It was a warm summer’s night, July 31st, 2010, in the middle of Richmond, VA as the gang finally finished lugging all of the fine high quality furniture of Donnie Schemetti out of his previous residence on W. Clay St. to his new home in the illustrious museum district when out of the deep darkness of the night crept in a chill…

BAM! WHOOSH! WUPING! CHILL! YOU’VE BEEN ICED!

ICED: F150
sweet taste of illegality

Like a shit storm sweeping across the eastern shore Smirnoff ICE’s were raining down from the heavens and slapping individuals in the face with a sweet cruelty only a woman who was built like a house with a face like a monster could provide.

Walking up the stairs? ICE! Going to the bathroom huh? What?! The toilet won’t flush? Handyman extraordinaire wants to open the tank and fix it?! ICE! Just put down your hat for a second and suddenly realize how lonely your scalp really is? ICE! Freestylin’ about lookin at the wall, and how the bigger they are the harder they… ICE! Start laughin at a comrade who just got ICED! Well then here’s to you! ICE! Sitting in a chair? ICE! Getting a beer?! ICE! Checkin your twitter?! ICE! Writing Haiku’s…? ICE!

Smirnoff should honestly be paying us for spreading a marketing campaign not even Don Draper could have come up with in a WoodrowWilsonKatillion years. But, unfortunately the only price that’s being paid is by our dissatisfaction of the taste of what Smirnoff consider’s to be the epitome of a milky, merky, sugar concoction they think is malt liquor. Barry Burnett, pictured above, was quoted saying “This muh fucka’s got me scared to even leave my room.” Thanks Smirnoff for helping me learn to live in a constant state of paranoid awareness.