Читать книгу Dos & Don'ts - Vice Magazine - Страница 8

Having a tall friend is great in a fight, because he can come in and absorb all the punches. But having a tall friend who’s also willing to absorb all the fag-bashing that leads to the punches is about as close as it gets to having your own personal stunt double.

G-Unit may have fallen off in record sales but at least they’re still out there hustling for that paper.

Isn’t he supposed to have open sores on his face and a mongrel dog that’s dying of starvation whimpering into a half empty bowl of cider? He’s like if Urban Outfitters did a line called “Distressed Rancid”.

Since the bogeyman retired, big sisters have been scaring their siblings with stories of the Sex Squad Man who is under your bed right now and can’t wait to tickle you.

Oh, to be wheeled to the banks of the river Styx by an immaculately attired angel of death who smells like lilies and brimstone and softly murmurs songs of praise in a stately baritone.

We generally don’t like twinks but this is kind of OK. Anyone who can mix Andrew Cunanan with My Own Private Idaho is at least worthy of a little...

What the fuck do these disgusting pieces of sugar-filled white garbage need Bluetooths for? So the TV can call them? “HEY MOM—WE R STILL IN PARKING LOT—MARKS YAWNING—CAN WE GO—NEED TO GET BACK TO CONT. SHITTY LIVES.”

Losing your leg at a Prodigy concert must be fucking harsh.

Your testicles have to get some fresh air once in a while. In fact, letting them run around the block in the snow is actually beneficial for sperm production. Don’t forget to put a pair of sunglasses on them though. Balls have very sensitive eyes.

Yeah, cram it in your maw with those trembling fucking fingers. Show her who’s the boss around here. Show that chicken and mushroom tartlet how you’re sick of taking the train to work at 8 AM every day for 25 grand a year just to wait on tourists browsing expensive shoes.

If rappers started dressing like this fruitcake maybe I’d like their music again.

“Yessss! I’m totally being fucked by a famous guy! Hope nobody can see us.”

Teaching your kid to fly is pretty impressive, we’ll admit, but it still doesn’t make up for all the racist shit.

What’ll you give me if I suck all the old lentil soup, pot seeds and mental illness out of his beard?

“Oh, you haven’t met Gerry’s new girlfriend Marie yet? Classy broad. I think she’s going to be out tonight.”

SHOTS If someone buys you a shot, you have to do it, no matter what. If you’re too hungover or the bar is about to close, you can pretend to do it by throwing it over your shoulder, but if you get caught that person has the right to never speak to you again. It is also considered good form to match your friend shot-for-shot. This is a matter of not asking your buddy to do something you wouldn’t do yourself.

Fuck being thin and good looking. Most girls just want to hang around with plump bearded guys who are hilarious at parties and always have coke. If this guy was famous he’d probably be able to fuck them as well.

I don’t know if it’s male or female and frankly I don’t care. I just want to rub my asshole up and down its face until it starts yodelling for mercy.

Look at how smug this fucking genius is about the worst mistake of his life so far. Just how much TV did his dad not let him watch?

If you live in a first-world country and you don’t play video games while shitting (eating on the toilet works too), then I don’t think you get what we’re trying to do here.

You don’t have to be gay to feel the urge to let this glitter-bear ejaculate on you. I don’t even think you need to be horny.

You can say what you want about the meatheads who go around stealing bicylcles, but they’ve got the “sporty prison rape” look down to a T.

Here’s to the black hoodie. Even tie-dyed space clowns from a freezing planet with an unbreathable atmosphere composed mainly of LSD can use it to pull their outfit together and make their style appear totally effortless.

When you hit 30 you can either go the way of the rural indie artist guy or you can shave your head, switch t-shirts to polos, and be the old city hardcore guy.

After putting us through nearly two decades of maternitywear, black teens have basically earned a free pass on whatever look they want. Even chiptune nerd.

It’s one thing to be the coked-up party animal who puts on a gold dress and lets his uncircumcised dick flop around just to be hilarious, but then to also start releasing awful farts that burn the nostrils? That’s gangster.

Yes, this is funny. Don’t be a nerd.

Jesus Christ, what a fucking grill! That face looks like it’s absorbed every problem every person in the whole world has ever had, and that includes diarrhoea.

“And a-vun and a-two… Vay down in Louisiana, down in New Orleans, vay back up in the... Dance my arms faster, Rolf! In not so long ve vill have enuf money for a bag of Berlin’s finest heroin.”

In Milan, the hot new style for men this season is to look like a male prostitute in his boxer shorts calmly leaving the scene after brutally murdering an enema-obsessed priest who took it too far this time.

The Iraq War seems tragic right now, but do you really want America to be so friendly with those guys that they start coming over here and partying with us?

Apart from the Fall Out Boy shirt, Junior HR and JJ Cro-Mags are pretty much 100 percent perfection. Shouldn’t Larry Clark be lurking in the background with a camera?

Yes, she’s a bit Eurotrashy. But is there anybody alive looking at this that doesn’t want to just sink their teeth into her perineum and wave her around in the air like a great white does to a baby seal on Discovery Channel Shark Week?

Sorry ageing fashion guys, but there’s nothing fierce about 30 pints of dick cheese fried up in a burning ball of hair.

Uh oh. It’s time for the imaginary friends to go to bed or they’ll be too sleepy to put ketchup in Dad’s coffee tomorrow morning.

KARAOKE

1. Do not hog the mic. If there are three people, you should be singing one-third of the songs. This applies to shy people, too. Don’t go to karaoke if you don’t want to sing.

2. Pay your way. I don’t care how little you sing or how you didn’t even want to come out tonight. If you are there for even a minute, you are part of the problem.

3. No slow jams. They are buzzkills.

4. Only sing songs that you actually know. We’re not here to watch you try and figure out lyrics. Rap is next to impossible to do, so you better have heard it about 10,000 times before you choose it as a karaoke jam.

5. Sing it as the guy. If you do Prince, try to sound like Prince. If you do Springsteen’s “I’m on Fire”, you better hoarse up your voice so it sounds right.

6. Only one person on the mic at a time. This is an especially hard rule to follow during Oasis and U2, but sorry dude, that’s why there’s rules.

He’s singing that Bronski Beat classic, “Hey God, What the Fuck Did You Do With My Balls?”

While your friends are going to bars thinking they’re heavy shit because they just did seven shots or— ooooh!—they talked to a pretty girl, you are out there, in the streets, destroying society with your bare hands like your life is a Dead Kennedys song.

You might think that the best accessory for the young, attention-seeking homosexual would be a bag or shoes or perhaps a scarf. But you’d be wrong. It’s a Filipino midget.

Suicide is for pussies.

You know you’re a filthy whore when even your ass is frantically trying to claw its way out of your dress just to get the fuck away from you.

A lot of girls are wearing these long t-shirt dresses that are so short even dogs think, “I wonder if I could get her if she was really wasted and I had coke.”

I used to think leg men were fags but every once in a while you see a pair of stems that makes you understand why the 1950s won’t shut up about it.

This town ain’t big enough for the two of us fucking baby dickhead Scandinavian pussies.

The most satisfying part of asking an ageing male-model Charlie Brown grunge turd to pose for the DOs & DON’Ts is the moment he realises which side of the page he’s destined for.

How tranquil and saintly is Jimmy Train Set? I want to be him when I grow up. Actually, can I be him now?

It’s nice to get a tattoo of that special someone, unless your life is a revolving door of special someones.

For some reason I always thought that taking him out of the water and putting him in a pair of sweats outside the drug store would divest King Neptune of some of his majesty and grandeur. I was wrong.

Look, nobody’s saying you’ve got to be Brad Pitt to get laid, but when you walk up looking like a lunch box puppet some wizard brought to life for his kid, the sound of vaginas clamping shut is like a machine gun.

You know when you see something in another country with English words written on it that are basically nonsensical because it looks cool, and the person who owns it has no idea what it means? Like a child’s backpack in Japan that says “Obama Harry Potter Dragonball Z Brad Pitt”? This car is just like that.

STEALING FROM ENGLISH-AS-A-SECOND-LANGUAGE SPEAKERS Try scowling and saying, “Do you know what I’m talking about?” when you mean “Know what I am saying?” We knew an exchange student who did that, and it ruled. Asking if people want to “make a party” is good too.

Does anything say “suave eccentric billionaire on holiday” more than a slightly battered vintage briefcase and a perfectly coordinated leisure/flight suit?

Sure, he isn’t great friend material if you’re lost in Baltimore. But should you be in Paris and need a faggy electro bar where they play Giorgio Moroder and the dad of the girl who owns it built the Pompidou Centre, he’s perfect.

Are they wearing those jackets so chicks know what flavour of date rape they’re going to get? Pink signifies the bewildering, “Did that really happen?” kind and blue means knocked out and waking up on the kitchen floor.

Something inside me wants to molest this Trevor Brown painting come to life but that’s a part that I keep buried in the tiny, padlocked box at the bottom of the three-mile-deep closet that’s inside another closet that you get to by taking a right turn after skeleton 895 in closet 57.

Hang on a sec, shouldn’t you be five inches tall and gyrating on some Hawaiian’s dashboard instead of wrecking my ability to get anything done for the rest of the day?

Remember the kid who was a grade ahead of you in junior high who listened to MDC, knew Watchmen by heart and smoked pot out of an apple? He hasn’t changed at all, and he’s still putting the rest of us to shame by not giving one flying fuck.

Why couldn’t Dylan Carlson have lent the shotgun to this fey little grunge turd instead? Sure, his sister and mum would cry at the funeral but at least nobody would be stealing their Super Shiny Straightening Serum any more.

If she was a foot shorter this coat would have dramatically different connotations, but right now I’m about 90 percent sure the intended message is, “Why the hell are we driving into Linda’s back?”

That space blanket is perfect. I want one the next morning that I’m promising God that I’ll never do it again as long as I don’t die this time.

For those about to double-team the 45-year-old Mexican barback for coke, we salute you.

Hey, you’ve worked hard all day and if you want to mix yourself a pineapple soda and Popov vodka cocktail on the way home, who’s to stop you? The world is your oyster, my friend.

Crazy-eyed bitch leaving you the 33rd voice mail of the night about to heave a brick through your window for never calling her back is a surprisingly good look.

In their spare time, the assistant managers of mobile-phone warehouses stand in car parks wearing jeans designed for 12-year-old girls and making gang signs that mean “free talk time on nights and weekends”.

“Look, I ain’t gonna make it into work today. My dick exploded.”

Oh good. Looks like the pictures finally came back from my future honeymoon.

Heroin hasn’t done much for aviation or particle physics lately, but the field of avant-garde hat design is deeply in its debt.

Ah, the independent spirit of the true Parisian male who wears nappies underneath leggings, starts drinking pastis at 8 AM, and never plans on working or making his 1950s bathroom bigger than a matchbox despite the fact that he has a wife and three kids who all live with him, the youngest of which is 28.

Doesn’t he look like the giant baby from old Bugs Bunny cartoons? You just want to dab his mouth with one of those scarves then hoist him over your shoulder and say, “Wuh-oh, who made a wittle mess of his food? Who made a wittle mess? Oh, da bad wittle baby made a mess, dat’s who!”