You know whose fault it is that you’ve had to move three Latvian haulage companies into your trendy East London warehouse space? Ziggy fucking Stardust that’s who. Yep, in the kind of wildly unpredictable move that has made finance such a giggle over the last six months, an expert has come out to blame David Bowie for starting the credit crunch.
We get that British tabloids work differently than ours. Whereas the New York Post et al. are forced to make ends meet with cartoon speech bubbles and uncle-grade puns, English trash rags like The Sun and Daily Mail have a full arsenal of tits and swear words and even completely made-up lies at their disposal. And we like that. All that stuff is great, but it fails to explain what in the wide world of fuck is going on with this weird picture-story in today's Telegraph.
It's an ugly way to die, poetically. To become an analogy that people use to illustrate how "Over-consumption" has lead to a "Crash", and then titter with glee at their own witty economic savvy. That's got to hurt. But not as much as being crushed to death by your own shopping.
I am struggling to work out what I find most strange about the pulverisation of a wind turbine in Grainsthorpe, Lincolnshire. Off the bat I would say that the fact that the founder of Ecotricity, Dale Vince, approximates potential threats to his wind turbines in relation to farm yard animals? Maybe he just watched the cartoon adaptation of Animal Farm, that had me all lathered up about farms too.
It wasn't easy wrapping up the Super Short Story contest we arranged in honour of the Fiction Issue, mostly because the entries we received were bad. Your story wasn't bad, obviously, we just mean, y'know, most of them. But luckily, like a toilet paper parachute sailing in across the rollicking shit waves of purple prose and sheltering us from a torrential downpour of crappy analogies, we finally received a submission that parted the figurative storm clouds (of heavy-handed exposition). Eva Michon is a Toronto-based writer, illustrator, film director and photographer. Her story - The Ivy House - went over our suggested word count, but we overlooked that since it was also leagues above everything else we read. So thanks for saving the day, Eva! Check out her story after the jump.
I wrote my grandfather an email right after I moved to Brooklyn and started interning here at Vice to fill him in on how I was doing, to see how everybody back home was, and to dissuade him from buying me Ronald Reagan’s Tuesday bocce ball suit as a college graduation gift. I thought I was being reasonable, cordial, all of those things William J. Bennett describes in The Book of Virtues (which he gave me for a birthday gift when I turned 14). But I guess if you don’t join the army and pray in the direction of Dick Cheney five times a day then you’re an idiot with a dead end for a future. A couple days after I sent him the email I got this reply.
I grew up in Texas. Some time in the mid-80s, my mom was put in charge of the Dharma Study Group. What that meant was that we rented a little house in a different area of town, and once a week, everyone in her group would get together and meditate. On Sundays. The group attracted a lot of different types. Call them seekers.
A fear of fucking clowns does not fill the void where your personality should be. It is becoming increasingly fashionable for people to spontaneously announce that they're scared of clowns. It is usually people who have little to no interests and similarly there is nothing interesting about them.
We got this story in from a model with dreamy eyes who "manscapes" every day before slathering himself in self-tanner and kissing his muscles poolside. He's really popular with the ladies, and can goose hot ass freely—and with nary a word of conversation, no less—since he's so in tune with the finer nuances of the female psyche. For instance, as he posits in a mind-expanding conjecture, "Women, when driven by rage or jealousy, are willing to do irrational things, willing to throw their standards and self-respect out the window to prove a greater point." Actually, we have no idea if that's actually what he's looks like--that's just what his personality projects, and that's us being nice. Probably he's a pasty horny dweeb with greasy hair, a patchy beard, glasses with lenses too thick for their frames—basically a comic book geek who thinks he's a writer, toiling the long nights by the glow of his computer screen in a dorm room. We're going to spare him his byline so as not to blow his cover as he stealthily navigates the world of getting trim. The first paragraph (or even sentence) kind of says it all, but we're also including the whole long-winded, appalling thing. Enjoy!
The opening party of the year is a Mardi Gras, and I show up with my pirate hat hitting on everything in sight. One girl who didn't find me obnoxious was this innocent-looking Quaker girl with braces. I proceed to talk to her for a long time (30 minutes) before telling her it was cold outside but not cold in my room. She told me she wasn't that type of girl blah blah and gave me her number instead. When I tell her I'll call her, she gets very happy. Naturally I don't call her, but I run in to her a week later...
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