Tuesday, January 31, 2006
"American Idol" is the shittiest show on TV
There's nothing on TV right now, because the shittiest show in primetime completely dominates Tuesday nights. That show would be ratings juggernaut "American Idol," which I now believe actually makes you stupider if you watch it. If I were to go off on every last subtle sucky detail about why this show is the stankiest slice of shit pizza ever served up to the masses, I'd be writing all night. So I'll just make a list of things I hate about this show:
1. It's in its fifth season. People have been watching a show that sorts through all the bright-eyed illiterate hopefuls of America, weed out the "less talented", and then they deliver Ruben Studdard to sweat at us. Thanks, "American Idol" audience. And the runner-up that year was a small gay man who freakishly resembles Howdy Doody. Why America didn't revolt at that point is a discouraging fact about our nation's character. However, the same people undoubtedly also elected Bush, so I shouldn't be surprised. Americans are dumb. RAZZY.org readers excepted, of course.
2. Two words: Ryan Seacrest. He's like a hyperanimated Ken doll, complete with obvious-but-not-TOO-obvious faggotiness, lack of penis, and immobile (and overly frosted) hair. Apparently, most of America doesn't agree with me, because not only does Ryan Seacrest get to host "American Idol," he has his own TV talk show, a radio show, and is quickly angling to usurp the very strokey Dick Clark's diminishing hold on the stupid New Year's Eve Network Special market. He's like the Sean Hannity of annoying pop cultural phenomena. He constantly interrupts the proceedings of "American Idol" to give us the intellectual rundown about what's going on. He also has some sort of Svengali-like mind control over people, since people are apparently tuning into all this shit featuring Ryan Seacrest to actually see Ryan Seacrest. People clearly have problems.
3. Ham-handed attempts at irony (note I said "attempts"). Okay, I get it. There's a black chick singing "Redneck Woman." And check it out, a recent Montenegran immigrant singing "Proud to be an American," wearing a heinous shirt covered with images of Old Glory. A bunch of frat boys singing "I Will Survive." That's hilarious. It's ironic. Or maybe it's just unexpected. Except its not, because I don't care WHO is singing badly. It all sucks.
4. Simon Cowell gets old. I have to admit that I would occasionally catch "American Idol" and enjoy Simon Cowell saying snide and mean-spirited quips to the dumbasses who actually try out for this show. But you can only see Simon roll his eyes so many times before it becomes more boring than watching Driving Miss Daisy.
5. Randy Jackson's shirts are worse than Bill Cosby's sweaters. I once saw Randy Jackson on a plane. He was totally sitting in first class, so I cruised by him on my way to coach. I was half-drunk and had just spent the last three hours talking about biotechnology and religion with a Mormon couple in the LAX Chili's, and then I randomly ran into a friend's ex-girlfriend (a lesbian PE teacher taking her school team to a basketball camp in Australia), so it was a surreal experience that required many Heinekens. Anyway, I finally got on my red-eye back to New York, and there was Randy Jackson, wearing a tremendous CZ in his ear and furiously Blackberrying. "What an asshole," I thought. Lo and behold I still think that, because he still wears that gaudy-ass earring, and his shirts are like a bad Hawaiian acid trip (he's covered it up with a tacky seersucker blazer here, but seriously...look at the shirt):
And I DEFINITELY don't need to see her cleavage. It's fake and wrinkly, and entirely the wrong shade of tan. I don't need the "American Idol" producers trying to pass this succubus off as sexy. They should take a clue from Emilio Estevez, and dump that bitch.
Seriously, "American Idol" may just be the first horseman of the Apocalypse. If this shit stays popular much longer, mark my words: we're doomed.
1. It's in its fifth season. People have been watching a show that sorts through all the bright-eyed illiterate hopefuls of America, weed out the "less talented", and then they deliver Ruben Studdard to sweat at us. Thanks, "American Idol" audience. And the runner-up that year was a small gay man who freakishly resembles Howdy Doody. Why America didn't revolt at that point is a discouraging fact about our nation's character. However, the same people undoubtedly also elected Bush, so I shouldn't be surprised. Americans are dumb. RAZZY.org readers excepted, of course.
2. Two words: Ryan Seacrest. He's like a hyperanimated Ken doll, complete with obvious-but-not-TOO-obvious faggotiness, lack of penis, and immobile (and overly frosted) hair. Apparently, most of America doesn't agree with me, because not only does Ryan Seacrest get to host "American Idol," he has his own TV talk show, a radio show, and is quickly angling to usurp the very strokey Dick Clark's diminishing hold on the stupid New Year's Eve Network Special market. He's like the Sean Hannity of annoying pop cultural phenomena. He constantly interrupts the proceedings of "American Idol" to give us the intellectual rundown about what's going on. He also has some sort of Svengali-like mind control over people, since people are apparently tuning into all this shit featuring Ryan Seacrest to actually see Ryan Seacrest. People clearly have problems.
3. Ham-handed attempts at irony (note I said "attempts"). Okay, I get it. There's a black chick singing "Redneck Woman." And check it out, a recent Montenegran immigrant singing "Proud to be an American," wearing a heinous shirt covered with images of Old Glory. A bunch of frat boys singing "I Will Survive." That's hilarious. It's ironic. Or maybe it's just unexpected. Except its not, because I don't care WHO is singing badly. It all sucks.
4. Simon Cowell gets old. I have to admit that I would occasionally catch "American Idol" and enjoy Simon Cowell saying snide and mean-spirited quips to the dumbasses who actually try out for this show. But you can only see Simon roll his eyes so many times before it becomes more boring than watching Driving Miss Daisy.
5. Randy Jackson's shirts are worse than Bill Cosby's sweaters. I once saw Randy Jackson on a plane. He was totally sitting in first class, so I cruised by him on my way to coach. I was half-drunk and had just spent the last three hours talking about biotechnology and religion with a Mormon couple in the LAX Chili's, and then I randomly ran into a friend's ex-girlfriend (a lesbian PE teacher taking her school team to a basketball camp in Australia), so it was a surreal experience that required many Heinekens. Anyway, I finally got on my red-eye back to New York, and there was Randy Jackson, wearing a tremendous CZ in his ear and furiously Blackberrying. "What an asshole," I thought. Lo and behold I still think that, because he still wears that gaudy-ass earring, and his shirts are like a bad Hawaiian acid trip (he's covered it up with a tacky seersucker blazer here, but seriously...look at the shirt):
6. Paula Abdul scares me. She's way too perky for someone who allegedly has a chronic pain disorder. I don't need the auteur/ex-Laker Girl who brought us musical gems like "Straight Up" and "Cold Hearted Snake" explaining to people about pitch, harmony, and rhythm like she's Mozart.
And I DEFINITELY don't need to see her cleavage. It's fake and wrinkly, and entirely the wrong shade of tan. I don't need the "American Idol" producers trying to pass this succubus off as sexy. They should take a clue from Emilio Estevez, and dump that bitch.
Seriously, "American Idol" may just be the first horseman of the Apocalypse. If this shit stays popular much longer, mark my words: we're doomed.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
"PopoZao" must be Portuguese for "aural hecatomb"
Recently ex-backup dancer, aspiring rapper, and professional baby daddy Kevin Spears Federline dropped his latest single "PopoZao" on an unsuspecting public courtesy of Yahoo Music, which actually has the audacity to charge for downloads of this shit. I'm offended that it isn't the other way around: Kevin Federline should pay everyone who downloads and listens to this pathetic attempt at cultural relevance as compensation for the years this crap will take off your life.
"PopoZao" is K-Fed's ode to big asses, which is allegedly what "PopoZao" means in Brazilian slang. I guess that since the dude has about as much ghetto fabulosity as a Beverly Hillbilly, he had to try to borrow some street cred from another culture that most of the dumbass hicks and posers in his marketing demographic are unfamiliar with. Hence, Kevin is reinventing himself as Brazilian. What do you think, did it work?
Yeah, that's right, he's just like one of those street kids from City of God.
In case you're like me and you are a masochistic glutton for punishment, you can enjoy clips of K-Fed's musical stylings at his MySpace page:
http://www.myspace.com/kevinfederlineforreal
"PopoZao" is K-Fed's ode to big asses, which is allegedly what "PopoZao" means in Brazilian slang. I guess that since the dude has about as much ghetto fabulosity as a Beverly Hillbilly, he had to try to borrow some street cred from another culture that most of the dumbass hicks and posers in his marketing demographic are unfamiliar with. Hence, Kevin is reinventing himself as Brazilian. What do you think, did it work?
Yeah, that's right, he's just like one of those street kids from City of God.
In case you're like me and you are a masochistic glutton for punishment, you can enjoy clips of K-Fed's musical stylings at his MySpace page:
http://www.myspace.com/kevinfederlineforreal
Friday, January 13, 2006
Keep your nose out of my "rear"
Last week I was at the gym, kicking ass on the stairmaster ("The Gauntlet," as it's known at the Bard Athletic Club), and, as usual, went to take a shower after my workout.
All was going as planned until this troublesome woman came in to do her post-shower routine alongside me. I'd noticed her before causing problems with the treadmillers. I don't do the treadmill, because I've committed myself to the agony that twelve minutes on the Gauntlet set to "Intensity Level" 9 affords. The Gauntlet, by the way, is that stairmaster that has actual stairs...it's like a demonic escalator that never ends and goes really fast. While you are on it, you feel like you are dying of hantavirus, but then a week later, it's the greatest gift of weight loss you've ever received. Anyway, this bitch wreaks havoc with the treadmill sign-up sheet on a daily basis. This woman signs up for like 5 treadmills at the same time to ensure that she gets "the right one," as I heard her explain once. Since all the treadmills are the same make and model, and since signing up for one is sufficient to ensure treadmill space, I don't really understand her logic. However, I try not to involve myself in unnecessary gym drama; so as long as she stays off Gauntlet #2, she's cupcakes in my book.
Anyway, I'm busy applying Palmer's Cocoa Butter as I normally do after showering, when this "Race For the Cure"-shirt-wearing ho-bag decides to break the cardinal rule of peaceful coexistence in a women's locker room: don't comment on any other naked bitch's body.
"You know, that stairclimber's not going to make your rear any smaller."
I turned around, to see that the imposing middle-aged slut saying this to me was built like a Lunchables serving of tapioca pudding, with a completely unflattering Nice'N'Easy Medium Spice #119B dye job on her Elijah Wood circa 1994 bowl cut. She is staring at me smugly, as though I should start thanking her profusely for this bit of sage wisdom. I am staring at her, stunned, because this statement was such an interfering breach of polite conduct that I couldn't believe she had even gone there.
This might be a good time to explain that I'm incredibly proud of my ass. It is high and round, and my workout routine is designed expressly to firm that up while preserving its volume and curvature, while making other areas of my body toned and lean. I have no intention of losing my ass, and I use the uber-stairmaster for precisely that reason. And here comes this bitch, to insinuate that my goal at the gym should be achieving a flat, spreading, cellulite-ridden ass like hers. I guess it takes 5 treadmills to accomplish such a lofty feat.
Additionally, the use of the word "rear" is infuriating on a whole other level. People only use "rear" when they think that "butt" is a bad word; in other words, people who are likely piss me off by simply existing use the word "rear." Annoying moms who drive minivans slowly in the left lane, who don't discipline their bratty kids on planes, in restaurants, or in movie theaters, and wear pleated jeans use the word "rear." Needless to say, I was paralyzed with shock and righteous anger.
I was so taken aback at this egregious and unexpected intrusion into my gym routine that I couldn't even think of anything to say. I could have made some nasty comment like "and that treadmill's not going to get rid of the cottage cheese on your thighs, either." Or, I could have lectured her sternly about minding her own damn business. Unfortunately, I was completely dumbfounded, impotent and unable to do anything but give her a half-assed oh-no-you-didn't look.
Therefore, I'm almost hoping that she will step to me again, so that I can have another go at the old hag. Because I hold grudges when it comes to appreciation for my ass, or lack thereof. And there's nothing more satisfying than a slice of well-executed vengeance. Consider this your notice, Treadmill Bitch. Next time, I'm bringing my A game and going for your goiter.
All was going as planned until this troublesome woman came in to do her post-shower routine alongside me. I'd noticed her before causing problems with the treadmillers. I don't do the treadmill, because I've committed myself to the agony that twelve minutes on the Gauntlet set to "Intensity Level" 9 affords. The Gauntlet, by the way, is that stairmaster that has actual stairs...it's like a demonic escalator that never ends and goes really fast. While you are on it, you feel like you are dying of hantavirus, but then a week later, it's the greatest gift of weight loss you've ever received. Anyway, this bitch wreaks havoc with the treadmill sign-up sheet on a daily basis. This woman signs up for like 5 treadmills at the same time to ensure that she gets "the right one," as I heard her explain once. Since all the treadmills are the same make and model, and since signing up for one is sufficient to ensure treadmill space, I don't really understand her logic. However, I try not to involve myself in unnecessary gym drama; so as long as she stays off Gauntlet #2, she's cupcakes in my book.
Anyway, I'm busy applying Palmer's Cocoa Butter as I normally do after showering, when this "Race For the Cure"-shirt-wearing ho-bag decides to break the cardinal rule of peaceful coexistence in a women's locker room: don't comment on any other naked bitch's body.
"You know, that stairclimber's not going to make your rear any smaller."
I turned around, to see that the imposing middle-aged slut saying this to me was built like a Lunchables serving of tapioca pudding, with a completely unflattering Nice'N'Easy Medium Spice #119B dye job on her Elijah Wood circa 1994 bowl cut. She is staring at me smugly, as though I should start thanking her profusely for this bit of sage wisdom. I am staring at her, stunned, because this statement was such an interfering breach of polite conduct that I couldn't believe she had even gone there.
This might be a good time to explain that I'm incredibly proud of my ass. It is high and round, and my workout routine is designed expressly to firm that up while preserving its volume and curvature, while making other areas of my body toned and lean. I have no intention of losing my ass, and I use the uber-stairmaster for precisely that reason. And here comes this bitch, to insinuate that my goal at the gym should be achieving a flat, spreading, cellulite-ridden ass like hers. I guess it takes 5 treadmills to accomplish such a lofty feat.
Additionally, the use of the word "rear" is infuriating on a whole other level. People only use "rear" when they think that "butt" is a bad word; in other words, people who are likely piss me off by simply existing use the word "rear." Annoying moms who drive minivans slowly in the left lane, who don't discipline their bratty kids on planes, in restaurants, or in movie theaters, and wear pleated jeans use the word "rear." Needless to say, I was paralyzed with shock and righteous anger.
I was so taken aback at this egregious and unexpected intrusion into my gym routine that I couldn't even think of anything to say. I could have made some nasty comment like "and that treadmill's not going to get rid of the cottage cheese on your thighs, either." Or, I could have lectured her sternly about minding her own damn business. Unfortunately, I was completely dumbfounded, impotent and unable to do anything but give her a half-assed oh-no-you-didn't look.
Therefore, I'm almost hoping that she will step to me again, so that I can have another go at the old hag. Because I hold grudges when it comes to appreciation for my ass, or lack thereof. And there's nothing more satisfying than a slice of well-executed vengeance. Consider this your notice, Treadmill Bitch. Next time, I'm bringing my A game and going for your goiter.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
The KY Warming Liquid couple scares the hell out of me
Have you seen those commercials where this totally unattractive couple hawks KY Warming Liquid? This woman in a heinous peach top is sitting around staring at a bottle of KY while her husband reads the paper and ignores her, as he should, because she's built like a dollop of cottage cheese.
Ugly Bitch: Keeping a relationship together takes work.
Good observation. Especially since your husband is completely absorbed in the MSM section of the personals and not paying attention to your stank ass. So she must resort to the time-honored tradition of tempting men with water-based lube.
Ugly Bitch (reading slowly): "Creates a gentle warming sensation on contact."
Dude's eyes are torn from the metro section as he looks up at his wife, who gives him an overdone come-hither look. Then she looks back at the camera and says, in the same tone of voice she would use to read a shopping list:
Ugly Bitch: That'll work!
Then they giggle and give each other a series of eyebrow-raised-playfully looks (meant to indicate how aroused they are that they no longer have to deal with annoying unpleasantness of cold lube) and we're supposed to believe they go have warm greased-up sex.
Apparently the australopithecines that work in Johnson and Johnson's marketing department thought this couple was promotional gold, so they've now created a new commercial to advertise KY Warming Touch Massage, which is both lube AND massage lotion. Once again, the repugnant soccer mom has to distract her husband from his literary pursuits by reading the back of the KY bottle.
If there's anything more gross to me than having a window into this old, homely couple's seduction routine, it's imagining them rubbing lube all over each other. Seriously, I don't even like to think of rubbing lube all over anyone attractive...it's LUBE, for God's sake! It smells like chemicals. It's like covering someone with hand sanitizer or something. In other words, NOT SEXY.
Please, Johnson and Johnson, stop ruining sex by using heinous people to advertise sex products.
Ugly Bitch: Keeping a relationship together takes work.
Good observation. Especially since your husband is completely absorbed in the MSM section of the personals and not paying attention to your stank ass. So she must resort to the time-honored tradition of tempting men with water-based lube.
Ugly Bitch (reading slowly): "Creates a gentle warming sensation on contact."
Dude's eyes are torn from the metro section as he looks up at his wife, who gives him an overdone come-hither look. Then she looks back at the camera and says, in the same tone of voice she would use to read a shopping list:
Ugly Bitch: That'll work!
Then they giggle and give each other a series of eyebrow-raised-playfully looks (meant to indicate how aroused they are that they no longer have to deal with annoying unpleasantness of cold lube) and we're supposed to believe they go have warm greased-up sex.
Apparently the australopithecines that work in Johnson and Johnson's marketing department thought this couple was promotional gold, so they've now created a new commercial to advertise KY Warming Touch Massage, which is both lube AND massage lotion. Once again, the repugnant soccer mom has to distract her husband from his literary pursuits by reading the back of the KY bottle.
If there's anything more gross to me than having a window into this old, homely couple's seduction routine, it's imagining them rubbing lube all over each other. Seriously, I don't even like to think of rubbing lube all over anyone attractive...it's LUBE, for God's sake! It smells like chemicals. It's like covering someone with hand sanitizer or something. In other words, NOT SEXY.
Please, Johnson and Johnson, stop ruining sex by using heinous people to advertise sex products.
Tottaly tottlez, a blast from the past
Last year, some of my bitches and I had this blog that we worked on for awhile before everyone got too busy and lost interest. Today instead of going to work on time I was dicking around on blogger and revisited Tottaly Tottlez.
This blog was so named because one of said bitches refuses to spell the word "totally" correctly in AOL instant messaging. And she knows how to spell "totally," she just likes her way better. Example:
me: Dude, like it's a surprise that Lindsay Lohan has an eating disorder. I just can't believe she's bulimic. My money was on anorexia.
her: Tottaly.
Anyway, some of the shit on Tottaly Tottlez is pretty funny, especially Unattributable's (aka LL Cool Jew) coverage of the 2004 Democratic National Convention, Monster Truck's (aka Fallonious Monk) coverage of her psycho ex-girlfriend Face with Three Names and trip to the gym, and my commentary on Martha Stewart's trial and scathing indictment of M. Night Shyamalan (I was known on this blog as Dr. Unk N. Stoned). In a way, Tottaly Tottlez was the proto-RazzyBlog, because I never would have figured out how to put up my own website if we hadn't worked on T.T.
So check it out if you are so inclined:
http://tottalytottlez.blogspot.com/
This blog was so named because one of said bitches refuses to spell the word "totally" correctly in AOL instant messaging. And she knows how to spell "totally," she just likes her way better. Example:
me: Dude, like it's a surprise that Lindsay Lohan has an eating disorder. I just can't believe she's bulimic. My money was on anorexia.
her: Tottaly.
Anyway, some of the shit on Tottaly Tottlez is pretty funny, especially Unattributable's (aka LL Cool Jew) coverage of the 2004 Democratic National Convention, Monster Truck's (aka Fallonious Monk) coverage of her psycho ex-girlfriend Face with Three Names and trip to the gym, and my commentary on Martha Stewart's trial and scathing indictment of M. Night Shyamalan (I was known on this blog as Dr. Unk N. Stoned). In a way, Tottaly Tottlez was the proto-RazzyBlog, because I never would have figured out how to put up my own website if we hadn't worked on T.T.
So check it out if you are so inclined:
http://tottalytottlez.blogspot.com/
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