Dos & Don'ts. Vice Magazine

“I’m on Fire”, you better hoarse up your voice so it sounds right.

      6. Only one person on the mic at a time. This is an especially hard rule to follow during Oasis and U2, but sorry dude, that’s why there’s rules.

      He’s singing that Bronski Beat classic, “Hey God, What the Fuck Did You Do With My Balls?”

      While your friends are going to bars thinking they’re heavy shit because they just did seven shots or— ooooh!—they talked to a pretty girl, you are out there, in the streets, destroying society with your bare hands like your life is a Dead Kennedys song.

      You might think that the best accessory for the young, attention-seeking homosexual would be a bag or shoes or perhaps a scarf. But you’d be wrong. It’s a Filipino midget.

      Suicide is for pussies.

      You know you’re a filthy whore when even your ass is frantically trying to claw its way out of your dress just to get the fuck away from you.

      A lot of girls are wearing these long t-shirt dresses that are so short even dogs think, “I wonder if I could get her if she was really wasted and I had coke.”

      I used to think leg men were fags but every once in a while you see a pair of stems that makes you understand why the 1950s won’t shut up about it.

      This town ain’t big enough for the two of us fucking baby dickhead Scandinavian pussies.

      The most satisfying part of asking an ageing male-model Charlie Brown grunge turd to pose for the DOs & DON’Ts is the moment he realises which side of the page he’s destined for.

      How tranquil and saintly is Jimmy Train Set? I want to be him when I grow up. Actually, can I be him now?

      It’s nice to get a tattoo of that special someone, unless your life is a revolving door of special someones.

      For some reason I always thought that taking him out of the water and putting him in a pair of sweats outside the drug store would divest King Neptune of some of his majesty and grandeur. I was wrong.

      Look, nobody’s saying you’ve got to be Brad Pitt to get laid, but when you walk up looking like a lunch box puppet some wizard brought to life for his kid, the sound of vaginas clamping shut is like a machine gun.

      You know when you see something in another country with English words written on it that are basically nonsensical because it looks cool, and the person who owns it has no idea what it means? Like a child’s backpack in Japan that says “Obama Harry Potter Dragonball Z Brad Pitt”? This car is just like that.

      STEALING FROM ENGLISH-AS-A-SECOND-LANGUAGE SPEAKERS Try scowling and saying, “Do you know what I’m talking about?” when you mean “Know what I am saying?” We knew an exchange student who did that, and it ruled. Asking if people want to “make a party” is good too.

      Does anything say “suave eccentric billionaire on holiday” more than a slightly battered vintage briefcase and a perfectly coordinated leisure/flight suit?

      Sure, he isn’t great friend material if you’re lost in Baltimore. But should you be in Paris and need a faggy electro bar where they play Giorgio Moroder and the dad of the girl who owns it built the Pompidou Centre, he’s perfect.

      Are they wearing those jackets so chicks know what flavour of date rape they’re going to get? Pink signifies the bewildering, “Did that really happen?” kind and blue means knocked out and waking up on the kitchen floor.

      Something inside me wants to molest this Trevor Brown painting come to life but that’s a part that I keep buried in the tiny, padlocked box at the bottom of the three-mile-deep closet that’s inside another closet that you get to by taking a right turn after skeleton 895 in closet 57.

      Hang on a sec, shouldn’t you be five inches tall and gyrating on some Hawaiian’s dashboard instead of wrecking my ability to get anything done for the rest of the day?

      Remember the kid who was a grade ahead of you in junior high who listened to MDC, knew Watchmen by heart and smoked pot out of an apple? He hasn’t changed at all, and he’s still putting the rest of us to shame by not giving one flying fuck.

      Why couldn’t Dylan Carlson have lent the shotgun to this fey little grunge turd instead? Sure, his sister and mum would cry at the funeral but at least nobody would be stealing their Super Shiny Straightening Serum any more.

      If she was a foot shorter this coat would have dramatically different connotations, but right now I’m about 90 percent sure the intended message is, “Why the hell are we driving into Linda’s back?”

      That space blanket is perfect. I want one the next morning that I’m promising God that I’ll never do it again as long as I don’t die this time.

      For those about to double-team the 45-year-old Mexican barback for coke, we salute you.

      Hey, you’ve worked hard all day and if you want to mix yourself a pineapple soda and Popov vodka cocktail on the way home, who’s to stop you? The world is your oyster, my friend.