Podcast: It’s a Wonderful Coma

It's 32 degrees in Coma and your aunt is passed out beside the Christmas Tree. This is Coma News Daily. The complete internet news so...



Mystery Solved: Nothing Depends on a Red Wheelbarrow

Editor’s note: As part of Coma News’ community outreach, the following blog excerpt is one of a sele...



Down Dog Appreciation Society Coming

By Thomas Steven John, future news reporter Yoga enthusiasts and enthusiasts of yoga enthusiasts will realize their long-held dream of a ...


sheep frisbee

Opinion: Who Will Get My Frisbee Down?

Johnny Cracker The following are the views of a Coma resident. Coma News Daily does not endorse these views. My Frisbee is stuck on th...

Coma History

Timeline of bans in Coma created by Mayor Dave Anderson.

Timeline of Bans in Coma

By Robert McGuiness, Coma News Reporter, Not an Alcoholic The recent ban on paper products in Coma is just one of many bans enacted o...

Podcast: It’s a Wonderful Coma

It’s 32 degrees in Coma and your aunt is passed out beside the Christmas Tree.

This is Coma News Daily.
The complete internet news source portal for the Town of Coma.
This episode of Coma News Daily is brought to you by Kale flavored liquid ham. It’s the kale flavor that makes it so delicious.

This week we wrap up serious and find that none of the questions that needed to be answered got answered. We also prebreak the news of next year through one reporters peyote fueled fever dream. We find that Panera cork board can help you find someone and that soap made out of doves doesn’t wash away a broken heart.

Happy Holidays. Lasso the moon, George Bailey.

Love, Town of Coma

Subscribe on iTunes

Rate & Review on iTunes
Share with friends and family

Follow on SoundCloud

We have an instagram

As always you can hear the podcast by clicking play at the bottom of this blog post!

Town of Christmas


Mystery Solved: Nothing Depends on a Red Wheelbarrow

Editor’s note: As part of Coma News’ community outreach, the following blog excerpt is one of a selection of local online postings we will re-publish by residents and business owners.

Mystery Solved: Nothing Depends on a Red Wheelbarrow
By Marybell Davis, 25 years old, Amazing life lived, Awesome blogger of Awesome things

Daddy Warbucks: “Marybell have you made any money yet?”
Me: “No way Daddy but I solved another Internet mystery and this one is not about an ex-boyfriend. It’s about poetry”
Daddy Warbucks: “College degree! $200,000! Marybell! Blah blah!”

So I went to this poetry reading. BOR-ing. but then I was surprised because some of the poetry was actually short and they had a lot of wine. Good!

One guy I like a lot was William Carlos Williams because his stuff is shorter than tweeting. Sort of like the first tweeter in history.

So much depends...LOL. LOL.

So much depends…LOL. LOL.

Sadie Cracker made me go to the poetry thing because she said I need to get out and meet real people and not just “stalk people” on the Internet. So I went and was not surprised to find most of the poetry was horrible.

Stan Bargemeyer read something about his knee socks and then my ex-boyfriend Jax got up and said we should all stop reading poetry and get out to the forest. Everyone cheered when he left.

Then Sadie got up and read about a red wheelbarrow. And she read it like she meant it and it was shorter than something I tweeted about my eyeshadow earlier in the day. “So much depends on a red wheelbarrow” she said.
I started laughing so hard I spilled the wine all over my white dress. “No it doesn’t.” I said so loud and everyone stared at me and started clapping.

When we left right after that I explained to her that “nothing depends on a red wheelbarrow anymore because we have cars and ride on lawnmowers and tractors.”

I don’t think she got it.

How To Take Selfless-ies : An LOL Mystery

by Marybell Davis, columnist, Snapchatter, Private Dick (which is so gross)

Daddy Warbucks: Marybell how’s your job search coming?
Marybell: Not now, Daddy. I need to tweet about how everyone needs to join Habitat for Humanity.
Daddy Warbucks: I thought you quit after you realized you didn’t know how to use a hammer.
Marybell: Shhh, Daddy. I need to concentrate. Tweeting is hard work.

Being selfless is so weird. Like, why would you want to? The invention of Snapchat, Pinterest and Twitter–and a hundred years ago, YouTube and Facebook–showed us all how important each of our opinions are and how we feel at every, single minute is super-important. What’s a lot less shareable is what we do, so why would anyone do something selfless? I mean, it sounds nice, but if you can’t share it, did it even happen?

You know what’s also weird? Homelessness.


Recently my friend, Hope, said that maybe since I have so much time– because I can’t find a job that will pay me what I’m worth–maybe I should volunteer.
“What does that even mean,” I said.
“Well, some people are homeless,” Hope said. “And they need us to volunteer and help them.”
“How do you that?” I asked.
“No, not me,” she said. “I’m totally wiped taking graduate school classes in Library Science but maybe you should,” Hope said.

So, I decided to volunteer because maybe people will hire me as a private dick if they know I care about things like hammers and houses. At least it’s not spending time with people with cancer, which is so gross. It’s just building a house. Plus when I tweeted about it people were really proud of me.

So I went. And I tried to hammer a nail three times and it just didn’t work. I asked the manager if I could volunteer for something else because the hammer was really difficult and probably broken.

“Maybe I could volunteer with social media, you know, something that would let me look attractive and sound compassionate?” I said.

“No, we just build houses,” mean manager-guy said. “Maybe you can do drywall?”

I finally got it.

Mystery solved: Some people are just A LOT better talking about doing stuff on social media than actually doing something. Know who you are and don’t be selfish about sharing it.

Comfortably Numb

By Sadie Cracker

I spent four weeks trying to fix my old, messed up, destroyed by time, oak kitchen table.

It’s not because I love the ideas on Pinterest it’s because I’ve had this table for so long. What if I could make this table I love better?

So, I spent weekends sanding down the wood (it’s real) to have it become something. A table better and prettier than it was before. And I sand and sand until my fingers hurt and start to bleed.

“This is stupid, Mom,” said Ben. He’s 13 and everything is stupid, especially me. Plus, he’s really good at math.

“This is not stupid,” I said.

“It is,” Ben said. “You work full time and that’s $40 an hour and all of the hours you don’t work are hours you could do something else.”

“Stop it.” I said. “This math is already too complicated for me.”

“My point is that you could do something you love rather than spend 3 more hours refurbishing this broken table,” Ben said.

And I look at Ben. He’s almost 14 now and he really means what he is saying right here.

“Maybe sanding this table is what I want to spend my time on,” I said. And I take the sand paper and I scrub and scrub the oak hoping it will look better and be something new and different I can love. Maybe all this care could make this table look like what it’s supposed to be because this table was so beautiful when I bought it 15 years ago.

“Maybe not. Maybe it can’t be because what you are doing is too hard,” Ben said. And he grabs the sandpaper, laughs, and he runs.


The Publisher of Coma News Daily says if I don’t stop writing about, “old people who get drunk and hang out in a bar” that he won’t publish this column, so, it’s Pink Floyd-Twister-Craft-Beer-Night at Bear’s Biker Bar. And two large bikers are coiled together unsure if their tree trunk leather thighs are on red or green Twister dots.

“What color did you just call out?” the biker in the tight leather said.

Bear is pouring himself a  “Banana Hammock” craft beer he created, which is based on Borat’s swim suit but with banana flavor.


The craft beer called Banana Hammock has the subtle hint of a banana flavor.

“You’re not gonna give that gross beer to me you hippie!” yells my father, Stan, at Bear.

“No dude. This is for me. And them.”

And Bear points to the two barely-21-year-old girls who have whipped cream on their thighs for no reason and are watching the spectacle of two overweight bikers tangle in Twister. The girls spin the wheel. They call out the primary colors.

“Oh, they don’t care about beer,” said my dad. “They just want someone to pay attention to them and it’s not for you or the two overweight bikers who are over 40.”

monaBear looks at them and offers them a beer and both blondes shake their head, “No, we’re not eating,” they said.

And I said, “I’ll have that beer.”

“You want a banana hammock?”

“No. Just a beer,” I said.

“So you want a banana hammock? Because that’s the beer I’m serving.”

And I watch the young girls who’ve never been stretched by time or children and I watch them giggle because that’s what Bear is paying them to do since giggling cute girls seem to make men thirsty.

Charlie the Coma Librarian walks in with his guitar and a mandolin. He steps over the two bikers playing Twister on the floor and he laughs at the two nudish 20 year olds.

“What are you doing here?” he said.

“Advertising,”  said Bear. He’s barely 30 and a punk skate rat with tats who owns this bar and understands what advertising to millennials is.

“Basically soft porn?” said Charlie.

“No, advertising,” said Bear. And, “I kind date the blonde one.”

“Which blonde one?” said Charlie.

“Doesn’t matter, ” said Bear. “Either one.”

And the song Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd starts to play in the background:

Hello? Hello? Hello?

Is there anybody in there?
Just nod if you can hear me
Is there anyone at home?

“Where are the nude men?” said Charlie.

“My wife was so beautiful even in her clothes,” said Stan.

“What do you mean?” said Bear.

“I mean, where are the almost-naked men or the 40-year-old women?” said Charlie.

“The 40-year-old woman is there,” Bear said, pointing to me. “And the almost-nude men are playing Twister and Stan might get almost nude if he decides to take his pants off.”

“Hey, watch it buddy,” Stan said.

“I guess it just seems a little simple to use young women with whipped cream all over their bodies as a marketing ploy,” Charlie said. “I mean you can go on Instagram these days to see ‘artistic’ shots of young women nude.”


“In my day that was girlie magazines,” said Stan. “Now it’s on every phone kids are looking at.”

“You are dumb, Stan. Old. You don’t get it,” said Bear.

And I laugh and I drink my banana hammock and Charlie walks up on stage and starts to tune his guitar because it’s Pink Floyd Twister Night.

I look down at my body. It’s seen the ravages of children, exhaustion, and no time to exercise.

The bar door swings open. Dr. Jimmy and Alan Pezzati  from A Home For Those Guys come wandering in and walk straight toward the almost-nude 20 somethings. The girls giggle at them and maybe those girls will go home with them later and will have the kind of sex that happens when men can’t talk to you about their divorce, their loneliness, their dreams, their struggles, their children, and the concert they went to and rocked in the early 90s because the girl they are with says, “yeah, potty training and learning to count to ten was really what I rocked in the 90s”.

And Pink Floyd plays on:

There is no pain you are receding
A distant ship smoke on the horizon
You are only coming through in waves
Your lips move but I can’t hear what you’re saying

And for those 10 to 15 minutes the void is filled with whipped-cream-dream of another body pressed up against you that makes you feel something that goes right back to being empty. You just press the like button on Instagram when you see  girl half naked. It’s a meaningless motion.

Dr. Jimmy comes over and asks Bear for a banana hammock for himself and one for the cute chick with the whipped cream that’s no longer whipped and more like lines of white foam falling down her thighs. And Bear said, “I’m kinda dating her.”

“Not tonight.”

“No. I kinda am. Why don’t you hang with chicks closer to your age like Sadie.”

I laugh so hard I spit beer from my mouth all over my hands. All over this bar. And Jimmy looks at me and then at my hands and said, “what happened to your hands, Sadie?”

“I’ve been sanding down this old oak table and it’s been rough.”

“Why don’t you buy a new table?” Jimmy said.

“That’s what my son asked me, but the thing is I like the work. I like to take that old table and work on it and take care of it because the new thing isn’t necessarily better.”

And Pink Floyd ends their song:

When I was a child
I caught a fleeting glimpse
Out of the corner of my eye
I turned to look but it was gone
I cannot put my finger on it now
The child is grown
The dream is gone
I have become comfortably numb

And Jimmy stares at me for a minute and pushes a strand of hair out of my eyes and he said, “but new is good with whipped cream for 15 minutes and you don’t have to care if it gets messy.”

I pat his hand and said, “I’m talking about a table. No. Really loving that dumb old table is better. “

He laughs and up on the rag-tag-bar-stage Charlie taps on the mic. “Sadie Cracker, Sadie Cracker. You’re needed on the stage for Pink Floyd Twister night.”

So I stand up and walk to the stage past the whipped-cream-nightmare-dream-girls, who are whispering “who is Pink Floyd,”  and one says, “you know, the oldies band but they are okay” and I pick up my acoustic guitar.

“Sadie won’t take her clothes off,” Dad yelled.

And everyone in the bar laughed.

And I tap on the mic and strum the first three chords of ‘Wish You Were Here’ because there seems to be something we’re all missing.

Podcast: Christmas in Coma

A soft, soggy blanket of sleet covers the ground. It’s 33 degrees, overcast, and nearly half of the town’s overhead Christmas lights are working. This is Coma News.

Subscribe on iTunes

> Rate & Review on iTunes
> Share with friends and family (If you’re on good terms)

>Follow on SoundCloud

Podcast: The Running of the Candidates

It’s 78 degrees in Coma today but by tonight it will be 42 and as frisky as a first time politician. This is Coma New Daily.

The Complete internet podcast news source portal for the Town of Coma.

Marybell Davis is broadcasting once again from Bear’s Biker Bar, where she’s drinking a beer after a month-long diet of only liquid kale. We all know that kale tastes great when it’s a liquid and ALSO when it is the sponsor of Coma News Daily.

As always you can hear the podcast by clicking play at the bottom of this blog post!

Hosted this week by Coma’s own creative and director who gave us ‘Our Town’ and ‘Cats’ Shane Darvish and Coma’s very own underemployed Private Dick (gross), Marybell Davis. With updates from the Future Reporter, T.S. John and political questions by the town’s own wizened and alzheimered Stan Bargmeyer.

As part of our continuing effort to be the local news team that is more on your side than any other local news team (if we had one) Coma News Daily spent some time with some very special kids: members of the Social Media Early Learning and Literacy Experience program or SMELLE. This breakthrough kids literacy program teaches youngsters how to read by following cultural developments by reading their favorite tweets.  

This week children in the SMELLE program read and discuss a seminal tweet by Damien Fahey (hard to pronounce) @DamienFahey

Subscribe on iTunes

Rate & Review on iTunes
Share with friends and family

Follow on SoundCloud

Follow or heckle our jokes on Twitter

Share your selfies with us on Facebook

We don’t have an Instagram. Mail us a letter!


Free Fallin’

By Sadie Cracker


Johnny comes running in from outside. He has a paper airplane in his hand that’s flying so free except that it takes his hand to keep it afloat.

“It’s broken mommy.”

And he shows me the airplane and nose is bent.

“How many times did you throw it toward the ground?” I said.

And he looks at the paper plane and looks at me and looks at the plane and I’m tired. I’m so tired. Being alone and raising these boys is so hard. Everything is about poop and dirt and frogs and I don’t understand any of it. I wasn’t one of those women who wore a princess dress but I always thought I’d grow up and be more than this. I thought I’d be a singer or a poet or a great artist and here I am talking about the physics of flight and how if you aim it wrong the plane will fly into dog poop.

“I aimed it at the sky and it just went straight down. It took a nose dive,” said Johnny. He’s eight and nothing is his fault. I would love to be that free from repercussions.

“Did you follow the instructions?” I said.

He runs to the kitchen table and grabs a cookie.

“Do you think it hurts to die?” he said.

This is what no one understands until they’ve had a child. There’s no segue way. No small conversation. It’s just one minute we are talking about our paper planes and the next minute death.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Why not?” he said.

Because I’m not dead. Because I don’t know who gets to come back from death to let us know whether what we’ve done matters or not or how bad death hurts.

“Because I’ve never died,” I said.

“But Daddy died,” he said.

“Yes, he did,” I said.


And Johnny looks out the window where my older son Ben is playing catch with his friends.

“I think Daddy would’ve been better at making planes,” Johnny said.



And I laugh and I think that Michael hated flying and he hated leaving Coma. He didn’t care about politics. He didn’t think about all the things he should’ve been. He was happy building a car engine during the week and spending his weekends with me. There wasn’t much more. The only person who wanted more was me. I thought I should be a better musician. That I needed to be successful. That I needed to be some one in New York. That I needed to be anything other than Coma. And now he’s gone and I’m here with a small boy and paper airplanes that take a nose dive into the ground full of dog poop.

“I think death must feel like falling Mommy. But not scary. I think it’s like you are suddenly up in the air and floating and that floating above all the pain here goes on forever. All you feel is free. Don’t you think?” He said.

And I don’t want to look at his face because I know it will make me cry.



I remember the last time Michael took a breath. I remember him sick. He got up from the hospice bed on one of his last days alive in my life and asked me to lift up my shirt and he said, “I’m gonna take your pain.”

And I laughed. Like you could take away the Cesarean scars and the punk rock idiot who took a knife to my abdomen before I realized I was more and I deserved more than to be a hot chick who got hurt badly and ran away.

But this was the first time Michael was sitting up in four days so I assuaged him and slowly lifted up my shirt. And Michael looked like a Zombie. One of the zombies from the ‘Walking Dead’ who will eat your intestines out but it didn’t matter because this was the man I chose and I slowly lifted up my shirt to reveal all the stretch marks and scars of time and all the pain and all the incredible hurt and he took his boney finger and he traced each one. “I’m taking this with me Sadie.” He said. “I am taking this all with me out of this world so you can be all the things you dreamed.”

“Where?” I said. ” What? What did I dream? I married you because I loved you. I don’t want you to take it. I want you to stay.”

“Out there. When I leave this Earth. I’m taking all of this out there with me. And all you have to do is start over. Start again. Find love. Find love for yourself. Live your dreams.” and he finished tracing the scars and looked out the window and there were stars out the window. All the life we think might be out there and all I saw was a life that was ending in a man I loved, so I looked away.

“You can’t take it all away, Michael.” I said. “In the end, all my dreams were loving you and having a family with you. And it’s not because I didn’t believe in having something for myself. I did, but sacrificing for you and having this time and family with you was everything to me. ”

And I don’t hear anything except the small snore of his breath in the last four days of his life and I just go lay beside him because I don’t know what I believe but I believe that this life and how well we live it is all we’ve got




The Coma News Daily editor said if I don’t talk about boring drunks on stage and in a bar in my column he’ll get rid of it. He want’s me to get more political and more with “the times” and I don’t even know what that means. So, it’s Tom Petty and Trivia night in Bear’s Biker Bar. There are no women here and no one is playing trivia but my father, Stan, who has Alzheimer’s is telling Bear, who is a 90’s layover skater, that he’s wrong as they play ‘Go Fish’.

“Stan. That’s just not true. Women are expendable.” said Bear. ” They all just want stuff and they all just take their clothes off now ‘artistically’ on Instagram and I don’t have real feelings for any of them.”

“Buddy, you should meet my Sadie. She went to NYU on scholarship. She did some amazing things. She was in a band. The band is playing tonight,” said Stan.

“I met your Sadie she is over there being over 40 and drinking a beer. She probably has only seven years left!” said Bear. “Do you have a six?”

“Go fish,” said Dad, even though he has a six of hearts and a six of spades. “That’s not my Sadie. That’s some 40-year-old sad woman. She’s pretty but she’s not my Sadie.”

“I’m gonna have to rage on you Stan. You showed me all your cards and then told me to ‘go fish.’” said Bear.

“Yes, because you don’t understand what the fish are and why all sixes don’t matter. It’s the right six for you that matters,” said my Dad through the throws of his Alzheimer’s. “My Lucille was so much smarter than me. She knew where my slippers were and we were so happy. And now she’s gone and I can’t leave the kitchen unless I come here to find Sadie.”

“She’s right there,” said Bear.

“That’s not my Sadie. My Sadie was not a middle aged girl,” said my Dad

I look down at the beer I’m not drinking and I hear Charlie the Coma Librian in the background playing, ‘American Girl.’

Well she was an American girl
Raised on promises
She couldn’t help thinkin’ that there
Was a little more to life
Somewhere else
After all it was a great big world
With lots of places to run to
Yeah, an d if she had to die
Tryin’ she had one little promise
She was gonna keep”

And I can’t help thinking that I will miss Tom Petty’s words but at the same time I understand I didn’t love or know him like the woman who loved him when he died who had to let him go. I understand that because every time someone said they felt bad for my loss with Michael I wanted to scream, “did you stop seeing the chest of someone you loved stop moving?” But I didn’t.

I am trying to write an upbeat column that sells papers. Sorry, Davis Montgomery!

“Sadie Cracker, will you come up and sing with me?” said Charlie.

He’s the Coma Librarian and runs all the special things that help children in Coma understand that there’s a difference between a Border’s Books store and a Library.

“Sadie isn’t here,” said my Dad. ” She’s in New York at NYU. She’s living her dream.”

And Bear laughs and shakes his head and says, “I need a seven, Stan.”

“Go fish,” said my Dad.

Everything we have is finite. Like my dad has a seven in his hand and says go fish. Like Bear is looking for this perfect, half-naked, easy woman that Instagram gives him. And we are all looking for the perfect life and the notoriety and money to go with it but in the end Tom Petty died. He died like everyone does. Quietly with a bunch of people saying RIP for reasons that really weren’t him as a day to day person. Did he help my make out sessions? Yes! But I don’t know him well enough to say RIP. I loved Michael and have no clue if he’s in peace and everything I could tweet, Instagram, and Facebook really means nothing to my life or the knowledge that he’s in a better place. But Michael helped me meet Jack. I don’t know if that means anything either. But I care about him.

“Sadie Cracker! Get up on stage and let’s play ‘Free Falling’” said Charlie.

“Sadie isn’t here. She’s at NYU.” said my Dad.

I look around and Jack texted me that his flight from LA was going to be late so I go onstage and tune.

“Let’s do ‘Free Falling.’” I said to Charlie, the Coma librarian.

“Yes, but you’ve gotta get that in tune,” said Charlie.

I move to tune my guitar and the door to the bar opens and it’s Jack. All Jack has is a weekend for me but he’s here, he’s late, so I pretend I don’t see him. Jack and his great sweater and Hot Snakes band tee-shirt walks toward my Dad. Jack introduced himself to my Dad every time we were dating because I told him my Dad wouldn’t remember and so every time Jack goes directly to my father.

“Hi, Mr. Bargemeyer!” Jack said. “I am here to see your daughter.”

My dad pauses a moment and says to Bear, “You got a seven, buddy?”

And bear hits his head against the faux wood bar. “ARE YOU SERIOUS? I Just asked you for a SEVEN! !@!!!”

“No. You asked me where Sadie is and I said New York,” said my Dad. And then to UCLA Jack,” She’s in New York, buddy.”

And Jack smiles some shit eating grin.

“I see her. She’s playing ‘Free Falling.’” Jack points to the stage.

“Some old lady? That’s not my Sadie,” Dad said.

Jack shakes my Dad’s hand and laughs.

“But that’s my Sadie.” Jack said.

And I see Jack and his ridiculous  band tee-shirt and I just realize I miss him so I sing louder.

”And I’m Free Free Falling!”

And Jack claps. And I just have to put the guitar down and run to him.

“I missed you.” I said.

City Money Farm Festival Sprouts

By Coma News Daily Staff


After buying up all of the farms in Coma last year, Coma News Daily publisher, Davis Montgomery III realized yet another dream last weekend.

Montgomery spearheaded the town’s newest festival, the City Money Farm Festival.
And the 10,000 attendees proved that there’s a vast weekend day drinking market for people who want to drive out to the country and experience the fresh manure filled organic air that only exists in our great Coma farms.
everythinghappensfora reason

“Not only does this provide very important Weekend jobs for Coma News and cash making opprotunities for reporters to supplement their pay of food stamps and coupons,” said Montgomery. “It also provides city dwellers with guilt assuaging ways to be in the country without the smallest chance of ever stepping in animal poop.”
Farm animals are banned from the farm festival.
When he wasn't editing Coma News, Don Johnson Michaels was doing free farm labor for Coma Publisher Davis Montgomery III.

When he wasn’t editing Coma News, Don Johnson Michaels was doing free farm labor for Coma Publisher Davis Montgomery III.

The event kend brought swarms of urban yuppies to the country for wine, craft beer, and inoffensive banjo music played by hipsters–nothing like the film Deliverence.

“The only problem I see,” said Janice Gasbag, a corporate attorney who lives in the city and has listened to Tom Petty twice. “Is the weather. It’s just never going to be as comfortable as my loft apartment in the trendiest part of town. Also, I can’t get good internet service.”

Montgomery has solved that problem by enabling city folks to “rent a farmer” who will not only fan you but will also lay on the ground and let you step on him in order to avoid feces.

Not all Coma citizens are happy with the city people coming to town.
“I live here to get away from all that crap. Isn’t it there enough we’ve already got to deal with  these anal knowitalls on Facebook?” said Owen.
Owen recently opened up a City Dweller Zombie run that charges a mere $100 per person to park your car among authentic  farm animals.
“We dressed the chickens and goats up as Zombies which has never been seen before,” Owen said.

The farm is open from 9 to 5 with $40 undercooked pizzas for anyone who is drunk and needs food. Or you can bring your own over-priced Whole Foods stuff. No outside alcohol allowe