Today was our first time hitting the Scera Pools in Orem, Utah, and let me tell you it felt like wandering onto the set of Sum 41âs âIn Too Deep.â Chlorine in the air, classic summer tunes bouncing off the concrete, kids launching cannonballs like they were training for the Olympics, Scera Pool has that laid-back Americana feel that makes you forget the chaos of the world, if only for a minute.
The $3 shave ice was glacier-level dense a frosty wrecking ball that took nearly an hour to conquer. Somewhere between the brain freeze and the sticky hands, the vibes were high. Boys dancing like they were auditioning for TikTok stardom, girls rolling their eyes in synchronized mockery. It was peak youth-in-motion energy.
And then it happened.
We all saw him the guy. Confident. Probably in his mid 40âs. About to show the kids how itâs done on the diving boards. One solid run up. Too solid. His foot slipped on the wet board. He hit with a flat slap to the back that echoed like a gunshot. His head snapped back to the board. The board buckled and flipped him like a pancake, slamming his knees against its corner. Then blood red threads unraveling into the blue pool. And a sound you never want to hear from another human: that kind of yelping.
Lifeguards dove into action. The kids stopped. The whole summer vibe shattered. Emergency services arrived, but so did the reality: This is America. And help comes with a four digit meter ticking.
The man was hurt, maybe a busted leg. The paramedics stabilized him, but the question wasnât âIs he okay?â It was âCan he afford to be helped?â And thatâs what kills the summer buzz faster than anything. Because getting broken in America isnât just painful. Itâs financially dangerous.
His wife pulled up in a Texas-plated car, a private Texas taxi. The paramedics helped him in, and off they went. Because here, if youâre from out of state? Out of network? Out of luck.
We wish him well. We really do. He tried to inspire some kids and caught the cruel edge of fate. But we canât let that part slide:
Why do Americans in their moment of most human vulnerability have to fear the price tag of their pain?
Walk, donât run. Not just on slippery concrete, but through this system that can turn a diving board into a financial death sentence.
DeathJuice.com
Summerâs hot, the pool is cool, but Americaâs got broken bones and broken systems.
If you blinked in July, you missed itâbecause BMX wasnât just alive, it was throwing elbows. Weâre talking elite gate battles in Latvia, freestyle fiestas in Brussels, next-gen shredders dropping hammers, and Chris Moeller himself stirring the pot in Colorado like a BMX witch doctor. This wasnât a quiet month. It was a thunderclap. Here’s the full blast:
đąđť Valmiera, Latvia â The Euros Go Nuclear
Date: July 10â13 Event: UEC BMX Racing European Championships Winners: MathisâŻRagotâRichard (Elite Men), BethâŻShriever (Elite Women)
What Went Down: Valmiera became the Roman Colosseum of BMXâno lions, just French dudes snapping gates like their lives depended on it. RagotâRichard threw down a clinic in power starts and smooth transitions, looking like he was genetically engineered in a wind tunnel. Meanwhile, Beth Shriever broke Dutch hearts with a line so dialed it couldâve been drawn by CAD software.
DeathJuice Analysis: Valmieraâs soil ran red, white, and blueâFrance and the UK locking horns while the rest of Europe caught their breath. The track rewarded aggression, punished hesitation, and if you werenât snapping like a mousetrap, you were out.
Big Question: Will this momentum hold into Copenhagen? RagotâRichard is hot, but racingâs a mood, not a guarantee.
đşđ¸ Minnesota Meltdown â Land OâLakes, Land of Legends
Date: July 11â13 Event: USA BMX Land OâLakes Nationals
Pro Podiums:
Menâs Pro: Simon âSmooth As Swissâ Marquart
Womenâs Pro: Molly âBreakoutâ Simpson
Vet Pro: Big Jeff Upshaw, eternal ruler of the aged and angry
The Next Ones: Addison âAlligatorâ Thompson and Ethan âEpopâ Popovich tore the Futures class wide openâriding with the kind of raw horsepower that makes coaches cry and rivals quit.
DeathJuice Take: Marquart rode like a monorailâclean, silent, unstoppable. Simpson proved sheâs more than a prospectâsheâs a problem. And Upshaw? Man rides like gravity owes him money.
đ Brussels Urban Sessions â BMX Joins the Street Party
Date: July 4â6 Status: UCIâs first-ever Hors Class Freestyle event Location: Parc du Cinquantenaire, Belgium
What Hit: BMX, skateboarding, 3×3 hoops, parkour, DJs spinning breakbeats and technoâthis wasnât a comp, it was an Olympic fever dream fueled by Monster and subwoofers.
DeathJuice Verdict: This was the Freestyle blueprint. No bleachers, just a crowd of sweaty humans vibing to tailwhips and tre flips. It felt like BMX finally got invited to its own partyâand didnât puke in the punch bowl.
đ§ Grassroots Grind â Where the Real Work Gets Done
đ ď¸ Dale Holmes â Pro for a Week Tour
The legendâs still out here doing the Lordâs work. Dale Holmes toured SoCal and Arizona tracks, running bootcamp sessions and handing out pro tips like a BMX Mr. Miyagi. No livestreams, just kids learning how to carve lines and stay clipped in.
𼡠Chris Moeller â Rollersâ Realm, Colorado
You heard it rightâChris fâing Moeller brought the chaos to Colorado. âRollersâ Realmâ was a mix of secret sessions, pump line showdowns, and whispers about a new steel prototype. It felt more like a BMX cult gathering than an event, and honestly? Thatâs the point.
đ Fast & Loose Crew â Frisco Bike Park Takeover
Mid-July, the Fast & Loose gang lit up Frisco, CO like it owed them something. No UCI medals, no energy drink bannersâjust raw transitions, lip-hunting savagery, and POV clips thatâll melt your retinas.
đš VERT ALERT â AND WHERE THE HELL IS BMX?
When: July 18â19, 2025 Where: Jon M. Huntsman Center, Salt Lake City, UT Event: Tony Hawkâs Vert Alert â elite vert skating, best trick, legends demo, Olympic hopefuls, sold-out hype, and one glaring omissionâŚ
No BMX. Again.
đ˘ DeathJuice Rant: Vert Alert Needs BMX Like A Coping Needs Coping Wax
Tony Hawkâs Vert Alert is the last bastion of high-flying vertical madnessâexploding with crowd stoke, legacy riders, and Olympic buzz. But guess whoâs not invited?
BMX. The sport that made vert famous in the first place.
This isnât a new snub. Itâs a slow cultural bleed. But in a year when freestyle BMX is shining on global stages, how is it still left off the ramp roster?
𧨠Remember the BMX Vert Gods
This isnât just about todayâitâs about legacy. Look back at the real X Games gladiators, the BMX vert monsters who built the foundations of modern air:
Dave Mirra â The miracle man himself. Gone too soon, never forgotten.
Kevin Robinson (K-Rob) â 27-foot flairs and a heart the size of Rhode Island.
Simon Tabron â 900s like clockwork. Style, power, poetry.
Jay âThe Beastâ Miron â Canadaâs vert hammer before retiring to build furniture and rewire brains.
Jamie Bestwick â The most decorated BMX vert rider of all time. 13 X Games golds. Rode like gravity was optional.
Vert Alert should honor these legends with a tribute ride, a banner, something. Because this isnât just a missed opportunityâitâs a missed responsibility.
đĽ Who Should Ride Vert Alert Today?
Look at the Olympic BMX Park roster and youâll find prime vert-tier sendersâriders whoâve got the air awareness, bike control, and aggression to dominate a 14-foot ramp:
đ BMX Park Olympians Who Could Crush Vert:
Logan Martin (AUS) â Tech meets torque. Give him a vert ramp and a little time? Game over.
Daniel Dhers (VEN) â Veteran precision and one of the most adaptive minds in BMX.
Anthony Jeanjean (FRA) â French flyer with amplitude and consistency.
Declan Brooks (UK) â Not just tricksâhe brings grit. Could go vert easily.
Nick Bruce (USA) â Wildcards need wild walls, and heâs built for it.
Kieran Reilly (UK) â Young blood with triple flair energy. Born to fly.
Jose Torres (ARG) â Big transfer energy and fearless pacing.
And donât forget Dennis McCoyâthe eternal beast who competed in vert into his 50s. Invite him and give him the mic while you’re at it.
â DeathJuice suggests
Vert Alert needs a BMX division. Full stop. The riders are ready, the legacy is undeniable, and the crowd would lose its collective mind watching a 900 barspin tailwhip hit the rafters.
Hereâs what should happen:
Tribute Run for Mirra,.
Legends Demo: Jamie Bestwick, DMC, maybe even Jay Miron rolls back through (Has he had his surgery yet).
Pro Showcase: Invite 6 park elites. Give âem the ramp. Give âem the mic.
Crossover Battle: Skate vs BMX best trick. One ramp. One crowd. Pure chaos.
đ¤ Vert Alert take from DeathJuice
Salt Lake City’s Vert Alert is poised to be the event of the vert seasonâbut itâll never be complete until it stops pretending BMX isnât part of its DNA. Whether you ride with pegs or trucks, vert belongs to both bloodlines.
So while skaters fly this weekend, BMX stays watching. Unless we change that. Next year, give the ramp back to the full family. Bring the bikes. Bring the legends. Bring the fire.
And someone call Moeller. Heâll bring the coping wax and a shovel.
đź Sponsorship Moves â Quiet Money, Big Shifts
Tactics Racing scooped Luna Arpagaus, European Junior assassin
Federal Bikes reupped Merlin Spencer after he upset a seeded rider in Latvia
Oakley x Kimmann: Whispers say Niek Kimmannâs about to become the face of Oakleyâs new park lineâfreestyle finally getting that corporate shine
đŽ Looking Ahead
đĽ Event
đ Why It Slaps
UCI Worlds â Copenhagen
End-of-month firestorm. The fastest riders in the world in a city that bikes better than most cities walk.
Fast & Loose â Worldwide Tour Stops
New lines. New clips. New scars.
Grassroots Coaching Expansions
Rumor: Dale Holmes is launching a âPro For a Monthâ pilot. Get the wristbands ready.
Vert/BMX Integration
Either we show up next year or we keep getting iced out of our own history.
đ¤ Final DeathJuice Word
July was a full send. Racing cracked wide open. Freestyle got a new crown. Moeller stirred the dirt gods. And the sceneâstill scrappy, still steel-toedâis mutating again. The energy isnât coming from boardrooms or energy drink decks. Itâs coming from fast laps in Minnesota, fast lips in Frisco, and fast minds like Dale, Chris, and the kids chasing roost.
Stay loud. Stay fast. And next time they forget to invite BMX to the party, crash it with a shovel, a shovelhead, and a suicide no-hander.
There are moments in life where time slows down â where the only thing that matters is the temperature of the river, the squeal of a tube scraping a rock, and whether your buddy remembered to pack the Costco tub of wet wipes. This past weekend, DeathJuice Nationdescended en masse (40 something strong, give or take a flip-flop) on the mythical yellow hills of Big Rock Candy Mountain, a place that sounds like a nursery rhyme but floats like a fever dream.
đ THE DRAGON COMETH
Our armada was equal parts tribal and absurd: half rubber tubes rented from the very kind and questionably sane folks at Big Rock Candy Mountain Resort, half inflatable chaos born of late-night Amazon orders and group chat dares. There were sleek blue rafts, flamingo-shaped inner tubes, and, towering above them all like a suburban Norse god, a massive inflatable dragon, tail whipping in the wind, wings that dared the sky, and an onboard crew of four snack-fueled maniacs who refused to paddle.
Big shout-out to the Resort crew not only did they rent us the tubes, they ran a tight shuttle game, herding our sunburned masses to the river launch like wranglers at an inflatable rodeo.
đ THE FLOAT: A CHLORINE-FREE BAPTISM
The Sevier River was exactly the kind of gentle chaos we needed. A liquid conveyor belt of sun and shade, rolling us between red rock cliffs and green cottonwoods, with enough twists to keep things interesting and enough calm stretches for the more Hawaii-jetlaggedmembers of our crew to just⌠vibe.
(Yes, four of our friends had just returned from life in Hawaii. Yes, they were still glowing like salted caramel mochi. Yes, we all question why youâd leave paradise for Utah)
There were moments of peace dragon drifting in meditative silence, and moments of sheer panic, like when three tubes got caught in a low-hanging tree that turned out to be a full-blown beaver dam. Nobody died. Everyone screamed.
đ THE INTERMISSION: WINGS AND WHIP
Around the halfway mark, we stormed the shores of Hooverâs like dehydrated pirates. Wet, wobbly, and slightly feral, we made our way into the restaurant still dripping river water and adrenaline.
We ordered chicken wings like we hadnât eaten since Y2K and devoured Dole Whip in volumes that would make a Disney park blush. The staff either loved us or feared us. Probably both.
Someone suggested we just stay there and become river hermits. Another (possibly hallucinating from heat and sugar) claimed they could still hear the dragon whispering battle cries from the riverbank.
đ THE FINAL STRETCH: CABOOSE OR BUST
We re-launched with less dignity but more determination. The final leg was pure joy, floaters sun-kissed and full of fried poultry, our numbers holding strong as we coasted downriver toward the finish line at Caboose Park Holiday Home Rentals, where someone had the foresight to pre-position towels, Gatorade, and adult supervision.
By then, we were part water, part sunscreen, laughing too loud, shouting too much, and completely untethered from whatever stress weâd left behind in the cities we came from.
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đ Takeaways from the Candy Mountain Collective:
⢠A giant inflatable dragon doubles as a spiritual anchor and occasional navigational hazard.
⢠Hooverâs wings taste better when eaten shirtless and barefoot on a wooden bench.
⢠Dole Whip can and will revive a sun-fried brain.
⢠Floating the river is the cheapest therapy youâll ever get.
⢠Friends who tube together⌠clog every river exit and restaurant hallway together.
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40 humans. 1 dragon. 3 hours on the river. One legendary day at the crossroads of Americana kitsch and aquatic absurdity.
This is why we do it. This is why DeathJuice exists.
Next time you see a candy-colored mountain in the distance, grab a tube, call your crew, and float like legends.
Filed from the chlorinated warzone of the Quality Inn Pool, Main Street, USA
The DeathJuice crew is on location.
This week, weâve taken our caravan of chaos to Richfield, Utahâgateway to the Big Rock Candy Mountain, yes, the candy mountain of folk song fame, sugar-coated lies, and long-forgotten boxcar dreams. But weâre not here for your nostalgia. Weâre here to tube the river, wreck our shins on underwater rocks, and wage chemical warfare in the Quality Innâs pool area with Dollar General pool noodles and watermelon White Claws.
To say weâve âtaken overâ the pool would be like saying the Berlin Wall was just a local zoning dispute. Our dominance is total. Germans on the Costa del Sol would bow to our towel placement strategies.
Tubinâ and Baitinâ
Fueled by vintage glory and arcade pixel violence, we resurrected the 1980s via a few sweaty rounds of Toobinâ. Spirits soared higher than a Mary Poppins kite on an Adderall wind. Floating the river tomorrow is the mission, but tonight was about hunting meat and testing faith.
The eternal travel question arose:
Do you risk local flavor, or submit to the predictable embrace of national chains with beige walls and half-frozen ranch dressing?
We rolled the dice. We went local.
Welcome to Borenâs: Where Fat Is Flavor and Flavor Is⌠Absent?
Borenâs Steakhouse is just a block away from the hotel. Naturally, we drove. Because this is America and walking a block is an act of either penance or felony suspicion.
The subwoofer growled Get Deadâs âBad Newsâ as we rolled up like punk rock cattle to the slaughter. Inside? Picnic tables. Sparse decor. The sound system was dripping Jason Aldean-style country twangâmusic that screams âTry That in a Small Town,â while offering you a lukewarm Dr Pepper and a side of condescension.
The staff? Polite. Hopeful even. You get the sense they wanted us to like it.
We ordered. Ribs and brisket. The sacred cuts. The test of any true smokehouse.
Back at the hotel, full of anticipation (and brisket-scented shame), we unwrapped our bounty.
What followed was a meaty betrayal.
Fat. So much fat. More fat than a British chippyâs fryer during peak hours. Lean option? That was a lie. It was as if someone whispered âbeefâ over a bag of suet and called it brisket.
BBQ: A History Soaked in Smoke and Something More Sinister
Letâs have a real talk. BBQ in America is complicated. Its roots are entangled in deep, often painful history. Developed out of necessity and brilliance by the oppressed, itâs been colonized into a flavorless parody by the same folks that now charge $23.99 for gristle wrapped in a wet napkin.
âLow and slowâ is the slogan, but what it really means is, âWe took trash meat and cooked it until you gave up and paid for it anyway.â
And the sauces? Nashville, Memphis, Carolina, Alabama White Death⌠all of it is a desperate attempt to distract you from the fact that what youâre eating would have been a hard sell to a feral hog.
Chains vs. Charms
Now hereâs the kicker. Some of those national chains people sneer at? Yeah, they started out as local joints that actually nailed it. Before the investors, before the franchising, before the soul dilution.
Meanwhile, the restaurants that stay small town?
Sometimes itâs because theyâre community treasures. But more often? Itâs because they think slapping Toby Keith on the stereo and wrapping a napkin around a wad of fat passes as âauthentic.â
TL;DR
We gambled. We lost. And now our insides feel like a smoker full of regret and Crisco.
But tomorrow⌠tomorrow we float the river.
We cleanse the sins of Borenâs in the holy waters of the Sevier.
Before we had foam pits and triple tailwhips on YouTube, we had Nicole Kidman robbing banks on a Mongoose in 1983’s BMX Bandits. Yeah â that Nicole Kidman. Bright orange jumpsuit, curly mop of hair, and way more steez than any of us had at 16. That movie wasnât just camp â it was punk. And for a lot of girls, it was their first time seeing themselves on a bike, not just on the sidelines.
But the BMX world didnât exactly throw open the gates.
The Gatekeepers and the Ghosts
For decades, women were told BMX was too dangerous, too aggressive, too⌠male. Early contests barely acknowledged women existed. Coverage? Nonexistent. Sponsorships? LOL. Even when women showed up â and they did â they were treated as a novelty act.
Racers like Cheri Elliott in the â80s and Tara Llanes in the â90s were beating boys flat-out in races and still got less recognition than a spilled Monster Energy drink. Meanwhile, Nina Buitrago and Stacey Mulligan were sneaking into skateparks and sessions, carving out space in a freestyle scene that refused to give them any.
Letâs be clear: The women didnât âemerge.â They stormed the scene, ignored the gatekeeping, and started stacking clips â even if no one was watching yet.
Social Media: The Great Equalizer
Enter: the internet.
Suddenly, the guys at the top couldnât pretend it was just a âguysâ sport.â Girls like Angie Marino, Perris Benegas, and Hannah Roberts were posting clips that demanded your attention. DIY edits replaced industry approval. It wasnât about waiting to get filmed â it was about grabbing a camera and proving your worth.
Now? Youâve got girls throwing flair barspins, footjam whips, and 540s in backyard ramps â while also editing, filming, and uploading the whole damn thing.
Who Blew the Roof Off?
Letâs shout out the changemakers:
Nina Buitrago â OG trailblazer who kept showing up when there wasnât a womenâs division.
Angie Marino â Built platforms like Yeah Zine and The Bloom BMX to spotlight women riders.
Hannah Roberts â Olympic medalist. Has more medals than most dudes have tires.
Perris Benegas â Flow, power, and style like itâs 1996 all over again â in the best way.
Macarena Perez, Minato Oike, and Sakiko Komatsu â repping the global stage with style and grit.
Chelsea Wolfe â Rider, voice, and activist for inclusion in the sport.
The Bloom BMX: Cultivating the Scene
You want community? You want consistency? Thatâs The Bloom BMX.
Itâs the go-to platform for women in BMX. Run by Angie Marino and Beatrice Trang, The Bloom is part news hub, part community space, part hype machine â and all heart. From rider interviews to product collabs, theyâre documenting history while shaping the future.
Itâs not just for the girls â itâs for anyone who loves the roots of BMX: fast, fun, creative, raw.
A Style We Can Follow
Letâs face it â menâs BMX has gotten burly. Tricks are so dialed, so tech, so spin-to-bar-to-whip-to-manual-to-decade that most casual fans are lost. You’re not sure if it was a 540 or a black hole collapsing.
Womenâs BMX? Itâs not behind â itâs different. And for many, itâs better to watch. The style is creative, inventive, raw. Street lines feel like actual lines, not just stunts. It’s closer to the soul of ’90s BMX: rough spots, loud outfits, weird tricks, and undeniable style.
So What’s Next?
Weâre calling it now:
More global takeovers: Women in Latin America and Asia are growing fast. Expect a Tokyo-to-BogotĂĄ pipeline of street edits soon.
More inclusive events: No more âdemoâ status. Equal pay and equal platform are coming â whether theyâre invited or not.
Women running the brands: Expect women-led BMX brands, crews, and events to dominate. No oneâs waiting for approval.
Tricks getting gnarlier, but not robotic: Progression without losing flavor.
The rise of dirt and trails: Watch for women to take over dirt in the next 5 years â mark it.
In Conclusion: Womenâs BMX is BMX at Its Best
Itâs hungry. Itâs stylish. Itâs not overbuilt, overproduced, or overfunded. Itâs real. And for a generation that grew up watching the same six dudes on every cover, itâs finally giving BMX its punk rock pulse back.
Weâll keep riding with the rebels. Catch us in the comments when youâre ready to admit: the girls are stealing the show.
Want some rider tags to follow? @perrisbenegas @hannah_roberts_bmx @thebloombmx @sakikomatsuuu @chelseawolfebmx DeathJuice-approved. Go get lost.
We know you came here for some unhinged takes, spicy memes, or maybe a caffeine-fueled existential rant about e-scooters. But today, weâre punching a hole through the veil of ignorance for your own good. Consider this an emergency broadcast from your favorite irresponsible uncles over at DeathJuice HQ. Why? Because youâre squishy, mortal, and very much on fire.
What Most People Overlook About Skin Cancer (Until Itâs Eating Their Face)
You ever feel like the sun is stalking you? Thatâs not paranoia. Thatâs just biology and bad habits.
Skin cancer is the most common type of cancer in the U.S., which is wild considering how easy it is to not roast yourself like a rotisserie chicken. Itâs up astronomically over the last 50 yearsâbecause surprise, the Earthâs atmosphere isnât getting any thicker and our love of bronzed selfies isnât going away either.
The Melanoma Mayhem
Melanoma is the boss-level skin cancer, and itâs not chilling out anytime soon. Forecasts show it rising another 6% in 2025, especially among people under 30âand especially especially among women. Nothing says âhot girl summerâ like a malignant mole playing hide and seek under your ribcage.
âBut I Wear Sunscreen⌠Sometimesâ
Cool. But you also sometimes floss and sometimes answer texts. Doesnât mean your teethâor your skinâare safe.
Most skin cancer shows up on the predictable spots: face, scalp, neck, ears, upper chest, hands. Basically anywhere thatâs been kissed by the sun so many times it filed for a restraining order.
But hereâs the part no one wants to talk about:
Skin cancer can pop up in places you didnât even know had skin.
Weâre talking palms, soles, genitals, butt cheeks, eyelids, under your nails, even inside your nose and mouth. Thatâs right. Your uvula might be plotting against you. Dermatologists have seen it all. You? Probably havenât even checked.
TL;DR: The Sun Doesnât Care Where You Tan
Look, this isnât just another fear-mongering article trying to get you to live inside a cave or buy SPF 9,000 sunscreen made from baby pandas. Itâs a public service announcement from your fellow meatbags who are tired of watching people treat their skin like itâs invincible just because it grew back after that one time they wiped out on a skateboard in 2003.
So What Now?
Put on some sunscreen like itâs war paint.
Schedule a skin check like an adult.
And maybe stop roasting your body in the name of âlooking healthy.â
You can be hot and not have your dermatologist on speed dial, okay?
We love you. But if your moles start growing legs and quoting Shakespeare, donât say we didnât warn you
Ah, Utah. The land of mountains, modesty, and minivans. A place where fry sauce is a sacrament garnish, soda shops are holy ground, and every Sunday, the meeting houses are packed tighter than a Costco parking lot at 10:01 a.m.
Among the faithful Latter-day Saints of the Beehive State, there exist two curious subgroups who despite their shared commitment to sacrament attendance and the blessing of partaking, have developed vastly different strategies for managing that whole âkeep the Sabbath day holyâ thing.
Letâs meet our two saints:
⸝
1. The Procrastinating Penitents
These saints operate under a specific spiritual framework: sin now, serve later.
They remember the Lordâs counsel in Doctrine & Covenants 59:9, which boldly declares:
âAnd that thou mayest more fully keep thyself unspotted from the world, thou shalt go to the house of prayer and offer up thy sacraments upon my holy day.â
So, naturally, they interpret this as: âGet the worldly spottedness done before church.â Youâll see them sprinting through Walmart at 8:37 a.m., grabbing essential items like deli meats, a CTR ring for their toddler who keeps biting during nursery, and maybe a box of mints to prepare for reverent breath.
They know that as long as they make it to the sacrament in time, theyâre spiritually reset. Like hitting âundoâ on divine Google Docs.
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2. The Proactive Sinners
These are the overachievers of transgression timing. They attend sacrament with perfect punctuality and intentional piety, fully planning to break the Sabbath, but only after theyâve secured celestial forgiveness in advance.
They lean into D&C 59:13, which says:
âAnd on this day thou shalt do none other thing, only let thy food be prepared with singleness of heartâŚâ
But they read it like a divine loophole. After all, the mall has food courts, and they aresingularly focused on that BOGO deal at Jamba Juice.
And lest you forget, they often cite D&C 58:26:
âFor behold, it is not meet that I should command in all thingsâŚâ
Ah yes, the classic âagency clause.â The proactive saints interpret this as divine encouragement to make their own decisionsâincluding deciding that they need to âgatherâ at Target as much as they gather at church.
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3. A House of Order⌠With a Shopping List
Letâs not forget D&C 88:119, which urges saints to establish a:
âhouse of order, a house of prayer, a house of fasting, a house of learningâŚâ
But in Utah, many households have interpreted this to mean: âMake sure the house is stocked with snacks, clean laundry, and enough Capri Suns to survive a Primary class.â
And what better way to ensure that than a quick Sabbath day stock-up?
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The Eternal Balance
In the great cosmic spreadsheet of heaven, whoâs doing it better?
Hard to say.
The Procrastinators? They sin under pressure. The Proactives? Theyâre just âanxiously engaged in a good causeâ (D&C 58:27)âespecially if that cause is a post-church clearance sale.
And both are sure to be back next week, ready to repent and repeat.
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Final Thoughts
So whether youâre buying a roast at 9:47 a.m. or hitting the mall at 12:23 p.m., just remember this:
D&C 64:10 reminds us:
âI, the Lord, will forgive whom I will forgive, but of you it is required to forgive all men.â
âŚEven if theyâre the ones who took the last pack of Hawaiian rolls on a Sunday morning.
So let us judge not, but love greatly. Zion is made up of many kindsâthose who sin before the closing prayer, and those who sin shortly after the closing hymn. But all of us are trying. Mostly.
A 4th of July Dispatch from the British Founder of DeathJuice, Trapped Somewhere in Utah
Here we are again â July 4th â the day Americans gather to celebrate breaking up with Britain by launching small-scale explosions into the sky and shouting âWOOâ with enough conviction to scare livestock.
As a proud Brit â currently exiled in the Utah desert â Iâve had the rare pleasure of observing this sacred event from within the belly of the beast. And I must say:
There is no celebration of freedom quite like wrapping yourself in a flag, eating 19 hot dogs, and then burning down your neighborâs lawn with a rogue Roman candle.
𧨠America: Where Everything Is Legal Except DeathJuice
Letâs cut to the core hypocrisy, shall we?
In this nation of so-called âfreedomâ, I can legally:
Open-carry an AR-15 into a Cracker Barrel
Deep fry an entire turkey in a bucket of motor oil
Buy prescription narcotics and a 64oz Pepsi at the same gas station
Drive a lifted truck that runs on dreams and diesel fumes
But can I, the literal founder of DeathJuice, sell a can of the worldâs most unhinged beverage here?
Absolutely not.
Itâs banned.
Too unstable.
Too edgy.
Too much actual flavor, apparently.
This country trusts you with a flamethrower and a college education youâll never pay off â
but not a neon blackcurrant energy drink that kicks your soul in the teeth.
đ The Great American Contradiction
You call it freedom.
But from where Iâm sitting â sweating in a lawn chair in Utah, listening to someone explain why they put bacon in their apple pie â it looks more like a freedom-shaped costume stitched together with denial, Red #40, and suburban rage.
âWeâre free!â
(But our food has warning labels in 4 languages.)
âWe beat the British!â
(But still use Imperial measurements and spell colour wrong.)
âThis is the greatest country on Earth!â
(Except, apparently, for the part where weâre not allowed to sell DeathJuice.)
đĽ¤Let Them Have Pepsi
So hereâs to you, America.
Enjoy your fireworks, your propane, your plastic flags and your idea of liberty.
Drink your flat, lukewarm Pepsi and call it a revolution.
Sing about freedom while being watched by six different agencies because you Googled how to make bread from scratch.
Meanwhile, Iâll be here â sunburnt, slightly bitter, and sipping DeathJuice from a smuggled can while the neighbors accidentally blow up a kiddie pool.
Because freedom â real freedom â tastes like artificial berry rage and comes in a can so illegal it might as well be a war crime.
So weâve now driven 9,000 glorious, silent, drama-free miles in our Hyundai Ioniq 6, and guess what?
It hasnât needed a drop of gas, an oil change, or a roadside exorcism. Just pure, unfiltered electricity â and sometimes not even that, because we charge for free half the time.
Letâs talk numbers so cold theyâd make your gas-powered uncle cry:
The Electric Truth
4.8 miles per kWh
$0.10 per kWh
9,000 á 4.8 = 1,875 kWh used
$0.10 x 1,875 = $187.50
BUT, we only pay for about half our charging, soâŚ
đ Real cost: $93.75
Ninety. Three. Dollars. For 9,000 miles. Thatâs less than one tank in some trucks that rhyme with âRam.â
Meanwhile⌠the Ford Explorer
We still have it. Still love it. Itâs a beast â reliable, comfy, good for road trips and Costco missions. But letâs be honest:
Driving it feels like lighting money on fire while blasting classic rock.
22 MPG
9,000 á 22 = 409 gallons
409 x $3.50 = $1,431.82
Yeah. Over fourteen hundred bucks just to move the thing around. Thatâs not a car â itâs a subscription to disappointment.
Letâs Do the Math:
đ° Savings: $1,338.07
Thatâs basically a vacation. Or 150 coffees. Or all the snacks your kids claim theyâll eat and absolutely wonât.
Final Thought:
Weâre not ditching the Explorer â but these days itâs more of a weekend warrior while the Ioniq 6 does the daily domination.
So yeah, we drive an EV.
Not because weâre better than you.
Okay, maybe a little because weâre better than you. đ
Charge it. Drive it. Flex it.
The future called â and itâs whispering, âgas is for boomers.â
Ah, Docks Beers, the glittering jewel in the reclaimed-industrial-crown of Grimsby-that-isnât-Grimsby. Nestled just far enough from the actual docks to avoid any real sense of danger or authenticity, this polished concrete cathedral to craft beer offers a safe space for the modern man to wear rolled-up jeans and pretend his beard is a personality.
Letâs be honest: Docks Beers isnât just a brewery. Itâs a rehab centre for men who once bought a rusted-out Vespa and thought, âIâll restore it one day.â That day never came. But what did come? A whole new identity based on buying obscure Polish lagers with pineapple infusions and pretending they enjoy the taste.
Youâll find them there, leaning on reclaimed wood bars, sipping âHop Hustleâ or âCryoClash 3000â like theyâre drinking the blood of rockstarsâwhile talking about that one time they nearly started a podcast about music and fatherhood.
These are the heroes of mediocrity, the warriors of warm IPAs, the men who peaked when someone on Reddit said, âThat shelf you made out of scaffolding poles is sick, mate.â Their pints are as overpriced as their self-worth, and both are brewed with a hint of nostalgia and a strong aftertaste of âshouldâve stuck with IT.â
The bar is so full of mismatched chairs and faux-industrial fixtures that youâd be forgiven for thinking you were at an IKEA display titled: âGentrification: The Experience.â The urinals smell like freshly printed CVs and broken dreams. Honestly, the toilets are so clean you could cry into your career change, but you wonâtâbecause someone might think itâs artistic.
Letâs not forget: despite the name, Docks Beers is not on the docksâjust like Grimsby Town FC isnât in Grimsby. (Thatâs Cleethorpes, love. We all know it.) Itâs like naming a restaurant âThe Forest Grillâ and sticking it in the middle of a Tesco car park. But thatâs the charm, innit? Authenticity is for people without Instagram.
Now, as for the beer: brewed with the kind of care and precision usually reserved for skincare routines, every drop is crafted by men who once worked in digital marketing but now wear aprons and talk about âmouthfeel.â Their hands are softer than the back of your nanâs neck, and they havenât lifted anything heavier than a flight paddle in years.
Youâll overhear conversations like:
âYeah, Iâm brewing my own saison at home. Itâs fermented with yeast harvested from Himalayan peach bark.â
âI just sold my NFT of a vape cloud to buy a second-hand record player from a bloke in Barton.â
No one laughs, but everyone nods. Respectfully. Because they all know: this isnât a pub. This is a sanctuary for people who were never cool, trying to look like they were once interesting.
So if you find yourself at Docks Beers, clutching your man bag, sipping something called âMolten Anvil Ferment #7â, just rememberâyouâre not drinking beer. Youâre cosplaying the version of yourself that you told someone you were on Tinder.
Now do yourself a favour:
Put down the micro-fermented mango saison, untie the flannel from your waist, and go get a real pint in a real pub. Somewhere with dart boards, broken jukeboxes, and men named Keith who smell faintly of chimney smoke and Bovril.
Because Docks Beers?
Itâs not on the docks.
And itâs not a beer.
Itâs a lifestyle subscription for midlife regret.