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
Supernatural
Ceasing never
On and
On and
On

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!!!!!

LET'S GOOOOO!!!!!!

DAMN!

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.

Fuck.

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.

100 Posts!

We have just reached our 100th post! I can't believe it! We are a snack reviewing MACHINE. I would like to thank Alicia for helping invent this, Scotty for his endless love of snack blogging and dick jokes, Jason for being very excited about snacks but not so much for reviewing them, Vince and Brant for pretending to be contributors, and myself for being awesome. Well, that's it, see you at post 250!

Monday, March 23, 2009

Cherry Cheese Danish

I really want to be a PI from the late 40s. I want to mope around smoking cigarettes getting the shit beat out of me and being too lethargic to give a fuck. I want to never crack a smile and put my dick in clients that hire me to get their company's documents back or their jewelery or some bullshit. Whatever. I'm having sex with rich socialites. I'm drinking black coffee. I'm driving my old Buick. I'm drinking Bourbon. Fuck I'm a mess but in a romantic kind of way.

For some reason I've always associated Cheese Danishes with being a private dick. I realize that this makes no sense at all. There is no correlation between those two things. But regardless, that's why I started eating them.

I used to work collections for this company that absolutely did not give a fuck what you did. You could call people and tell them you were going to ass fuck their wife on the front lawn or ram a knife into their cock holes and split it like a ballpark frank and it didn't matter. "I'm going to send the biggest Eastern European meathead motherfucker I know to your house and he's going to pecker-slap your daughter blind if you don't pay me some fucking monies". It didn't matter. There was this corner store near there that always, ALWAYS had Cherry Cheese Danishes. No matter what life tries to fuck me with, it was something I could always bank on.

I'll be honest, at first I hated danishes. I fucking loathed them. But I wanted to like them. I was desperate to fulfill my fantasy of being a private detective from the 40s, so I munched away and day after I would buy a cheese danish and be completely miserable about it. And then one day, as if by fucking magic, it happened; I feel in love with cheese danishes.

When I was in high school I smoked weed a bunch. The first like seven or eight times I smoked I didn't get stoned. It just didn't work. I thought it wouldn't happen to me. I knew it was good weed because my friends were getting ripped, but not me. So whatever, I'm out of cigarettes and on my way to my girlfriend (at the time)'s place and my buddies are smoking weed in this park I'm cutting through. They cut their weed with tobacco so I decided I would hook it up to get my nicotine fix. So I'm toking up and not thinking much of the possibility of getting baked and then it fucking smashes my ugly face in with a sledgehammer. I am high as fuck. I am giggling. I am sleepy. I'm a fucking mess. I pull out my dick in the middle of the soccer field and take a piss. Well at least I try to, for a while actually, until I realize that I don't actually have to piss at all (for some reason I was convinced I had to and terrified of the possibility of pissing myself) and that I've basically just exposed my dick to my friends, a bunch of children playing in the sandbox/on the monkey bars, and the construction workers fixing the roof of the hockey arena. I skate to my girlfriend's place. I get in, high out of my fucking mind, and without taking my shoes off or saying hi to anyone (her entire immediate family is in the living room, the room I've just walked into), I lie down on her couch, my face in her crotch, and proceed to drop the loudest fart ever and then fall asleep. While I'm asleep I pee a little and stain the couch.

That was like the first time that the mighty cheese danish fucking worked its sugary, dairy magic in my life. I grew fucking wings and flew up above the peasants and commoners and looked down bitches' shirts and made pipi on whatever I wanted. I flew up to the tops of mountains and high-fived some sherpas. I fucking flew into the middle of the sun and it went supernova and then the earth caught fire and you all died and then I flew so quickly that it reversed the flow of time and I landed back on earth one second before I took off. It was a forced rotational danish vortex.

This Saturday I had a cheese danish at Tim Horton's it was not as good as farting in mixed company. You should probably just go get a danish next to where I used to work.

Friday, March 20, 2009

Ariel Non-Alcoholic White Wine

I am a delicate flower.
I am the morning dew on ripening fruit.
I am a gentle breeze.
I am a lullaby.
I am a sonnet.
I am fragile porcelain.
I am cold winter nights by the fire.
I am a sun-kissed summer morning.
I am a precious gift.

Finally there's a wine that lets me be all those things while sitting on my couch, going commando under my PJs. The beauty of just wearing jammies around the house (instead of boxers under my jammies) is that when I want to scratch my nutsack my gratification is increased because the amount of material between my soiled fingernails and pebble-pouch is decreased. That my friends is the science of ball scratching.

My knowledge of wine, while limited to what I've seen in Sideways, is as follows:

1. Wine is made of fruits and old age.
2. Wine comes in a bunch of different colours.
3. Wine makes bitches sleepy so you can slap their titties around after they pass out.
4.
5. Wine goes nicely with cheese
4. Cheese's.
5. Cheese is made when you boil up a cows stomach and make it turd into a pasteurizer.
6. Cheese is.

As you can see wine gives you the opportunity to play with a girl's boobies.

Other things that give you the opportunity to play with a girl's fun jugs:

1. Money
2. Fast Cars
3. Shiny Cars
4. Jewels
5. Fame
6. Assumed Fame
7. The Opportunity to Become a Glamour Model
8. Free Dinners
9. The Promise of Free Dinners
10. The Empty Promise of Free Dinners
11. Xbox 360 Achievements.
12. Being held at knifepoint

This wine tastes like a snooty bitch who just had her plumbing douched. This tastes like ramming a fistfull of fruit mash up a catholic school girl's dress. This is like spreading your cheeks for the Queen of France and letting one squeak past so she can see your cornchute swell and crest like the rising tide.

I don't really like wine.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

Goya Ginger Beer

Winter sucks. You've decided that you've had enough of freezing your ass off at the bus stop every morning, of getting frostbite while shoveling the driveway, of having to wear layer after layer of clothes and still freezing only to have to get onto a hot subway train so that end up dripping from head to toe in sweat, and then head back outside and have your sweat freeze.

You're tired of public transit where everyone is sick, and phlegmy, syphilitic strangers sneeze on your face and neck. You're fed up with having to put on giant boots and still slip on the ice and sprain your ankles. The city never plows the streets on time. You can never find parking. You keep losing your scarves. Your lips are chapped. You keep loosing your chap stick. It's dark when you get to work. It's dark when you leave work. You spend more time salting your walkway then you do your nicoise salad.

You say "Fuck it". you've saved enough. You've bought one-ply toilet paper when you could afford two. You bought no name mustard and tooth paste. You've scrimped and saved for a rainy day. Well it might not be raining but it's cold as fuck. And let's call it straight, you deserve it.

You call your girlfriend (she's a hairdresser and rents her chair at a local shop, so she can make her own hours) and tell her to pack a bag. You tell her all she needs is a toothbrush and a bikini. You can hear the excitement in her voice, she suggestively mentions that maybe she won't even need the bikini. Blood pumps from your heart downwards. This trip is shaping up nicely already.

You set yourself down in front of your laptop and purchase two first class tickets to Jamaica. You smile, beaming with pride that you're going to enjoy the finer things for a change. This trip is going to be pineapple juice and rum, sleeping in til noon, massages on the beach. Anything you want, you're going to get. You'll go for broke. This will be the trip you always look back on fondly.

You get to the airport on the day of the trip. Your plane is delayed but you don't let it bother you, you and your sweetheart are about to spend seven days, six nights, in paradise.

On the flight you sit behind a couple who insists on fighting openly out loud, without any regard to how uncomfortable anyone feels. Loudly and obliviously, they pick each other apart, cursing at each. With every drink they order their abuse of one another escalates. You shrug it off, you're almost there. Nothing can bring you down.

After the plane touches down, the airline has lost your luggage. You stay to work something out and send your girlfriend ahead to the hotel/resort a few blocks away. You smile to yourself. You imagine she'll be waiting on the bed, naked from head to toe, eagerly anticipating your arrival.

The airline takes your cell number and assures you they'll call as soon as they information.

You grab a cab and head over to the hotel. The cabbie, upon recognizing that you're a tourist, charges you double. You threaten to call the authorities but soon realize you're in a foreign country and have no recourse. You reluctantly pay up and head to your room.

You hear moaning in the hall and assume someone is having a great old time on their vacation. You get closer to your room and realize that it's your girlfriend. For a half second you try to convince yourself she's preparing herself for you, but that thought is quickly dispelled when you hear the low guttural moan of a man engaged in sexual congress. Then another moan from another voice, noticeably male, an octave or so higher.

You thrust open the door to find your sweetheart banging the cleaning guy and two bros she met when they were on their way to rent jet skis. You drop your carry on and the jewelery box that holds the engagement ring you purchased only two days early spills out. One of the college guys pulls his wang out of your lady's poophole and feces cascades onto the freshly pressed linens. The cleaning guy freaks out and runs past you and you smell your woman's vagina perfume on his face and hands. The other two, cocky, from days of liquid courage, keep pumping away. They finish up and spit in your hair as they walk past you. As ejaculate spills from her every orifice, she gargles out "I've been fucking your boss for six months now, and you have a small dick". She leaves and you get billed for the sheets.


Sure this drink is nice in theory, but the journey is nicer than the destination.

La Tire/Maple Taffy

When I was in High School my entire grade went to a Cabane A Sucre (or a sugar shack to those outside of QC.) and this girl ate so much that she puked on her plate and then before anyone could react quickly enough, the vomit spilled off of her pile of beans and glazed ham, onto the table, and then all over her friends. More vomiting ensued as a result. That entire section of the dinning hall had to be cleared out so they could blanket the puke piles in sawdust to make everything more manageable. The entire room stunk like period rags that had been set ablaze in a slaughter house. On the way back to the bus she grabbed some hot maple taffy and scarfed it down without so much as a second thought.

The reason that her culinary bravery did not impress me is that regardless of what you've been through, physically or emotionally, even if you've just watched your entire family get burned alive in a horrible car wreck, their flesh and marrow melted into the faux leather seats, teeth boiled down and embedded in the backs of headrests and dashboard, your little brother's baby seat blackened with the remains of burned-out hope and possibility, you should always, ALWAYS make room for maple taffy. I cannot imagine a scenario horrible enough to make me not want to eat tree ejaculate on a popsicle stick.

I know that I can't ever do this Canadian delicacy justice by making jokes about cocks and pooping or whatever, but I would like to just take a moment away from being lewd to let you know, in all seriousness, this snack will work its way into your blood stream and replace your white blood cells with conflict diamonds and your red blood cells with going scuba-diving and watching two mermaids tongue fuck their caviar holes (AKA fish pussies).

Oh fuck this is tasty. Imagine a tree. but this tree is your big-titted step mom and while your dad is managing fools at the cookie factory you're bouncing her skull off your headboard. Your little brother catches you but you throw him a handful of smokes and some skin mags and he fucks off and you continue banging your dad's wife. You get a sugar boner and jizz blood.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKKKKKKKKK.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Chocolate Bun by Rondeau Cookies Limited


If you have been reading this disgusting blog for a while, you might remember the Honey Glazed Bun I reviewed, and how I likened it to peeing on a girls' ass cheeks. Well, up until the other day, I had no idea there was a chocolate version of them. Now, if you know me, if you've ever just vaguely seen me in the corner of your eye in the distance for half a second, you would know that I love chocolate. I was probably eating some right as that happened. So you understand my excitement. I had to buy it, even though I absolutely hated the Honey Glazed Bun. It made me feel like a cheap craigslist prostitute. If it was linked to peeing on a girl, and this is the chocolate version, well... I think you know what I'm getting at.

What I'm getting at, is shitting on a girls tits. I have never taken a dump on a girl before, and I hope I never do (no one knows the future holds), but I'm positive it looks much like this snack. It even looks like one of those incredibly long turds that never break and they roll up into the bowl like a shitsnake. It's like the guy that invented this thought of it while squeezing out a Cobra Turd. It's a reasonable assumption, as most good ideas come to you in the bathroom (I know this because I used to watch that movie about that con guy all the time. You know which one I mean, with the dude that looks like Dana Carvey and possibly is Dana Carvey). I bet the dude saw the cobra dump and scooped it out of the bowl and brought it to his desk and just did extensive research on it until his coworkers called the police because he'd been locked in his office for days and it started to reek and they thought he was dead. A couple of them were actually kind of stoked he was dead because they hated him. Obviously the kind of guy that researches human feces is not the most pleasant of coworkers. Alas, the man lived and this was the result, this is what he attached his name to. When he does die, this is what will go on his tombstone. The Chocolate Bun. Haha, that's actually kind of an awesome nickname. Let's say his name was Louie Tremblay, his tomb would read Louie "Chocolate Buns" Tremblay, because the guy making the stone obviously thought adding the extra "s" was way too good of a prank not to pull. Imagine going to your girlfriends' moms' funeral and you see that tomb and you just start cracking up and she gets super pissed at you and you're just like "Oh come on, chocolate buns" as you pinch her ass and wink at her in a really creepy way. If she laughs, she's a keeper. If she gives you dome in the funeral home bathroom, also.

Anyway, this snack was not that good. Kind of stale. Maybe it had just been sitting in that store for ages because no one buys it because everyone hates Louie Tremblay for ruining funerals all over the province of Quebec. Maybe it's actually really awesome and fresh and full of flavour and awesomeness. Who knows. I'm probably never going to buy one again. But like I said, I don't know what the future holds. I mean it's fucking chocolate, I'm probably going to get one tonight on my way to practice. I have to find out if it was stale or just plain shitty. Then I'll have to go for another because I can't cast my judgment on an even number. And by then I'll probably be totally addicted to the shit, and I will curse Louie Tremblay's name. Louie Tremblay and his addictive chocolate buns.

Friday, March 6, 2009

Baby Carrots

I like science. I am a fan of VCRs and robot horses from the not-so-distant future. I like motor boats and bazookas. I like television and electric fences. All of these things are made possible by the good people over at Science.

While everyone’s singing their dicks off about the internet or microwave ovens, the crown jewel of science bullshit remains completely overlooked. It’s time baby carrots got their day in the sun.

Babies are only good for two things, never shutting their stupid baby faces and wiping buffalo wing sauce off my fingers onto. Babies are stupid, vacuous, germ factories that stink like garbage and can’t chew real food so they’re always dripping with apple sauce and stewed prunes. When I have a kid (provided he survives me throwing him out of a moving vehicle) he will go unloved until he can prove that he’s as useful and delicious as these fucking carrots.

Baby Carrots are the fucking apex of vegetablegeneering.

I know you’re probably thinking to yourself that vegetables can’t be snacks and that’s where you’re wrong. You’re obviously just an uncouth buffoon who probably watches wrestling and/or nascar and actually thinks that Budweiser is the “king” of beers. You should spend less time reading this blogue and more time watching Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader.

In fucking Roman times when the Caesar would decree it was time to fucking murder dudes with swords, these militant warriors would fucking crank up the drums made out of the flesh of their victims and fuel up on a feast of vegetables. Then they’d get all oiled up and half-naked and then behead their enemies and then poop in holes they dug in the ground.

Carrots give you good eye sight so when you sneak into your ex girlfriend’s house at night to collect her hair so that you can make a doll out of it, you won’t fucking stub your Flinstone toes on her dresser or end tables.

Baby carrots have all the might of regular carrots but in a compact package just like white dude’s wangs. We can still have you end up with child but you probably won’t feel our dicks in your underpants beards.

This review is scientifically sound.

Thursday, March 5, 2009

Quebon Hazelnut Chocolate Milk


The existence of this little gem was pointed out to me by Casey of the Casevets, whom I've known for well over a year, and up until a few weeks ago thought Spoiler was my real name. He thought it was 'just some euro shit'. He was completely baffled that I have a regular name like everyone else. I'm not sure if he's over it. But yea, he told me to check this out. I did once, but I kind of chugged it too fast to be able to review it. Then I didn't see the shit for a few months, and then the other day on my way to practice I saw these little fuckers at a dep. I was stoked. I took pictures, took my time to taste the hazelnutty flavours, looked at the packaging. I treated that thing like I would treat my own child. Well, I didn't hit the chocolate milk, or yelled at it for getting bad grades, and I didn't force it to go to its first day of school in a spiderman mask and a dress with "FUCK THE SYSTEM" spraypainted on it because I thought it would be funny. But I did love it, gave it attention, noted its developments.

First off, chocolate milk cannot be beat. It is the ultimate (read here why). Now, for anyone to try and fuck with perfection, is ludicrous (that's how you spell Ludacris). But then, it takes balls. I respect it, even if it's a complete failure. But I must say, it isn't. It's pretty good. It's by no means as good as regular chocolate milk, so while it is a step down, it's still a good beverage and it still contains a ton of chocolate. It's the same, but different. It's like jerking off with your other hand. It's like cheating with a less attractive girl that gives a better handjob. It's like shitting your pants just for the hell of it.

Basically, it's liquid Nutella, so it's actually not that big a deal. It's a proven formula. But still, it fucks with you. Every sip you take, you're like "Mmm, chocolate milk... wait what's this?". Then you're like "Oh right, hazelnut. Mmm, hazelnut... wait what's this?! Oh right, chocolate milk! I LOVE chocolate milk!" and then you're stoked as fuck and you chug the thing and then you have to buy another because that strange sensation blew you out of the rut that is your pathetic life, but ofcourse by the time you get back the store is closed and you can't find another one anywhere for like a month, and you're busy going to work and stuff but really you want to be looking for more hazelnut chocolate milk. But then you find a place that has it and it's open 24/7 and you drink it all the time and you kind of get sick of it because the rarity of it is what made it good in the first place. Now that it's kind of common you remember that regular old chocolate milk is way better. See, THAT is why they keep this thing so rare. So you will never find out it's not that great. They want you to be overrun with joy and boners as you find this thing, like Kyle Kozak finding the holy grail and the meaning of punk. At that is exactly how I will feel when I find this next time. Like Kyle Kozak from New Hampshire, finding the meaning of punk. And then I will drink it, and I will have to start over. But for one moment, I will have known the truth: this drink isn't amazing, but it's pretty decent.

(PS: Yes that is Tony "Veggio" Frenchman and Tiny Times in the background!)

The Pop Shoppe Pineapple Soda


I have an allergy to Pineapple and women who can’t keep their fucking mouths closed. Both turn me into a fucking ravenous beast. So you can imagine that my ability to have both pineapple soda or healthy relationships are pretty limited. But as luck would have it The Pop Shoppe’s pineapple soda contains no pineapple.


My whole life I’ve heard people fucking yammering “pineapple’s so good, don’t you wish you could have it?” or “oh wow, an allergy to pineapple, that really sucks for you” and you know what fucking sucks more than not eating pineapple? Listening to idiots tell me how much it sucks. Do you not think I understand the limitations of my stupid allergy? Fuck yourself.


So anyway I hooked up this pineapple soda in the hopes of filling the pointy, fruit shaped void in soul. It did not disappoint.


Admittedly I have no basis for comparison. The last time I ate pineapple, like actually sat down and savoured it I was in grade school and the end result of that endeavor was throat closing, vomit inducing disaster. So be warned, I’m reviewing this based on what I remember pineapple tasting like. There have been times since then where I’ve had a sip of juice that had pineapple in it and I immediately felt that itch in my throat and either a) went to the hospital or b) spent the afternoon vomiting until my insides bled. All that to say that my idea of pineapple and yours might be drastically different.


It smells like a dream. It’s not often I get hard as adamantium from the smell of a soft drink but it smells like perfume dripping off of Anne Hathaway’s vagina and then into a goblet made out of Jimmy Buffet records and getting handjobs on the beach while seagulls eat garbage out of hot dog wrappers.


If I could describe the taste with a series of gestures it would involve me ripping my dick off my body and then riding it to the moon like a rocket and punching the moon in half and then swimming around in space and brawling with aliens and dragons.


It tastes like I got in a fist fight with a hooker with giant fake tits and then out of ferocity and necessity I bit off her nipple and fucking rainbows and ponies shot out and then there no more wars and no one ever went hungry or sleepy again.


This drink is worth every penny and every hardship you’d have to endure to get at its fucking delicious tropical nectar.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

The Pop Shoppe Lime Rickey

This weekend was my first time sampling the many tastes The Pop Shoppe had to offer. While this soda is available in most of Ontario, it’s just about unattainable in Montreal and I just happened to get really lucky when I found it in Quebec City. Needless to say I’m now exceptionally poor and as result will be living out of a cardboard box on the street, eating cocks for bus money.

After wasting all of my riches I was hopeful that I would not be disillusioned with what I had hyped up in my mind as being cock shattering.

I’m not an expert in lime sodas. In fact I know about as much about lime soda as women do about not talking about their periods: not very much. But in spite of that I figured that my delicate palette have been put through the ringer time and time again and as a result I know what tastes like a suitcase full of monkey dicks or not.

The first thing I noticed is that it’s not exceedingly carbonated. If you’re at all familiar with my unintelligible ravings you will know that this is a problem for me. I guess I’m making an allowance here because in spite of this being a soda flavoured like a Lime Rickey, a conventional Lime Rickey is not very effervescent. I’m also trying to rationalize and justify not having wasted my fucking hard earned dollars.

The next thing that was pretty obvious was that the lime flavour is not very prominent, unlike Stewarts' Lime Soda which will fuck your mouth with citrus deliciousness. But once again I’m ok with that because traditionally Lime Rickey’s aren’t devastatingly lime flavoured.

I’m like an abused wife. My husband keeps coming home drunk with lipstick on his collar stinking like pussy and pinot grigio and then the only time he wants to have sex is when he’s blacking out and dry heaving. And when we do make love he calls me the wrong name and refuses to look me in the eye.

Then there was that one time when I was on top and he kept inarticulately mumbling something over and over but I supposed that this would be like most cases where if I addressed him directly he would slap me in my mouth and spit in my hair. In hindsight I should’ve realized he was whispering “Stop that or I’m going to shit” but I just kept on riding his boner hoping that if he came hard enough he’d love me more. Instead he pooped the bed and it splashed up off our linens onto me and I got a rash between my thighs and for three weeks afterward I had to walk like I’d just been riding a horse so my legs didn’t rub together and make the chaffing worse. But I’ve built myself up around him to the point where if I remove him from the way I define myself I’ll crumble and have to admit that I am a complete failure as a human being.

This drink is not very good. I am a complete failure as a human being.

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Cadbury Popping Mini Eggs


Sometimes you just want to eat food that sucks. Food that will fucking make you detest yourself. The pain of eating bullshit pooled with the ache of fucking hating yourself is incredibly satisfying in a getting strangled while fucking kind of way. So when I saw these fucking little morsels of gobbledygook I knew that the pastels and cute little logos were covering up the food of pure loathing.

I love candy eggs. They’re delicious and tiny enough that when compared to my testies I look like a fucking Frost Giant (Conan reference! it also implies that I am pasty in the junk: fact!). The crunchy candy shell, the firm, delicious milk chocolate hibernates beneath its exoskeleton, everything’s lined up to drain you of your spinal fluid and leave you a limp, sloppy, zombie of a man. It’s such a delicate combination and the fucking key elements are placed so precariously that fucking with it’s components will cause everything to come crashing down on your fucking skull leaving brain matter and skull crumbs all over the new button-down shirt your parents bought you with the hopes that you would land this job at the post-office and move the fuck out of their house. You just hope you get it so you can fashion yourself after Charles Bukowski and smoke hash, drink wine, and get laid by all sorts of subway-stop trannys. But you won’t be able to because your skull is split wide fucking open and everyone can see your porno dreams about horses and hairy backed women from the turn of the century. You have very specific tastes and I would salute you for it except that your face is a pile of pulp, you bastard.

While this combination is so specific and constantly on the verge of toppling over and maiming and/or flattening others, the fucking engineers at Cadbury have found out how to stack that motherfucker even closer to God without having it come down around their ears.

The addition of imitation Pop-Rocks to the hard candy shell is a stroke of genius. You kind of don’t notice the popping at first because the rocks are embedded in the candy so it basically has to dissolve in your mouth before the rocks are exposed and send your tongue and gums on a fucking magical journey. It’s sneaky and at first I didn’t realize that anything was happening so I swallowed the candy and then it went of like a crate of dynamite that I threw right into the fucking sun. What a fucking stupid combination. It's so incredibly pointless and unnecessarily aggravating but it feels so fucking incredible to eat chocolate and have your throat feel like it's being scraped with the back of a claw hammer.

It’s subtle, like the first time you get a foot job. You’re like I’m not really into having any foot play hooked up on my wiwi and then next second you’re the fucking mayor of Orgasmville. You sit back in your throne in city hall, proudly wearing the Orgasmville sash around your chunky torso like a caveman wears animal pelts or like my Uncle Henry wore little boys before they sent him off on his iron vacation.

These eggs will impress.

Monday, March 2, 2009

Chocolate and Sprinkle Covered Waffle on a Stick

This weekend Vinny (who has yet to post) and I went to Quebec City with out significant others for all sorts of “close to Euro” fuckery. Everyone who isn’t me decided it would be a great idea to slide down a giant slope of ice at 70 km/h on a toboggan made before I had dick hair. Reluctantly I agreed.

So we’re in the booth where you procure the tickets when we discovered a snack so simple and glorious it never even crossed my mind to hook this up at home. I proudly present to you: Waffle on a Stick.

They had a few diverse types of this welfare luxury but I opted for Chocolate Covered with Springles (they meant sprinkles).

This behemoth looks like a giant chocolate cock covered in delicious rainbow coloured dick warts. This is supernatural.


It’s not often that I’ll eat something and just know that I’m in the presence of fucking greatness. I feel for this snack what I can only assume socio-political nerds feel about Zinn or Chomsky lectures. The key difference is that waffles on sticks will give me the runs but I don’t think Howard Zinn will (unless I ask him nicely).


Here’s the scenario:

-You’re penniless and wholly destitute.


-You have amassed ghastly drug habits.


-You are disheartened and despondent passed any and all rationalization.


-You have dug yourself a hole so unfathomably vast that you believe there is no way you will be able to claw yourself out.

-You have agreed to be hunted with the caveat that if you survive you will be remunerated with a lump sum of 750,000$.


-You are supplied with a canteen, water purification tablets, a serrated edged blade, and four pairs of dry white cotton socks, as well as the clothes on your back.


Without realising that you would be heading out to the woods right away you chose to wear your red sweatpants. Mistake number 1.


Additionally you wore a lime green mesh baseball cap with the words “Got a Bad ‘Tude” handsomely silk-screened to the front of it. Mistake number 2.


You know nothing about the woods and even less about getting shot at by professional hunters. Mistake number 3.

Inside of five minutes you get shot and die. You get no money and they leave your corpse in the woods to be defiled and ravaged by wild dogs.


The previous scenario is exactly like eating a chocolate and sprinkle covered waffle on a stick. You can’t fucking win! This ogre will constantly best you!

Also I like your red sweatpants.