Cry-Baby of the Year
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’ve compiled the ten cry-babies who received the most votes over the last year. Cast your vote for the worst of the worst at the bottom of the page to decide who will receive the Cry-Baby of the Year trophy pictured above.
Members of a Christian Group Are Being Assholes Again
A Christian group in Texas has begun taking photos of people’s cars as they patronize “sinful businesses” and posting them online.
In a “news alert” posted to their Facebook page, Texas Christian group Repent Amarillo announced they would be photographing vehicles that patronize strip clubs, porn shops, and gay bars and then posting the images to their page. “Think of it as God’s public sex offender list,” the post reads, adding, “so, if you want to know if your friends, husbands, boyfriends, co-workers, or family members are visiting these places then STAY TUNED!”
They’re calling it the “Ephesians 5:11 Project” after a Bible passage which reads, “Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather expose them.”
It’s the brainchild of Pastor David Grisham, who you may remember as the guy who tried (and failed) to burn a Qur’an a couple of years ago, leading to the creation of the “Dude, You Have No Quran" song.
Protesting Against Gay Pride Was Super Boring
This past weekend was the Los Angeles Gay Pride Parade, and as always with large-scale gay events, a group of antigay Christians turned up to yell at everybody. I spent the day with them.
The day got off to a pretty miserable start, with the guy with the mic screaming, “You’re a wicked, evil, twisted abomination! You deserve AIDS!” at this old man.
Then this lone counterprotester showed up.
His sign read “St. Paul was a closet case” and he was shouting a bunch of stuff at them about pork: “Why don’t you get a fucking life you pork-eating fucking pigs, I hope the Muslims blow you motherfuckers up and you burn in hell you fucking pigs.”
The curse words seemed to genuinely upset the anti-gays. One of them started shouting, “There’s laws against cussing in public! It’s illegal for you to say the F word to me!”
Then the police came over and broke it up, making the counterprotester go and protest from the end of the block.
Then the second group of counterprotesters arrived. These guys had giant rainbow flags that they held up in front of the antigay protest to block them from the view of anyone marching in the parade.
Even though they’d only been there for about 30 minutes, the majority of the protesters seemed pretty bored by that point. I got to chatting with this lady.
She told me that her name was Angela, and that she liked my shirt. I almost reciprocated the compliment out of politeness, but then I realized that her shirt said “REPENT FOR JESUS” and stopped myself.
Reviewed: The World’s Worst Music Video Ever Starring the World’s Biggest Dickhead
At some point in the 90s, queercore band Pansy Division were interviewed by Kerrang! magazine. In that interview, they compared major pop punk bands like NOFX and Pennywise to 80s party metal scumbags Mötley Crüe—asserting that they appealed to the same type of person (scumbag party bros), behaved in a similar way (were scumbags at parties), etc. They were lamenting punk’s descent into apolitical bro-ishness via the Warped Tour and MTV, and while they were right that the focus had shifted a little from fighting the power to fighting back the puke, they could never have predicted Ronnie Radke. No one could, or would ever want to.
Ronnie Radke is the lead singer of Las Vegas metalcore pricks, Falling In Reverse. Last week, Ronnie fired his entire band in a shit-fit about ticket sales. But not before he dropped the kind of music video that reminds us why the terrorists hate us/that punk is dead/how to be a fucking rock star.
That’s right: Someone out there thought it was a good idea to have a bunch of emo dickheads do choreographed dance routines to metalcore breakdowns, get the most annoying one to rap, then slather a bunch of sub-Skrillex trance synths over the top of it. The synths sound like gangrenous piss. I don’t know if it makes it better or worse that Radke claims to have been sober and drug free for nearly five years. Coincidentally enough, he’s spent the same five years on probation for his role in an altercation that resulted in a shooting death, with two of those spent in prison for skipping out on his parole officer. Yep, he’s that kinda guy.
Disappointingly, for those of us who enjoy watching prima donnas with face tattoos talk shit about people they believe have wronged them, Radke had a tantrum on Twitter, then deleted all his tweets and Instagram photos. In light of such cowardly backtracking, we’ll have to make do with piecing together the psyche of a full-blown fucking rock star by taking a closer look at the video for “Alone”.
We open to the sound of synths and a helicopter dropping off a few emo bros who seem to have been plucked from some “make a band” PC game from the 90s. While considering the helicopter, note that these guys are signed to Epitaph Records, the pop punk Motown founded by Bad Religion guitarist Brett Gurewitz. That’s right: the same man who wrote “We’re Only Gonna Die (From Our Own Arrogance)" signed off on a helicopter and white suit rental to turn the stinkiest turd lurking in the toilet of Ronnie Radke’s ego a reality. I’m no punk purist, but it seems that Mr Gurewitz might want to take a long hard look at himself.
The VICE Guide to Business School
Justin Dett is the pseudonym of a graduate of a top-tier business school who wants to remain anonymous because he’d like to work again at some point in his life.
The people who make up your typical business school class come in all shapes and sizes and colors, but the one thing they have in common is their attraction to money. They fucking love it, and they love making it. They’re also probably quite a bit further along in terms of tangible life developments than the stereotypical aimless 20-something who is still struggling to hold down an apartment, a job, and a relationship at the same time. I’m not here to judge anyone’s chosen career path, and if making artisanal mayonnaise in Brooklyn is how you’d like to eke out the rest of your existence, more power to you. I will eat the shit out of it. But if you want to actually afford that fancy mayo, along with a host of other fun luxury goods that will—I don’t care what anyone says—make you happy, you need to get your ass to business school and get a Master’s in Business Administration.
It should come as no surprise that an MBA is way more financially valuable than the degree you have in gender theory or media studies or whatever piece of paper you get after writing long essays on Deleuze. Forty of the 100 best-paid American CEOs have MBAs, and believe me, those guys are some rich assholes.
The MBA is the biggest loophole in corporate America. The hardest part is getting into business school, but once you’re in, you can pretty much do whatever the fuck you want: It’s virtually impossible to fail, and employers don’t ask for your grades. When you graduate, and find a job—it’s pretty much inevitable that someone will hire you—you’re guaranteed to make boatloads of money; and remember, that’s what this whole thing is about. According to the Graduate Management Admission Council, the median salary of a newly minted MBA was $90,000 in 2012, and MBAs made, on average, $40,000 more than lowly peons with mere bachelor’s degrees.
You can’t fight the rich, so why not join them? Here’s how:
Getting admitted to business school is the hardest part. If you can’t get into a “top” school, you’re wasting your time. For obvious reasons, more and more people want to get an MBA, and more and more shitty schools have started offering shitty MBA programs, so MBAs are a dime a dozen in the US. You have to focus on one of the 25 or so best schools and ignore the other ones, because your prospects of getting a top job on Wall St. diminish rapidly when you graduate from Northern Eastern Southern Cocksucker State. Only 10 to 20 percent of applicants get into the worthwhile institutions, so you’ve got your work cut out for you.
Business schools are obsessed with statistics—namely GPAs and GMAT scores—because that’s how they convince saps like you to spend $100,000 on tuition. The higher the average GPA and GMAT score for an admitted student, the “smarter” the student, and therefore, the more exclusive the school. That means that if you fucked off in college, or if you suck at standardized tests, I can’t help ya pal. Sorry. Time to go back to mopping floors and playing scratch cards.
The next thing schools look at is your work experience and extracurricular activities, which are difficult to quantify, but almost more important than grades and GMAT scores. The good news is that business schools pride themselves on the diversity of their student bodies, and most of the bros and hos who apply to Business School are investment bankers and consultants—so your experience interning for a digital fashion start-up and “helping” with your friend’s music video will be a breath of fresh air for the admissions committee, as will your recommendation letters from people who aren’t your fraternity brothers.
Paying for It
Uh-oh. You got into a dope business school and have enjoyed a hazy week of showing up to experimental music shows and drunkenly telling people you’re getting an MBA to watch their facial expressions, but now you face the challenge of coming up with the $75,000 per year required to cover tuition and living expenses, and you aren’t rich just yet.
Unfortunately, most scholarships are probably off the table for you. If you’re a white male who hasn’t invented a perpetual motion machine and volunteered in several African countries, you’re completely screwed, and though there are typically more scholarships available for women, minorities, and the foreign-born, at most elite institutions, these will be taken by super-achievers who have already accomplished more with their lives than you ever will. Even if you luck out and get one, very few will cover all of your tuition, not to mention the money you will continue to spend on rent, deli salads, partying, and, as you go through business school, actual clothes a grown-up wears to work.
Some of you will have the luxury of hitting up the Bank of Mom, Dad, Stepmom, Stepdad, Rich Uncle, or Wealthy Suitor, etc., but if that isn’t an option either, don’t fret. Just getting into business school means that you’re already part of the 1 percent in the eyes of our nation’s financial institutions. That means you’re eligible for loans so large and uncollateralized that they would make even the most spendthrift subprime Floridian homebuyer splooge his pants. With only an admissions letter, yours truly was able to borrow almost six figures, even without providing a Social Security Number.
I remember hearing this word a lot when I was at b-school, so I though I’d include it as a section. Upon further reflection, I have no fucking idea what it means, so let’s move on.
Seals Are Assholes
Australian fur seals may sound like stuffed animals with a pulse, but in reality they’re greedy blobs of fat who will eat all of Tasmania’s salmon if the current situation is left unchecked. For these fatties, salmon is “like a cross between a Big Mac and heroin,” according to a paper written earlier this year by Jon Bryan of the Tasmanian Conservation Trust. To get their fix, these flippered seafood junkies have been breaking into salmon farms for years, sometimes snatching up to 2,000 fish a week from a single farm.
Seeing as a seal-clubbing spree can put a strain on the ol’ shoulder muscles (and tends to upset animal rights types), Tasmania has taken to using nonlethal weapons as a solution. Superstrong pepper spray, beanbag guns, and darts have all been approved for use on these gluttonous furry bastards by the government. But there are many other ways to dissuade seals from being such greedy fat fucks. Salmon farmers the world over have toyed, Wile E. Coyote-style, with every nonlethal method available—short of tear gas and microwave-powered heat rays—to protect their precious fish meat from the appetites of fur seals. Here are a few of our favorites.
Salmon farmers in British Columbia, Canada, used amplified sounds underwater—the volume was equivalent to a jet engine taking off—to frighten seals away. At least they did until 2001, when scientists claimed that the sonic blasts caused killer whales to flee the area which actually attracted more seals. Whoopsie.
Seal crackers—small explosive shells that give off a frightening bang and flash—have been employed in Tasmania since 1986. Studies have found that, after time, seals become accustomed to the harmless bombs and start to avoid the crackers or ignore them entirely.
Making Seals Puke
Some salmon farmers in Australia and California have fed local seal populations dead fish that have been injected with lithium chloride in hopes of ruining the blubber balls’ appetites and making them vomit before taking a hike. In a way, it worked: The seals would eventually start puking, but not before grabbing a few more mouthfuls of salmon on their way out.
Throwing a Seal Party
The most brilliant repellant methods come from the US Department of Commerce’s National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, which in 2008 compiled a list of ways to chase off harbor seals and sea lions in California. Seal-scaring tactics included banging on pots, decorating at-risk locations with brightly colored balloons, and using strobe lights, sprinklers, fireworks, music, and paintball guns to frighten seals away. Regardless of the effectiveness, it sure sounds like a great way to spend a weekend.
Want more animals? Check these out:
The VICE Guide to Caviar