Charlie Sheen

We love My[ _____ ] now, Justin! Love us!

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OMG Ya’ll! O to the MUTHA FUCKIN’ G!!!

Did you hear? Did you hear the news!? Justin Timberlake owns My[_____]! I know! Well when I heard the news, I leapt out of my chair and kissed the nearest homeless person. Then I gave them a dollar to stop screaming at me.

When we at Van Full of Candy set up our web presence, we had largely ignored My[_____]. Almost solely because it lacked an element of Justin Timberlake ownership. But with the wonderful, magical news this morning that Justin Timberlake (as part of a partnership with Specific Media, but mostly just as Justin Timberlake) had purchased My[_____] from News Corp for only $35 million, (a miniscule fraction of the $580 million hat News Corp had paid for “MySpace” just a few short, heady years ago) I knew that we had to get our My[_____] on and get in on the ground floor of what can only be the single greatest thing to happen to the internet since the invention of the W! Here is the timeline of my throwing myself at the feet of Triple Threat McGee and his new Social Media Empire!

9:24 am: Read that Justin Timberlake personally bought My[_____] with his own gorgeous money.

9:25 am: Opened My[_____] account.

9:26 am: Sat, daydreaming about me and JT hangin’ out, being handsome.

9:31 am: Washed hands, began writing this article.

9:35 am: Posted first My[_____] status update.

9:36 am: Started looking for the perfect Hollywood hot spot for our first Champaign brunch with Justin SexyBack.

9:39 am: Took a break from brunch shopping to read my first My[_____] e-mail!

9:40 am: Visited the theme gallery and customized our profile:

9:43 am: Followed our fave Topics in movies, celeb and TV:

9:52 am: Listened to albums, created playlists, and more:

9:56 am: Didn’t connect with their many curators because I didn’t know what that meant and I was scared…

And then, at 10:25 am, after grooving to the JT express as hard and as loud as I could, I made the big step…

10:26 am: My little heart was broken…

10:27 am: … I cried. I cried so hard that I broke my cryer: I fear I may never be able to cry again.

Why Justin, why would you do this to me? I’ve done so much to show you my love, and this is how my affection is returned?

Sure, maybe I’m not Andy Samberg, maybe I can’t invite you onto my show and write you hilarious songs about boning each other’s parents. Maybe all I can do is love you, with all of my candy clogged heart, from afar, in the hopes that some day, SOME DAY, maybe that love will be returned in kind…

In the meantime, join us on the new JustinSpace page. Friend us, because if Justin sees just how cool and popular we are, surely he will be our friends. We couldn’t win Charlie Sheen’s heart, but please, help us make Justin love us!

Introducing … The Audition Guy !! [VIDEO]

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When you work hard and put in your time, good things usually happen to you. Here at Van Full of Candy we have a really dedicated young man who really, really wants to make it big time in the entertaiment world in any way shape or form that they’ll take him. You may remember him from certain auditions like the Charlie Sheen Intern audition or maybe his attempt to become the AFLAC Duck voice. Well his super intense persistence to his craft has landed him his very own “show” here in our van. So without further ado … well … here ya go …

VFoC Video — "Introducing … The Audition Guy!!"

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When you work hard and put in your time, good things usually happen to you. Here at Van Full of Candy we have a really dedicated young man who really, really wants to make it big time in the entertaiment world in any way shape or form that they’ll take him. You may remember him from certain auditions like the Charlie Sheen Intern audition or maybe his attempt to become the AFLAC Duck voice. Well his super intense persistence to his craft has landed him his very own “show” here in our van. So without further ado … well … here ya go …

The “Justify Your Existence” Tours – Britney and Charlie, on the Road.

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The live concert. It’s where you make your connection with the artist, where you, for one brief shining moment, share the same space with your heroes and become a part of one another’s world. Then, afterwards, you drunkenly limp around Lot F all night looking for your car which six hours and nine, $15 beers ago you parked in Lot B, while Ricky Rockstar is back in his bus being blown by the twelve least repulsive of your town’s well worn groupie brigade with a gravity feed coke dispenser gently filling each precious, million dollar nostril. Basically what I’m saying is that tours are fun for everybody.

Some "musician" musicing. Yawn!
Some "musician" musicing. Yawn!

Sure, there are hundreds, you know what, I like you so I’ll give you thousands, of acts on the road right now, as we speak. “Popular”, “successful”, “relevant” performers busting ass night in and night out entertaining people who have come out to be entertained by entertainers who can entertain. But who wants to see that? Because while those suckers are out there relying on their “talent” to “put on a good, worthwhile show, memorable for the quality of the performance and the soul enriching feeling of seeing someone gifted with talents beyond reason sharing them with an appreciative world” there are two others hitting the road soon that are easily the most anticipated upcoming tours of the year. And they’re not letting any of that “having nothing to contribute to anything” keep them from selling tickets and renting expensive equipments and what not.

Britney Spears and Charlie Sheen. They’re coming to your town, they’ll help you party down. They’re an American train wreck.

Now naturally, critics are already trying to convince us, the unwashed masses who prefer their entertainment tragic, that we shouldn’t see these shows. They say that Britney’s show lacks what one might call a “live performance element”. Her moves are half-hearted and dead eyed, her vocals are canned. To that I say, “uh-huh”.

And as for Mr. Sheen, they point out that his record sell out shows are in fact not sold out, or records, or shows. They openly question what his performance will entail, since Charlie hasn’t really made it clear himself what he’ll be doing live in front of thousands of screaming on lookers. I expect he’ll do what he does best. Porn stars.

But it’s clear to me that the people deriding these shows don’t fully understand exactly why we would want to see these two “performers” live in concert in the first damned place. If we wanted to see people singing and dancing with feeling and love for the arts, we would go to some bullshit ballet or opera or what ever other cultural nonsense exhibition is going on at the local community center. If we wanted to see someone tell us something coherent and well thought out, with a “point” or “vague understanding of the string of words desperately escaping their face”, we’d go watch a street corner apocalypse crier. 

The pageantry.
The pageantry.

NASCAR is the most popular spectator sport in the world. And while some people do honestly come out to the tracks week in and week out to witness the majesty of counter-clockwise vroom vrooms, there’s a certain percentage of motor sports fans (that percentage being as near to 100ish as is statistically allowable) who watch these events hoping beyond hope, that they’ll finally get to see their favorite brightly colored star’s vehicle explode while simultaneously, praying they’re not inadvertently murdered by the spectacular showers of debris. But that’s the chance you take when you’re rooting for something horrible to happen during something you supposedly love not specifically for the potential horrible that could occur.

What was I saying?

Oh, yeah, people want to see Charlie Sheen explode in a fiery ball of green flame. Not literally of course, but wouldn’t that be fucking awesome!? You go to work the next day and people are talking about Charlie Sheen’s spectacular immolation, asking you if you saw it and you can just point to the festering wound on your arm and tell them, “See it!? I’ve been infected with a Sheen shard which is slowly dissolving my mind!” then you would fall over and scream in agony as the self replicating nano-Sheen slowly ate away at your being, replacing your very cells with his extra dimensional laser Samurai essence.

You see, people aren’t snapping up tickets to these events to see an unparallelled talent deliver the performance of a lifetime, they’re going in the hopes that something fucking crazy will happen at the one show that they get to be at. And it’s a crap shoot. You’re buying a ticket hoping that you get to be at the show that turns out to be the unscheduled last of the tour, so you want to be to one of the earlier performances. If your town is on the latter half of the itinerary, you might as well not bother. I’m laying 3 1/2 to 2 that neither of these tours ends when scheduled. Lay your money down if you’re tired of it cluttering up your pocket.

And keep your judgements of the over all worth of these shows to yourself, those of us hoping to be splattered with Brit juice don’t give a damn.

The "Justify Your Existence" Tours – Britney and Charlie, on the Road.

Posted on

The live concert. It’s where you make your connection with the artist, where you, for one brief shining moment, share the same space with your heroes and become a part of one another’s world. Then, afterwards, you drunkenly limp around Lot F all night looking for your car which six hours and nine, $15 beers ago you parked in Lot B, while Ricky Rockstar is back in his bus being blown by the twelve least repulsive of your town’s well worn groupie brigade with a gravity feed coke dispenser gently filling each precious, million dollar nostril. Basically what I’m saying is that tours are fun for everybody.

Some "musician" musicing. Yawn!
Some “musician” musicing. Yawn!

Sure, there are hundreds, you know what, I like you so I’ll give you thousands, of acts on the road right now, as we speak. “Popular”, “successful”, “relevant” performers busting ass night in and night out entertaining people who have come out to be entertained by entertainers who can entertain. But who wants to see that? Because while those suckers are out there relying on their “talent” to “put on a good, worthwhile show, memorable for the quality of the performance and the soul enriching feeling of seeing someone gifted with talents beyond reason sharing them with an appreciative world” there are two others hitting the road soon that are easily the most anticipated upcoming tours of the year. And they’re not letting any of that “having nothing to contribute to anything” keep them from selling tickets and renting expensive equipments and what not.

Britney Spears and Charlie Sheen. They’re coming to your town, they’ll help you party down. They’re an American train wreck.

Now naturally, critics are already trying to convince us, the unwashed masses who prefer their entertainment tragic, that we shouldn’t see these shows. They say that Britney’s show lacks what one might call a “live performance element”. Her moves are half-hearted and dead eyed, her vocals are canned. To that I say, “uh-huh”.

And as for Mr. Sheen, they point out that his record sell out shows are in fact not sold out, or records, or shows. They openly question what his performance will entail, since Charlie hasn’t really made it clear himself what he’ll be doing live in front of thousands of screaming on lookers. I expect he’ll do what he does best. Porn stars.

But it’s clear to me that the people deriding these shows don’t fully understand exactly why we would want to see these two “performers” live in concert in the first damned place. If we wanted to see people singing and dancing with feeling and love for the arts, we would go to some bullshit ballet or opera or what ever other cultural nonsense exhibition is going on at the local community center. If we wanted to see someone tell us something coherent and well thought out, with a “point” or “vague understanding of the string of words desperately escaping their face”, we’d go watch a street corner apocalypse crier.

The pageantry.
The pageantry.

NASCAR is the most popular spectator sport in the world. And while some people do honestly come out to the tracks week in and week out to witness the majesty of counter-clockwise vroom vrooms, there’s a certain percentage of motor sports fans (that percentage being as near to 100ish as is statistically allowable) who watch these events hoping beyond hope, that they’ll finally get to see their favorite brightly colored star’s vehicle explode while simultaneously, praying they’re not inadvertently murdered by the spectacular showers of debris. But that’s the chance you take when you’re rooting for something horrible to happen during something you supposedly love not specifically for the potential horrible that could occur.

What was I saying?

Oh, yeah, people want to see Charlie Sheen explode in a fiery ball of green flame. Not literally of course, but wouldn’t that be fucking awesome!? You go to work the next day and people are talking about Charlie Sheen’s spectacular immolation, asking you if you saw it and you can just point to the festering wound on your arm and tell them, “See it!? I’ve been infected with a Sheen shard which is slowly dissolving my mind!” then you would fall over and scream in agony as the self replicating nano-Sheen slowly ate away at your being, replacing your very cells with his extra dimensional laser Samurai essence.

You see, people aren’t snapping up tickets to these events to see an unparallelled talent deliver the performance of a lifetime, they’re going in the hopes that something fucking crazy will happen at the one show that they get to be at. And it’s a crap shoot. You’re buying a ticket hoping that you get to be at the show that turns out to be the unscheduled last of the tour, so you want to be to one of the earlier performances. If your town is on the latter half of the itinerary, you might as well not bother. I’m laying 3 1/2 to 2 that neither of these tours ends when scheduled. Lay your money down if you’re tired of it cluttering up your pocket.

And keep your judgements of the over all worth of these shows to yourself, those of us hoping to be splattered with Brit juice don’t give a damn.

Happy Birthday Twitter, You Bedwetter

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We didn’t get you a present

Hey everyone, want to hear something that nobody cares about? Twitter just turned 5 years old. Big F’ing deal, so did my dog and he still scrapes his ass on the floor. Five! You can’t even really color within the lines yet Twitter, or eat without spillin’ shit all over your shirt, or even wipe your ass by yourself yet. Whoopeee!! Twitter is 5!! Let’s all have a big social media party with a creepy ass clown so Twitter will run to mommy and cry.

Five! You go around acting all badass making other people feel important when they have a shitload of followers, big whippity doo! YOU’RE ONLY 5! You don’t even know what all that means yet. This is kind of like your really poorly done refrigerator art, and your parents are telling you how amazing it is patting you on your sweaty little Twitter head and magnet’ing it where everybody HAS to look at it! Five! You still wear Pull-Ups to bed and have a nightlight, but we’re all supposed to bow down to your uberness, your power, your Charlie Sheen record setting whatever that media handjob thing was; and what is it you really do? ANSWER THAT TWITTER! WHAT DO YOU DO? You sit there and you make people “popular” and feel special. Well you know what? The people who were already popular, are just more popular and those of us who were never popular, still aren’t. Thanks for that! And how the hell am I supposed to use you? And how did you like my overuse of the word “popular”? Oh you wouldn’t understand that because you’re FIVE!

Hey, let me “tweet” something. Yay! Well that was fun! Where in the hell did THAT go? Who got it? WTF?? And this hashtag bullshit? It’s like tic-tac-toe before a word and all of a sudden it’s that much more important? And if freakin’ Sheen puts one in front of anything it becomes the God damn word of … well … God. And now I’ve mentioned his name twice in this damn article even though he deliberately cut me from his internship. I’m not bitter, I already talked to him about it here. Five! You can’t even sit in the front seat yet, but you’re telling us who we need to follow and how amazing they are and even set up a NEW website that pimps out the chosen people even more, well fuck, why don’t you make a shitty website and pimp us nobody’s out? Huh? No! I guess we’ll just have to work our asses off and do all of that shit ourselves. GREAT! When do WE get to be cool? Never! That’s when! You just sit back there in your car-seat with your sippy-cup and act like a Prima Donna. FIVE! You still take naps, and suck your thumb and let all these people praise you, well not us! No sir! We will never promote you AT ALL! EVER! We won’t hyperlink anything back to you to show how much everybody needs you. FIVE! And you know what? Just for being the little runny nose prick that you are, I’m not gonna pick you up from daycare today!

FIVE THAT TWITTER!!

Please don't follow us @VanFullOfCandy, we hate Twitter

Charlie Sheen – No Longer #Winning

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You haven't heard the last of us Sheen!

Well, today will be a very sad day for the Charlie Sheen TigerBlood compound. What they didn’t realize is that they have just lost the best candidate for their internship. Didn’t you read our post from a while back? Do you not understand that our partnership would have propelled us to unheard of heights of social media godliness? DAMNIT CHARLIE!

But it’s ok Chuck, I think I understand where you’re coming from. It would have been too easy. In fact, it may have even been slightly dangerous when we colaborated; it most certainly would have caused a total meltdown of the gravitational vortex in the universe. I’m coming to terms with that, and the fact that you need a “normal” person to intern for you so things stay somewhat “safe”. We get it, it’s ok.

It was cute, however, how you “let us” get through Round 2, to give the other applicants a bit of a scare, and then drop us so that they could take a huge collective sigh knowing that the #1 contender has been eliminated. So, thank you, and … hope #2 works out for ya. *wink*

Dear readers: If you applied for this internship, please let us know, and if you advanced further than us, let us know that too. We’ll let you rub it in, but just know, we weren’t chosen for your, no, make that, the universe’s protection, so don’t get too cocky!

Who’s Ready For Another Trial of the Centurillenium!?

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Did you hear that? That was the sound of the 24 hour news machine’s erection slamming into the under side of their anchor desk.

The King of Pajamas.
The King of Pajamas.

You know, say what you will about the man, but Michael Jackson was a consummate performer, right up to the end and beyond. The man never stopped giving and now he has given us one more lunatic circus media event, as an LA judge has ruled that the upcoming involuntary manslaughter trial of his former personal physician, will be televised! My only regret is that Michael can’t be here to dance on top of his car in a surgical mask and pajama bottoms for us one last time. But he knew that he had to go away to give us this one final gift. Now who’s ready for the prosecution’s photographic evidence of the King of Pop’s ashen, wigless corpse? Who’s ready for a t-shirt of it!? You’re god damned right I am!

Of course immediately after the announcement (if not long before in anticipation) network graphics departments whirred to life, news pun writers retrieved their special dehumanizing pens from their exotic, hand crafted boxes made from the hollowed out remains of their dignity. Joe Jackson fired up his bootleg merchandise warehouses and is in the process of flooding the cheap gift shop markets with anything he can glue his dead son’s likeness to. Music licensing prices are as we speak being set and negotiated, and if there aren’t already at least 3 news vans bolted to the sidewalk outside the upcoming trial venue then I don’t know shit about shit.

Now you may say, “But please kind sir, you ever so handsome and well endowed bringer of truth and knowledge, this is certainly no Orenthal James Simpson level trial extravaganza. Where is the star power? The headliner in this trial is long since mulch, with what organic materials that remained of him well on its way to unrecognizable worm bedding.” To which I propose that if you were to crack open the Tomb of Pop this afternoon I am certain you would still have no problem identifying the Head of Pop which, at the time of his death was composed almost entirely of man-made polymers. And it is because he can’t be there to be an embarrassment to the proceedings that he will be the real star of this circus. The unblemished, wholly forgiven ghost of Michael Joseph Jackson will always be present in that court room.

"How about a taste of your own medicine Hurricane!?"
"How about a taste of your own medicine Hurricane!?"

You see, the only thing that we as Americans love more than someone who makes us happy, is when something horrible happens to that person. Sure, the price of  celebrity is a high one. The loss of privacy, having every human frailty scrutinized and mocked by the very public and entertainment machine who has granted you your standing in the first place, premature death. But in exchange, most, if not all, of god and man’s laws no longer apply to you. Want to run a red light while drunk and high with a back seat full of prostitutes of every color of the rainbow taking turns giving you the ol’ “back seat driver”? Sorry to bother you Mr. Sheen, on your way then. Would you like free reign to wander disaster ravaged parts of the world, armed and searching for justice like it’s your own little make believe post apocalyptic survivalist play date? Absolutely Mr. Penn, we have a shotgun reserved for you right this way. 

Every celebrity that has ever starred in a movie that has grossed more than $200 million dollars domestically is taken into a room where they are presented with a selection of the finest newborns and given their pick of the litter. The child is whisked away as the celebrity is escorted to an immaculately set table where, seated across from the star struck parents of the chosen infant, the movie star is permitted, no, encouraged, NAY, required, to devour the entire baby. This is done both as a direct affront to god himself and as a way of nurturing the celebrity through a ritual as old as Hollywood itself. Jeff Goldblum’s eaten a baby. Shia LaBeouf rarely eats anything but.

So then ultimately, the celebrity’s final sacrifice and reward, is a mysterious, often embarrassing death that can be used to rechristen an often tarnished brand through a white washing of misdeeds with a thick coat of nostalgia. Michael lived his part more completely than most. He spent decades giving of an honest, un-natural talent. And for that a great deal of eccentricity was forgiven. Then, when his deposits were over taken by his withdrawals he was paraded around as the freak and monster that we had all helped him become. Until at last he was granted forgiveness by the masses who wanted so much to just forget how much alcohol he allegedly shared with “minors” on unsupervised date nights in his petting zoo mansion and just wanted to remember that he could make pretty enjoyable music a long time ago.

Over under of the song “Man in the Mirror” being played through out these proceedings: 4.8 million.

Who's Ready For Another Trial of the Centurillenium!?

Posted on

Did you hear that? That was the sound of the 24 hour news machine’s erection slamming into the under side of their anchor desk.

The King of Pajamas.
The King of Pajamas.

You know, say what you will about the man, but Michael Jackson was a consummate performer, right up to the end and beyond. The man never stopped giving and now he has given us one more lunatic circus media event, as an LA judge has ruled that the upcoming involuntary manslaughter trial of his former personal physician, will be televised! My only regret is that Michael can’t be here to dance on top of his car in a surgical mask and pajama bottoms for us one last time. But he knew that he had to go away to give us this one final gift. Now who’s ready for the prosecution’s photographic evidence of the King of Pop’s ashen, wigless corpse? Who’s ready for a t-shirt of it!? You’re god damned right I am!

Of course immediately after the announcement (if not long before in anticipation) network graphics departments whirred to life, news pun writers retrieved their special dehumanizing pens from their exotic, hand crafted boxes made from the hollowed out remains of their dignity. Joe Jackson fired up his bootleg merchandise warehouses and is in the process of flooding the cheap gift shop markets with anything he can glue his dead son’s likeness to. Music licensing prices are as we speak being set and negotiated, and if there aren’t already at least 3 news vans bolted to the sidewalk outside the upcoming trial venue then I don’t know shit about shit.

Now you may say, “But please kind sir, you ever so handsome and well endowed bringer of truth and knowledge, this is certainly no Orenthal James Simpson level trial extravaganza. Where is the star power? The headliner in this trial is long since mulch, with what organic materials that remained of him well on its way to unrecognizable worm bedding.” To which I propose that if you were to crack open the Tomb of Pop this afternoon I am certain you would still have no problem identifying the Head of Pop which, at the time of his death was composed almost entirely of man-made polymers. And it is because he can’t be there to be an embarrassment to the proceedings that he will be the real star of this circus. The unblemished, wholly forgiven ghost of Michael Joseph Jackson will always be present in that court room.

"How about a taste of your own medicine Hurricane!?"
“How about a taste of your own medicine Hurricane!?”

You see, the only thing that we as Americans love more than someone who makes us happy, is when something horrible happens to that person. Sure, the price of  celebrity is a high one. The loss of privacy, having every human frailty scrutinized and mocked by the very public and entertainment machine who has granted you your standing in the first place, premature death. But in exchange, most, if not all, of god and man’s laws no longer apply to you. Want to run a red light while drunk and high with a back seat full of prostitutes of every color of the rainbow taking turns giving you the ol’ “back seat driver”? Sorry to bother you Mr. Sheen, on your way then. Would you like free reign to wander disaster ravaged parts of the world, armed and searching for justice like it’s your own little make believe post apocalyptic survivalist play date? Absolutely Mr. Penn, we have a shotgun reserved for you right this way.

Every celebrity that has ever starred in a movie that has grossed more than $200 million dollars domestically is taken into a room where they are presented with a selection of the finest newborns and given their pick of the litter. The child is whisked away as the celebrity is escorted to an immaculately set table where, seated across from the star struck parents of the chosen infant, the movie star is permitted, no, encouraged, NAY, required, to devour the entire baby. This is done both as a direct affront to god himself and as a way of nurturing the celebrity through a ritual as old as Hollywood itself. Jeff Goldblum’s eaten a baby. Shia LaBeouf rarely eats anything but.

So then ultimately, the celebrity’s final sacrifice and reward, is a mysterious, often embarrassing death that can be used to rechristen an often tarnished brand through a white washing of misdeeds with a thick coat of nostalgia. Michael lived his part more completely than most. He spent decades giving of an honest, un-natural talent. And for that a great deal of eccentricity was forgiven. Then, when his deposits were over taken by his withdrawals he was paraded around as the freak and monster that we had all helped him become. Until at last he was granted forgiveness by the masses who wanted so much to just forget how much alcohol he allegedly shared with “minors” on unsupervised date nights in his petting zoo mansion and just wanted to remember that he could make pretty enjoyable music a long time ago.

Over under of the song “Man in the Mirror” being played through out these proceedings: 4.8 million.

Van Full of Candy’s 2011 Predictions

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With the new year, a lot of people like to make predictions about the upcoming hellscape that will be the coming trip around the sun. Impotently grasping for meaning and some illusion of control or understanding in a world where absolutely nothing makes sense. And we’re no different, except for how we’re exactly nothing at all like that!

And with that, Van Full of Candy is proud to present our Seven Diamond Super Lock, future verifiable prognistications for the year of our lord two thousand and eleven! More accurate than Sylvia Brown and much wiser than Nostradamus, VFoC gives you the exact events of 2011, just as they will have happened. And how do we know? ‘Cause we’ve been there Jack! And this is how the shit went down!

• Due to the continuingly slumping economy, pop-starlet Ke$ha will be forced to change her name to Ke¢ha

• Acetaminophen will officially go by its gang name: Pain~Sugar

• The city of Ashville, NC will be ravaged by a devastating Hurriphoocano. That’s a hurricane, stuffed in a typhoon, stuffed in a volcano

• Justin Bieber will find his natural part minutes before throwing his neck out

• Historians discover the bible is actually the first issue of the National Enquirer

• Lady Gaga will have all of her skin surgically removed and replaced with purple glitter wrapping paper

• In the vein of bird flu and monkey pox, 2011’s animal themed pandemic will be Giraffe Mumps

• Bin Laden shaves off beard and takes on the pseudonym Ted Williams, becomes famous

• Octamom will star in a remake of the 70’s show Eight is Enough co-starring Dick Van Patten as “Gramps”

• Comedian Zach Galifianakis will appear, either personally, in reference or allusion, in 3 of every 5 movies released this year

• Jesus Christ will descend from Heaven, wearing upon his head crowns upon crowns and the seven trumpet blasts will signal his arrival, to tell us the importance of buying gold

• An overpopulation of zebras will occur due to Pottery Barn’s sharp decline in rug sales

• Massive earthquake leaves the Hollywood sign damaged, displaying: HI MOM

• Michael Vick opens an SPCA … names it Houndstooth Casino and obtains a liquor license

• The Kardashian sisters will do nothing of redeeming social value and continue to be paid handsomely for it

• Greenland partially melts, revealing an actual hole dug to China

• LeBron James will be traded to the Milwaukee Bucks before quickly calling “Sike” and urinating on a young Bucks fan from his diamond encrusted helicopter

• Law & Order:Tenney,MN (Population 6) will premiere on CBS as well as CSI:Taco Bell on NBC

• Viagra revealed to actually be blue candy laced with singer Sting’s teardrops

• Taping of Two and a Half Men’s season finale will be abruptly interrupted when Charlie Sheen challenges the entire studio audience to a fight

And there you have it, 2011, we’ve lived it so you don’t have to. And you’ll never believe what that one person did to someone else that you might recognize from the television or motion pictures or recording industry, so beloved and so unforgivable, in 2012. But that’ll have to wait for another time.