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For the past couple months, Chingy! has been walking with a pronounced limp. At first I checked him for injury and found nothing: no swelling, inflammation, fibrosis, etc. He wasn't acting like he was in pain, so I wasn't too worried because he wasn't limping all the time. Only after the limp started moving from leg to leg did I start to suspect that Chingy! was faking it, for no apparent reason. I'm starting to think that I named Chingy! after the wrong rapper.

Chingy! is named after (duh) the St. Louis-based rapper Chingy. I didn't name him this because I'm a huge fan of Chingy's music. "Right Thurr" was okay, but certainly no masterpiece like "Ain't No Fun (if the Homies Can't Have None)" in terms of its staying power or artistic brilliance. His original owner named him Chin-Chin, which is Cantonese for "money money." When I adopted him, I decided to Americanize his name. I didn't want to confuse him by changing his name drastically, so I started calling him Chingy, which turned into Chingy! and sounds like CHONG-ay! (the punctuation and pronunciation suit his personality).

However, Chingy! is nothing like his namesake, a pretty-boy studio gangsta who is all a gentleman as far as rappers go: nicely asking women to shake their asses, inviting them politely to his hotel parties, and professing his love for them in a respectful way. Chingy! is a dirty, nasty, disgusting dog who starts fights, harasses female dogs (despite being neutered), disregards authority (me), and now apparently thinks he is a pimp, and has acquired the requisite limp. I have decided that my dog is not at all like Chingy. My dog is Too $hort.

Seriously, the similarities are uncanny:

1. Short, stocky stature: Too $hort is so named because he isn't exactly the tallest man in Oakland, California. Thus young Todd Shaw decided not to pursue a career in basketball, deciding instead to focus his game on a different variety of balling altogether. Chingy! is similarly not suited for herding, guarding, rescue, retrieving, or any other useful dog job, so he focuses his very limited energies on being a total asshole. According to the American Kennel Club's breed standard, a Pug's "symmetry and general appearance should be decidedly square and cobby." According to his measurements, Chingy! is a prize Pug, and so, apparently, is Too $hort.

2. General appearance:

If you ignore the species difference, you can see a lot of similarities between these two. Both have deeply furrowed brows which don't give the appearance of a frown, but rather of half-interested inquiry, as though they are about to pose a question with a complex answer like, "Why is my shit so funky it stanks?" In China, the V-shape made by these furrows are called the "Prince's Mark," because it resembles the character for "Prince." In Oakland, California, this is known as the Pimp's Mark, because it's a distinguishing characteristic of the Most Pimpinest Ballin-Ass Player, the standard for which has been set by the incomparable Todd Shaw. Furthermore, their semi-contemptuous expressions perfectly express their general demeanor, which "ain't nothin nice." A disdainful cry of "beeeyotch" is equally likely to erupt from either of their squashed muzzles.

3. Complete and total lack of respect for women: Too $hort has made his millions and thus earned the dollar sign by which he begins his name by pimping hos on the tough streets of Oakland. The key to being a successful pimp is not letting the women think they're all that by behaving toward them in the most demeaning manner possible. This includes referring to them constantly as "ho" and "bee-yotch," (in fact, Too $hort invented that pronunciation) and never under any circumstances validating their opinions or sexually satisfying them, or "when I'm through fuckin, bitches leavin with nothin." I don't really understand why women are falling all over themselves to sleep with him despite him "tell(ing) a bitch real quick, I ain't no Tootsie Roll. All you good for is some head and some pussy, ho." Then again, I'm not an East Oakland player, and I wasn't born to mack, so I'll just have to stick this alongside three-dimensional vector calculus and the popularity of Jennifer Lopez's music on my list of things I just don't get. Anyway, regarding ladies, Chingy! has the soul of a man who is "just tryin to fuck a bitch, fuck tryin' to charm her." When he sees Ming, a Pug bitch who lives in our building, he immediately sticks his face directly into her crotch, lifting her back legs off the ground with the aggressiveness of his pussy sniffing. Ming always tries to retreat, in vain. Chingy! never lets her get away, and since he is bigger, he muscles her into submission and sticks his hindquarters in her frightened little Puggy face. Fortunately for Ming, I never allow Chingy! to bust nuts all in her face, and reprimand him with a sharp jerk on the leash. Leash-jerking always causes Chingy! to turn around and glare at me with a look that plainly says "Bee-yotch!"

4. Penchant for fellatio: In the pantheon of possible sexual acts, Too $hort's clear favorite is receiving oral from a slutty ho. His ideal woman is one who "blows more head than a whale blows water." Whereas there's a distinct shortage of slutty dog-hos available for Chingy! to conscript into performing oral sex on him, he still manages to get brain on the regular...from himself. When Chingy! isn't sleeping or eating or searching for the ideal spot on the wrought iron fences at St. Nick park to shit, he's usually trying to contort his Rubenesque body to get his snaggly little doggy mouth in close proximity to his weiner. I'm pretty sure Too $hort would do the same thing if he could.

5. Ejaculates in inappropriate places: In probably his most famous song of all time, Too $hort describes how he caused the demise of an unfortunate albeit incredibly promiscuous woman named Elizabeth (Betty for short) when she choked on his semen. Much as the windpipe of a diseased teenage prostitute is an inappropriate place for $hort Dog to bust a nut, so is the fucking floor of my apartment, but that's just what Chingy! did one time before he got castrated. I was living with LL Cool Jew at the time, and we were sitting around watching some trashy reality TV or whatever, and the next thing I know, Chingy!'s dick is out and it's all engorged and *revolting*, kind of like a hot dog that's blown up in the microwave. On the floor in front of him is a spatter of liquid that appears to be semen, based on its color, appearance, and spatter pattern consistent with a trajectory from his exploded dick. I have no doubt that I'd be breaking out the Swiffer Wet were Too $hort kicking it with me. Of course, despite my love and admiration for his musical stylings, it's not very likely that I'd go on a date with Mr. Shaw, because I've been tricked by guys before who "just wanted to fuck [me] and cut, treat [me] like a trampy slut," and at this point in my life not even someone with an inherent gift for breaking bitches spitting straight pimpgame from the Oaktown can convince me that "goin' hoin'" is a good idea. Besides, I suck at housework, and there's nothing more aggravating than scrubbing dried seminal fluid off hardwood.

6. Grandiose visions of self as super-pimp: Too $hort plans to revolutionize society to better facilitate the exploitation of prostitutes. In the early '90s, he advocated a change in goverment, saying "Fuck Bill Clinton. Make me the motherfuckin president, I'll make the White House a ho house fo' all the pimps." Chingy! has decided to make over my apartment similarly, decorating it with the trash he drags everywhere. I am certain that if my kitchen garbage can was full of ghetto prostitutes instead of empty beer bottles and pizza crusts, my apartment would rapidly devolve into a ho house under Chingy!'s direction.

7. Enjoys digging: After Chingy! completes his lengthy bathroom ritual, he likes to follow his business with an enthusiastic hind-leg dirt-kicking. This is especially satisfying for him if he manages to kick dirt, gravel, and/or trash all over my shoes. $hort Dog also enjoys a good routing, although he prefers to excavate a different substrate, or as he says "digging in them guts like a gardener, and if she screams, I'm-a fuck that bitch harder."

8. Highly self-indulgent: The other day I came home and the dogs had somehow managed to open the refrigerator door (I'm pretty sure this caper was a collaborative effort with Caesar.) While the selection of culinary delights (read: low-fat yogurt and Heineken) was disappointing for them, I did find the shredded wrapper from a brick of Monterey Jack cheese on my duvet cover, covered with suspiciously Ching!ish bite marks. Too $hort has a similar fondness for "eating food like a motherfucking fat bitch."

9. Successfully incorporate unnecessary punctuation in name: Normally, when people spell their names with ridiculous punctuation marks, they get laughed at for being poser douchebags trying to unoriginally challenge the way things are conventionally spelled. Just writing this blog entry has been an exercise in aberrant punctuating...I don't think I've ever hit Shift + 4 so many times in one sitting at the computer in the history of RAZZY.org. However, both Chingy! and Too $hort pull it off, and, in fact, their names just wouldn't look right without the respective exclamation point and dollar sign. Chingy by itself is boring, and sounds (unintentionally) like an anti-Asian racial slur. The exclamation point makes it funky. Too Short is a demeaning characterization I use to describe some men I'm not attracted to (example: "No way would that dude ever get to tap my hot ass. He's too short.") Too $hort, however, indicates that a man's stature as a player from the east side can eclipse his physical stature as a squat, chunky bald man. Indeed, rather than scoff at his height, if Too $hort were to cruise by right now in his drop-top Caddy, I would follow his instructions and flash him a peace sign and holler "Hey, Pimp Daddy."

10. Laziness: Chingy! sleeps roughly 23 hours a day, preferably on my bed or couch or anywhere else it's undesirable to accumulate massive amounts of shed dog hair. Too $hort doesn't really have to do anything besides get his cock sucked and smoke hella dank, since his pockets are perenially on swoll thanks to his hard-working flock of top-notches. Yes, life is good for pimps.

I'm starting to think that I should acquire a limp, because whether the pimp is a Dog or a Pug Dog, they seem to have a pretty nice life. I'm jealous.

Labels: CHONGAY CHONG

# posted by Razzy @ 2:50 PM 0 Comments Links to this post

Today I went to get my eyes checked, since Cascade Eye Clinic in Tacoma finally stopped okaying refills on my three-year-old contact lens prescription and I've been wearing the same contact in my left eye for the past four months. Unfortunately, since I haven't yet found an eye doctor here in the city, I picked one at random. Just my luck, I wind up getting this ancient Austrian motherfucker who probably moved to New York and started an opthalmology practice to avoid judgment before the war crimes tribunal at Nuremburg.

I was already pissed because he was running a little late for my 1:15 appointment. In fact, when I finally saw him at THREE FUCKING FORTY-FIVE, I was annoyed. However, since I work across the street, I fortunately didn't have to spend those two and a half hours in his zoo-like waiting room (which was infested with screaming children). Rather than bitch at him about the wait (I figured that the myriad of "Oh-no-you-DID-unt" urban teenage mothers outside would handle that), I decided to be pleasant so I could get my shit dilated, read some eye charts, and get my contact prescription as fast as possible.

So the doctor starts checking me out, and he goes, "Ah, blue eyes. It's not very often you see blue eyes around here." This is true, because Washington Heights is overwhelmingly a Dominican neighborhood and most of the people there do not share my Scandinavian phenotype. I am indeed a novelty, both in Washington Heights where I work, and in Harlem where I live, because of my Aryan features. It's all superficial, though, because my outwardly physical similarity to a poster girl for the Hitler youth belies my propensity for banging Jewish, black, Hispanic, and otherwise swarthy, dark men.

I decide to make conversation. So I say, "I know, my eyes get a lot of attention. I live in Harlem, and I've been told by some of my neighbors that I'm 'exotic.'"

He laughs and says conspiratorially, "Right. When we both know, it should be the other way around."

What?! Did he just imply that blue-eyed people should be thinking that brown-eyed people are "exotic"? If you follow that argument to its logical endpoint, he was saying that blue-eyed people should outnumber brown-eyed people to the point where brown-eyed people are a rarity. In discussion, that sentiment is normally followed up with a lusty shout of "white power!" and a cross burning. Somebody call the Mossad, because I think I just had my eyes examined by Dr. Josef Mengele. All I wanted was more contacts, not a lesson in racial hygiene from the National Socialist point of view. And what's with this "we both know" bullshit? Sorry, Reichsminister Goebbels, but you're not tricking me into a big blue-eyed Aryan lovefest with your inclusive little pronouns. Don't think we have some sort of convivial rapport just because a little over a thousand years ago some shared barbarian progenitors of ours crawled out of the same fucking fjord, dipshit.

It's very rare that in the course of conducting a normal business transaction with an educated professional (like a physician), he/she says something that is just out of control inappropriate. And by "inappropriate," I mean that similar statements have been used to encourage national complicity in mass genocide. Next time I need some vision correction, I think I'll be calling a different doctor. Preferably one with brown eyes.

For the past three years I have been diligently and desperately trying to give mice the common cold so that I can graduate and make everybody address me as "Doctor." To make a very long story short, one way I have to prove that the mice can get rhinovirus is to show that they are making RNA for the virus receptor. Despite the fact that I've done this the modern, quantitative way, my advisor has insisted that I also do it an alternative, considerably more old-fashioned way: northern blotting.

Northern blotting is the molecular biology equivalent of the Napoleonic invasion of Russia. The northern blot, like the Russian countryside, is forbidding, interminable, dangerous, and inherently prone to complete and utter failure by any would-be destroyers. I braved noxious chemicals, irradiation, RNA degradation, darkroom breakdowns, and faulty vacuum ovens, and I was like the French army frozen in the mud outside Vilna: exhausted, disheartened, and ready to turn around and slink back to Paris in shame. However, I'm Razzy, and there's nothing I can't do, so I perservered, and unlike that small-dicked, gimpy-handed Corsican, I ultimately prevailed! Look upon my conquest, and tremble:

Okay, okay, so it's not the sexiest blot in the long and storied history of nucleic acid hybridization and it's not going to get me a Nature paper or anything. My RNA isn't completely denatured and the bands are smeary, but my probe is detecting transgene transcripts! Bands in every lane right around 1.7 kb, exactly where they're supposed to be. And a pretty little band in the ICAM-LA4 positive control, and no band in the non-transgenic CBAxB6 negative control. HOT. I'll do it again and make it pretty for publication, but these crappy-looking bands signify that my mice aren't a lost cause, I may actually graduate at some point in the next couple years, and I did a FUCKING NORTHERN! Victory is mine!

And yes, I know that nobody gives a shit about this besides me, but I don't care. It's my website, and this is a major fucking achievement in my career as a graduate student. I am the god of outdated and archaic molecular biology techniques. Kiss my blot, haters. I rule.

I was just thinking to myself, "Where the hell has Yanni been for the last five years??" I haven't heard much of him lately, not since that giant of journalism the Tacoma News Tribune did an expose on how he and his girlfriend Linda Evans (formerly of "Dynasty") lived in Yelm, WA and were devotees of the teachings of Ramtha. (Ramtha is the 10,000-year-old spirit of a warrior from Atlantis--the sunken continent, not the Bahamanian resort--who is channeled by a Yelm woman named J.Z. Knight. My mom did an ultrasound on J.Z. Knight once, and I asked her if she saw Ramtha on the sonogram. As it turns out, no Ramtha, just some garden variety gallstones.) Anyway, back when Yanni was on the Ramtha tip, he was also engaged in a fierce battle with former "Entertainment Tonight" anchor John Tesh for supremacy in the Muzak world. Kind of the way T.I. and Lil' Flip have battled for the title of "King of the South," except instead of dropping songs entitled "Fuck Dat Nigga," Tesh and Yanni competed for the most convincing look of passion and rapture while in the midst of a live performance:

Since Tesh's "Live at Red Rocks" CD kicked the crap out of Yanni's "Live at the Acropolis" CD in terms of sales and lasting popularity in the New Age/Instrumental category, Yanni retreated to a beachfront manse in Florida. I guess he must have cooled off on his love of Ramtha, because Linda Evans is history and he's been cohabitating with a woman twenty years his junior. The May-December thing hasn't worked out, because last week Yanni got all freaky Greeky with her and was arrested on domestic battery charges. I was shocked to see that Yanni has not only aged considerably from the days when he looked like the bastard child of Gallagher and Fabio, but bears a striking resemblance to Prince Humperdinck from The Princess Bride:

I almost expected to read that his battered girlfriend was saved in the nick of time by the brave and daring exploits of Cary Elwes, Andre the Giant, and a youthful Mandy Patinkin. Unfortunately, this did not happen, and when the police showed up to arrest him, he claimed that he only battered his girlfriend to save himself from her vicious and combative ways. While he did shake his girlfriend up a little bit, she kicked him and broke his finger, thus ensuring that he'll never play another keyboard solo over tranquil ocean wave sound effects. Clearly she deserved to be slapped around a little bit; you don't mess with a man's livelihood like that.

I don't check my razzy.org email very often because I'm forgetful and frankly, nobody ever emails me there. Most of razzy.org readers either don't correspond with me, or are already my friend and know what my real, everyday email address is. Since Aunt Jesus stopped blessing me with her daily shamings, there hasn't been much action in my razzy@razzy.org inbox. Sure, every once in a while some random person decides to drop me a line, and it's almost always about the Hot Jews list. Mostly, it's people who want to inform me that some of the people on the list aren't remotely Jewish (like Gregory Peck and Rex Grossman), and then question my sources, sometimes irritably. One misguided junior high student who was writing a paper on prominent Jews in the public eye actually used the Hot Jews list as a primary source and decided to focus her report on Siouxsie Sioux. In the course of her research, she found that Siouxsie was not only not Jewish, but also quite the anti-semite. Oops...that wasn't on Wikipedia or wherever I heard she was Jewish from. I only included her because I was desperately trying to round out the "Musicians" section of the list. But really, if you use razzy.org as a legitimate resource for any report (except possibly one on useless bullshit, and then it should be the only thing in your bibliography), you deserve to fail your freaking ninth grade Social Studies class anyway.

Anyway, today I opened my razzy.org email for the first time in a week or so, and found a subjectless email from a Mr. Landon Green. I was curious to see which Jew I was wrong about this time, and was dismayed and irritated to see that this wasn't about my website at all. In fact, it wasn't even from "Landon Green" as the From section made me believe, but an email address belonging to "sjcummings." My email program informed me that the email originated in Spain, and it was very apparent that Landon Green/sjcummings had never been to my website when I saw the content:

Finally the real thing- no more ripoffs! Enhancment Patches are hot right now, VERY hot! Unfortunately, most are cheap imitiations and do very little to increase your size and stamina. Well this is the real thing, not an imitation! One of the very originals, the absolutely strongest Patch available, anywhere!A top team of British scientists and medical doctors have worked to develop the state-of-the-art Pen1s Enlargment Patch delivery system which automatically increases pen1s size up to 3-4 full inches. The patches are the easiest and most effective way to increase your size. You won't have to take pills, get under the knife to perform expensive and very painful surgery, use any pumps or other devices. No one will ever find out that you are using our product. Just apply one patch on your body and wear it for 3 days and you will start noticing dramatic results.Millions of men are taking advantage of this revolutionary new product - Don't be left behind!As an added incentive, they are offering huge discount specials right now, check out the site to see for yourself!

I don't know who would actually fall for a sales pitch like this, but there must be some slack-jawed idiots out there who are like, "Patches that make my dick bigger?! With no endorsement except that the stranger who emailed me about this says they work? Oh, right, and British scientists invented this. They have those smart-sounding accents, so the patches must work! I'll be 3-4 inches bigger in 3 days? Sounds good to me...let me get my credit card." If people didn't fall for this bullshit, the spammers would be out of business. Of course, the idiots who purchase "Enhancment patches" hoping to "enlarg their pen1s" should actually have their penises cut off, since people that stupid shouldn't be permitted to reproduce for the good of our species. In fact, if they quit passing their moron genes around, nobody would be dumb enough to get ripped off and thus make spamming profitable, and they wouldn't be targeting razzy.org for their bogus penis-enlarging placebo sales pitches. On what basis do they make their email lists? One would think that at this point, spammers are pretty sophisticated in terms of their ability to seek out people who won't either block or install a spam filter to eliminate communiques from these jackasses. I'm not very tech savvy, but can't they write programs or algorithms or whatever that can target only the morons that would fall for their sales pitches and get around spam filters? At the very least, I would expect these despicable assholes would assign me to the proper demographic and send me spam about increasing my breast size, since I don't have a penis to enlarge.

Of course, spammers don't read the content of websites they steal email addresses from, but I do know that software exists that scans website content and classifies it based on the words used. I think this is how Google works. If these bastard spammers would bother to get with the program and do some strategic marketing, they'd realize that razzy@razzy.org is NOT A FUCKING MAN! First of all, my website is replete with references to the women's college I went to. Second, I mention numerous times that I am, in fact, female. Third, I can think of at least three pictures on razzy.org that prominently feature my tits. Fourth, I'm always bitching about what goes on in the women's locker room. Fifth, I talk about my period (well, not explicitly, but I know I've alluded to it). I AM A WOMAN. I AM FEMALE. I DO NOT HAVE A PENIS. Hopefully, typing that in capital letters will encourage the next spammer to dig my email out of the cyber haystack to pitch something a little more gender neutral. They could at least try to sell me on some ridiculous get-rich-quick scheme involving me working at home 5 minutes a week and making a million dollars a month, or buying Xanax by mail, or something like that. Frankly, that would be less infuriating than the constant harping about my penis size. Fix your spiders, or bots, or crawlers or whatever, spammers. Even the energy it requires to click the "delete" button is too much to waste on something that pisses me off this much.

I was most distraught to find out \that Kirby Puckett died today in surgery after suffering a massive stroke. If you don't know who Kirby Puckett is, he was this short, chubby, and beloved baseball legend:

Some of Kirby's most notable highlights:

-Career batting average of 0.318

-Led Minnesota Twins to World Series victories in 1987 and 1991

-Retired in 1995 on account of his glaucoma

-Inducted into Cooperstown in the 2001 class of Hall-of-Famers

-Decades-long mistress wrote a tell-all book that ruined his marriage with his wife Tonya, who accused him of physical and emotional abuse in addition to unrepentant philandering

-Allegedly sexually assaulted woman in family restaurant women's bathroom in a suburb of Minneapolis. When questioned, Puckett called it a misunderstanding. He attributed this "misunderstanding" to the apple martinis he and the alleged gropee had imbibed prior to the incident.

The loss of Kirby Puckett at the young age of 45 is truly a great tragedy, and I only hope it's not an omen of terrible things to come for ex-Minnesota Twins. So long as Gary Gaetti is healthy and well, I'm not going to worry. RIP, Kirby. I'm sure there's some flat Midwestern ass waiting to be groped on the other side of the pearly gates.

The people at VH1 keep outdoing themselves in terms of "celebreality" casting decisions. I just saw a commercial for the next installment of "The Surreal Life" and I am amazed at the treasures that the show has managed to dredge from the pool of washed-up, desperate-for-attention "celebrities." This show is incredible, because just when you think they can't throw together a more ridiculous smorgasboard of formerly famous rejects, the next season of "The Surreal Life" is more compelling than ever. Behold, the cavalcade of losers:

Sherman Hemsley: Best known for his work in "The Jeffersons," Sherman Hemsley has pretty much done jack shit since except occasionally reprise his role as George Jefferson in commercials for Denny's Grand Slam breakfasts or portray a similar character in a guest role on some crappy UPN sitcom. According to the "Surreal Life" promo page, Sherman will bring a "booming voice and heart of gold" to the SL mansion. Translation: he's the cranky old codger who can't deal with any of the attention whore freaks that he's stuck with, but he can't leave the show because he desperately needs the money, so he just sits around bitching. Then he does weird old-man stuff and people think he's endearing.
By the way, I love Sherman's outfit in this picture. Doesn't he look like he should be the pit boss of the Muckleshoot Casino's pai gow tables? Either that, or he's working as a greeter at Wal-Mart. I definitely love the ill-fitting double-breasted jacket, the lack of tie, and the spattering of festive buttons. I almost expect his name tag to say something like "Hi! My name is Sherman! Ask me how to save 10% and get a line of credit!"

C.C. Deville: since apparently Bret Michaels is still marginally important enough to work part-time as a pundit for VH1 countdowns like "50 Hottest Rock Star Girlfriends," VH1 went to the next washed-up former member of Poison to join this season's cast. Enter C.C. Deville, erstwhile Poison guitarist who is trying to give sobriety a go for the 57th time. C.C. has not weathered those years of hard living well. Clearly he has to have killed a couple million neurons or so to employ the stylist who dressed him in this ensemble; you have to be cognitively impaired in order to think that old-man plaid and leopard are a winning combination. Also, he's tried to freshen up his beat-up face with a little surgery and fake-n-baking, but instead of having the desired effect and making him look youthful and CUH-razy like he did in the days of the "Unskinny Bop" video, he looks like a freakish imitation of that girl from The Exorcist. I expect him to start projectile vomiting all over that stank outfit of his any minute now.

Steve Harwell: Who is Steve Harwell, you ask? He's the fat one in this picture (not the bassist/Crimson Tide fan). At first I thought he was Uncle Kracker, although I did question his relative lack of tattoos. I seem to remember Uncle Kracker having sleeves of eagles and other such white trash iconography on his arms. As it turns out, Steve Harwell is the lead singer of Smash Mouth, which (in case you forgot) was the most annoying band to pollute mainstream radio in the late '90s. Or they at least tied with the Barenaked Ladies for that illustrious honor. They were like a super upbeat, slightly less emo-bitch version of Maroon5: unbearable, mass-produced, heavily processed pop-rock that twelve-year-old girls consume like it's made of candy and crack cocaine. To refresh your memory, they sang that "Hey now, you're a rock star, get your game on, go play, all that glitters is gold, only shooting stars break the mold blah blah blah" song. That song sucked, and for some reason, not only did every radio station decide to play this shit ad nauseum, but it was whored out to a cadre of TV commercials. Now it appears (thankfully) that even dumbass advertising executives have retired "All Star," so Steve Harwell needed a shot of D-list fame, and hence is what VH1 calls the show's "tattooed rock-star ringmaster." How they can designate this assclown the chief "rock-star" considering that C.C. DEVILLE THE GROUPIE-FUCKING, JACK DANIELS-SWILLING, COKE-SNORTING LEAD GUITARIST OF POISON is also on the show is a great example of VH1's audacity and shamelessness in exploiting kind-of-but-not-really-famous people.

Tawny Kitaen: What would a cast comprised of a bunch of has-been "rock stars" be without a has-been groupie? Call up Tawny Kitaen! Julie "Tawny" Kitaen burst onto the Hollywood scene with her starring role in Bachelor Party, but she became famous when she fucked David Coverdale and consequently got to writhe around seductively on the hoods of two '80s model Jaguars in Whitesnake's "Here I Go Again" video. After that, she quickly faded into obscurity, starred in a few straight-to-video sexploitation thrillers, married a professional baseball player, and developed a voracious appetite for coke, booze, and pills. She was back in the spotlight after one night when, in a coked-up frenzy, she beat the crap out of her husband, pitcher Chuck Finley, with her strappy summer sandals. Finley dumped her ass (and in fairness to him, it can't be easy to be in a locker room full of pro athletes ribbing you about being domestically abused by the chick from the Whitesnake video), she went to rehab, and now she's looking to make a "comeback" of sorts by reminding us all that she's still alive. I think the most useful thing she can do for this show is not fuck the guy from Smash Mouth, because if he's really a "rock star," he'll be tapping that pussy by day 2. Her cooch is like a rock star detector; it naturally attracts hair band musicians like shiny things attract retarded kids. Please, Tawny, stay away from that chubby short-sleeved Abercrombie shirt wearer! Please!

Alexis Arquette: The brother of David, Rosanna, and Patricia, Alexis never quite found the same professional accolades starring in films like Children of the Corn 5: Fields of Terror and Killer Drag Queens on Dope. You know you are in trouble when your brother, star of the Scream trilogy and a host of rage-inducing 1-800-COLLECT commercials, looks like Sir Laurence Olivier when compared to your body of work. Since the whole actor thing hasn't worked out so well, Alexis has decided to distinguish himself from his more-famous siblings by dressing in drag and being *FABULOUS* all the time. That's awesome, because there's nothing to keep things from getting boring like a loudmouthed, obnoxious transvestite trying to get as much mileage as possible out of what may be their last shot yet at cultural relevance.

Andrea Lowell: Who? Oh, she's on Playboy TV. That's why I haven't seen her...because if I want to watch porn, I'm going to watch some real fucking porn, not a bunch of "classy" would be Playmates rolling around topless and giggling. Give me Jennatalia any day, and keep your bullshit Spice or Playboy channels. If I want to watch boring softcore shit, I'll rent a DVD of "Red Shoe Diaries." Anyway, VH1 claims that when Andrea Lowell is "not getting naked, the former pre-med will be outsmarting the whole cast!" Oh, really? She was pre-med? Meaning she wanted to go to medical school, but didn't quite get that MCAT score she needed? Whoa, she must be an intellectual giant! Because you have to have a mind like a steel trap to pass a year of bio 101 and chemistry for dummies before you drop out of West Hollywood Community College to be a professional skank. Just because someone manages to get C's in their freshman year core classes doesn't mean they're one step away from performing surgery. Being good at playing doctor doesn't make you one. Furthermore, I'm deeply suspicious of her medical credentials based on her own assessment of her breasts. Her biography claims that she has a "natural bust." If those inflated missiles on her chest are natural, then so is her fucking hair color. There is just no way that tits that large (I'm estimating DD plus) poke straight out like that. I have large B/small C cups and while they don't really sag, they also don't stand at attention either. And mine are MUCH smaller than this bitch's, so there is no way you can tell me that her shit is natural and just seemingly impervious to the force of gravity. Natural tits have a natural hang to them. Andrea Lowell may find that her staggering genius is capable of outwitting the likes of Tawny Kitaen, but her "pre-med" qualifications aren't enough to fool me.

Florence Henderson, M.S.W.: After finishing her epic run as Carol Brady and a brief stint as a Poligrip denture adhesive spokesperson, apparently Florence Henderson went to grad school and became a licensed SEX THERAPIST! I guess she's qualified, since while she was on "The Brady Bunch" she and Greg Brady were allegedly fucking on the set in Tiger's doghouse while Mike Brady was off bending over in front of a glory hole in some 1980s San Francisco bathhouse. Therefore, she has a lifelong career in working out issues with sexual deviants. This should help while she's trying to keep C.C. Deville out of a Tawny Kitaen-Andrea Lowell sandwich, or (God forbid) trying to do the same with the guy from Smash Mouth, or helping Alexis Arquette come to terms with his/her gender and sexuality issues. I just can't wait to watch her bitch at everyone. And I'm curious to know how an elderly sex therapist can help an elderly dude like Sherman Hemsley. Actually, on second thought, that's gross, so I hope nothing like that goes down.

"Mystery Hunk from Reality TV": VH1 is playing coy on their official promo site about who this will be, but it will be "chosen from a pool of reality TV hunks. Will it be Mr. Survivor? Mr. Bachelor? Mr. Apprentice? Mr. Big Brother?" Of course not. VH1 doesn't have enough pull to get a castoff from a top tier reality show. A quick internet search confirmed my initial prediction: it's not anyone from those shows. It's Mr. Tough Enough. Remember that short-lived show on MTV that gave the winner a development contract with the WWE? Barely. Remember who won? No. Well, VH1 does. It was Maven, a wrassler who perfected forgettable moves like the M-Plosion and the M-Pact. These were no People's Elbow or Walls of Jericho in terms of their entertainment value, so Vince McMahon cut his bitch ass last year, citing "a lack of enthusiasm with regard to Maven's in-ring ability" as a reason. I guess Al Snow and Tazz aren't the trainers/mentors/coaches they were cracked up to be on "Tough Enough." I do have to applaud Maven for seizing the opportunity to fill the washed-up reality star role on "The Surreal Life" in a last-ditch attempt to make people remember him. I just can't wait for the first episode, when the show plays up to all the other cast members that a "mystery hunk" is going to show up, then see everyone frantically trying to figure out who the fuck Maven is when he strolls in amidst all the overdone fanfare.

"The Surreal Life 6" premieres on St. Patrick's Day, and I can barely contain myself waiting for this shit. Only twelve more days, and they can't pass fast enough!