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.

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.

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.

Feeling Pear-Violet-Gentian Juice

I am always on the lookout for new drinks like Attila the Hun is on the lookout for ways to ass fuck you with a fried chicken. So if I find something that looks fucking offensive and that it will be review worthy I'll scope it out. I saw this drink and immediately anticipated that it would fucking taste like watching Titanic without seeing Kate Winslet's funbags.

This drink is made up of three ingredients I could not possibly give less of a fuck about. I have the same interest in these three "key" ingredients as I do in dry shaving the base of my shaft: not a lot.

This beverage is flowers and pears. It's like what effeminate royalty would drink before eating regal bullshit like pig cocks and sheep tits. Fuck royalty is awesome.

This drink is like all foreplay and no bang-bang (that's what I call fucking, like: "it's a good thing that you're asleep, I'm going to make bang-bang on a fistful of your long blond hair. I'm going to hair bang-bang you."). This drink has no pay-off like suddenly getting X-ray vision or seizures. This drink tastes like a botanists wettest dreams. This is like valentine's day without the chance of seeing some fucking titties.

Oh man this drink is a giant piece of shit.

Flowers can eat a big fat sack of my ass. I originally had a joke here about beating women but after sound council it was decided that the joke may not go over as well as I had hoped it would. So in it's place here is a drawing I made at work:

Salta Katten

My buddy Greg has been talking up this disgusting licorice candy from Sweden for quite some time. The way he described it to me (accurately) is that it was black licorice covered in salt. I was sold. Black Licorice=awesome. Salt=awesome. I was sold. So when he told me that his girlfriend's friends from Sweden brought some down I lost my shit. I pooed a little.

I was so desperately looking forward to it. I was confident that in spite of sounding gross as fuck I would fall madly in love with them and when they got pregnant from my mighty seed I would see the birth to term. I would be a stern but proud father. I would shed a tear at his graduation and then get in a car wreck and die. They would all say nice things about me and I would be watching from Heaven and I would cry and then my tears would fall to earth and water an apple seed and it would grow into a mighty tree and then it would get struck by lightning and then fall over and fuck your car up. Eating these candies will make me fuck with your insurance.

So today was the big day. He brought them to work and I chowed down.

At first I was in love. It was romantic magic. It was potent in its licoriceness with a bold salt finish. But when the licorice taste wore itself out against the might of my tongue the salt could not be bested. It continued on its quest without his friend. And consequently ruined my life. It's 10 parts salt for 3 parts licorice. It's completely fucking unevenly balanced. What a ruse!

This was like bumping into the most gorgeous, glorious, perfect woman you have ever had the pleasure of laying your eyes on while you're at the grocery store. You fumble nervously for words, anything to keep her from noticing how terrified you are of her beauty. You make awkward jokes to cover up the fact that your heart is beating like a jackhammer. She notices and because she is humble and completely unaware of her effect on men, she blushes and stares at her feet. Your heart swells even more. So many perfect moments needed have lined themselves up for this to come to pass. With sweaty palms and a mouth arid and dry like the desert heat you ask her if you can see her again, on purpose this time. Without missing a beat, she says she'd like that. You take her out to a lavish restaurant in spite of your hours at the shop being cut almost in half. She's worth it, you rationalize to yourself. At the end of your date you work up the nerve to kiss her, she kisses right back, pressing her body hard against yours and the earth stops spinning. The stars shine even brighter than usual as walk home humming love songs to yourself. You see her as often as you can with your conflicting schedules. She calls you every day during her lunch break at the salon. You cherish every moment together, every stolen kiss, every whispered promise, every longing gaze. She spends the night at your place. She smells like Lavender and roses. You take her home to meet your parents and they hit it off right away. Your dad gives you the knowing nod of approval from across the table. You hear your mom whisper surprised niceties about her to your sister as they get the pie and ice cream ready for dessert.

Even though you've only been dating for 5 short weeks you know it's real. You feel a hope that invades your life and makes you feel an unquenchable thirst for her undying love. You can't believe that you were ever able to function without her. Your days are filled with more joy than words can give description to. Your heart is busting at its seams. You see colors more vibrantly than before. You hear hidden notes of glorious music in everything.

Then one day after a romantic dinner the two of you head back to her place where she sits you down and confesses that she has something important she needs to communicate. Apprehensive but trusting you sit down nervously and await her revelation.

She explains that when her mother got pregnant the doctor had informed her that she was having twins. Her mother was elated! Twins! What precious gifts from God. Her mother continued beaming with radiant pride until her next check up. The doctor's mood darkened noticeably during the ultrasound. Her mother knew something was amiss immediately. The doctor, with gentle speech, had the unenviable task of explaining that what had transpired was due to a rare condition known as Dizygotic Osmosis, wherein one twin begins to absorb the other. Her mother was devastated. Understandably, she was wrecked emotionally but she knew it wasn't the child's fault.

At this moment your beautiful girlfriend breaks down in tears informs you that there's more to this story before you have a chance to offer any words of comfort. She turns her head away from you. You think it's out of shame and you feel so sorry she's had to wrestle with a burden she never deserved to bear. You quickly realize it's not shame or grief when she parts the back of her hair, revealing a mangled, half-formed, child's face and marred claw like hand protruding from her skull. You vomit on her sofa and punch her in the "little twin brother". It/he explodes and you get the fuck out of there like your shoes are on fire.

You are heartbroken.

Jones Fun Soda

On Saturday I went to a show across the street from a candy store. At this candy store they had Jones soda. I do not like Jones soda very much, but I feel compelled to try every flavor at least once so I can proudly look myself in the eye when I walk by reflective surfaces/mirrors. As luck would have it they had two discontinued flavors; Fun and Peachy Keen. As the title of this post suggests I will be reviewing Fun.

I was stoked to find this because it isn't on my list of shit to drink. I figured it would be too hard to find and not worth my while at all. Then I became even more stoked because at no point in purchasing this did I ever consider what it might taste like. I only bothered to make sure there wasn't any pineapple in it (I'm allergic to pineapple and girls with huge nipples).

I cracked the top and it stank like fish guts and Mr. Clean. I know the picture doesn't do it justice but it's day-glo yellow. This looks like a pair of "Hammer pants". This drink was not good. At all. But the thing was, I really wanted to see where it went. I kept thinking I was getting close to figuring out what it tasted like but it never happened. It's like getting a painful HJ while blindfolded. You have no idea if it's a guy or girl but either way it hurts. They're pulling the foreskin back a little too far and you start to bleed. Instead of tapping out you hold on in the hopes of having an orgasm but you never cum. You limp away bleeding and confused and scream like a banshee every time you take a piss for the next 3 and a half weeks. You're left sore and disappointed.

That accurately defines the experience I had both in a Lebanese bathhouse and while drinking this.

This whole fucking thing was some crazy mystery. This drink is bullshit. The only reason they called it "Fun" is because the name "We Don't Know What the Fuck this Is" wouldn't sell shit.

This is so bogus.

*Yes that is Stewart's Ginger Beer wallpaper on my laptop. I really like their Ginger Beer.

Extreme Sour Warheads

I am a man.
I am strong and able to resist above average amounts of pain. I can carry hammers and bricks and I can juggle cattle. I can drive fast in my car and curse at women. I can show you my dick and poop in a hat. I can punch a hole in drywall and show you my dick. I can you show you my dick. You will see my dick.

I can accomplish all these fucking impressive tasks but I can't eat Warheads without making a face like a fucking anus. These things are brutal. They taste like getting caught beating off and then instead of being awkward and surprised and leaving the room immediately, your mom continues to watch you rub one right out. It's like stuffing a lemon with battery acid and then funneling it into your urethra.

The candy itself is delicious once you can get past the mouth ravaging hellfire that is its sourness. The tangyness protects the sweet nectar inside. It's like a sour chastity belt keeping me from tonguing the sweet vagina within.

This candy sucks. I don't understand why anyone would ever want to eat anything that makes your eyes water and makes your soul leave your body and piss on a garbage bag full of dead kittens.

I hate this candy. It just fucking hurts. The sweetness of the candy is not reward enough to suffer through boils on your cheeks and tongue.

This candy is fucking amateur. We're fucking done professionally.

This candy is fucking stupid and if you eat this you probably fucking hate yourself to the point where you can only achieve orgasm if someone's punching you in the back of the head or choking the fucking life out of you. Fuck your stupid life.

Domingo Peach and Berry Bullshit Wine Coolers

Have you ever walked by a mall food court and wondered what the 50 year old in the skin tight mini skirt drinks after workouts or while tanning by her above-ground pool? Answer: Wine Coolers.


They sit on their pleather couches watching LOST reruns just so they can slow-motion scenes where Sawyer's not wearing a shirt. Then it's off to the dry cleaners to pick up their best leopard print dress. They get dressed, paint their lips the darkest crimson, and drink Fuzzy Navels/Sex on the Beachs until they lose the ability to use vowels. They're out at their Cougar bar degrading the fuck out of themselves because they're desperate to feel some young hot johnson between their spray on tanned boobies. To them Young Cock=Self-Worth. (See below).

Both these wine coolers suck. They don't taste like the fruit they are supposed to. Instead they taste like desperation and playing spin the bottle with 13 year olds. This drink is for females desperate to be women, either too young to grow pubes (or to get preggers. Wink wink) or alternately too old to get wet vaginas without the aid of oils and balms.

Both these drinks taste like Calgon body spray. They taste more like fruit perfume than fruit. Also the fact that these come in cans is certainly not helping the taste any.

These drinks suck. They would be better if they came with their own MILFs: looking to relieve the pain of their kids moving out and going to college by having someone fuck it out of them.

But that's not the case. Sadly.

Sanpellegrino Chinotto

Up until that Sangria shit a few posts down this was the worst drink I had ever had. I guess that's about the only nice thing I can say about that Sangria mess. Anyway as I'm sure you can tell this drink eats dicks.

I like Brio and that's some Chinotto bullshit so I figured why the fuck wouldn't I like this. The answer is: because Coca-Cola shouldn't taste like getting mouth fucked with cleaning solvants.

And that's no joke. It tastes like someone mixed Pledge with Coca-Cola and then told you it was fucking cool to drink while you played petonk with a bunch of cranky old Italian dudes. This drink made me furious. The can was fucking sweet and I wanted to walk around looking all refined and shit, like a fucking gentleman sipping on some weirdo citrus drink. But fuck that. This drink is bullshit.

Here are some rules about delicious sodas:
1. It should never be sour. Please note that Coke with Lime is delicious and not sour, so the combination of citrus and cola is feasible.

2. A brown can should more often than not represent something coffee flavoured, especially with the shade of this motherfucker. And I'm ignorant to most fruits so if it turns out Chinotto is brown well then fuck them for not making that more obvious. And fuck this drink for being shittier than the can it comes in.

3. Fuck this drink.

And there you have it in a nutshell: this drink is bogus and you should skip it unless you're some sort of mutant who wants cola to taste like someone's whiskey dick wrapped in dish soap.