Sugarless Gummy Bears Are Not Safe for Humans
There has been lots of talk on the internet lately about Haribo sugarfree gummy bears and how they make you make shit like a madman. According to these detailed Amazon reviews, just a handful of the bears can cause an immediate evacuation of the gastrointestinal tract. There are 53 pages of reviews on Amazon, each one topping the last with a story of gummy-fueled diarrhea nightmares. “Gastric exorcism at 30,000 feet,” a reviewer named I Like Cheese wrote. “Don’t use the bathroom on a Delta flight. That stench is from me, seven years ago.”
I’m no avid Amazon shopper or reader of online reviews, but I’ve scanned my share and have never seen anything close to the kind of in-depth reporting that’s found on the Haribo sugarfree gummy bear Amazon reviews page. The metaphors are akin to something the poet John Donne would have written with after a particularly stinging shit.
"Gastric exorcism?" "Liquid razorblades?" I wasn’t buying it. This whole thing seemed like a stupid internet hoax—an excuse for people to pen elaborate fictions about their somewhat irregular but ultimately harmless gummy bear-induced shits. The reporter in me knew what had to be done. I bought a few pounds of the day-glo bears at a candy store in Manhattan and found myself in the VICE offices late last Saturday night, shoving handfuls in my mouth, determined to find out the truth.
Continue

Sugarless Gummy Bears Are Not Safe for Humans

There has been lots of talk on the internet lately about Haribo sugarfree gummy bears and how they make you make shit like a madman. According to these detailed Amazon reviews, just a handful of the bears can cause an immediate evacuation of the gastrointestinal tract. There are 53 pages of reviews on Amazon, each one topping the last with a story of gummy-fueled diarrhea nightmares. “Gastric exorcism at 30,000 feet,” a reviewer named I Like Cheese wrote. “Don’t use the bathroom on a Delta flight. That stench is from me, seven years ago.”

I’m no avid Amazon shopper or reader of online reviews, but I’ve scanned my share and have never seen anything close to the kind of in-depth reporting that’s found on the Haribo sugarfree gummy bear Amazon reviews page. The metaphors are akin to something the poet John Donne would have written with after a particularly stinging shit.

"Gastric exorcism?" "Liquid razorblades?" I wasn’t buying it. This whole thing seemed like a stupid internet hoax—an excuse for people to pen elaborate fictions about their somewhat irregular but ultimately harmless gummy bear-induced shits. The reporter in me knew what had to be done. I bought a few pounds of the day-glo bears at a candy store in Manhattan and found myself in the VICE offices late last Saturday night, shoving handfuls in my mouth, determined to find out the truth.

Continue

If You Think You Can Survive on ‘Junk Food and Cigarettes’ You’re an Idiot
The Daily Mail has been trailing a new book this week by “leading science writer” Tony Edwards. Titled The Good News About Booze, which sounds like an off-license run by a Jehovah’s Witness, it tackles three of the middle class’s greatest obsessions: dying of cancer, mediocre sex, and drinks that middle-class people like. The first extract from the book, published last week, gave the paper a valuable opportunity to address the important question of whether red wine causes or cures cancer.
The book (or at least the extracts—the email I sent requesting a review copy remains unanswered) is exactly what you’d expect. Edwards claims to have conducted an “in-depth study of around half-a-million scientific papers about alcohol”, which is basically impossible unless he has an army of minions in his basement. In the best traditions of Malcolm Gladwell, he takes a banal and well-known truth—that drinking a moderate amount of red wine is healthy—and pretends it’s some kind of shocking revelation that some indefinable cabal of wine-hoarding misers don’t want you to know about. Throw in a few silly exaggerations for added measure, like “red wine may well be one of the most effective ‘medications’ in history” or “I’m just an averagely intelligent science journalist,” and you have a perfect piece of click-bait for the lazy editor to shove in the paper.
Continue

If You Think You Can Survive on ‘Junk Food and Cigarettes’ You’re an Idiot

The Daily Mail has been trailing a new book this week by “leading science writer” Tony Edwards. Titled The Good News About Booze, which sounds like an off-license run by a Jehovah’s Witness, it tackles three of the middle class’s greatest obsessions: dying of cancer, mediocre sex, and drinks that middle-class people like. The first extract from the book, published last week, gave the paper a valuable opportunity to address the important question of whether red wine causes or cures cancer.

The book (or at least the extracts—the email I sent requesting a review copy remains unanswered) is exactly what you’d expect. Edwards claims to have conducted an “in-depth study of around half-a-million scientific papers about alcohol”, which is basically impossible unless he has an army of minions in his basement. In the best traditions of Malcolm Gladwell, he takes a banal and well-known truth—that drinking a moderate amount of red wine is healthy—and pretends it’s some kind of shocking revelation that some indefinable cabal of wine-hoarding misers don’t want you to know about. Throw in a few silly exaggerations for added measure, like “red wine may well be one of the most effective ‘medications’ in history” or “I’m just an averagely intelligent science journalist,” and you have a perfect piece of click-bait for the lazy editor to shove in the paper.

Continue

Candy with Knives
The doorman buzzed. Her visitor was here. “Send her up, thanks,” said Candice. As if she had any authority over Isobel. She checked herself in the powder room. She looked like a Cindy Sherman photograph. A woman pretending to be a woman. Thirty-five years old, hair in a practical bob, mommy arms poking out of a brightly patterned Lilly Pulitzer shift. Her image was framed by sage-green wallpaper patterned with Cyclode moths. All I need is an axe, she thought. The days working at the firm with Isobel had shaped her, taken her from grieving, bulimic, and alone, to settled and married. Isobel had been the only one at the office to see that Candice wasn’t just some Southern glass of milk, that there was something interesting concealed behind the appearance. A decade had passed, but maybe there was some sediment of darkness that could get stirred up again by Isobel’s presence.She opened the medicine cabinet, sending her reflection to right angles, and considered a yellow-orange vial. Something for the nerves. Maybe no need. She heard the distant ping of the elevator and shut the mirror. Her face squared again. Her smile, also a square.
CONTINUE

Candy with Knives


The doorman buzzed. Her visitor was here. “Send her up, thanks,” said Candice. As if she had any authority over Isobel. She checked herself in the powder room. She looked like a Cindy Sherman photograph. A woman pretending to be a woman. Thirty-five years old, hair in a practical bob, mommy arms poking out of a brightly patterned Lilly Pulitzer shift. Her image was framed by sage-green wallpaper patterned with Cyclode moths. All I need is an axe, she thought.

The days working at the firm with Isobel had shaped her, taken her from grieving, bulimic, and alone, to settled and married. Isobel had been the only one at the office to see that Candice wasn’t just some Southern glass of milk, that there was something interesting concealed behind the appearance. A decade had passed, but maybe there was some sediment of darkness that could get stirred up again by Isobel’s presence.

She opened the medicine cabinet, sending her reflection to right angles, and considered a yellow-orange vial. Something for the nerves. Maybe no need. She heard the distant ping of the elevator and shut the mirror. Her face squared again. Her smile, also a square.

CONTINUE

STANLEY KUBRICK WANTED A TASTE OF TERRY SOUTHERN’S LAMB-PIT


I love fucking Terry Southern. That came out wrong. I never fucked the writer, at least not proper fucked. But I have been fucking him intellectually, off and on, for a few decades now. By that I mean I’ve read his literary work: Flash and Filigree, Candy, The Magic Christian, and Blue Movie, on several occasions, going deeper each time. But no matter how deep I go, Southern’s satiric send-ups, lyrical lines, crazy characters, and demented dialogue always leave me hard. I never fully come  to a satisfying climax. I’m always left with the feeling that I could go deeper. That I could explore more of the birth canal that is Terry Southern’s sardonic vision of America.  
So, just the other day, after eating a few dozen oysters and taking some Ritalin, I read Lee Hill’s biography of that writer I love fucking so much called A Grand Guy. I mean that writer I fucking love so much. And, sure enough, it acted as the satisfying climax to the intellectual stimulation Southern’s writing induces. It’s the kind of stimulation that makes you hard for days, novel after novel, the kind that only a grand guy like Southern has the ability to induce. 
He induces it through the TV quiz-show called What’s my Disease? In Flash and Filigree where a panel of semi-celebrities ask questions of a diseased contestant until they discover the undisclosed ailment and reveal it to an audience that then lets out “a great audible gasp of astonished horror,” before “bursting into applause.” He induces it through the beautiful and innocent title character in Candy when a hunchback buries his hump between her “legs as she hunched wildly, pulling open her little labias in an absurd effort to get it in her,” because, as she tells herself, “it means so much to him.” He induces it through the Dog Show scene in The Magic Christian where Guy Grand, the eccentric millionaire Southern wished he was but wasn’t because of the IRS, buys the three largest kennel clubs on the eastern seaboard so he can introduce in disguise a dog named Claw, not Claude, that wasn’t “a dog at all, but some kind of terrible black panther or dyed jaguar… so that before the day was out, he had not only brought chaos in to the formal proceedings, but had actually destroyed about half the ‘Best of Breed.’”   
Even though Southern was indebted to the IRS for most of his life and, as a result, never got to pull off the pranks of The Magic Christian’s Guy Grand, who spends millions a year indulging in his hobby of making it ‘hot’ for the entire world, Southern did manage to make it hot for himself: his satisfying climactic biography, A Grand Guy, reads like some kind of biblical story of a literary action hero who jumps through decades and influences generations. Altering his mind with the likes of William Burroughs, he was one of the most head-bobbin’ Beats in Greenwich Village. As one of the original contributors to The Paris Review, both his writing and his crabs were alive and well in that postwar Paris literary scene of the 1950s. While at the center of London’s Swinging 60s, he hit the road with The Rolling Stones and, according to Tom Wolfe, invented what is now called New Journalism.  Although Denis Hopper was too hopped-up to remember, Southern wrote the majority of Easy Rider and was responsible for the quality that came to be expected from American films in the 70s. Then, in the 80s, he wrote for Saturday Night Live when both the laughs and cocaine were still pure and powerful. Finally, just before his death at the beginning of the 90s, he lectured at several esteemed universities where I imagine he spread the last of his seeds like a fiend.   

Continue

STANLEY KUBRICK WANTED A TASTE OF TERRY SOUTHERN’S LAMB-PIT

I love fucking Terry Southern. That came out wrong. I never fucked the writer, at least not proper fucked. But I have been fucking him intellectually, off and on, for a few decades now. By that I mean I’ve read his literary work: Flash and FiligreeCandyThe Magic Christian, and Blue Movie, on several occasions, going deeper each time. But no matter how deep I go, Southern’s satiric send-ups, lyrical lines, crazy characters, and demented dialogue always leave me hard. I never fully come  to a satisfying climax. I’m always left with the feeling that I could go deeper. That I could explore more of the birth canal that is Terry Southern’s sardonic vision of America.  

So, just the other day, after eating a few dozen oysters and taking some Ritalin, I read Lee Hill’s biography of that writer I love fucking so much called A Grand Guy. I mean that writer I fucking love so much. And, sure enough, it acted as the satisfying climax to the intellectual stimulation Southern’s writing induces. It’s the kind of stimulation that makes you hard for days, novel after novel, the kind that only a grand guy like Southern has the ability to induce. 

He induces it through the TV quiz-show called What’s my Disease? In Flash and Filigree where a panel of semi-celebrities ask questions of a diseased contestant until they discover the undisclosed ailment and reveal it to an audience that then lets out “a great audible gasp of astonished horror,” before “bursting into applause.” He induces it through the beautiful and innocent title character in Candy when a hunchback buries his hump between her “legs as she hunched wildly, pulling open her little labias in an absurd effort to get it in her,” because, as she tells herself, “it means so much to him.” He induces it through the Dog Show scene in The Magic Christian where Guy Grand, the eccentric millionaire Southern wished he was but wasn’t because of the IRS, buys the three largest kennel clubs on the eastern seaboard so he can introduce in disguise a dog named Claw, not Claude, that wasn’t “a dog at all, but some kind of terrible black panther or dyed jaguar… so that before the day was out, he had not only brought chaos in to the formal proceedings, but had actually destroyed about half the ‘Best of Breed.’”   

Even though Southern was indebted to the IRS for most of his life and, as a result, never got to pull off the pranks of The Magic Christian’s Guy Grand, who spends millions a year indulging in his hobby of making it ‘hot’ for the entire world, Southern did manage to make it hot for himself: his satisfying climactic biography, A Grand Guy, reads like some kind of biblical story of a literary action hero who jumps through decades and influences generations. Altering his mind with the likes of William Burroughs, he was one of the most head-bobbin’ Beats in Greenwich Village. As one of the original contributors to The Paris Review, both his writing and his crabs were alive and well in that postwar Paris literary scene of the 1950s. While at the center of London’s Swinging 60s, he hit the road with The Rolling Stones and, according to Tom Wolfe, invented what is now called New Journalism.  Although Denis Hopper was too hopped-up to remember, Southern wrote the majority of Easy Rider and was responsible for the quality that came to be expected from American films in the 70s. Then, in the 80s, he wrote for Saturday Night Live when both the laughs and cocaine were still pure and powerful. Finally, just before his death at the beginning of the 90s, he lectured at several esteemed universities where I imagine he spread the last of his seeds like a fiend.   

Continue

Andy Warhol, Race Riot over Robert Gober, Hanging Man/Sleeping Man wallpaper
Art critic/curator Bob Nickas reviews The Met’s show Regarding Warhol, via an interview with the deceased artist himself.

Andy Warhol, Race Riot over Robert GoberHanging Man/Sleeping Man wallpaper

Art critic/curator Bob Nickas reviews The Met’s show Regarding Warhol, via an interview with the deceased artist himself.

Yelping Halloween
2 reviews for 119 Haverford Ave.
(3 Stars) 10/31/12
I took my kids trick or treating yesterday and the second stop on our route was the Hadley household. Right off the bat, they lose a star for giving out Life Savers. Is this a 6th grade secret santa grab bag? Run out of carob chips? The candy you serve speaks volumes about you as a citizen. And a human being.
Comment from Linda Hadley of 119 Haverford Ave. 11/1/12 « Hide
larry you can’t yelp your neighbors houses are you insane
(1 Star) 10/31/12
she refused my kids candy and told me to leave property
Comment from Linda Hadley of 119 Haverford Ave. 11/1/12 « Hide
you showed up drunk, with stuff from my trash can duct taped to your shirt, and told me you were supposed to be “hurricane sandy.” and your kids were both dressed as “mittler youth.”
4 reviews for 22 Buford Ct.
(2 Stars) 10/31/12
The Guntersons did a wonderful job tricking their house out for us trick or treaters :-} Lots of spooky cobwebs and tombstones. My problem is with Jake Gunterson’s candy policy. When he saw that my son was costumed as a hobo clown, he told Timmy that he “doesn’t do handouts.” As we were leaving, however, another child arrived dressed as a California Raisin, and I heard Mr. Gunderson say, “what a delightful Bill Cosby,” followed by the distinct sound of Kit Kats falling into a pillowcase.
Comment from Jake G of 22 Buford Ct. 11/1/12 « Hide
Prove it.
(1 Star) 10/31/12
Like many parents in our neighborhood, I wore my own costume while my two daughters trick or treated. When we got to Jake’s house, he said, “Do you really think I’m going to give you anything?” I asked him what he meant. He said, “You’re an Obama phone,” “No,” I calmly explained, “I’m a Motorola clamshell.” “Well then, what’s that?” he said, pointing down towards my groin. “It’s a zero button,” I replied, trying hard to keep my cool. Then he called me an expletive I was really hoping my daughters wouldn’t have to hear until at least third grade and confiscated my girls’ Milk Duds.
Comment from Jake G of 22 Buford Ct. 11/1/12 « Hide
Redistribution’s not so groovy now, huh?
Continue

Yelping Halloween

2 reviews for 119 Haverford Ave.

(3 Stars) 10/31/12

I took my kids trick or treating yesterday and the second stop on our route was the Hadley household. Right off the bat, they lose a star for giving out Life Savers. Is this a 6th grade secret santa grab bag? Run out of carob chips? The candy you serve speaks volumes about you as a citizen. And a human being.

Comment from Linda Hadley of 119 Haverford Ave. 11/1/12 « Hide

larry you can’t yelp your neighbors houses are you insane

(1 Star) 10/31/12

she refused my kids candy and told me to leave property

Comment from Linda Hadley of 119 Haverford Ave. 11/1/12 « Hide

you showed up drunk, with stuff from my trash can duct taped to your shirt, and told me you were supposed to be “hurricane sandy.” and your kids were both dressed as “mittler youth.”

4 reviews for 22 Buford Ct.

(2 Stars) 10/31/12

The Guntersons did a wonderful job tricking their house out for us trick or treaters :-} Lots of spooky cobwebs and tombstones. My problem is with Jake Gunterson’s candy policy. When he saw that my son was costumed as a hobo clown, he told Timmy that he “doesn’t do handouts.” As we were leaving, however, another child arrived dressed as a California Raisin, and I heard Mr. Gunderson say, “what a delightful Bill Cosby,” followed by the distinct sound of Kit Kats falling into a pillowcase.

Comment from Jake G of 22 Buford Ct. 11/1/12 « Hide

Prove it.

(1 Star) 10/31/12

Like many parents in our neighborhood, I wore my own costume while my two daughters trick or treated. When we got to Jake’s house, he said, “Do you really think I’m going to give you anything?” I asked him what he meant. He said, “You’re an Obama phone,” “No,” I calmly explained, “I’m a Motorola clamshell.” “Well then, what’s that?” he said, pointing down towards my groin. “It’s a zero button,” I replied, trying hard to keep my cool. Then he called me an expletive I was really hoping my daughters wouldn’t have to hear until at least third grade and confiscated my girls’ Milk Duds.

Comment from Jake G of 22 Buford Ct. 11/1/12 « Hide

Redistribution’s not so groovy now, huh?

Continue

Ever since Joanna Fuertes-Knight first appeared on VICE talking about deep fat frying and renal failure, we’ve known she was destined for stardom. And while her column has never been anything less than hilarious, and her recipes unfailingly delicious, she really deserved to dance free on our screens rather than be confined to the static prison of text and photographs. Which is why we decided to give her her own show.

Here, then, is the first episode, in which she makes Popping Candy Pavlova and Alcopops.