There’s a pill that will literally kill your buzz.
Why Do So Many Soft Drinks Taste Like Teletubby Blood?
I don’t drink soda very often. It’s not that I don’t like it; it’s just that after age 12 I never felt like having more than a shot of it every now and then. Soft drinks are designed for children with tiny, discerning pallets, unimpressed with the flavors provided by actual food. That said, some of the tastes in these beverages exist only inside of their cans and cannot be found anywhere else in the whole world. It’s like a Willy Wonka land of weird water, and who would be such a fool as to not sometimes dunk their tongue in the chemical concoctions and see what’s good?
I decided to veer away from the recognizable labels and see what life is like on the wild side of the soda pop biz.
15 calories per 12 fl oz/12 g sugar
Kill Cliff calls itself a “Recovery Drink,” or, rather, “THE Recovery Drink,” being conceptually healthy in that it is “naturally sweetened” and only 15 calories a can. I found it over with the Boar’s Head meats and cheeses, like maybe it’s strategically placed next to the high-end shit to make you think it’s good, a can of cola all on its own. The text on the side of the can claims that the drink was “developed by a former US Navy Seal” to “improve endurance and speed recovery.” It’s unclear who the Seal was, and why he thought “Kill Cliff” would be a good name for a revitalization beverage. They also employ the tagline “Test Positive for Awesome,” which is maybe closer to an AIDS joke than should be on a can of soda.
The first sip reminds me of if Sweet Tarts were a liquid and strained through a pair of men’s briefs after a short doubles’ tennis match in a domed arena. It’s all puckery and buzzing around the edges, and when it hits the back of the throat it immediately provides the feeling of having recently barfed. This post-barf expression kind of kneads its way back and forth across the tongue and palate like electricity. I take a second sip to cover up the first, and the buzzing strain appears again, redoubled. I kind of already have a headache.
As I get deeper into the can, my brain becomes warm. It feels like my head is flooding with acid, and I can only tolerate the sensation by drinking so fast I can’t taste anything. When I stop my head is spinning, and I feel full of gasoline.
I might recommend Kill Cliff to remove paint or to dissolve the bars on a prison cell, but as far as liquid designed to go inside my body is concerned, no.
Marley’s Mellow Mood (Berry Flavor)
165 calories per 12 fl oz/29 g sugar
Sniffing the edge of the can’s mouth before I take a swig, I get the full bouquet of chemical fruit fun, suggesting what I’m about to drink is again going to come from the “Sick Fake Candy” food group. So I’m shocked when the liquid hits my lips and the first thing I think is actually, Hey, this IS smooth! Maybe it’s the dead rock icon on the can with the marijuana colors that brainwashed me into this feeling, though more likely it’s how, compared to Kill Cliff, this shit is like white sturgeon caviar. More watered-down Hawaiian Punch than actual soda, there is also a delicate flavor similar to the air in a bong shop lurking just behind the first curve of berry. The mixture is confusing, hairy, seemingly as unsure of itself as I am of it, but at least I don’t want to do an immediate spit-take.
More Photos of Michael Jackson’s Neverland Ranch
Although Michael Jackson’s body shut down from a suspicious drug overdose five years and a week ago, worldwide interest in the misunderstood—and by all accounts, creepy—pop superstar’s legacy is still alive and thriving, as exemplified by the interest in last week’s interview about urban exploring Neverland Ranch. We got a number of requests to release the rest of the photos taken by our crack team of photographers, and we were like Sure, why not? So here they are. Keep a look out for the blue robot. You can’t make it out, but the inscription on the robot reads, “HI KIDS! MY NAME IS ZORD. I WANT TO BE YOUR FRIEND. I HAVE A SPECIAL SURPRISE PICKED JUST FOR YOU. THANK YOU AND BE GOOD!”
I guess we’ll never know what Zord’s “special surprise” was.
Logan stops by in this episode of Kids Telling Dirty Jokes. This cutie came ready for the camera with some badass Spiderman kicks and jokes made to offend. He spit out vulgarities left and right. One day he’ll be famous for it, I’m sure.
There is, as far as I can tell, only one group of people with the ability to be entirely freewheeling with food and still be socially accepted: pregnant women. If a woman with child enters a restaurant and demands garlic shrimp dipped in chocolate sauce, for example, no one is going to say no. You give the lady what she wants. It’s a rite of passage.
Teenage Bullfighters – Profiles by VICE
Michelito Lagravere is 16. The day he was born, his bullfighter father was battling a bull. At four years old, Lagravere would run around his house with a towel and “fight” his pet dog. He killed his first calf at six. At 11, he killed six bulls in a single day. By age 14, Lagravere officially turned into the youngest bullfighter ever.
For this episode of Profiles by VICE, we went to Merida, on Mexico’s Yucatán Peninsula, to meet this young bullfighter, his parents, and his younger brother André “El Galo,” who is poised to follow in his brother’s footsteps. The Lagravere brothers are destined for greatness in an old (and questionable) Mexican tradition.
I Got Drunk at the Sesame Street Gala and Met Cookie Monster
When you’re an aspiring journalist/writer/reporter/editor/media person, you’ll take whatever job comes your way. Some of those jobs are red carpet reporting at galas, movies premieres, fashion week parties—you get the idea. It sounds so much fancier than it actually is. It’s the kind of scene that leaves you contemplating your self-worth as you head back to your apartment across from a U-Haul depot. I know this, because I used to do this.
Luckily, I work for VICE now, and we don’t give a shit whether or not Barbara Walters had plastic surgery. Since I gave up those morally deprecating days, I’ve managed to ignored any red carpet invites from publicists and avoid all the rich people who say “GEY-luh” instead of “gal-uh”—until I got invited to the Sesame Street gala last week. I wanted to go, because I wanted to know Cookie Monster’s weight-loss secrets given his obvious issues with gluttony. And what did Elmo think of Katy Perry’s tits?
I grabbed our Photo Editor, Matthew Leifheit, and headed to Cipriani’s in Midtown, New York. I can’t lie; I was excited, but I knew what was in store: Yes, we’d get to go to a really fancy party with really fancy people in really fancy clothes, but depending on the publicist working that night, we potentially risked trespassing charges, if we walked past the velvet ropes.
The most popular Slendervlogs have viewer counts well into six figures, many of them likely to be old children or young adults, and we don’t see hundreds of kids taking to the woods with kitchen knives… or at least not outside of the fevered imaginations of Daily Mail hacks. Whatever happened to these two children to make them into killers was almost entirely unique to their particular circumstances.
Nothing on these sites told them to kill a child; they decided that for themselves, and the truth is we have absolutely no idea why.
First, he came for our Four Loko, and we said nothing. Then, he came for powdered alcohol. Now, New York Senator Chuck Schumer is coming for Phrosties, the clandestine alcoholic slushy delivery service that has taken off across the five boroughs over the past few months.
“A 12-year-old can probably buy these ‘sloshies’ online, get it, and enjoy it because it’s filled with fruit juice and fruit punch and all the things that taste sweet and nice,” Schumer said at a press conference Monday. “A few weeks ago, I talked about powdered alcohol. I’m making an effort to prevent that from being sold. I would like to see the same thing happen to these ‘sloshies’” if they’re not regulated.
The remarks, coupled with the news that the New York State Liquor Authority is investigating the “unregulated and unlicensed” slushy merchants, has scared the creators of Phrostie out of business, or at least driven them deeper underground. By Tuesday, thePhrostie Instagram account had been scrubbed clean, its delivery contact details replaced by the warning “WE DO NOT DELIVER.” After that, my texts to the previously listed phone numbers went unanswered, until Wednesday night, when I got a reply from the Brooklyn delivery service saying that if I wanted any more Phrosties, I would have to order “ASAP.”
Twenty minutes later, a delivery guy showed up and handed me a black grocery bag full of slushies. “That’s it for the Phrosties,” he sighed. The service, he explained, was selling the last of its inventory and closing up shop, thanks to “Schumer and the regulations, I guess.”