NEWSLETTER

Cockroaches, cow eyeball, and testicle casings: While the eye and nutskins went the way of their forerunners with relative haste, you can imagine our elation when upon upending the Jar at the end of our shirtmaking, BOTH of our cockroaches’s bodies came tumbling out a little spongy, but otherwise no worse for wear. We’d always written off that old acorn about roaches and the apocalypse as hyperbole, but consider this our conversion.

Pitbull scab: Warranting only passing mention in the magazine, this dog-fighting souvenir more or less just served to tide the Jar over between main courses.

Dreadlock, ear wax, pus-encrusted Band-Aid: The hippie trifecta—of no less surprise than the survival of the roaches was pulling out the second t-shirt and finding the majority of the dreadlock clinging to its sleeve. It looked like each end had been frayed down a good inch or so, but the middle of the stalk was still holding strong. This is on par with when they found that 150-year-old poison in Napoleon’s hair.

Radioactive cat shit: Lost at the time amid editorial shuffling, we’re pleased to finally report that one of our friends took their cat in to get radioiodine ablation for its thyroid then let us take one of its gamma-ray-enriched turds (which made one of our staffer’s hand tingle through rubber gloves) and mate it with the Jar.

Toxic soil: Feeling bad for keeping it cooped up on the roof for so long, we decided to give the Jar a proper summer vacation and took it road-tripping upstate to Niagara Falls’ famed Love Canal neighborhood, the Daytona Beach of environmental-disaster sites. Sadly no flipper-babies resulted from its feast of contaminated dirt, but the Jar did score a fetching new hat.




If you’ve ever had to work with noxious chemicals or in a Japanese restaurant, you know how much of a chore it can be to get the smell of work off your hands come quittin’ time. Dealing with one of the most rank and heave-inducing substances known to man, we at Vice are grateful to the fine people at Nancy Boy for their line of high-quality, all-natural bath and body-care products which make the process of post-Gross Jar deodorizing quick and easy. Their tea-rose-scented Body Bar cuts through the hellish stench of rotten flesh and bodily excretions in half the scrubbing time of ordinary soaps, and without leaving our delicate hands all cracked and dry. And after a hard day of feeding the Jar’s opprobrium and suppressing our gag reflexes, we can think of no better way to unwind than to lay out a gender-normative balance of Nancy Boy Butch and Fem Parfums around some tea candles, draw a hot bath with some Dr. Hauschka Holistic Lavender, sprinkle a generous handful of Nancy Boy Citrus Bath Salts in the tub, lather ourselves in a silky, peppermint-infused film of Nancy Boy Invigorating Body Wash, and let all our cares and fears of contagion melt into a dazzling rainbow cascade of candy-coated oblivion.

Of course, sometimes our hectic schedules don’t allow us to indulge in such pampering. In times like those we find it no less refreshing to scorch away the top few layers of skin with a splash of Lye and mask up with a liberal misting of Christophe Street fragrance, made by the sister of acclaimed New York leather daddy Christophe Andre. It’s like being gangbanged by luxury, but in a fraction of the time.

GROSS JAR | 1 | 2 | 3 |

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