The latest hydration trend is “coconut water.” This is the liquid found in young coconuts, and given that it’s full of sugar (10 grams per 8 ounces) it’s not really technically water. It’s the liquid extract of the seeds of the coconut palm tree. Coconuts are drupes, just like peaches, pistachios, cherries, and mangos.

If you squeeze a bunch of cherries you can’t really call that cherry water, but the historic name for coconut juice including the word “water” gives it a clear marketing advantage. Marketing teams have been working to brand sugar solutions as “water” since the success of Vitamin Water last decade, and Zico Coconut Water is no exception.

“It’s got electrolytes!” they say, and again, that’s not technically untrue. It’s just that almost every food also has electrolytes, and so does tap water, and you don’t need extra electrolytes unless you’re sweating so much your clothes are getting wet. And even then, water with a pinch of salt, or water plus a small amount of regular food is cheaper and healthier.

Zico Coconut Water costs thirteen cents an ounce, which is $16.64 a gallon, by the way.

It’s been fourteen years since Bill Clinton was accused of cumming on some girls in the White House, and this item continues to be one of the top-selling corkscrews online. You can hardly blame the guy for doing sex stuff with his dick considering people are still thinking about it and talking about it in 2012.

I may be biased here because my wife looks so much like Monica Lewinsky that she can’t wear a beret.

The perfect addition to your safari-themed bathroom, this giraffe-shaped toilet-paper holder is a great way to symbolically suffocate nature’s beauty with the convenience of the modern world. The metal giraffe quietly cries out “No! No, I can’t breathe!” as you emotionlessly drop roll after roll of Charmin Ultra-Butt down onto his neck, sealing his fate.

God Tells New Things To Doris is, according to its author Doris, a work of nonfiction. It could be another in an endless line of batshit, rambling texts by people who have mental problems, but what’s to say God didn’t speak directly to Doris? Perhaps God is like Bill Murray, revealing himself to regular people, saying or doing something outrageous, and disappearing with the reassurance “No one will ever believe you.”

I won’t begrudge anyone the right to do what they want to themselves at home. If you want to cram a piece of metal up your dick and then “cum thru” the hole, be my guest. Not everyone wants to do that, but it’s cool that someone made a product for the man who does.

The laughable part is that the customer reviews all say “I used this, and it HURT!” Uh… no shit?

I’ve seen these parking signs at every shitty flea market for my entire life. And for the whole of my wretched existence on this doomed mud-sphere, I’ve imagined someone hanging this in their divorced dad’s garage, then standing in front of it every day as their step-mom comes home from work, shaking their head and tapping the sign. You can’t park here, Stephanie, your food sucks and you’re not even my real mom.

For only $215, you can join the Peanut Butter & Jelly Of The Month Club. I love peanut butter & jelly, admittedly, but I think that’s mostly because I can use the same Jif and Smuckers that I ate as a kid. Spreading ten bucks’ worth of artisanal hand-ground african peanut crumble onto a piece of bread with ten bucks’ worth of single-origin orange mumbleberry preserves just wouldn’t trigger the part of my brain that remembers what life was like before pimples and driving.

The ad copy says (among other things) that you can’t live without this subscription, and if that’s true, then turn on my webcam to watch me die, melt me down in a giant microwave, and pour my dead ass into a jar labeled “Didn’t subscribe to PB&J.”