Monday, May 25, 2009

Lavender Ice Cream

I like to eat things that taste like junk you’d use to cover up a lady’s vagina smell.

There’s this lady at work and she would walk around and smell like she was about to be attacked by a bear (they can smell periods. SCIENCE). If her life were a cartoon she would have flies and smell lines coming off her bushel of stink. And then one day she shows up smelling like a summer morning and lavender and then I was all like “Oh fuck, I’m going to eat ice cream that taste like what her vag smells like”.

And I did.

And it was good.

So there’s this ice cream shoppe (note double-p/ e combo, denoting its high price and increased snootiness) near my parents’ place that exclusively makes home-made ice cream. They have some fucking wacky flavours: Honey, Mr. Barbu, Musk Oil, Trapeze Show Disaster, Family Picnic in the Rain.* In addition to that raucous combination they also have Lavender.

I figure I’m a fucking dude who spells “OR” words with “OUR” (example: colour, humour…) and I have a vocabulary that includes words like renaissance, dowry, and parkway so I’m obviously a classy enough dude to get down with this.

This ice cream tastes like that movie Marie Antoinette with Kirsten Dunst. Except in my movie I cut a hole in the cone and slip my wiener in it and then Kirsten Dunst eats the ice cream and then sees it and then I go to jail and she decapitates me. But at least I got to show her my creamy wang.

Fyi, THAT’S THE ONLY WAY I CAN CLIMAX. If I don’t show girls my dick covered in frozen, pasteurized, cows milk I will not be able to achieve an orgasm. It is a very specific condition that requires me to spend all of my time in the frozen goods section of my supermarket, idling behind boxed pizzas waiting to dip my pecker in some rocky road and show you.



*only Honey and Mr. Barbu are real flavours, the others I made up in a sophomoric attempt at humour. Sometimes dogs poop. Poop fart shit. HUMOUR.

Wednesday, April 8, 2009


In 1999 I went to Ieperfest, a large hardcore fest that took place in a small but well known town in the west of Belgium, close to the sea. No, it's ieper, with a capital i, not leper. It was an important location in WWII, and tons of war memorabilia can be found there. The fest itsself has been going since the early '90s and still happens every year. My first time going was the year prior, '98, and I was stoked to be back. Before mp3s were standard issue, this was the ultimate place to go and get your hardcore jams. People travelled from all over Europe to be there, see bands, trade records, buy zines, perhaps even discuss vegan recipes or abortion (even though none of us had seen a vagina before). I was a full on pos-man, rocking my Nikes, camo shorts and bootleg Chain hoodie. I was there with all the Belgian Francs I could save up in the span of one year, and I was going to buy all the records and soy milks I could. I got a couple of great buys, such as the Underdog demos LP on Rev (who liked Underdog back then?), an Infest shirt, and a Project X boot. I also remember being uber bummed to see the very last copy of Breakdown's "Blacklisted" on clear vinyl get snatched right in front of my eyes. At least it was being snatched by Lord Bigma, then frontman of Mainstrike and well respected posman/hardman, so it was kind of cool.

This show was also the very first day that the first issue of my fanzine, Push The Limit was sold (with Limited UC ripoff cover). Near the end of the fest I had a couple of bucks left and a few mildly interesting records in my mind. I was browsing the table of a Belgian poscore label that I forget the name of, I think it was the dude that did Triumph fanzine in 1997. Anyway, he was selling Limited Edition covers for the Atari - Skate Tuff EP. "New EP! Only 50 copies made!" the guy said. As a young man in edge uniform, I must have been a walking target for this elderly hustler of shitty releases. "LIMITED?! Sold!"

You know what happened, right? First off, it was not a new EP, it was the vinyl pressing of their demo. Second of all, I already had the regular version. Third, the "Limited Edition" was a shitty xerox with some random Atari pics that was hand numbered to 50. Once the glory of owning a "rare" record wore off, I realized I had been duped. It's a total classic scam, and I fell for it like a real sucker. That motherfucker probably enjoyed two delicious soy milks or one of Cindy Freys' patended vegan burgers with my money. Like Civ once said... That's not positive!

And then there I was, one decade later, at the Couche Tard down the street. Many seas and oceans away from ieper, not so edge, and not interested in limited pressings of Atari records (though I still like to sing the line "Where were you when none of this was cool? ANYWHERE BUT HERE!" every so often), and I see a Reese's bar.

WAIT... Reese's don't make bars! They make pieces! And sometimes m&m's or ice cream. But not bars! Is this new? I looked at the package and there it was:



I had not learned my lesson.

It is the same thing. It tastes exactly like every other Reese's product. It tastes like chocolate and peanut butter. It is dee-licious. And that, my friends, is the lesson we learn today. Reese's > Atari. Limited editions are the same as unlimited editions. But, limited edibles will soon be gone. Maybe one day I will tell my grand children about the time Reese's made bars, and they will be like "What's Reese's? Can I have a neon asbestos bar?" because that's what kids will eat in the future. And I will look them in the eye and I will say "As long as it's not an Atari bar, kid" and then I will laugh until I start coughing for ten minutes and the kids will be long gone, probably riding a hover board. And right before dozing off for a nap, I will go "Where were you when none of this was cool? ANYWHERE BUT HERE!"

Friday, March 27, 2009

President's Choice Aussie Style Black Licorice

Blackest of the black
Darker than night
Come to me my bleeding light
See she comes
She comes now
Enter oblivion

Yea, here she is
Harder than life
In my arms
See she there
Entwined with love
Unclean she is

And she comes down to me
And she offers me sleep
Under her black

Whoa oh, Black Licorice
Whoa oh, Black Licorice

See she comes
On the eve of dusk
In another form
With a scent of rain upon her neck
She brings the lust
Ceasing never
On and
On and

Her stride is such
Mortals freeze
When she walks past
And she comes down to me
And she offers me sleep
Under her black wings

Whoa oh, Black Licorice
Whoa oh, Black Licorice
Whoa oh, Black Licorice
Whoa oh, Black Licorice

See she comes
Blacker than pitch
Have to make this fallen bitch
All I want
All I crave
Demoness calls
The bitch is come
For those who wait
Cross the breach in hell
See she is
Bedeviled with breasts
Enchantment on legs

And she comes down to me, yea
And she offers me sleep
Under her black

Whoa oh, Black Licorice
She's got me under wings
Whoa oh, Black Licorice
She's got me under wings
Whoa oh, Black Licorice
She's got me Black Licorice
Whoa oh, under Black Licorice
Black Licorice
Whoa oh, under Black Licorice
She's got Black Licorice
Black Licorice
She's got me Black Licoricewhoa oh
Whoa oh, underBlack Licorice her black wBlack Licorice
She's got me uBlack Licoricender, whoa oh
Whoa Black Licorice undBlack Licorice
If there's one thing Glenn Danzig knows; it's black licorice. If there's another Glenn Danzig knows; it's having (and being stoked on) sweet books.

So there's this demon from Australia and he's in the underworld and he's making bitches get abortions and getting dudes to listen to Slayer and then he makes you grow your hair out and buy leather pants. He's constantly scratching his little goat legs and polishing his horns. He's going to make you rob your grandmother's purse then he's going to make you beat your dick off at work.

Then he's going to shrink himself down into the chewiest most fucking face busting black licorice treats you have ever had. You'll be thinking oh shit this is going to be firm like all black licorice ropes and then you bite into it and it's soft and your whole body loosens and you poop but it's so fucking tasty you don't give a fuck. You eat the whole bag and let its fucking black magic turn your dick into a making women cry machine. You can only get off when you're reading the sex parts of Blindness. Your life is complete.

This is like if you could take a sledgehammer and then smash your parents faces in and then make bowls out of their skull chips and then use it to store your Fisherman's Friends or just punching yourself right in the dick over and over until your knob is so swollen you can't zip your pants up. This is like eating a box full of cat litter and then shitting on the first girl you ever tongue-kissed. Fuck this shit has me wound up! I'm going to fucking mug someone on the way home!

I got a hard dick and a sharp blade!!!!!

Fuck this is chewy!!!!!



Thursday, March 26, 2009

Marco Spruce Beer

I am a sucker for packaging, I know it's lame and that I shouldn't judge anything based on the container it comes in (except women; Blondes:Dumb, Big Tits:Slutty Idiots). But when i saw this bottle I knew instantly I would fall in love and make babies and then run away and start a new life when I got bored/blew all my money on failed investments.

Here's the run down:

I get the bottle and it's fucking magical.

I love spruce beer (please note my affinity for gross snacks) and I'm looking at this thing thinking it's the most legit bottle of spruce beer I've ever seen. I'm thinking I'm a man. I'm thinking this is what a lumberjack or a ranch hand would fucking down to cool off. Oh yeah, look at that cap, it's awesome. Of course this is going to rule.

I start to fuck with the metal latch. It's difficult but I'm a man, I can manage. I work it some more and it starts to loosen. The cap moves a few millimeters and smoke shoots out. Smoke, steam, whatever. There is magical spruce mist funneling out the side.

Oh fuck I am a man. My insides are going to get the beating of a lifetime and I'm going to love every second of it. I'm going to grow three or four new cocks and then I will birth razorback wolves and they will suckle at my mighty wolf teets. We will howl at the moon and hang out in convenience store parking lots. We'll buy slurpees and smoke cigarettes. We'll howl at the moon and eat your babies. We'll floss our teeth with strips of your flesh and when one of us burps we'll all laugh and say we have "the humans" (gas from eating people). It will be great.

Then I get the top off and it smells like wine. And then I take a sip and it tastes like Seagram's and missing the buzzer beater for 3 in the the closing seconds of the finals and then having your whole team fucking beat you with bars of soap stuffed in their socks in the showers. I go blind. I never get a haircut again because I won't ever see my hair so I don't give a fuck. I hack my nose off so i don't have to smell anymore (and as a result have an excuse to not shower). I smash the bottle against my face. I am disappointed.

This drink sucks.

-It smells like pine trees and astroglide (used).
-It tastes like sangrina, getting mouth fucked my christmas, and gasoline.
-The bottle is so much better than the drink is.
-There was a 1$ deposit on the bottle.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Mint 3 Musketeers

As a kid the candy bar selection in the suburbs of Montreal was terrible. We had Mars, Snickers, Caramilk, Crunchie, and occasionally Butterfingers caked completely in dust. As a nerdy kid with no friends and overbearing parents, candy was the only way I knew how to enjoy my shitty little life.

As one would correctly assume, the selection available to me made it quite difficult to not constantly want to fucking hang myself with my shoestrings after my folks went to bed. That's one of the main reasons I would look forward to spending summers with my Nanny in Vermont (that and in all seriousness she was the absolute greatest person I have ever known). I would stuff my dirty little face with 100 Grands, Baby Ruths, Whatchamacallits, and basically anything I could get my hands on that I didn't have at home. Thankfully, my old man, removed from the pressures of running a college for a few months, was relaxed and would happily open his wallet up and let me go fucking nuts.

I had a pretty steady rotation of snacks but 3 Musketeers bars where never a part of it. That was of course until I saw that 3 Musketeers movie during the summer of '93.

Keiffer Sutherland and Charlie Sheen, fuck I was stoked. For the rest of that summer that's all I ate. I would swashbuckle the fuck out of whatever I wanted. I was a bad motherfucker with a giant hat and a puffy shirt. I was fucking awesome. Eventually I discovered tits and I decided I would take up cockbuckling instead, so my love for 3 Musketeers (the Lifestyle and the Chocolate Bar) fell by the wayside. But every once in a while I would purchase a 3 Musketeers bar and relive the past.

It's like slipping the dick to an ex-girlfriend.

This one time at New Years' when I still got high (I am now a Straight Edge Warrior) I called up an ex-girlfriend. I was slurring my speech (I had been drinking as well: I used to RAGE) and she didn't recognize my voice. I flipped my shit completely. I just lost my fucking mind. I started accusing her of cheating on me (which was completely unfounded) and saying that when she got her hair done that one time it was like a wet poodle got a fucking perm (at the time I thought this was the fucking insult to end them all; in hindsight it's fucking ridiculous) and just being a fucking prick all around. She started getting upset and her mom picked up the phone and then I flipped my shit even more. I started telling her she had fucking warts on her junk, that her bush smelled like someone lit a trash heap on fire, once again, just being wholly miserable. The argument kept getting dialed up and I lost it and threw the phone through my friend's window, smashing it (obviously) in the process. We went outside and made snow angels afterward.

Today at work I bought this fucking skinny mint-flavoured 3 Musketeers bar. I wanted to call it up in the hopes it would forget who I was so I could smash it's stupid fucking face in with my giant heel.

Mint. Fucking Mint. Mint in combination with anything can suck my hairy ass. It's such bullshit. I don't even know what fuck is wrong with me that I would buy this piece of shit.

Imagine you have a baby, a newborn son and you and your wife are staring into its cute little eyeballs and then your little guy belches and poisonous snakes pour out of him and bite your wife in the face. The snakes spit venom in the nurses mouths and their necks melt as the poison works its way down their throats.

Their heads, too heavy to be supported by rotting flesh, snap off and fall to the floor, splashing up venom, phlegm, and a thick blood paste in the process. You vomit harder than you ever have in your life. Blood pours out of your throat and nose. You heave so hard you feel like your innards are crushing themselves, grinding your organs to powder.

In an effort to stop the continuous onslaught of snakes, you grab your infant son and smash him against a metal rod soldered onto the sides of the hospital gurney. Your head spins. Your temples throb. You black out. You awaken to the sound of your wife screaming. Everything comes back into focus. You see your wife screaming. You see nurses and hospital security start to surround you.

The room is pristine.
No snakes.
No venom.
No chaos.
No carnage.

At gun point you are asked to put your hands over your head. Despite being incredibly groggy and equally confused you attempt to comply but as you reach for the sky your right arm feels heavier than your left. You glance down and your heart sinks. You're holding your son's lifeless, mangled corpse. Your wife screams for the guards to "fucking shoot his dick off". They miss. You get it in the face. Game Over.

This snack disappointing. Imagine you took a chocolate tube and filled it with toothpaste and then ate it. Yup, it sucks.


Beigne a la Limette / Lime Donut

So I'm at Tim Horton's (aka Canadian Church) getting a double double and a bagel when I scope a beigne a la limette (translated: lime donut). I don't know how this could possibly work but it seriously fucking delivers.

So I'm lying on a beach and I'm drinking lime rickeys. I'm scamming on fine broads in string bikinis like it's a David Lee Roth video. I'm feeling refreshed. I'm feeling alright. This drink is a zesty treat. And then some fat bitch in elastic waist jean shorts rolls through and squeezes cookie dough into my fine citrus beverage. Then she removes her orthopedic shoes and peels off her sweaty denim blouse and tells me to "Pick a fold and fuck it". And then I have the best orgasm of my life.
In addition to getting my cock off, this donut gives me hope for other wild combinations: interracial couples and peanut butter/mustard sandwiches (no joke, I knew a girl who used to eat that shit all the time).

It's so soft and squishy. It's like a lime pillow made out of tits with respectable sized nipples and being old and mature enough to poop at work and not give a fuck if someone hears the farts and splatters. You may think I'm kidding but you eventually get to an age where you don't give a fuck if your coworkers hear you shit. You fucking hate your life and have no shame or self-respect and just drop that deuce like a man possessed. You don't even wait for the bathroom to clear out before you vacate the stall. You just bust out, proud as fuck of your sounds and stink. It doesn't matter. You are a man now. A man who eats donuts.

The End.

EDIT* Immediately after posting this I went to the washroom at work (where I am right now, I don't need to travel from home to work, just to shit) and the guy in the stall next to me kept flushing every 20 seconds so as to cover up the sound of his shitting. He has not eaten these donuts.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Wokkels (Euro Snacks pt. II)

Uncle Kris, who was the driver for Mental on their EU tour and one night started crying and saying he 'couldn't take it anymore' out of sheer exhaustion, so Stief went and drove so Kris could sleep in our van, but instead he just played Gameboy and kept all of us up, well he sent me two bags of Wokkels potato chips. He also founded Dead Stop, the best live hardcore band I ever saw, but he has truly topped himself by mailing this package. It is probably the most noble and meaningful thing he, or anyone for that matter, has ever done. Wokkels are my favourite chips in the world, and are only available in Holland, the country that Kris sold out Belgium for. I used to get these at the gas station on road trips, as I often agreed to play shows in Holland just so I could snack on these. We even started practicing in Holland for a while, yes, band practice in a different country, just for Wokkels.

Wokkels are simple. They are curly, and they come in two flavours: salt and paprika. I like simple. I don't need 16 different kinds of fucking chips. I don't need Extra Mild Sweet and Sour Vinegar Cream Ketchup chips. Salt and paprika, motherfucker. Keep it simple. Salt and paprika. Like chocolate and vanilla. Mayo and ketchup. Tits and ass.

I have no idea why Wokkels are so awesome. They just are. It's like the people that made them actually gave a fuck. They actually sat down and wanted to find out what makes chips taste good, and then wanted to know how to make them even better. Research, man. Snack science. Snack scientology. Also, I'm pretty sure they sprinkle crack in the bag and shake it up before they ship them. This shit is addictive. I mean I will wolf my way through any snack like there's no tomorrow, but you should have seen me with these things. I'm shocked I even managed to stop and take pictures. I ate both of these in about ten minutes. Holy fuck, I don't even know why I'm reviewing this. You're never going to eat Wokkels. Fuck you. Eat some Pringles you lousy fuck. Unless you want to start taking life seriously, and befriend some Dutch guy and start smuggling in Wokkels and giving me a cut, don't even talk to me. I'm fucking pissed. I ate these fucking chips like two months ago and just thinking of them now is aggravating me in ways you cannot understand. Unless you were a professional athlete that brought in millions of dollars a week and blew it all on buying opium for your secret harem you kept in your personal batcave (you bought the one they shot the movie in) and in hiring a medical research team to rid your dick of all kinds of fucked up foreign STDs that don't even exist yet except for on your own dick, and then you go and do some ridiculous shit like jumping out of a plane with no parachute and you just pull out a bazooka and you shoot it at the ground just in time for the backfire to slow you down, and you pull out a bottle of jack as you land and start drinking and walking at the same time while behind you an entire cattle farm is going up in flames from the bazooka explosion. You throw a wad of cash at the farmer and tell him to fuck off, because the wad is enough to buy five cattle farms made out of gold and it's just pocket money to you, but he's still pissed and puts a voodoo farmer curse on you. And then you slip on a banana peel and break both of your legs and then you try and break your fall with your hands and you break both your arms and the bottle of jack shatters and the glass goes into your eyeballs and you start screaming "I can't see! I can't see shit!" like Ray Charles and the farmer catches up with you and kicks you in the dick so hard you lose the ability to have an erection, and the board decided they can't pay a limbless blind athlete, and all the sponsors are like, dude, you don't even party anymore, you're cut, you dickless motherfucker. And you're like "dude, I still got a dick, look!" and you flash them and just as you do a cop walks by and you got arrested for indecent exposure and then you go to jail and some huge old fat guy molests you and eats his dinners out of your asshole. If that has never happened to you, then you can't fathom the pains of giving up Wokkels. They're that good.