucking every possible drop of life giving booze from every tissue in what was left of her musculature, her addled frame simply seized, unable to handle being separated from the only form of liquid inside it and tragically took the life of our precious, precious flower. To try to give you an example of what to compare this to, just imagine a car without oil, a Hybrid without hippie urine, or a Sheen not filled with Tigers,
You see, the family is saying that despite reports of Amy indulging in a 72 hour drink-a-thon prior to her “surprising” death, that the real reason for her demise is that she’s a stupid fuck. Their words, not mine. See she was supposedly instructed to gradually decrease her alcohol intake from “Norse Myth” levels to “Roman Orgy” levels and so on down the drunken scale, to carefully reduce the levels of fun in her body. And the woman that said “No, no, no.” to previous offers of assistance (according to FAMILY MEMBERS) told medical professionals that it’s all of nothing. She either never stops drinking or she never stops never drinking. And her family’s well reasoned hypothesis is that the sudden halt of personality swallows was too much of a shock to a self ravaged system.
And really, their “logic” is hard to argue. Alcohol is, after all, one of the essential building blocks of life. The human celebrity is composed of 62% alcohol, with the remaining 38% comprised of mainly amphetamines, opiates, cannabis and an over inflated sense of self worth and misguided feeling of invincibility. Exact amounts vary on a case by case basis. So asking a celebriwreck to abstain from alcoholic consumption, is tantamount to telling the Earth to go fuck it’s oceans. And then where would this fine planet of ours be? A shriveled, brown, husk of it’s former glory. Just like Amy Winehouse.
Now again, just to be perfectly clear, that’s not ME saying that; that’s “family sources”. I would never say such things, because I’m mostly not a lunatic. But I’m also not an alcohol doctor, so I don’t know, it may be entirely possible that suddenly stopping killing yourself could kill yourself. I’m not qualified to say one way or the other. The same way I’m not qualified to say that Amy Winehouse was a liquor fueled zombie who cruelly had her life source yanked away from her by “professionals” and “people who cared for her well being”, causing her to dry up like a neglected tin man, before falling over, shattering into a cloud of crusty, dehydrated slivers and being blown away on the breeze like a Spider-Man villain. That’s not for me to say, that’s for HER OWN FAMILY (according to a “source”) to say, which they have, in not so many words…
So what have we learned then from this brave, flimsy song drinker? Hmm? Well, we’ve learned that if you have flushed your system of all vital fluids and replaced them with 300 proof drinky fun times, apparently it’s better to quit gradually, allowing your body the opportunity to replenish your juices as the fermented happy liquids fighting the endless struggle of keeping you upright while simultaneously trying to knock you down, are being drained.
Secondly, if you have a family who in interview after interview kept telling who ever would ask them “It’s not a matter of if she’s going to die young and tragically, but when. If only there were something that I could do, because I apparently care ever so much, but alas, there isn’t.” and you expect them to have any sort of rational reaction to the “sudden” and “unexpected” news of their relative passing, then you’re going to wind up with them blaming not being shot with bullets as the most likely cause of sudden acute deadness.
And third, and I think most importantly: as long as you keep drinking, you will never die. So pour me another glass of immortality juice and let’s party like if we ever stop it’ll kill us!
People do stupid things. To be more accurate, college aged kids do stupid things. To be even more accurate, drunken, college aged kids do stupid things. I wouldn’t know, I was torn from the thigh of Zeus, fully formed, wizened beyond reason and sent here to entertain the masses with my razor sharp wit and imaginative usages of the word “cunt”. But today, two stories involving predominantly drunken, college age participants caught my eye.
A poll published in the online edition of the journal Psychology of Addictive Behaviors showed that “Drinky, yay!”
This survey of “nearly 500 college students” revealed to the shock of absolutely no one, that the “positive” effects of binge drinking out weighed the “negative” effects, in their drunken eyes. Asking college students if they think partying like lunatics and fucking their brains out is worth potentially having a headache in the morning and maybe missing class and expecting them to not respond with “Woo!” is like asking anyone being punched in the face if they have ever enjoyed anything less in their entire lives and expecting them to reply with “Well, I was miserable until this face punching started.”
I personally never had a problem with binge drinking, I simply had a short period in my life where I would drink large quantities of alcohol and throw up on things. But between point A and point Blurgh, I had an excellent time, and that’s what alcohol is.
One of the authors of the report, University of Washington Professor of Psychology Kevin King said, between what had to have been a couple drinks:
“There is some kind of bias that’s happening when people experience these things. You could compare it to touching a hot stove. What we are seeing is that only when people get really burnt by their drinking are they deterred.”
And while that statement is, on one hand insane, on the other there is an element of truth to it. It’s absolutely true that drinking in excess does carry with it many potential negative effects when combined with other activities, such as improperly operating a motor vehicle or a penis. My problem with this analogy is the comparison between drinking and touching a hot stove. Drinking alcohol has many enjoyable effects along with several less desirable potential outcomes. Touching a hot stove carries with it little to no positive outcomes. If touching a hot stove responsibly and in moderation made me and those around me more entertaining and attractive, while touching it irresponsibly burned the flesh from my bones, this would be a fair comparison, but as it stands, only the latter of those two outcomes is true.
College is a place where teens go with little to no adult supervision and scant responsibility to live in close quarters with other hormonally charged young adults enjoying their new found freedoms, many of them for the first time in their lives. They are going to put things in their bodies and then put their bodies in other bodies until they’ve had their fill of that and are ready to move on to what ever’s next. Telling them that their fun might murder them will make them think twice at the first drink and giggle like a freshman who was just told she was the prettiest girl in the world by the Basketball team’s third string center after keg three.
Meanwhile, in Pamplona Spain, drunks are running in front of bulls when they absolutely don’t have to be… again. But good news! Day 1: No gorings!
That was news. That was in the headline, the excitement of no one being gored by animals that don’t belong on paved roads, running after drunken tourists who have spent money to fly half a world away to do something incredibly stupid. Everyone who gets gored and or maimed at the annual “Trampling of the Dipshits” deserves every painful stitch, itchy cast or scornful shake of the head over their casket, that they get.
This event is only made possible by drinking to excess, and when it’s cause to celebrate that no one was murdered by wild animals during your national celebration, perhaps it’s time to rethink how you spend your leisure time. But despite the inherent stupidity of this festival, it continues, seemingly unabated while practically every year someone is mutilated by angry, confused beasts running wildly through these Spanish streets, and occasionally by the bulls as well.
But just as with the drunken activities of college kids wasting their parents’ money at home, the problem with these drunken college kids wasting their parents’ money abroad is not merely consumption of alcohol, but what follows said drinking. Give two people the same amount of alcohol, have them drink it in the same amount of time, set Drunk A loose in an open field filled with pillows and Drunk B loose in an open field filled with pistols and odds are the one thrown into an already stupid situation will probably be more likely to suffer stupid consequences.
What I’m saying is, alcohol doesn’t kill people, dangerous, stupid things combined with alcohol kill people. So I guess the message I’m trying to get across with all of this is this: friends don’t let friends be cunts.
Now take a shot.
Justin Bieber Rushed to Hospital for Violent Peanut Alergy
James Franco Makes Invisible Art/Sells it for Real Money
When he’s not pursuing a multitude of college degrees, acting in soap operas and major stoner themed motion pictures, guest professoring, being a rock star or modeling on the side, you know, to make ends meet, James Franco is hard at work selling sculptures that he hasn’t sculpted and movies that he hasn’t movied.
YUH-HUH: Absolutely fucking true. Not only that, but apparently Johnny Renaissance has helped this pretentious institution well beyond merely contributing the “film” “Red Leaves” (valued at $25) but also a costume from the film, that I should remind you, doesn’t exist (valued at $50) and a sculpture (which exists just as not as the rest of the previously numerated items but is still somehow valued at a non-imaginary $100), but also helping open MONA, the “Museum of Non-Visible Art”. If he wasn’t violently punchable before, now the fact that he’s selling people imagination just makes we want to pummel his squinty face until his head becomes a found object to be used in another imaginary piece of art.