These new Vans are the perfect way of letting your feet say "I'm down with DC hardcore and skating" while still telling San Francisco "fire burn all you bloodclot faggots, you act so crazy even out in public it makes me want to go and shoot one of you."
Usually the reading material people leave behind on bus seats is the sort of crap no one but crazies wants to read: grocery receipts, those shitty Metro newspapers they hand out at bus stops, Chick tracts. OK, Chick tracts can be an all right time provided you haven't seen the same one eight million times prior, but the general rule of thumb is if it's on the bus it probably sucks. Actually this rule sort of applies to people as well as things BUT ANYWAY we found this crumpled printout on the bus last night and automatically assumed it was going to be some boring shit no one cares about, but it turns out we were completely wrong.
If you read our Australian blog a) sorry, you've already seen this, but b) you may remember that a week or so back two members of the Aussie editorial team vanished into the Tasmanian wilderness (which, as we understand it, is sort of like the Southern Hemisphere equivalent of heading to Alaska, if Alaska were the northern equivalent of Florida) and returned all crusty-eyed and untalkative. Well, it turns out they also brought back some Tasmaniacal souvenirs. Click below for a sampling of the Vaginal Isle's fineries.
One thing you may have noticed if you've ever left the country for somewhere significantly crappier is that, while a lot of places may lag pretty far behind in things like transit and child mortality and not building settlements around open sewers as if they were Venetian canals, they are light-years ahead of us in other departments, like underwear. Maybe all the years spent cranking out low-budget "intimates" for the West has fueled some sort of secret well-made undie-race, or maybe they're just saving all the good ones for themselves—in any event every pair we've ever tried on from abroad seriously makes any of American Apparel's jersey-knit nonsense feel like a construction-paper g-string held together with tape. And that's not even getting into all the bells and whistles they've thought to add, like condom pockets and glow-in-the-dark cartoon dicks and children's briefs that say "Stripper." What the hell have we got to compete against that, Joe Boxer? Pathetic. Aside from their general superiority, foreign underwear can also teach you valuable lessons about their country's culture...
Here's some badass percussion aimed at drummers in prepubescent metal bands who hate The Man and whose mums just don't understand that 9pm is a totally bullshit bedtime. "Spikes and the blood red Anarchy symbol completes the ferocity of this eye-catching and ear splitting instrument," say the manufacturers. You can complement your Anarchy Cowbell with an Anarchy Wood Block, a "spike-riddled, ear-splitting synthetic wood block that looks as aggressive as you sound." Fuck you, world!
I know Japan threw in the towel on normal decades ago, but letting your kids eat fake cat shit is the kind of idea only a mind softened by years of actual cat-shit eating could come up with. I mean, things like boogers as candy make sense because kids actually eat the real thing, and even human or dog poop can be kind of cute when you make it into a little spiral mound like this guy. The only thing cute about cat shit is when they've gotten into some Christmas tree tinsel and they've got a piece of it hanging out of their tuckus with a little turd dangling at the end. Even then, it's only a good time until you have to pull it out (which feels like you're using anal beads with your cat).
Dear Vice, Your Tidbits column has always reminded me of me and my friends when we were teenagers, walking around the city and basically doing nothing. When it was cold we'd go into 99 cent stores and make fun. We'd take pictures of ourselves with mannequins or products that have funny names like Anusol. Sometimes we'd make up life stories about the girls on hair dye boxes. Discount stores are such a treasure trove of bad ideas and things
people never take the time to appreciate, and all at great prices! Here are some of my own finds...
OK, new rule: “Special” kids are allowed have “special” toys, but only as long as we’re allowed to laugh our collective ass off at them. Exhibit A: these play-therapy dolls that come complete with fake legs and braces. We know it’s all about making people feel better about their conditions, but Christ—does anyone who actually has to go through physical therapy want to reenact the whole procedure at home with mini trampolines and parallel bars? It's not like regular kids come home from school and pretend their regular-looking dolls are coming home from school to pretend their regular-looking dolls are coming home from school. They make them do the things they're not capable of themselves, kiss and drive into each other with cars--that's the whole point of fucking toys.
Now I’m sad. I mean, I was so excited. A solar-powered rainbow maker with a heart-shaped Swaraovski crystal? What part of that description doesn’t fill me with joy and wonder? When the package arrived, I tore it open like a kid on the eighth day of Chanukah (you get the biggest presents on the eighth day) and wham! The solar-powered panel fell right the fuck off. I guess it got cracked by some jerkface mailman. But not to be undone by misfortune, I Krazy-Glued it back on and suction-cupped it to my window and waited for the motor to start whirring and the rainbows to start rainbowing. The sun was shining as I held my hands clasped together in anticipation. But it was futile. I would have no rainbows today. Crushed, I pried it off my window and threw it out. Can you picture how utterly sad that image is? A rainbow machine—essentially a happiness machine—in the trash. God, I feel poopy. MEG SNEED