DJ duo: Ebola was manufactured for population control!/themartinezbros/status/521602694658543617

What is it with musicians and Ebola?

Yesterday, Twitchy brought you the story of a Grammy-nominated production team, Arkatech Beatz, which claimed that Ebola is a fake scenario conjured up by pharmaceutical companies.

The Martinez Brothers, “globe-trotting DJ superstars” from the Bronx, also hold peculiar views about Ebola.

And if you don’t agree with them, “your buggin.”

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What Does Your Nail Polish Color Say About You?

Are you racy in red? Or mellow in maroon?

  1. 1. Choose the polish color closest to what you’re wearing now.

    1. Multi-colored

What Does Your Nail Polish Color Say About You?

  1. You got: You’re so sultry!

    Sensuality is your game, and you play it so well. You’re bold, yet mysterious, and you like it that way.

  2. You got: You’re so sexy!

    Nothing says “Come and be my love slave” like a red nail! Classic and classy. Meoooow.

  3. You got: You’re so flirty!

    You love to smile and keep things carefree. You may seem like a sweet, innocent flower, but you’re not — you just play one on TV.

  4. You got: You’re so chill!

    You like a little sparkle, but you don’t feel the need to be the center of attention. You’re here to please you, not everyone else.

  5. You got: You’re so lively!

    Your robust personality fills any room you walk in! You’re the life of the party when you want to be, and charming is your middle name.

  6. You got: You’re so happy!

    Bubbly and effervescent, you live to make people smile. It hurts your heart to know that someone is sad, and you try hard to be a light for everyone around you.

  7. You got: You’re so fun!

    Life is short, and you’re here to party while you can. Why freak out over the worst in life when you can add to the best of it? Turn down for what!

  8. You got: You’re so wild!

    Your friends call you crazy and they mean it in the best way — you’re always ready to shake things up, not afraid to hop up on a table and dance if the spirit moves you. Life is too short to be boring!

  9. You got: You’re so focused!

    When you set your mind on something, you don’t stop until you’ve gotten it. You know exactly what you want and how to get it. Go ‘head!

  10. You got: You’re so mellow!

    Hey man, what’s the rush? Life is meant to be savored, and you’re all about staying in the present and taking it all in. Hakuna matata!

  11. You got: You’re so funny!

    Not funny “strange,” funny hilarious! Your sparkling wit means you’re always ready with a joke to get the room laughing. You’re a blast!

  12. You got: You’re so cool!

    You’re a strong believer in going with the flow. You do your own thing, and you do it with a confidence that makes others want to do it too.

  13. You got: You’re so spiritual!

    Some may say you have hippie tendencies, but you prefer to think that you’re just very in tune with feelings, both yours and other people’s. Your vibes and auras are important to you and you try to gravitate toward the good ones.

  14. You got: You’re so distinguished!

    You walk with your head held high and you know you don’t have to yell to get your point across.

  15. You got: You’re so edgy!

    Pushing boundaries is your thing and you do it so well. Who cares what the masses are doing? You’ll take honoring individuality over trends any day.

  16. You got: You’re so stylish!

    Your eye for fashion is one of the sharpest around. You’re on top of all the latest looks, you know how to pull them off, and you get tons of compliments on your ensembles.

  17. You got: You’re so fancy!

    You already know! All that glitters may not be gold, but you want it anyway. You’re all about the bling. Shine bright like a diamond!

  18. You got: You’re so luxurious!

    You crave the finer things in life — the bigger the price tag, the bigger your smile. You want the best of the best, and why not? You deserve them!

  19. You got: You’re so artsy!

    You see the world in a truly unique light, and you love to create. You see the beauty in individuality and love expressing yourself as only you can.

  20. You got: You’re so trendy!

    You know what’s hot and what’s not. People expect you to know the latest in fashion, slang, music, and gadgets, and you never disappoint!

  21. You got: You’re so confident!

    You don’t need to make a splash to be seen because you stand out enough on your own.. You count on your shining personality to get you all the attention you need.

Read more: would like his car back; Update: ‘this joke is getting old’!/iamwill/status/235318747991244800

A call to the police might be in the works as well, but for now has reported his missing vehicle to the Twitterverse.

@iamwill omg will no way! That's NOT dope

— beth (@bethcoops_x) August 14, 2012

It sounds like a prank might have been suspected, but is not amused; not anymore, at least.

Where is my fucking car…??? This isn't funny anymore

— (@iamwill) August 14, 2012

Did you find your car yet @IAMWILL? I found mine and it feels great! Amazing new music coming from you #willpower

— Ted Kenney (@TedKenney3D) August 14, 2012

@TedKenney3D no I didn't…who playing pranks on me???

— (@iamwill) August 14, 2012

OK, Twitter is no help at all.

@iamwill probably where you left it!!!!! Sorry couldn't resist

— Murray (@murraysjm) August 14, 2012

@iamwill hahha

— vittoria (@ouridoljustin) August 14, 2012

@ItsDeena_ the car I built…I'd you know who took it please stop playing games…

— (@iamwill) August 14, 2012

Hmm… just what does that winky emoticon mean, David Faustino of “Married with Children”?

At a secret party for Will I Am In H-wood. ;)) #GoodTimes #fb

— David Faustino (@DavidFaustino) August 14, 2012


I'm going to be optimistic and pray that my car is returned and safe…

— (@iamwill) August 14, 2012

#givemebackmycar this joke is getting old…

— (@iamwill) August 14, 2012

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Learning How To Mourn My Parents After Their Suicides

“I don’t want to pretend like my parents never existed because they died a death that isn’t as socially acceptable as others.” As told to Krystie Yandoli.

Illustration by Susie Oh for BuzzFeed

I was 12 years old when my mom and dad both committed suicide. My dad died first, in March 2003, and my mom in October. Both of my parents suffered from mental illness: My father had deep depression, hypochondria, and anxiety, and my mother also had her fair share of struggles.

Before that, though, they were great parents. The dad I knew for almost all of my life was animated and cheerful; he was bursting at the seams with adventure and excitement. My childhood soundtrack was the drums, didgeridoo, and other instruments he’d play around the house. He loved spending time with me and my mom; we even called our own little family the Three Musketeers.

My parents shared hobbies like gardening — they managed to turn our barren Arizona backyard into a lush landscape of green grass, palm trees, vibrant hibiscus flowers, and even a few banana plants.

But when I was 10, something changed; either that, or I just started to pick up on more of my dad’s anxieties and concerns. Until then, he had loved cooking and enjoyed the process of making and eating food, but when his depression became more and more severe, he became rail thin. Then the music he created started to take on a much sadder tone than usual; he had previously been very talkative, but I noticed he became more and more quiet and withdrawn, and he’d often spend days in bed.

My dad also became convinced he had an intense pain whenever he would pee, despite the countless doctors who told him he was OK and all of the MRIs and CT scans that failed to detect any abnormalities. He thought he was sick until he actually did become sick, and then he lost the desire to exist.

When my dad died, I was having a sleepover at my grandma’s house and we received a frantic voicemail from my mom. She screamed that he was missing, and so was his shotgun. I was whisked away to my aunt’s house while my grandparents and mom searched for him. The next morning I asked my mom if they found him, to which she replied, “Your daddy is dead.”

The best word to describe my mom before my dad’s suicide is effervescent, even when my dad started to get sick. But in the months that followed his death, my mother told me she didn’t want to be a mom anymore. Our refrigerator, which was normally filled to the brim with goodies that my father had cooked, was now bare, only holding prunes and Mountain Dew. Her diet consisted of laxatives, and, as I would later learn, meth.

My mom had become a shell of her former self, a beautiful, vibrant woman who exuded joy and warmth. On the morning she died, she came out of her room to make breakfast for the two of us — it was a Monday but it was also Columbus Day, so I didn’t have to rush off to school — and she told me she loved me. That was the last time I ever saw her alive. Not even a few hours later on that same morning, I heard my mom’s new boyfriend, whom she had been spending a lot of time with, screaming from her bedroom: “Kathy? Wake up!”

Ignoring the barriers and space I normally kept from her and her boyfriend, I barged inside to find her gasping for breath and called 911, but it was too late. My mother — my sweet, smart, hilarious mom — had died from a heart attack caused by a methamphetamine overdose.

In the years after they passed, I was often told that it’s OK for me to feel anger toward my parents for their decisions. For a long time I did. I was very angry, until I came to the realization that even the most happy, loving, and carefree people could potentially be fighting an invisible battle every day of their lives. I know that my parents loved me with all their hearts, and it was not the most autonomous, healthy versions of themselves who chose to end their own lives. They were sick; just because you couldn’t see their illnesses physically doesn’t mean they weren’t suffering.

It’s been a decade since my parents died. It’s difficult enough mourning my parents’ deaths and going through adolescence and now adulthood without my mom or dad, but on top of the sadness I already feel I also have to fight against other peoples’ judgment about suicide. Justifying my need and desire to cope with this tremendous loss of life because my parents committed suicide is a task unto itself.

Most people in my life or who are familiar with my situation think they’re entitled to an opinion about my parents’ deaths because it was “their choice” to end their own lives. There’s so much shame attached to my parents’ deaths because of a lack of understanding about mental illness that sometimes it feels like I’m not allowed to be sad like people who have lost their parents to other diseases.

If my parents died of nearly any other cause within months of each other before I hit puberty, most people would see it as a complete and utter tragedy; they’d readily accept their deaths as worthy of mourning. Instead, I’m often discouraged from talking about my parents and their passing. A lot of my family members — including my maternal grandparents — pretend like neither of my parents ever existed in the first place. There aren’t any photos of my mom or dad in their homes; they never say their names or bring them up in conversations. Their way of grappling with the depressing reality of their deaths is by not acknowledging them at all.

But I don’t want to forget them; I don’t want to pretend like my parents never existed because they died a death that isn’t as socially acceptable as others. They did exist, and their existence was important because they created me. They were responsible for my being, and I love them because unconditional love doesn’t always mean loving and caring about someone in picture-perfect circumstances. Life is messy, human beings are flawed, but we can love them anyway. We do love them anyway. I do not want my parents to be remembered for the illnesses that eventually took their lives. I want them to be remembered for the creative, loving, and special people they were, the same creativity, love, and specialness that still runs through my veins.

So every year on Oct. 1 I celebrate my dad’s birthday with my other grandma, his mother. My grandma buys white roses and lights a white Jewish memorial candle, and we bask in the positive memories and happy moments we shared together. We laugh about how seriously he took his detailed replica miniature ships that he’d build. We talk about the times he played Paul McCartney’s “Maybe I’m Amazed” on the piano, intently stroking each ivory key, while my mother danced along with me in her arms.

My parents are more than just people who ended their own lives; they’re also the people who gave me a magical childhood until they got sick. They’re the people who loved me, who gave me life, and who had no control over the illnesses that took over their bodies.

My grandma and I also celebrate his birthday by releasing white and gray balloons — my dad’s favorite colors — into the Arizona sky; she even draws smiley faces on them before we set them free. We watch them fly up, up, and away until we can’t see them anymore and they get lost in the clouds, trees, and a world beyond the one we know. Maybe one of these days they’ll even reach him.

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