Buzz Ballin' - A Corner Store Critique

“Have a ball!” - BuzzBallz

Usually in the writing room of Kill Pretty—otherwise known as the teen section at the public library—we find our inspiration at the bottom of the bottle. After telling each other the lamest dick jokes we can come up with, our supply ran low and our dick jokes became too good. So we set forth into the hot, arid, wheel-carted streets of downtown Los Angeles to fulfill or booze intake.

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We stumbled upon the little, round, neon, testicle-shaped cans known as BuzzBallz. These so-called BuzzBallz are so appealing to the eye that even the world’s finest teetotaler can’t look away. Being the drunk degenerates we are, we decided to buy the whole refrigerator stock’s worth, which turned out to be like only 24 cans. But do not be fooled. These Ballz of Buzz come well stocked with 20% alcohol, and they all taste like a queef from one of Satan’s demonic and dirty harlots.

While in the store, we stumbled upon a girl named Christian. Yes, that is correct. A girl. Named Christian. Before even taking notice to the oddly shaped cans dumped into our t-shirts folded up like some fat fuck trying to lie in a hammock, she told us that she’s a stripper but gets paid in pennies. Then she instantly informed us she was just kidding. It’s only a joke. However, she continued telling us that she’s really fucked up right now because she’s on Ritalin but took her sleeping pills too late and then woke up and now her mouth is all dry—whatever the fuck. Then she finally takes notice to the neon balls flooding our clothes.

“What’s that?” she says.

“BuzzBallz.”

“What the fuck are BuzzBallz?”

“We don’t know but we’re going to drink every last one of them.”

“Ooh. Can I come on your investigation?”

“Next time, lady. We’ve got important matters to attend.”

Here is an artistic representation of meeting our new fan Christian! Sup gurl!

Christian looked disappointed but we didn’t have time for overweight Ritalin adicts, plus we only had 24. So we pay for these fucking things, three bucks a piece, plus the ten cent per bag fee in this goddamn city, totaling $72.80. While we’re walking back to the war room, we’re unable to contain our urge to crack these things open and so we open them right there on the street. We wrap the paper bags around these tiny, round cans to conceal the contents, public open-container 40oz style, while the two other cans of BuzzBallz rattle around in the bottom of our bags like an old’s man’s testicles in his wrinkly, sagging scrotum.

At the underpass, we encounter a homeless man banging on trash cans with old, broken mop handles telling us, “I just be playin’ da drums. Hey, what the hell y’all got all up in them bags?”

“BuzzBallz.”

“Ah, yeah. BuzzBallz. Let me tell y’all her up on now little story ‘bout BuzzBallz. I was in the first ever black Kiss cover band.”

“That’s great. What about the BuzzBallz story?”

“What you mean? There alcohol up in them things?”

“Yes.”

“Aw, yeah. I got a Facebook, y’all know.”

And so we got the hell out of that.

Nacho with our new friend, his Official Buzzballz Sportz Suit and an Overdue Blue Buzzball.

We got home, eagerly throwing the Buzzballz in the freezer and grabbing more for ourselves. Nacho got the Stiff Lemonaid (Lemonade and vodka), Jacob grabbed the Overdue Blue (a Tropical blend of coconut, pineapple, orange juice, lemon and vodka) and Matt grabbed the Strawberry Rum Job (Strawberries and rum with a hint of pineapple, lime and banana).

Nacho had to throw on his official Buzzballz Sports Suit which helped him to sweat like a motherfucker and be twice as drunk as everyone else.

The Official Buzzball Sportz Suit

We all grasped the balls tight, popped the tops off and pressed the smooth plastic balls to our mouths, chugging the intoxicating juices inside. Here is a breakdown of the flavors:

Stiff Lemonade by Nacho - It had the strong taste of well vodka with a hint of vomit and bad decisions. I felt slightly sick and slightly drunk by the time the ball had emptied it’s load.

Overdue Blue by Jacob - I never wanted to drink these in the first place. I wish I didn’t agree to write articles like this. Seriously though, no one should be drinking Buzzballz. I probably have cancer now.

Strawberry Rum Job by Matt - I loved the strawberry flavor. It wasn’t quite the same as mixing a drink at home but it got the job done and it was cheap and it got the job done.

Immediately Matt started vomiting. Jacob mumbled something about missing an episode of Gilmore Girls, grabbed his backpack and left. Between sweating in the Official Buzzballz Sports Suit and being drunk on cancer juice, Nacho wasn’t able to stop him. Matt tried but just yelled out, “I FEEL MY BALLZ ABUZZIN’!” Jacob missed out though because we found the true hidden story of BuzzBallz.

Apparently a high school teacher wanted to find a way to get freaky with her classmates. She tells the story of sitting by her pool, silently masterbating to a high school senior she had just given a mean history lesson to when she dropped her cocktail in the water. She wanted a way to masturbate drunk and not have to worry about the safety of her alcoholic beverages. (No seriously her story is on the website.)

Buzzballz were invented as a floatable, kosher and freezable alternative to delicious cocktails. Immediately she was a hit with her students and was able to bang half the senior class. Very similar to Camel cigarettes in the 90’s used to fuck under aged children.

We were silently gawking at the hot high school teacher’s photo on Buzzballz.com who had inadvertently gotten us shit faced when we threw on Prince Rick’s Buzz Ballin’ and pretended we were in the club, hanging out with girls, reverting back to a typical Saturday night.

By the end of the song we had the whole house chanting, “BUZZ BALLIN’” which I have to say feels pretty good when you’re clutching a Buzz Ball in each hand. Nacho was looking pale and sickly and his eyes started rolling in their sockets.

Nacho- “I remember mixing a Rum Job with a Overdue blue and the room started to vibrate. I was seeing swatches of different colored orbs flying around my head. Little Buzzballz telling me to “party like a rockstar”, and “RIP just killed the club.” I remember twerking with some chick which was strange because it was just me and Matt and Matt was definitely vomiting in the bathroom. I think I passed out after that”

Nacho is dreaming of big titties and ice cream.

We woke up the next day around noon, empty ballz and full bladders abuzz. Turns out, mixing BuzzBallz will, in fact, not be a good time, even for the seasoned veterans at the art of heavy drinking. While these cute, little, round can-balls are quite attractive to the I-want-to-rip-your-panties-off level, these little fuckers pack quite the punch. While we don’t comprehend it, we’ve finally came a little bit closer to understanding what they mean by, “Drink Responsibly.” They mean, “Don’t drink Buzzballz.”

Epilogue:

Jacob - “Getting on the bus my mind was spinning. Why had I come to Los Angeles? Was it the fame? The fortune? What brought me here? I sat down next to a wise old woman with long whiskers and asked her to tell me her secrets. She spoke of long Cadilacs, palm tree sunsets and the underground poetry slams of the 50’s. I slid out of her lap onto the floor, and an Overdue Blue Buzzball fell out of my hand, rolling down the center aisle of the bus. Watching that Buzzball spin, I saw our tiny Earth—a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam— rotating along its axis, all the little people, living their lives, I knew I was just another drop in the bucket. That mysterious Buzzball, a puzzle box of drunken delight that can open the passage to all of life’s greatest mysteries.”

Drunken Art Reviews

When we're bored well throw Mr. Rich a bunch of paintings and stuff from the Juxtapoz website and see what he thinks. Here's our staff drunks take on contemporary art.

 "Squiggle shit that looks like there's a bird in the middle with no head(kinda)"

I'm tired of people that pretend they're saying more in their artwork than they never intended and people that think they're in tune with something that doesn't exist in the painting giving money to these fucking phonies.  It's phonies supporting phonies.  That should be the title.

The Cosmic Serpent, Tara McPherson

"Redheads like snakes"

           It's pretty good.  I don't have to think about what I'm looking at.  It's a hot naked chick, right?  She is obviously standing in the line at the space DMV and forgot her clothes.  I can relate.

Cliff House, Modscape

"Twat-monkeys that built their house in a dumb fucking spot."

           Even if that's not your house, you're still driving a mini cooper.  Minus the two twat-monkeys, the car, and the structure attached to the cliff-face, it would have been a beautiful photograph.

John Morrow. Morrow's Academy of Martial Arts. Moline, IL, Carla Richmond

 " 5'3'' or 5'4'' "

          To judge this as a piece of art would be silly.  Who's going to hang this on their wall besides the guy that held onto his, "Big Kickers First Kick" trophy, and maybe the poor family member he Christmas gifts it to.  I bet his daughter took this for a school project for "the person you most want to kill".  Why is one trophy sideways?  Make the trophies symmetrical.  Take the guy out of the picture.  Put his wife in the shot , no matter how many stretch marks she has, and have her in a blue bikini doing the same un-badass pose.  That's art.

Couldn't find the name of the artist because no one on the internet has ever talked about them until us...look at us! Breaking new ground!

 "Golden fan?"

          It looks like one of those oscillating fans you had in your room as a kid until it would crap out when too much cat or dog hair clogged  it up and burnt out the motor.  Regardless of whether it's made out of gold or just coated in it, it's gonna crap out on you so don't use it. 

Some Thoughts on Sabbath

When Ozzy joins Black Sabbath the whole thing turns upside down, you know? They actually had all the money in the world to do as much cocaine as they wanted, which I consider to be the culprit, and them trying to get through to kids. I think Ozzy was trying to get through to certain types of people. The album Master of Reality that has Always Forever on it, that’s a Christian album. That song Sweet Leaf is a pretty spiritual song.

After Ozzy left Black Sabbath he went solo and started busting into more Alchemy, monsters and devil worshiping directly. It got to a point in the 80’s where parents had found Ozzy records on their kids turntables who had blown their brains out. Ozzy would have been drug to court after that.

Ozzy sent missed messages though. In his early career I think he was so glazed on coke, you have this glazed over cocaine...it was okay to be a cocaine christian identity. It was in Rock and Roll and it was in Disco. It was kinda seeping into media in the late 70’s. It was okay to do coke and mix your religion with it. You can see it a lot. It was around a lot more. Then when Reagan and the Republican movements came it, well that became the nuclear threat and you started introducing harder drugs. The harder the situation in America, the harder the drugs. Now you got krokodil and it’s not the chocolate cream filled ones, guys. These will devour your skin off. You got motherfuckers smoking bed bugs. You can take a bed bug and grind it up and it’s like a dust. Remember your favorite movie, Brain Damage? It’s like that. The bed bugs stimulate the pleasure sensor and when you smoke it you can get a high off it for three to four hours. Or you can melt it in a spoon and shoot it up. Intravenously shoot bed bugs.

I think Black Sabbath really was into the god thing when they were younger, you know? But as they get older, their careers are changing, you’re getting ready to induct Dio as the new singer, the whole things getting ready to change. And hey, beliefs change too you know? People that aren’t sure to begin with can mislead a whole lot of people. I think that’s one of the downfalls of Master of Reality. People took it seriously at the time and then followed Ozzy through his career where he would have been getting into more satanic shit. Thats fine or whatever but these guys get this mixed message and all of the sudden he gets pulled into court. Of course the tribunal of the court couldn’t press charges and when you have Ozzy’s powerful lawyers chances are you’re just gonna get slapped on the wrist. You can see that he’s basically a cheesedick. You can see his end resolve. There was no real substantiality to the guy because you see that it was just a TV show the whole time for him because that’s how he ended up. Iommi isn’t a fucking show. He’s the technical master. Him and Geezer Butler and Bill Ward rest in peace.

They’ve really always had a much more solid direction without Ozzy. Ozzy’s always kind of been the loose cannon. But those early albums that they did nailed it, obviously. But that’s what it is. Two different identities.  They did well on the transition from one singer to the other because they’re two different universes. If you’re a Sabbath fan, Sabbath true, you’ll be there because of Iommi no matter what.

LA's Small Penis Epidemic

My semi-recent move to Los Angeles has improved many aspects of my life, but has cast an uncharacteristically dark cloud over one of the most vital things: my sexual wellbeing. You’d think a woman in her mid-20s with no wishes to settle into the monotonous migraine that is monogamy would be unleashing her sexual wrath onto all the beach boys, aspiring directors, and failed actors this city has to offer, but I find myself soaking in a pool of disappointment and settling for masturbation.

I didn’t know I was a size queen until above average dicks were snatched away from me. I took for granted the ample supply of girth provided by the east coast. It was just the standard! When I’d come across a little Richard, I’d be more intrigued than disgusted, rubbing it between my thumb and index finger like a twig. A mouse’s walking stick. Small cocks were the unicorns of the east coast, so when I unzipped a fellow’s pants and found one, I felt something like delight. Like, aww, that’s adorable.

Let me tell you, though…now that pencil dicks, sharpened down to their erasers, have become the norm, my vagina has become much like this city: a dry ass desert. The first guy I slept with out here actually had a penis I could see without squinting through a microscope, which was very misleading. It was as if nothing had changed. New city, same cut of meat. It was only after I continued into the LA dick abyss that I started running into members that seemed to be wilting as the temperature rose. Is it the heat? The easygoing lifestyle? Are penises forgetting to grow? Are they breeding them this way?

Being single was an exciting prospect until these tiny soldiers started lining up like some sick, poking joke. I feel like I’ve been making love to various thumbs. Once it felt like nothing. Just, absolutely nothing. Another guy told me he had emotional issues, but I couldn’t help but wonder if he meant size issues. After one session with these guys, I’m less excited about seeing them again. I feel like I’m getting Punk’d by Ashton. I feel like I’m waiting for Godot’s giant cock. Spoiler alert: It’s never coming.

The only plus side to this epidemic? LA fellas will go down. Oh, will they ever go down. They’ve got the east coast beat there!