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Dos & Don'ts

“Take a look at this, will ya? Is this fish?”
VICE Staff
Κείμενο VICE Staff

OK, it may be lame to talk about New York in the “good old days” but how about these Bernie Goetz-fuggedaboudit-been-to-Bellevue-been-to-jail-in-your-face tough guys that were here when the subways were still made of wood? Rich people don’t want them at parties because they do uncouth things like put a cracker near your face and ask, “Take a look at this, will ya? Is this fish?” but everyone wants them around when some crackhead is wielding a knife or fondling his gray dink in public. While everyone sits there dumbfounded, our buddy just rips it out of the guy’s hand, throws it in the garbage, and mumbles, “Goddamnit. You’re liable to hurt someone with that thing.”

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Maybe Allah is right. Every night it’s the same story. There’s one girl you fixate on to the point where you’re wondering if it’s the shoes, the belt, or the Ms. Pacman that’s making you stare like an owl. Then you go home and lie in bed despising yourself for not saying anything. How long must we sing this song? Can we get some towels on these bitches’ heads please?

Are you a fartaholic? Do you wish you had a fart sometimes when you’re alone just because you feel like blasting yourself? Or do you ever do a joke where you know you’re going to fart so you grab someone’s pen and say, “Did you know these pens have an air pocket where—if you push right here it goes—” and then ROINK! you let one explode out of your ass? You do? Me too. How perfect is this shirt for us?

Consider this a “fuck you” to all those assholes that said you can’t wear shoes lighter than your suit. Who made that rule anyhow? We

need

the tan shoes, gold belt, white shirt, and ID tag to give us little breaks from the darkness. They’re like candles in the chill-out room.

Look at this sensual little lady perched confidently on the edge of your favorite booth. Is it your birthday? She’s got a classy Falco-Bettie Page thing that sort of says, “Guess what? You’re into dwarves. Put your drink down and kiss me.”

Whoa, look what happened. Punk kids got so into that whole anti-sweatshop thing they became almost fascist about buying things that are made in America. Next thing you know they’ve got so many Vineyard Vine pants and Brooks Brothers polos they look like those evil preppies in

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Animal House

who wedgie nerds.

You’ll notice if you’re beating off to a porn mag and you come across a tiny picture of a girl on crutches or some kind of brace you’ll be all, “What the fuck is with that?—SPLOOGE!” Not sure why. There’s just something about damsels in distress that gets us going. Now, when they break their necks and wear tiny dresses they’ve pushed “damsel” and “distress” so far in either direction you almost get a replay of the mag incident right there in the bar.

Who is this Prince Perfect? Goddamn. He is rocking every color you’ve ever seen before and riding a vehicle nobody’s ever seen before. And you know what else? He could give one one-hundredth of one shit what you have to say about it.

Dear God, try to beat this: a black kid at a punk show wearing a shirt that has Jews doing Nazi covers. You can just hear the rich, white college kids going, “Hey, no fair, I wanted you to have an afro pick in your hair!”

We’re not sure what this girl’s deal was. Probably some stylist from Milan in town on a job. The important thing is that her big huge Oriental beehive, floppy cardigan, booby flower shirt, breezy skirt, and high-tech minimalist flats remind us why, deep down, we never were really that into sluts.

We saw this dude at some real serious Italian parade. He didn’t seem to know anybody and was rarely playing his trumpet but the verdict was: This stumbling little Chinese Jerry Lewis with the ridiculous facial gestures is the whole reason we hate normal people.

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What’s with all the shuttlecocks walking around this summer? All these assholes squeezed into a tight T-shirt and gigantic cargo shorts look like bells or upside-down tulips or something. Get some clothes that fit you, Bobby Handmedowns.

What do we have to do to get rid of this guy? First we nail him in his studio and get $40,000. Then we get him after the awards show in Vegas. Next thing you know he’s got two new box sets out and he’s hanging at the Puerto Rican Day parade giving us the finger. What is this guy, hip-hop venereal warts?

We always start with the shoes. Why waste your time on Eva Mendes or Alicia Keys if they’re rocking Tevas or those stupid fucking platform flip-flops? So we started with her 80s new wave boots and leopard-print dress but then, as we climbed up the mountain, we were hit with a drunken Andy Dick in a cheap wig being choked by a ridiculous kid’s belt. Thanks a lot, liar boots.

Goddamnit. I’m so sick of seeing people bring their computers to the bar I feel like having a temper tantrum every time I see them. Lady, you don’t have internet here so the only things you could be working on are: poetry, very loose fiction, and photoshopping your dog onto a 1950s hot rod. All those things are fucking gay, and you should be doing them at home. Literally fuck off.

Having a nice bod as you leave your twenties is a great thing and we don’t want to prevent you from enjoying that but the teeny-bopper raver sex-bunny thing doesn’t really go with wrinkles. Can’t you have glasses on and be telling your beautiful children things like why it’s hard to breathe on high mountains? Geez.

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See what we’re saying about sluts? I mean, it’s kind of fun—that night—in the bathroom—with a bump—but after a while you’re like, “I don’t want to eat candy bars for dinner and watch TV all day. I feel sick. I want to have a shower and go exercise or something.” Go check the Italian stylist from the DOs and you’ll see what I’m talking about.

You know a DON’T is a keeper when all you have to do is describe it in a bar and people are all, “No way. Are you fucking kidding me?” Well, here it is, folks. Live. I like how this crazy bitch (Can she read? What is she, Japanese?) threw a copyright symbol in there just in case you also wanted rapists to follow you everywhere and lunge at your ass.

Speaking of clueless nips, what the fuck kind of music is this homo into? Super-high-energy Happy Hardcore remixes of “Redemption Song?” Can you imagine how hard you’d hit the floor if he was just givin ’er on the dance floor like a maniac in a trance? You’d get so much Laugh Therapy you’d be immune to cancer.

When women are on their honeymoon there’s this thing where they literally get their brains fucked out and they stumble around in funny socks and a dirty, oversize T-shirt with their hair in a weird bobby-pin thing. Looks cute then, but when your 56 year-old divorced mom does it and throws some Romanian-piano-teacher shoes into the mix you’re like, “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeew.”

Can you imagine how incensed Ricky would become if Bubbles got ahold of this? “Hello, Richard, are you ready for the dinner party? Oh yes, that’s right. You already had dinner. You ate fish sticks on your car. How quaint.”

Ricky would rip the doll’s head off and then say, “Sorry, Bubbles, I had to do it. It was Youth in Asia.”

*Inside joke for Canadians

And we thought we already hated tiny knapsacks enough when they were leather and early-childhood-education students wore them to picnics with stupid people. Now jocks are taking even smaller ones and wrestling their way inside. All we need now is for Rumsfeld to get one made of baby seals and the triangle will be complete.