Author: RibenaRich

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 41’s “In Too Deep.” 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 40’s. About to show the kids how it’s 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 wasn’t “Is he okay?” It was “Can he afford to be helped?” And that’s what kills the summer buzz faster than anything. Because getting broken in America isn’t just painful. It’s 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 you’re 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 can’t let that part slide:

Why do Americans in their moment of most human vulnerability have to fear the price tag of their pain?

Walk, don’t run. Not just on slippery concrete, but through this system that can turn a diving board into a financial death sentence.

DeathJuice.com

Summer’s hot, the pool is cool, but America’s got broken bones and broken systems.

If you blinked in July, you missed it—because BMX wasn’t just alive, it was throwing elbows. We’re 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 wasn’t a quiet month. It was a thunderclap. Here’s the full blast:

🇱🇻 Valmiera, Latvia – The Euros Go Nuclear

Date: July 10–13
Event: UEC BMX Racing European Championships
Winners: Mathis Ragot‑Richard (Elite Men), Beth Shriever (Elite Women)

What Went Down:
Valmiera became the Roman Colosseum of BMX—no lions, just French dudes snapping gates like their lives depended on it. Ragot‑Richard 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 could’ve been drawn by CAD software.

DeathJuice Analysis:
Valmiera’s soil ran red, white, and blue—France and the UK locking horns while the rest of Europe caught their breath. The track rewarded aggression, punished hesitation, and if you weren’t snapping like a mousetrap, you were out.

Big Question:
Will this momentum hold into Copenhagen? Ragot‑Richard is hot, but racing’s a mood, not a guarantee.

🇺🇸 Minnesota Meltdown – Land O’Lakes, Land of Legends

Date: July 11–13
Event: USA BMX Land O’Lakes Nationals

Pro Podiums:

• Men’s Pro: Simon “Smooth As Swiss” Marquart
• Women’s Pro: Molly “Breakout” Simpson
• Vet Pro: Big Jeff Upshaw, eternal ruler of the aged and angry

The Next Ones:
Addison “Alligator” Thompson and Ethan “Epop” Popovich tore the Futures class wide open—riding with the kind of raw horsepower that makes coaches cry and rivals quit.

DeathJuice Take:
Marquart rode like a monorail—clean, silent, unstoppable. Simpson proved she’s more than a prospect—she’s a problem. And Upshaw? Man rides like gravity owes him money.

🌆 Brussels Urban Sessions – BMX Joins the Street Party

Date: July 4–6
Status: UCI’s first-ever Hors Class Freestyle event
Location: Parc du Cinquantenaire, Belgium

What Hit:
BMX, skateboarding, 3×3 hoops, parkour, DJs spinning breakbeats and techno—this wasn’t 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 party—and didn’t puke in the punch bowl.

🧠 Grassroots Grind – Where the Real Work Gets Done

🛠️ Dale Holmes – Pro for a Week Tour

The legend’s still out here doing the Lord’s 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 – Rollers’ Realm, Colorado

You heard it right—Chris f’ing Moeller brought the chaos to Colorado. “Rollers’ Realm” 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? That’s the point.

🐍 Fast & Loose Crew – 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 banners—just raw transitions, lip-hunting savagery, and POV clips that’ll melt your retinas.

🛹 VERT ALERT – AND WHERE THE HELL IS BMX?

When: July 18–19, 2025
Where: Jon M. Huntsman Center, Salt Lake City, UT
Event: Tony Hawk’s Vert Alert – elite vert skating, best trick, legends demo, Olympic hopefuls, sold-out hype, and one glaring omission…

No BMX. Again.

💢 DeathJuice Rant: Vert Alert Needs BMX Like A Coping Needs Coping Wax

Tony Hawk’s Vert Alert is the last bastion of high-flying vertical madness—exploding with crowd stoke, legacy riders, and Olympic buzz. But guess who’s not invited?

BMX. The sport that made vert famous in the first place.

This isn’t a new snub. It’s 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?

🧨 Remember the BMX Vert Gods

This isn’t just about today—it’s about legacy. Look back at the real X Games gladiators, the BMX vert monsters who built the foundations of modern air:

• Dave Mirra – The miracle man himself. Gone too soon, never forgotten.
• Kevin Robinson (K-Rob) – 27-foot flairs and a heart the size of Rhode Island.
• Simon Tabron – 900s like clockwork. Style, power, poetry.
• Jay “The Beast” Miron – Canada’s vert hammer before retiring to build furniture and rewire brains.
• Jamie Bestwick – 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 isn’t just a missed opportunity—it’s a missed responsibility.

🔥 Who Should Ride Vert Alert Today?

Look at the Olympic BMX Park roster and you’ll find prime vert-tier senders—riders who’ve got the air awareness, bike control, and aggression to dominate a 14-foot ramp:

🚀 BMX Park Olympians Who Could Crush Vert:

• Logan Martin (AUS) – Tech meets torque. Give him a vert ramp and a little time? Game over.
• Daniel Dhers (VEN) – Veteran precision and one of the most adaptive minds in BMX.
• Justin Dowell (USA) – Flawless rotations, futuristic style.
• Anthony Jeanjean (FRA) – French flyer with amplitude and consistency.
• Declan Brooks (UK) – Not just tricks—he brings grit. Could go vert easily.
• Nick Bruce (USA) – Wildcards need wild walls, and he’s built for it.
• Kieran Reilly (UK) – Young blood with triple flair energy. Born to fly.
• Jose Torres (ARG) – Big transfer energy and fearless pacing.

And don’t forget Dennis McCoy—the eternal beast who competed in vert into his 50s. Invite him and give him the mic while you’re at it.

✊ 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.

Here’s what should happen:

1. Tribute Run for Mirra,.
2. Legends Demo: Jamie Bestwick, DMC, maybe even Jay Miron rolls back through (Has he had his surgery yet).
3. Pro Showcase: Invite 6 park elites. Give ‘em the ramp. Give ‘em the mic.
4. Crossover Battle: Skate vs BMX best trick. One ramp. One crowd. Pure chaos.

🎤 Vert Alert take from DeathJuice

Salt Lake City’s Vert Alert is poised to be the event of the vert season—but it’ll never be complete until it stops pretending BMX isn’t 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. He’ll bring the coping wax and a shovel.

💼 Sponsorship Moves – 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 Kimmann’s about to become the face of Oakley’s new park line—freestyle finally getting that corporate shine

🔮 Looking Ahead

🔥 Event	📍 Why It Slaps
UCI Worlds – Copenhagen	End-of-month firestorm. The fastest riders in the world in a city that bikes better than most cities walk.
Fast & Loose – Worldwide Tour Stops	New lines. New clips. New scars.
Grassroots Coaching Expansions	Rumor: Dale Holmes is launching a “Pro For a Month” pilot. Get the wristbands ready.
Vert/BMX Integration	Either we show up next year or we keep getting iced out of our own history.

🎤 Final DeathJuice Word

July was a full send. Racing cracked wide open. Freestyle got a new crown. Moeller stirred the dirt gods. And the scene—still scrappy, still steel-toed—is mutating again. The energy isn’t coming from boardrooms or energy drink decks. It’s 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.

— DeathJuice out.

There are moments in life where time slows down — 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.

🐉 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.

🌊 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 you’d 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.

🍗 THE INTERMISSION: WINGS AND WHIP

Around the halfway mark, we stormed the shores of Hoover’s 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 hadn’t 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.

🏁 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 we’d left behind in the cities we came from.

⸻

🎒 Takeaways from the Candy Mountain Collective:

• A giant inflatable dragon doubles as a spiritual anchor and occasional navigational hazard.

• Hoover’s 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 you’ll ever get.

• Friends who tube together… clog every river exit and restaurant hallway together.

⸻

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, we’ve taken our caravan of chaos to Richfield, Utah—gateway to the Big Rock Candy Mountain, yes, the candy mountain of folk song fame, sugar-coated lies, and long-forgotten boxcar dreams. But we’re not here for your nostalgia. We’re here to tube the river, wreck our shins on underwater rocks, and wage chemical warfare in the Quality Inn’s pool area with Dollar General pool noodles and watermelon White Claws.

To say we’ve “taken over” 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.

Tubin’ and Baitin’

Fueled by vintage glory and arcade pixel violence, we resurrected the 1980s via a few sweaty rounds of Toobin’. 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 Boren’s: Where Fat Is Flavor and Flavor Is… Absent?

Boren’s 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 Dead’s “Bad News” 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 twang—music that screams “Try That in a Small Town,” 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 chippy’s fryer during peak hours. Lean option? That was a lie. It was as if someone whispered “beef” over a bag of suet and called it brisket.

BBQ: A History Soaked in Smoke and Something More Sinister

Let’s 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, it’s been colonized into a flavorless parody by the same folks that now charge $23.99 for gristle wrapped in a wet napkin.

“Low and slow” is the slogan, but what it really means is, “We took trash meat and cooked it until you gave up and paid for it anyway.”

And the sauces? Nashville, Memphis, Carolina, Alabama White Death… all of it is a desperate attempt to distract you from the fact that what you’re eating would have been a hard sell to a feral hog.

Chains vs. Charms

Now here’s 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 it’s because they’re community treasures. But more often? It’s because they think slapping Toby Keith on the stereo and wrapping a napkin around a wad of fat passes as “authentic.”

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 Boren’s in the holy waters of the Sevier.

We reclaim our joy.

And maybe, just maybe, we’ll pack a lunch.

DEATHJUICE DOT COM

Never trust a rib that jiggles.

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 — that Nicole Kidman. Bright orange jumpsuit, curly mop of hair, and way more steez than any of us had at 16. That movie wasn’t just camp — 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 didn’t exactly throw open the gates.

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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 — and they did — they were treated as a novelty act.

Racers like Cheri Elliott in the ‘80s and Tara Llanes in the ‘90s 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.

Let’s be clear: The women didn’t “emerge.” They stormed the scene, ignored the gatekeeping, and started stacking clips — even if no one was watching yet.

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Social Media: The Great Equalizer

Enter: the internet.

Suddenly, the guys at the top couldn’t pretend it was just a “guys’ sport.” Girls like Angie Marino, Perris Benegas, and Hannah Roberts were posting clips that demanded your attention. DIY edits replaced industry approval. It wasn’t about waiting to get filmed — it was about grabbing a camera and proving your worth.

Now? You’ve got girls throwing flair barspins, footjam whips, and 540s in backyard ramps — while also editing, filming, and uploading the whole damn thing.

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Who Blew the Roof Off?

Let’s shout out the changemakers:

• Nina Buitrago – OG trailblazer who kept showing up when there wasn’t a women’s division.
• Angie Marino – Built platforms like Yeah Zine and The Bloom BMX to spotlight women riders.
• Hannah Roberts – Olympic medalist. Has more medals than most dudes have tires.
• Perris Benegas – Flow, power, and style like it’s 1996 all over again — in the best way.
• Macarena Perez, Minato Oike, and Sakiko Komatsu – repping the global stage with style and grit.
• Chelsea Wolfe – Rider, voice, and activist for inclusion in the sport.

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The Bloom BMX: Cultivating the Scene

You want community? You want consistency? That’s The Bloom BMX.

It’s 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 — and all heart. From rider interviews to product collabs, they’re documenting history while shaping the future.

It’s not just for the girls — it’s for anyone who loves the roots of BMX: fast, fun, creative, raw.

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A Style We Can Follow

Let’s face it — men’s 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.

Women’s BMX? It’s not behind — it’s different. And for many, it’s 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.

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So What’s Next?

We’re calling it now:

• More global takeovers: Women in Latin America and Asia are growing fast. Expect a Tokyo-to-Bogotá pipeline of street edits soon.
• More inclusive events: No more “demo” status. Equal pay and equal platform are coming — whether they’re invited or not.
• Women running the brands: Expect women-led BMX brands, crews, and events to dominate. No one’s 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 — mark it.

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In Conclusion: Women’s BMX is BMX at Its Best

It’s hungry. It’s stylish. It’s not overbuilt, overproduced, or overfunded. It’s real. And for a generation that grew up watching the same six dudes on every cover, it’s finally giving BMX its punk rock pulse back.

We’ll keep riding with the rebels.
Catch us in the comments when you’re ready to admit: the girls are stealing the show.

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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, we’re 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 you’re squishy, mortal, and very much on fire.

What Most People Overlook About Skin Cancer (Until It’s Eating Their Face)

You ever feel like the sun is stalking you? That’s not paranoia. That’s 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. It’s up astronomically over the last 50 years—because surprise, the Earth’s atmosphere isn’t getting any thicker and our love of bronzed selfies isn’t going away either.

The Melanoma Mayhem

Melanoma is the boss-level skin cancer, and it’s not chilling out anytime soon. Forecasts show it rising another 6% in 2025, especially among people under 30—and especially especially among women. Nothing says “hot girl summer” like a malignant mole playing hide and seek under your ribcage.

“But I Wear Sunscreen… Sometimes”

Cool. But you also sometimes floss and sometimes answer texts. Doesn’t mean your teeth—or your skin—are safe.

Most skin cancer shows up on the predictable spots: face, scalp, neck, ears, upper chest, hands. Basically anywhere that’s been kissed by the sun so many times it filed for a restraining order.

But here’s the part no one wants to talk about:

Skin cancer can pop up in places you didn’t even know had skin.

We’re talking palms, soles, genitals, butt cheeks, eyelids, under your nails, even inside your nose and mouth. That’s right. Your uvula might be plotting against you. Dermatologists have seen it all. You? Probably haven’t even checked.

TL;DR: The Sun Doesn’t Care Where You Tan

Look, this isn’t just another fear-mongering article trying to get you to live inside a cave or buy SPF 9,000 sunscreen made from baby pandas. It’s a public service announcement from your fellow meatbags who are tired of watching people treat their skin like it’s 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 it’s war paint.
• Schedule a skin check like an adult.
• And maybe stop roasting your body in the name of “looking healthy.”

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, don’t say we didn’t 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 “keep the Sabbath day holy” thing.

Let’s meet our two saints:

⸻

1. The Procrastinating Penitents

These saints operate under a specific spiritual framework: sin now, serve later.

They remember the Lord’s counsel in Doctrine & Covenants 59:9, which boldly declares:

“And 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.”

So, naturally, they interpret this as: “Get the worldly spottedness done before church.” You’ll 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, they’re spiritually reset. Like hitting “undo” on divine Google Docs.

⸻

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 they’ve secured celestial forgiveness in advance.

They lean into D&C 59:13, which says:

“And on this day thou shalt do none other thing, only let thy food be prepared with singleness of heart…”

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:

“For behold, it is not meet that I should command in all things…”

Ah yes, the classic “agency clause.” The proactive saints interpret this as divine encouragement to make their own decisions—including deciding that they need to “gather” at Target as much as they gather at church.

⸻

3. A House of Order… With a Shopping List

Let’s not forget D&C 88:119, which urges saints to establish a:

“house of order, a house of prayer, a house of fasting, a house of learning…”

But in Utah, many households have interpreted this to mean: “Make sure the house is stocked with snacks, clean laundry, and enough Capri Suns to survive a Primary class.”

And what better way to ensure that than a quick Sabbath day stock-up?

⸻

The Eternal Balance

In the great cosmic spreadsheet of heaven, who’s doing it better?

Hard to say.

The Procrastinators? They sin under pressure. The Proactives? They’re just “anxiously engaged in a good cause” (D&C 58:27)—especially if that cause is a post-church clearance sale.

And both are sure to be back next week, ready to repent and repeat.

⸻

Final Thoughts

So whether you’re 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:

“I, the Lord, will forgive whom I will forgive, but of you it is required to forgive all men.”

…Even if they’re 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 kinds—those who sin before the closing prayer, and those who sin shortly after the closing hymn. But all of us are trying. Mostly.

And maybe that’s what matters most.

Amen. And pass the fry sauce

A 4th of July Dispatch from the British Founder of DeathJuice, Trapped Somewhere in Utah

Here we are again — July 4th — the day Americans gather to celebrate breaking up with Britain by launching small-scale explosions into the sky and shouting “WOO” with enough conviction to scare livestock.

As a proud Brit — currently exiled in the Utah desert — I’ve 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 neighbor’s lawn with a rogue Roman candle.

🧨 America: Where Everything Is Legal Except DeathJuice

Let’s cut to the core hypocrisy, shall we?

In this nation of so-called “freedom”, 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 world’s most unhinged beverage here?

Absolutely not.

It’s banned.

Too unstable.

Too edgy.

Too much actual flavor, apparently.

This country trusts you with a flamethrower and a college education you’ll never pay off —

but not a neon blackcurrant energy drink that kicks your soul in the teeth.

🎇 The Great American Contradiction

You call it freedom.

But from where I’m sitting — sweating in a lawn chair in Utah, listening to someone explain why they put bacon in their apple pie — it looks more like a freedom-shaped costume stitched together with denial, Red #40, and suburban rage.

“We’re free!”

(But our food has warning labels in 4 languages.)

“We beat the British!”

(But still use Imperial measurements and spell colour wrong.)

“This is the greatest country on Earth!”

(Except, apparently, for the part where we’re not allowed to sell DeathJuice.)

🥤Let Them Have Pepsi

So here’s 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, I’ll be here — sunburnt, slightly bitter, and sipping DeathJuice from a smuggled can while the neighbors accidentally blow up a kiddie pool.

Because freedom — real freedom — tastes like artificial berry rage and comes in a can so illegal it might as well be a war crime.

Yours in sarcasm,

Still British,

Still Banned,

And Still More Free Than Most of the Free World

#DeathJuice

#BannedInTheUSA

#IndependunceDay

#FreedomButMakeItCorporate

#LetThemHavePepsi

#StuckInUtahWithMyFaceMelted

So we’ve now driven 9,000 glorious, silent, drama-free miles in our Hyundai Ioniq 6, and guess what?

It hasn’t needed a drop of gas, an oil change, or a roadside exorcism. Just pure, unfiltered electricity — and sometimes not even that, because we charge for free half the time.

Let’s talk numbers so cold they’d make your gas-powered uncle cry:

The Electric Truth

• 4.8 miles per kWh
• $0.10 per kWh
• 9,000 ÷ 4.8 = 1,875 kWh used
• $0.10 x 1,875 = $187.50
• BUT, we only pay for about half our charging, so…

🎉 Real cost: $93.75

Ninety. Three. Dollars. For 9,000 miles. That’s less than one tank in some trucks that rhyme with “Ram.”

Meanwhile… the Ford Explorer

We still have it. Still love it. It’s a beast — reliable, comfy, good for road trips and Costco missions. But let’s be honest:

Driving it feels like lighting money on fire while blasting classic rock.

• 22 MPG
• 9,000 ÷ 22 = 409 gallons
• 409 x $3.50 = $1,431.82

Yeah. Over fourteen hundred bucks just to move the thing around. That’s not a car — it’s a subscription to disappointment.

Let’s Do the Math:

💰 Savings: $1,338.07

That’s basically a vacation. Or 150 coffees. Or all the snacks your kids claim they’ll eat and absolutely won’t.

Final Thought:

We’re not ditching the Explorer — but these days it’s more of a weekend warrior while the Ioniq 6 does the daily domination.

So yeah, we drive an EV.

Not because we’re better than you.

Okay, maybe a little because we’re better than you. 😉

Charge it. Drive it. Flex it.

The future called — and it’s whispering, “gas is for boomers.”

#EVLife #Ioniq6 #FordYoureExpensive #GasIsTheNewCigarettes #ChargedUpAndPetty

Ah, Docks Beers, the glittering jewel in the reclaimed-industrial-crown of Grimsby-that-isn’t-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.

Let’s be honest: Docks Beers isn’t just a brewery. It’s a rehab centre for men who once bought a rusted-out Vespa and thought, “I’ll restore it one day.” 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.

You’ll find them there, leaning on reclaimed wood bars, sipping “Hop Hustle” or “CryoClash 3000” like they’re drinking the blood of rockstars—while 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, “That shelf you made out of scaffolding poles is sick, mate.” Their pints are as overpriced as their self-worth, and both are brewed with a hint of nostalgia and a strong aftertaste of “should’ve stuck with IT.”

The bar is so full of mismatched chairs and faux-industrial fixtures that you’d be forgiven for thinking you were at an IKEA display titled: “Gentrification: The Experience.” 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 won’t—because someone might think it’s artistic.

Let’s not forget: despite the name, Docks Beers is not on the docks—just like Grimsby Town FC isn’t in Grimsby. (That’s Cleethorpes, love. We all know it.) It’s like naming a restaurant “The Forest Grill” and sticking it in the middle of a Tesco car park. But that’s 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 “mouthfeel.” Their hands are softer than the back of your nan’s neck, and they haven’t lifted anything heavier than a flight paddle in years.

You’ll overhear conversations like:

“Yeah, I’m brewing my own saison at home. It’s fermented with yeast harvested from Himalayan peach bark.”

“I just sold my NFT of a vape cloud to buy a second-hand record player from a bloke in Barton.”

No one laughs, but everyone nods. Respectfully. Because they all know: this isn’t 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 “Molten Anvil Ferment #7”, just remember—you’re not drinking beer. You’re 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?

It’s not on the docks.

And it’s not a beer.

It’s a lifestyle subscription for midlife regret.

Cheers