Good-golly Ms. Molly. This week Ron has received yet another dilemma involving a blossoming romantic relationship—two to be precise. It’s like the guy is turning into Dr. Phil, except he’s “bigger, blacker, and much more handsome.” While that may be true, they are both bald. Anyway, keep reading for Ron’s short and sweet answer to this week’s problemo.
Have you noticed how everyone is bitching about something this summer? It’s either, “It’s too rainy!” or “My favorite celebrity hung himself with pantyhose!” If you are into obsessively checking blog posts on the weekend like I am, I mean really going to work on refreshing and refreshing and refreshing until you get sweaty and nauseous with self-hatred, you will also notice that aside from a general lack of fun, a great deal of people are out there bleeding into their waistbands over a broken heart of some sort. Now, we all know how great it is to make fun of the people we’re dating, bitch about how caged we feel during the duration of the relationship, and then do the Charlie Brown shrug dance all over town once we are inevitably no longer by their side. But what happens if you decide to try to get that object of mental and physical anguish back? Follow the steps below and your Facebook will say “In a Relationship” again in no time.
You know you’re not supposed to stare at people with disabilities. But why not? What if you accidentally see an amputee who was attractive and looked great? Why should you turn your head away? And furthermore, why isn’t this person supposed to be attractive? Clearly there is a barrier between people with disabilities, especially amputees, and those who feel themselves attracted to them and want to know them better, and vice-versa. That is blatant prejudice and it needs to change—which is why Markus (last name withheld) designed Ampworld.de, a site dedicated to changing how people fetishise amputees.
It’s true, there are lots of tawdry indiscretions surrounding VICE, but we’re not sure where this girl got the idea that we’re ElimiDATE for teens…
Dear Vice,
Max is my younger brother, and it’s my older sisterly responsibility to make sure he gets through high school without getting pushed around, especially by girls. It’s kind of hard to look out for him when I’m usually at least 200 miles away but I’m really only concerned about one thing. He’s 18 and never been kissed. I’ve wanted to corrupt him for as long as I can remember but I didn’t want to carry any of the blame if something ever went horribly wrong. My family has already sent him to foreign countries like South Korea and Taiwan so he could romp around Asia by himself and pick up some cute schoolgirls, but I guess the stars were never aligned—the only cheap things he slipped into were Nikes and kimonos, and the only raw thing he put in his mouth was the food. From the looks of your magazine, it seems like you have a considerable hot, slutty girl readership. That’s why I’m pitching this plea to all of you YOUNGER (UNDER 21) and INNOCENT girls to line up for the little guy.
The idea that someone out there is designed just for you is beautiful. All you have to do is find your soul mate and life will be perfect. It’s as though the only reason you have a shitty job and an ugly kid is because you haven’t met this person yet, but when you do everything will be amazing. You’ll be eating rainbows for breakfast and riding around on a vacuum cleaner made of orgasms and you’ll be able to quit your shitty job, because you’ll subsist off of happiness. Even your ugly kid will transform into a nice leather sectional. The only thing you’ve got to do is get out there and find that one special someone. But how? We don’t fucking know, so we called an expert on finding people: Stephen Ryan, head of the Nova Scotia Missing Persons Association.
The chaps of Bangalore
Bangalore has so much to excite the senses: the bright lights of McDonalds, the toxic clouds of black diesel and the scent of sweetly steaming turd on tarmac. But for me, the best thing is the men. Like most Indian cities, the ladies stay indoors sweeping and looking after the kids, while their sons and husbands hang about on street corners holding hands, staring at slutty gap-year students, spitting phlegm and wearing t-shirts with slogans like ‘Sex Machine’ and ‘Rock God’. False advertising or a message from heaven? I decided to take to the streets to find the best date in Bangalore.
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There’s something strangely insincere about these two. They’re either narcs, Amish teens in their devil’s-playground phase, or normal people in a four-month delusionary period where they think they might be weird.
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I'm not sure whether this is racist of me or God, but how come you never see white crazies approach their mental illness with this level of flair? Is it the centuries of having to make lemonade out of lemons or is there something in melanin that kicks in when the rest of the brain shuts down and crowns you King Sofa the Third.
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