Hi! I probably wouldn't like you, and there's a very good chance you wouldn't like me. I drink too much, and I'm not very nice. But it's fine! I've only got one ball. I lost a ball skateboarding when I was really young.
Dear Vice, You folks are clever enough to come up with a comment for this. Perhaps something about a company who owes its success to exploiting graffiti culture paying a non-citizen minimum wage to scrub tags off their gleaming corporate... Oh wait is that the Toronto Vice office?
Oops... Maybe something about overalls.
Someone was feeling helpful and astute when he snapped this DON’T and sent in commentary. We take no issue in theory with a feminine twist on the Canadian tuxedo, but we will agree with the perspicacious bloke who sent us this photo that this particular all-denim outfit is rather on the flappy side. (How do you even walk in a cocoon of jeans?) But did his comment mention those hideous banana curls hair sprayed straight off the hot barrel of a Conair iron? A calculated and seasonably timely crack at our old nemesis, the flip flop? Nay. Read on for his exegesis…
Recently we were forced to ban from our web site one sad little dimwit for a barrage of pointless, unfunny comments that were heavily peppered with racial slurs. Generally we're not much for giving a shit about people's internet leavin's, but these were approaching the realm of Pete Holmes's "LMAO these chiggers suk." Like previous incidents, we wrote the commenter off as your garden variety 35-year-old porn addict, but then, a few days later, our publisher received a voicemail from a self-proclaimed "naive 14-year-old" who likes to sum things up "briefly and practically." Her "personal complaint" was that our "magazine fucking sucks." It's easily the best phone message we've received this year. Click further for to a'listen.
Our hearts go out to the drug-damaged weirdos of the 60s who burnt their lives on The Haight and now can't stay out of jail. But we might not give them a job here, even if they really could use a boost/break in life and can write a dazzling, manic letter on homeless resource guide info they printed off the internet. This guy—and we honestly can't even tell what he calls himself—not only made a sincere and honest plea to us for employment, he also is trying to expose some corrupt prison practices and their funnel, an organization that claims to help parolees but does the exact opposite. Plus he's also supposedly starting a TV show about his fellow parolee buddies who do some kind of open mic night. We're a little bit unsure what do to with all of this except for to put it on the internet.
I am living in Paris trying to learn French, sharing a bed with two other people and a few hundred bedbugs and mosquitoes. While we were shivering through our croisant and crunchy butter yesterday morning the doorbell sounded. It was a young fireman selling calendars, so we bought one. We huddled around the table ready to perv out on some toned Frog firefighters only to be disappointed. Unlike the Hollyoaks calendar approach that Anglo-American fire departments tend to gravitate towards, the French version was full of bleeding bodies pinned under fallen roofs, burn victims on stretchers, and blazing buildings. Not a greased torso in sight. Thanks a lot sapeurs-pompiers.
Oh look what showed up in the fax machine last night: a 20-something-page diatribe on cable TV's embarrassments, the author's own neurosis (as told from third-person POV, no less), and FCC corruption. He might have some sort of point about that last one, but it's lost in a tornado of horribly written nonsense, including but not limited to how he called the cops on a suspicious vehicle in a gas station's parking lot, was arrested and spent ten days in jail for it, and suffered $80,000 in dental damage as a result. Somehow it all links to Wendy O. Williams, UFO conspiracy, tons of canceled movies (we really wish the anti-terrorist film Amerikkka 3000 would've seen the light of day), and several D-list actresses—one of whom accidentally agreed to have lunch with him at a California Pizza Kitchen—who've gone "missing." By his definition it seems "missing" means "changed their number after I've harassed them repeatedly." But we'll stop talking about it now lest we start sounding like the kook himself. If anyone feels like taking a swing at this piñata of paranoid noise, go for it.
In October you had those interviews with people after they just finished having sex with each other. That was nice but that situation accidentally happened to me the other week when I heard my old roommate doing it to some sad girl. Though I would like to wish away the noises I heard, the conversation that followed is pretty good. I only heard his half of the conversation; I think the girl spoke only with shrugs and whispers. Here are the things he said: