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Dos & Don'ts

If you truly care about the systematic and relentless oppression of women you will satisfy her whenever, WHENEVER she needs it.
VICE Staff
Κείμενο VICE Staff

A lot of guys talk a big feminist game but they “pussy out” when it comes time to really please a woman. If you truly care about the systematic and relentless oppression of women you will satisfy her whenever, WHENEVER she needs it. Even on acid at nine in the morning at Glastonbury in front of dozens of crusty British hippies who reek like shit.

When you hear us bitching about baby boomers and you start to wonder, “OK, who do they like then? Who’s the opposite of a baby boomer?” Well, how about this fucking pillar of steel? He’s in there. In the stench. Getting his hands dirty before anyone wakes up and ending his 12-hour shift at a dirty tavern drinking loud beers with some off-duty cop whose dad just died. This human rock is the reason you are alive.


Homemade shirts are the new silk-screened shirts. Especially when you have the wit to combine “I’m a fag and I don’t care” with “rich white kids’ infatuation with oppressed minorities is so fucking gay.”

But, let me ask you this: is it possible to like the “gay is the new black” guy AND this guy? They’re both proud of how they feel about dinks and neither of them give a shit if you think they’re assholes. I mean, isn’t that what the Western World was founded on?

Man, when girls combine the slob thing with high fashion and they’ve got the stiletto boots with the sweats and the Fendi with the grandma jumper there’s just so much going on that looking at them is like reading your favorite comic book.

(Note Bill’s shoe jumping in there at the last minute going, “Hey, we have pieces of flare too you know.”)

Here’s something I bet you didn’t know: Mexicans are funny. Apparently the majority of the ones we see every day are Northern Mexicans (those are the ones with that drawn-out Cheech Marin accent), and a big thing with those guys is fucking around and being hilarious. Like Miguel’s drunk uncle over here walking down the street in a C-3PO belt buckle. Check it out next time you’re on the subway if you don’t believe me. They’re always punching each other and giggling about some riff.

These girls are from that magical Ghost World time in your life where everyone in your suburb was a “sellout” and you would take the bus to the city every Saturday to buy a Ramones shirt and some used records and you’d maybe even let the guy from the Explosion finger you in the bathroom of CBGB. It was corny but cool.


Yeah, he’s an arrogant uptown fuckface that liked American Psycho but check out those white rims. He gets that you hate him and he likes that. And no, that’s not a tiny drop of pee in your panties. It’s your body trying to tell you that you are attracted to this.

Wearing jean shorts under a jean skirt can get a bit too jeany, so you may have to get genius on your ass (literally) and rig up something really fucking brilliant like this. It makes my tummy feel weird to look at, like the Smarties in the mentally-ill DON’T, but in a good way.

While white grandfathers sit in their own stench on a ratty old beige chair eating bad fish and circling the shows they want to watch that night, black grandfathers are going to meetings with the Retiree Board of Directors and seriously hoping Shelly is there because she STILL has a great ass.

Okay, first of all kilts are bullshit. They were invented by ponces like Sir Walter Scott back in the early 19th century to satisfy England’s fascination with the Scottish highlander. All that clan tartan and knife-in-the sock/Braveheart shit is completely made up. Highlanders were drunken savages who wore whatever plaid blankets they could find and only cared about not dying. You might as well say, “I’m a member of the Zulu nation.” However, the great thing about DON’Ts is, no matter how irritating something is to look at, there’s always another chief ready to come along and shit a bigger pile of salt into your eye holes.


Like this. When you buy a shot in New Orleans they ask you if you “want a skirt with that” (meaning salt and a lime). This is because men don’t wear skirts. “Oh, but what if it’s a hearty and tough Utilikilt that I read about in the New York Times?” Oh, but what if it’s an Uneh neh neh that I read about in The Neh Neh Neh? (Repeated back at him with a face that’s purple with rage and spit flying everywhere.)

Or how about the “reinventing the wheel” skirt-wearer who thinks he’s changing the world by turning the oppressive pants theocracy on its head? This guy even ceremoniously ripped the top off a pair of pants and stuck it on his dress like a crazy Indian putting the white man’s head on a spike. Who’s laughing now, pants?

Then there’s the mentally ill fags that politicize their fucked-in-the-headedness and all the fat Canadian girls agree with “her” until “she” starts saying stuff like, “People totally underestimate children’s sexuality. Did you know even babies can get erections?” And they’re all, “Um, I don’t know if it was the Smarties but I feel kind of sick.”

Of course, if you do finally convince these stupid fucking idiots to change their Scottish Zulu I-hate-pants macho-drag trans-man-gender-queer-bi-boy-bending ways they’ll be all “No problem, buddy” (in a German accent) and bust out something so much worse you’ll be chasing them down the street holding a tartan Utilikilt and bawling, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please. Wait!”


The good news is nobody’s going to rob you in your sleep, but the bad news is your face is six inches away from a pair of balls. And we’re not talking nice, groomed, male model’s balls that just got back from the spa and are super nervous about meeting you—we’re talking homeless-dog balls.

Sometimes urban thugs can get so good at “the game” they start to make some serious cash. Now, a big part of cash is treating yourself and “looking fine” but when you’re stupid and crazy and grew up with a single mom, this need for flair can come out as a really fancy five-year-old-girl that lifts weights, races sports cars, and has a “born to sew” tattoo.

What would you rather do: have to change your name to “Speak English” and eat watery lasagna and beer for breakfast every day OR have to walk around with a really insulting caricature of yourself on the back of your jacket for the rest of your life?

Holy shit. Have you been to a normal-person club recently? The kind where ugly people line up outside and inside it’s all $8 shots and reggaeton? Dude, it’s torture. All the guys look like Italians dressed as black punks for Halloween and the girls look like they were created by a 14-year-old boy that’s beating off.

Know this: when you are lying there in bed thinking you don’t want to take on the day becuase it’s too hard, there are human abortions out there stumbling around town in a spastic daze repeating, “Don’t pee your pants, Bruno. Don’t pee your pants.” Please cut this out and tape it to your alarm clock.