This is an article about having better sex in 2014. To take you to new erotic heights, I was going to give you some practical sex advice: don’t fuck two participants in a threesome with the same condom on, a guy will almost always love it if you sit on his face, ladies don’t like cum in their hair, etc. But, to be honest, practical tips turn sex into a bizarre shopping list: If you didn’t like Tip #2: “Draw a sexy bull’s-eye around your nipple with rhinestones and eyelash glue” (an actual Cosmo tip), then try Tip #9: “Gently stick his penis through the hole of a glazed donut” (another REAL TIP). These tips are impractical. There is really only one tip I can give you: use your mouth.
For talking, guys. For talking. I talked to a bunch of normal people I know and asked them what happened with their dicks, pussies, and asses in 2013 and what they’re going to do to make it better in 2014.
Pat, 30, is a regular human who had a good sex year: “Sex for me this year was all about learning to have sex consistently with one partner. Previously I was more of a casual sex/fuckbuddy person, but now that I have a girlfriend I had to get used to the idea of having monogamous sex with the same woman, all the time. Partner sex is less about getting drunk enough to do crazy shit and more about looking each other in the eyes and soberly telling each other what you want. In 2014 I think that trust will serve to help us explore even further our desires and sexual proclivities in a way that neither of us have had the opportunity to in the past. And by that I mean butt stuff.”
To celebrate 2013—and to give you something to do while sneaking sips of whisky and avoiding your family during Christmas—we’ve compiled the 30 best videos we released across our YouTube network for your viewing pleasure. 3D-printed guns, Soylent, West African truckers, and paintballing with Tyler, the Creator; it’s all there.
We’d say, “you’re welcome,” but we’d rather say, “thank you.” Thank you for making 2013 our favorite year since, like, forever.
Everyone in the world is turning into an entitled psychopath, which led to a massive surplus in the 2013 cry-baby market. It was a crowded field out there this year, and while it’s true that all of the contenders were infantile and pathetic, who was the biggest cry-baby of them all? We’ll let you decide.
We live in a very uncritical artistic climate. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the nauseating world of music criticism. I’ve worked in this industry for a little while, and there’s a prevailing sentiment that music critics who don’t have anything nice to say shouldn’t say anything at all, and that it’s more important to shine a light on the good in the world than call bullshit when you hear it. This is compounded by musicians, who are tiny babies who can’t take the slightest criticism, opting for a fantasy world where they’ve never made a bad song in their entire pointless careers.
This may sound like a non-sequitor, but here’s a fun thought experiment a friend taught me—try to think of the most popular song in the country right now. Go ahead, try. You can’t do it, can you? That’s because, as 2013 rounds to a close, no one ever has to listen to anything they don’t want to. We’re encouraged to build a dumb little sonic cocoon, an insulated baby-bubble filled with all the perfect little albums and singles we can fit on our mobile devices. And when we don’t need to rely on broadcasters like MTV or Power 105.1 for our new music, it becomes harder and harder to figure out what the hell we’re supposed to rebel against. And I’m mad about it, dammit!
Frank Zappa once said that “music criticism is people who can’t write, interviewing people who can’t talk, for people who can’t read.” We’re onboard with that statement, which is why this time of year always gets our goat, and then rams a splintery chopstick up our poor goat’s dickhole. It’s year-end top-50 review season.
Allow us to explain a few things about year-end top-50 review season. It’s a moment when neck-beard music critics get to throw their weight around, kick their Converse up on their desks, and wax critical about something that’s fully accepted as impossible to quantify—the best albums of the year. According to Billboard, something like 75,000 albums are released each year, and that’s not counting stuff your dirtbag cousin throws on Bandcamp. With an average running time of 45 minutes per record, the average human could listen to music 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, and not make a dent.
All this mathy stuff illustrates that year-end lists are based 100% on taste. There is no canon of pop music, and anyone who says there is most likely just wants to keep his job as a music journalist. So allow us to present our taste, in order, as collected in 12 issues of VICE Magazine over the past year. Before you get all pissy in the comments and accuse us of neglecting HAIM, Chance the Rapper, Jon Hopkins, or whatever garbage you think deserves critical respect, keep in mind that A) 99% of all music is terrible, B) some of these reviews are on the top 50 because we liked the review, not the band, and C) we really, really, really don’t care.
VARIOUS ARTISTS Christian Workout Power Pack Capital Christian Distribution
You were probably proud when you found the Desperate Bicycles’s Remorse Code LP in the dollar bin, but when I came across this gem I felt like fucking Friedrich Miescher. Get this: it’s specifically and explicitly a triple-disc collection made for Christian women aged 30 to 45 to help them break a sweat at the local YWCA. Plus, there are no digital downloads, it’s only available in Christian bookstores, and Christianity is a vicious celestial dictatorship that encourages ignorance, cruelty, and genocide.
UV RACE/EDDY CURRENT SUPPRESSION RING Bad News Almost Ready
Australian punks are the best punks. This is because they drink the blood of kangaroos, which makes them all “hopping mad” and really good at pogoing. Does this mean that kangaroos are the punkest of all animals? I dunno, but I am sure those fuckers will kick you in the face something fierce, with or without steel-toed Docs. They definitely get some kind of props for that.
SURVIVAL Self Titled Thrill Jockey
When he’s not busy making proggy black metal with his other band, Liturgy, Hunter Hunt-Hendrix (son of Helen and Jimi, for all you flower children out there) is making blackish prog rock with his new project, Survival, and—hey, Joe—let me just tell you, I’m mad about this album. Hunt-Hendrix, along with bandmates Greg Smith and Jeff Bobula, expertly revives first-wave math rock with the added punch of hardcore gravitas, and it’s got me floating, got it? I would almost even go so far as to say it’s as good as it gets! I know what women (and men, sometimes) want, and it’s more spasmodic rhythms and unpredictable melodic narratives from this Brooklyn trio. Are you experienced, yet? I’m just trying to pay it forward and bask in the rays of the new rising sun.
PAMPERS Self Titled In The Red
Sometimes when I’m listening to Drake’s lyrics, I’m all like, “Oh, for fuck’s sake, this is totally something my mom would say.” Not so with these dudes. Sure, they could be talking about white-wine spritzers and alimony, but who the fuck can tell? They’re loud, they have unintelligible lyrics, and they named their band after a diaper. Drake can go shit his pants standing and then suck a good man’s dick.
TYLER, THE CREATOR Wolf Odd Future/XL
Kids are so fucking scary now. I’ve always thought that the most terrifying horror and thriller movies are the ones with really stoic, black-eyed kids in formal wear who have no emotions and wait around to slash your ankles or face with found objects. I would literally be afraid to be in the same room as Tyler, the Creator. He looks like he’d peel off a person’s top layer of skin with the very tips of his front teeth and fingernails so that he could later don the victim’s epidermis as a cape onstage while calling your mother a series of very bad names. Which, I think, is exactly what he’s going for, so we can do nothing but encourage it (or die).
Most Racist Police Department: New York City The country’s biggest police force would be hard-pressed not to wind up with some very awkward incidents—when you have 34,000 officers, some of them are going to mess up. But a few bad apples can’t be blamed for the NYPD’s stop and frisk program or its CIA-style monitoring of Muslims. For all the cops’ spying on mosques, they produced no useful tips, and stop and frisk didn’t lead to many arrests either. Between January 2002 and June 2012, nearly 4.5 million New Yorkers were stopped on the street and searched for drugs or weapons, and nearly 90 percent weren’t doing anything illegal. The majority of these searches were performed on black or hispanic individuals, giving the whole thing a strong stink of prejudice. Though the policy’s supporters—including lame-duck Mayor Mike Bloomberg—claim this makes the city safer and that minorities aren’t singled out because of their skin color, civil liberties activists begged to differ and sued in 2010. In August, a federal judge ordered reforms and oversight to the officially racist policy, but two months later she was dismissed from the case for being biased against the city. Mayor-elect Bill de Blasio has pledged to reform the practice once he takes office in January, even if some cops oppose his efforts.
Most Kafkaesque Definition of “Assault”: New York City, Again A Manhattan grand jury, faced with the case of officers who shot two bystanders during an effort to apprehend an unarmed mentally unstable man in October, have decided assault charges are warranted, which makes sense given that, well, two people were shot. Except they have declined to charge the officers who shot the women, instead blaming the unstable man who had been darting in between cars and causing a bit of a scene on the day in question. He forced the cops to pull out their weapons and fire, apparently, and also made them miss. (By the way, he was eventually brought down by a Taser.)