Sunday, July 01, 2007
I keep the LIRR interesting
One problem I have is my extremely distinctive speaking voice. Not only does my voice have a singular cadence and tone, but it carries long distances. This doesn't bother me, because I don't really care if people hear my conversations or not. Because of my tendency to use profanity frequently and fluently (especially various permutations of the word "fuck") others have tried (unsuccessfully) to quiet me down. This happens most often in the P-N-Dub, where people are quieter and not as accustomed to hearing random obscenities as people in New York. Last time I was home, chatting merrily away with Morrissey'sHair and Sexxica about dick, and Morrissey'sHair was like, "Razzy, take it down a few decibels! You can't just shout about blowjobs!" HotLawyer shushes me every time I'm out with him no matter where we are to the point that on several occasionsI've responded with "Okay, fine, DAD!" I was having lunch one time at some random Puyallup Mexican restaurant with MillerTime and she had to say, "Razzy! Lay off the 'fuck this' and 'fuck that', there are old ladies and children over there! This is a family establishment!" While most of the people who freak about my language are back in the 253 area code, it does happen once and awhile in New York, and lately seems to be mostly associated with travel on the Long Island Rail Road.
Several weekends ago, J-Sexy and I were actually shushed by a stranger on the LIRR on our way back from Fire Island while we were animatedly making plans to go strap-on shopping (I'm embracing my newly remembered bisexuality and J-Sexy is into pegging dudes). Since we had spent the day sitting in the sun and consuming an entire bottle of Puerto Rican rum mixed with Hawaiian Punch, I was in no mood to be addressed in such a condescending, motherly manner by some stringy old broad who appointed herself the LIRR speech police. I said very loudly that I would talk about strap-ons whenever and wherever I fucking pleased, and no shrew-ass bitch was going to take away my constitutional right to discuss sex toys or any other subject matter. The lady just quietly muttered to her husband about how awful we were and then sullenly would glare our way from time to time until we got to Penn Station. Sticks and stones may break my bones, hooker, but reproachful looks will never hurt me (or shut me up).
Yesterday, a similar incident occurred as I went to the beach with my friend Rack and her boyfriend TheOldGuy. TheOldGuy, who is a cable news producer, was telling us about how he worked with a woman who produces a recurring special on MSNBC about transgendered persons. Rack then cut in to say that one of the persons being profiled for the show was some pre-op F2M tranny from Raleigh, NC (her hometown), and this person was planning to go by "Rack" after her reassignment surgery. "It's not like there's that many lezzies in Raleigh!" she fumed (Rack used to be a lot more girl-on-girl inclined). "The trashy sonofabitch probably met me back when he was only out as a garden variety butch dyke and stole my goddamn name! I'm sure of it! I bet he went to Smith too!" During this whole soliloquy, this floppy old woman was eagerly listening in. She practically had her hand cupped around her ear to hear better. We weren't paying much attention to her.
Then, TheOldGuy mentioned that this producer of the tranny show was having all sorts of problems with her sick husband. He said that the husband was in the hospital with some sort of mystery infection and wondered if it had something to do with their child's recent bout with scarlet fever. I said that his symptoms sounded more viral to me. Scarlet fever is caused by a bacteria called Streptococcus pyogenes, and in adults this usually causes strep throat or occasionally necrotizing fascitis, better known as "flesh-eating" bacteria. Then I started telling a story about this woman I used to work with who had contracted flesh-eating bacteria through an infected hair follicle on her labia, and ultimately had pounds of gangrenous flesh removed from her abdomen and thighs. At this point, the floppy old butted in and said, "Excuse me, can you change the subject? Your conversations is not very pleasant." I said something like, "Yeah, okay, whatever" and proceeded to continue talking about it. If the nosy, interfering twat doesn't like my conversation, then instead of asking me to switch topics she should mind her own damn business and STOP FUCKING EAVESDROPPING!
Apart from a few dirty looks from her and her equally disapproving friend (who resembled the mummified corpse of Hatshepsut rocking a fugly flowered tank top and a crappy, ineffective Nice'n'Easy gray-covering dye job), we had an uneventful remainder of our trip to Long Beach with no further disturbances from any overstepping hooker-ass prostitutes. At the beach we spent the day swimming, sunning, and swilling beer. Apart from Rack spraining her ankle, we had a capital time. In spite of being a little tired out after the beach, I was nonetheless capable of talking loudly on the train back. Fortunately, the crowd on this train was far more appreciative of my conversational talents.
Somehow Rack and I got to discussing R. Kelly and his supreme awesomeness. I was clarifying why he's fully deserving of the lofty title of "the king of R&B," and it's not just because he's black, handsome, he sings, plus he's rich and he's a flirt. I was arguing that R&B would indeed be in dire straits without the R-uh's superior lyrical abilities. I was going off about memorable lyrics in various classic Kells tunes, such as "You Remind Me of Something" ("you remind me of my jeep, I want to ride"), "Don't You Say No" ("I ain't spendin' no cash if you ain't spendin' that ass","you say you want first-class trips, well I want to work those first-class hips"), and "R&B Thug" ("Oooh, Kelly, you make me holla, keep on jumpin' like an Impala"). Rack was riveted. Then we began discussing the styling choices in the "Feelin' On Yo Booty" video, in which Robert Sylvester rocks a ridiculous, asymmetrical half-corn-row/half-afro puff hairstyle and let's Lil' Kim and her REALLY busted blonde weave grind all up on him. Then Rack asked about "Trapped In the Closet," and I explained that it was R-dot's brilliant attempt at musical urban soap operatic film noir. I then began summing up the TITC storyline, providing the entire train with entertainment for the remainder of the trip. When I got to the end of chapter 5, where R. Kelly's character Sylvester throws his suspiciously exuberant wife off his dick, pulls back the bedcovers, and finds the used condom left from her adulterous tryst with the chain-smoking cop that pulled him over on his way home, I paused. This prompted someone several rows of seats back on the train to call, "Is that the end? Please finish the story!"
I obliged. Occasionally there would be a crowd reaction to statements such as "and now, thankfully, I know that a gun is a much more effective weapon than a spatula" and "I think it's generally a bad idea to assume that R. Kelly would graciously accept being cuckolded," but I was typically oblivious to the fact that I was commanding everyone's undividing attention. By the time I'd summarized all twelve chapters and got to the, "then Kells whips out his trusty Beretta and the midget literally shits his pants in terror", there was laughter from eavesdroppers all around us. Once I concluded the thrilling tale, several rows of passengers applauded me for my storytelling prowess. "Dude, they're clapping for you, Razzy!" Rack said. Up until this point, I was unaware that everyone had been paying such close attention, but I was relieved to get an ovation instead of a lecture or a pointedly bitchy look. In the future, people listening to my booming voice should consider themselves lucky to get a free performance.
And since you surely are now intrigued, here are chapters 1-5 of Trapped In the Closet, just because Robert Sylvester Kelly is the dope shit:
Several weekends ago, J-Sexy and I were actually shushed by a stranger on the LIRR on our way back from Fire Island while we were animatedly making plans to go strap-on shopping (I'm embracing my newly remembered bisexuality and J-Sexy is into pegging dudes). Since we had spent the day sitting in the sun and consuming an entire bottle of Puerto Rican rum mixed with Hawaiian Punch, I was in no mood to be addressed in such a condescending, motherly manner by some stringy old broad who appointed herself the LIRR speech police. I said very loudly that I would talk about strap-ons whenever and wherever I fucking pleased, and no shrew-ass bitch was going to take away my constitutional right to discuss sex toys or any other subject matter. The lady just quietly muttered to her husband about how awful we were and then sullenly would glare our way from time to time until we got to Penn Station. Sticks and stones may break my bones, hooker, but reproachful looks will never hurt me (or shut me up).
Yesterday, a similar incident occurred as I went to the beach with my friend Rack and her boyfriend TheOldGuy. TheOldGuy, who is a cable news producer, was telling us about how he worked with a woman who produces a recurring special on MSNBC about transgendered persons. Rack then cut in to say that one of the persons being profiled for the show was some pre-op F2M tranny from Raleigh, NC (her hometown), and this person was planning to go by "Rack" after her reassignment surgery. "It's not like there's that many lezzies in Raleigh!" she fumed (Rack used to be a lot more girl-on-girl inclined). "The trashy sonofabitch probably met me back when he was only out as a garden variety butch dyke and stole my goddamn name! I'm sure of it! I bet he went to Smith too!" During this whole soliloquy, this floppy old woman was eagerly listening in. She practically had her hand cupped around her ear to hear better. We weren't paying much attention to her.
Then, TheOldGuy mentioned that this producer of the tranny show was having all sorts of problems with her sick husband. He said that the husband was in the hospital with some sort of mystery infection and wondered if it had something to do with their child's recent bout with scarlet fever. I said that his symptoms sounded more viral to me. Scarlet fever is caused by a bacteria called Streptococcus pyogenes, and in adults this usually causes strep throat or occasionally necrotizing fascitis, better known as "flesh-eating" bacteria. Then I started telling a story about this woman I used to work with who had contracted flesh-eating bacteria through an infected hair follicle on her labia, and ultimately had pounds of gangrenous flesh removed from her abdomen and thighs. At this point, the floppy old butted in and said, "Excuse me, can you change the subject? Your conversations is not very pleasant." I said something like, "Yeah, okay, whatever" and proceeded to continue talking about it. If the nosy, interfering twat doesn't like my conversation, then instead of asking me to switch topics she should mind her own damn business and STOP FUCKING EAVESDROPPING!
Apart from a few dirty looks from her and her equally disapproving friend (who resembled the mummified corpse of Hatshepsut rocking a fugly flowered tank top and a crappy, ineffective Nice'n'Easy gray-covering dye job), we had an uneventful remainder of our trip to Long Beach with no further disturbances from any overstepping hooker-ass prostitutes. At the beach we spent the day swimming, sunning, and swilling beer. Apart from Rack spraining her ankle, we had a capital time. In spite of being a little tired out after the beach, I was nonetheless capable of talking loudly on the train back. Fortunately, the crowd on this train was far more appreciative of my conversational talents.
Somehow Rack and I got to discussing R. Kelly and his supreme awesomeness. I was clarifying why he's fully deserving of the lofty title of "the king of R&B," and it's not just because he's black, handsome, he sings, plus he's rich and he's a flirt. I was arguing that R&B would indeed be in dire straits without the R-uh's superior lyrical abilities. I was going off about memorable lyrics in various classic Kells tunes, such as "You Remind Me of Something" ("you remind me of my jeep, I want to ride"), "Don't You Say No" ("I ain't spendin' no cash if you ain't spendin' that ass","you say you want first-class trips, well I want to work those first-class hips"), and "R&B Thug" ("Oooh, Kelly, you make me holla, keep on jumpin' like an Impala"). Rack was riveted. Then we began discussing the styling choices in the "Feelin' On Yo Booty" video, in which Robert Sylvester rocks a ridiculous, asymmetrical half-corn-row/half-afro puff hairstyle and let's Lil' Kim and her REALLY busted blonde weave grind all up on him. Then Rack asked about "Trapped In the Closet," and I explained that it was R-dot's brilliant attempt at musical urban soap operatic film noir. I then began summing up the TITC storyline, providing the entire train with entertainment for the remainder of the trip. When I got to the end of chapter 5, where R. Kelly's character Sylvester throws his suspiciously exuberant wife off his dick, pulls back the bedcovers, and finds the used condom left from her adulterous tryst with the chain-smoking cop that pulled him over on his way home, I paused. This prompted someone several rows of seats back on the train to call, "Is that the end? Please finish the story!"
I obliged. Occasionally there would be a crowd reaction to statements such as "and now, thankfully, I know that a gun is a much more effective weapon than a spatula" and "I think it's generally a bad idea to assume that R. Kelly would graciously accept being cuckolded," but I was typically oblivious to the fact that I was commanding everyone's undividing attention. By the time I'd summarized all twelve chapters and got to the, "then Kells whips out his trusty Beretta and the midget literally shits his pants in terror", there was laughter from eavesdroppers all around us. Once I concluded the thrilling tale, several rows of passengers applauded me for my storytelling prowess. "Dude, they're clapping for you, Razzy!" Rack said. Up until this point, I was unaware that everyone had been paying such close attention, but I was relieved to get an ovation instead of a lecture or a pointedly bitchy look. In the future, people listening to my booming voice should consider themselves lucky to get a free performance.
And since you surely are now intrigued, here are chapters 1-5 of Trapped In the Closet, just because Robert Sylvester Kelly is the dope shit:
Labels: assholes, defiance, free fucking speech, intentional buffoonery, MTA, NYC, Rack, Razzification, Robert Sylvester Kelly
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