Friday, April 28, 2006
Woman and dog on the verge of a nervous breakdown
Normally the dogs keep me centered, but Caesar is doing nothing to ease my mind. Since Chingy!'s dogsitter came and picked him up last night, Caese and I had to hold down the fort without that stinky little pug. I never realized how much Caesar liked Chingy!, because he has been whining non-stop since Chingy! headed off for a luxury spa week on the Upper West Side with his pug-crazy sitters. Caesar was already an emotional wreck from the moment he saw me start throwing random dirty clothes (thank God for free laundry at the Razzy homestead in Puyallup) and high heels into my suitcase. However, once Chingy! piled into a cab with his doting sitters, he's been inconsolable. When I finally went horizontal last night in an attempt at fitful sleep, Caesar wouldn't even stay on the bed for comforting petting, preferring to go lay in the bathroom and whine and sulk. Since I got up, he got back on my bed and is playing dead while intermittently treating me to plaintive dog sobs. He's mad at me for leaving before I've even gone, and there's nothing that will make you feel worse than having an adorable dog giving you pathetic eyes to indicate how depressed and upset he is. He's going to be really pissed when he realizes that our morning walk will be up to his dogsitter's apartment, rather than to St. Nick park for our usual morning stick-chasing antics.
So now I need to hop in the shower and get fresh in my business slutty presentation attire (obviously this includes high-heeled boots...duh) so that even if I sound like a dumbass showing my negative data in all its glory for a WHOLE FUCKING HOUR, I'll at least look like a sexy-yet-professional dumbass.
And be patient with me this week. I plan to make up for the past month (actually, 3 months) of backbreaking experimental slavery by sitting on my parents'/MillerTime's couches, hopefully stuffing my face with some of my dad's barbecued salmon, and consuming large quantities of beer. What I will NOT be doing is much updating of the RazzyBlog, so try to contain yourselves for a week while I get my mind right, because unless I do some serious slacking, sitting around, and maybe (hopefully) getting laid, I'm hard-pressed to come up with anything funny at all.
See you all in a week, bitches.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
I have a "dating tip" for you: show some T&A
Ever since I posted the first Rejects on RAZZY.org, it's been a very popular part of my site. I've received numerous emails from readers applauding me for mocking the sorry unattractive dudes looking to entice me with their laughable e-seduction techniques. However, since I had a link to RAZZY.org on my Friendster profile until recently, prospective Rejects eventually started looking at my site, and decided not to send me any more smiles. Since the demand for Rejects was greatly exceeding the supply, I decided to take drastic measures to ensure that I will always have ugly douchebags to mock. If one thing can reel in the choicest sleazebags on the planet, it's a chick in a state of undress. Fortunately, since Kate and Camilla took some very flattering pictures of me in a scanty wardrobe for their Nerve.com blog, I was able to put this picture on my Friendster profile:
I put this picture up two days ago, figuring that it sent a message to horny Friendsters everywhere. That message is "I'm easy." And it worked like a charm. My Friendster inbox has been BLOWING UP with smiles from so many loser guys that it will take me a year to get them all up on the Rejects page. These guys are amazing, too. One dude told me that I'm "so wrong it's got to be right," then suggested we get together at his place to watch Secretary, a film in which James Spader and Maggie Gyllenhaal get their complicated BDSM role-playing on. Since this picture hit the Friendster circuit, my profile has had more page views in two days than in the last month! In fact, so many people have been looking at my profile that I've even been contacted by a couple of hot guys who don't frighten or disgust me at all. Clearly, this says that putting a shot of yourself in what my late grandma would have called your "delicates" (I also consider the eye patch a "delicate") is a winning strategy for attracting attention, particularly from sex-crazed singles cruising Friendster for "dates."
Friendster now apparently considers itself a dating website, and accordingly they have this new "dating tips" section. I always have the same helpful "tip" flashed above my Friendster home page: "Learn why men choose one woman over another." I don't need to click that link, because I've just verified that selling sex is the way to go. Bitches pathetic enough to be using Friendster to find a man should know that random guys aren't going to send you smiles unless they want to stick their dicks in you. Quit trying to seem all mysterious and smart, and just feature a sexy underwear picture as your "Primary Photo" and wait for the men to choose you. It's the only dating advice you need, because it always works.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Jamie Foxx is a predictable asshole
That's why I was so pissed the other day when PerezHilton.com (one of the various internet pop culture teats from which I routinely suckle) reported that Jamie Foxx said with regard to his singing career:
"I am the savior. I'm definitely going out there with my mic and my shield to declare, 'I am here to save R&B.' I will have the people saying, 'Sire, there is a man at the musical gates saying he is here to save R&B."
Are you fucking kidding me? Shield? Sire? Is Jamie Foxx taking orders from Pope Urban II and fighting in the Crusades to reclaim the Holy Land? What fantasy world does he live in, fucking Camelot? Cut the Arthurian knight linguistic affectations, asshole. Perhaps in fictional medieval pre-Saxon lore Jamie Foxx would bust down the portcullis and get the fiefdom crunk with his sweet melodies, but in the modern era, his product is what most people call bullshit. Has Jamie ever listened to his own song, that "Unpredictable" crap that has been on the radio ad nauseum for the past three months? The only part of that song where I stop wanting desperately to immolate myself is the part where Ludacris is rapping (also that's the best part because it means the song is almost over). Jamie has obviously been hanging out too much with his fellow egomaniacal asshole Kanye West, whose delusional Jesus complex seems to be catching.
Where does Jamie Foxx get off thinking that he has the musical chops to "save R&B"? Because he had two hit songs singing the hook for Kanye West? So did Syleena Johnson and you don't hear her talking all sorts of artistically self-aggrandizing shit. I don't consider "she take my money when I'm in need" and "some Marvin Gaye, some Luther Vandross, a little Anita will definitely set this party off right" to be the harbingers of the "Savior of R&B."
Maybe he thinks he has extra musician clout because he can actually play the piano. Big deal...so can I. "Georgia on my Mind" is a couple of elementary chords and finger exercises played over and over, and is at the difficulty level of an eight-year-old who has gotten through the first two Bastien method books. If we were to have a throwdown over the works of Frederic Chopin, I guarantee I'd whip his self-satisfied ass with my Nocturne No. 19 in E minor, and I'm out of practice. He's not all that at the piano.
More infuriating than the already irritating presumption of musical greatness is the fact that R&B is in no need of saving from the likes of Jamie Foxx so long as this man is out on bond awaiting trial:
I am deeply offended at Jamie Foxx's implication that R&B needs his help while one Mr. Robert Sylvester Kelly still has his voice. Jamie Foxx never came up with anything NEARLY as good as "Bump 'n' Grind", "Feelin on Yo Booty," "You Remind Me of Something," "Thoia Thoing," "R&B Thug," "Snake," "Chocolate Factory," "Strip for You," "Down Low," "Sex Me," "Fucking You Tonight," "The Greatest Sex", "Your Body's Calling", "Ignition," "Fiesta", "The World's Greatest," or (Kells's most self-incriminating song) "Don't You Say No"...I could continue all day about how awesome R. Kelly's repertoire is. Jamie Foxx's only song from his crappy album so far is the shitty title track, "Unpredictable," which is at best a poor imitation of Kells's greatness. Jamie Foxx brags about his "creativity" and then vaguely promises sex in positions other than missionary. That's not creativity, that's a second date, stupid. If you truly strive for originality, why don't you compare sex with your woman/women to operating a remote control, driving a car/jeep, bumping a stereo, spending money, starting a vehicle, smoking a blunt, smoking a Cuban cigar, manufacturing candy, gorillas mating in the jungle, or playing tennis with Serena Williams. R. Kelly says that after having sex with him, women get vanity plates for their cars printed with "I love Kells" (or at least the women old enough to drive do.) I believe him, because that's just ridiculous enough to be true. Jamie Foxx's most creative idea is to say, "I know you're used to dinner and a movie...why not be my dinner, while makin' a movie." Oh, that's clever. You are full of surprises, Jamie Foxx. Too bad R. Kelly has you beat, because he wrote a whole SONG about it, "Sex in the Kitchen." Furthermore, if Jamie Foxx considers performing oral sex on a woman so infrequent an event that you never expect it, I certainly wouldn't want to be dating him.
I guess Jamie Foxx is just feeling insecure, because as of late, Kells has proved himself quite the thespian:
I have seen all twelve chapters of "Trapped in the Closet" and it's musical thugged-out R&B film noir at its finest. I never bothered seeing Ray because it looked long and boring, but I guarantee there wasn't a midget shitting his pants in terror at the sight of R. Kelly's chrome-plated Beretta 9-mil in it. Kells knew that his "hip-hop soap opera" was his vehicle for showing off his amazing skills as a dramatist. Jamie Foxx probably would never do Broadway because he sucks, and needs like 50 takes to get something right. R. Kelly, on the other hand, was so brave that he performed EVERY CHARACTER in "Trapped in the Closet" including Sylvester (philandering narrator), Cathy (random girl he bangs), Rufus (Cathy's husband on the DL), Chuck (Rufus's boyfriend), James (cop who is fucking Gwen), Gwen (Sylvester's wife), Twan (Gwen's brother, fresh out of prison), Rosey (nosy neighbor), Bridget (James's white trash wife, who hides the midget she is fucking under her double-wide pull out bed when James comes home), and Big Man (aforementioned midget who turns out to be Bridget's baby daddy). 
Watching one man perform that many diverse parts before a live audience (in particular, the audience at the VMAs) is a surreal experience; it's rare that you see a student of the craft with such range. Look at the pictures if you don't believe me. I am certain you will agree: the man can act. What does Jamie Foxx have? He can do four basic characters: hard-working everyman, goofy yet well-meaning guy from "the hood," Ray Charles, and soldier. Not only is Kells better than Jamie Foxx at R&B, he's able to incorporating acting into it much more effectively than Jamie Foxx ever could. So learn some humility, bitch!
Jamie Foxx's ability to entertain is more overrated than Ann Coulter's opinions, and his lackluster, vanilla persona is hardly Savior material. Until Jamie Foxx can deliver lines like "I like the way you move your cho-cha, it makes me wanna get to know ya" credibly, he needs to sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up. R. Kelly put the R-uh in R&B, and as a genre of music, it's doing just fine in his capable hands.
Labels: celebrities, I LOVE IT, retard rage, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masturbators
The other night, I went out with Broadway Annie, an old friend from high school who also resides on Manhattan Island. Over martinis and dinner we got to discussing one of the more negative aspects to NYC's collection of wacky personalities; specifically, how New York is rife with public masturbators. Almost every person I know who has lived in New York for at least a year has a story about some creep beating off in full view of an unreceptive crowd. Broadway Annie is an aspiring singer/dancer/actor, which means she's also a bartender. Because of her bar hours, she gets to encounter sexual deviants who wander around Alphabet City and flash her as she leaves work in the wee hours of the morning. Many of our respective other friends have seen someone exposing himself to people on the subway, a favorite spot for these skulking sleazebags because there, they have a captive audience. My first whacker was a cab driver who decided to jerk off while driving me uptown at 5 a.m. on the fucking West Side Highway. That was a little scary, since we were on the highway and I couldn't just jump out. I had visions of Ice-T investigating my rape and murder with the other dedicated detectives of the Special Victims Unit who investigate these vicious felonies. The scene went something like this:
Razzy: "What the fuck are you doing?"
Masturbating cab driver: "Heh heh, nothing. You're sexy."
Razzy: "You're not doing 'nothing'! You're jacking off! I can hear you! For that matter, I can SEE you! Stop it! That really bothers me. I'm serious."
Masturbating cab driver: "I'm not doing anything. Which exit?"
Razzy: "125th Street. This exit. Take it NOW...I want out of this fucking cab immediately."
Cab driver grabs a napkin off a stack on the dashboard to clean up after himself.
Razzy: "OH MY GOD! STOP IT! I'm going to call 311 and report this! I'll have your medallion, you pervert!"
Fortunately, he did heed my threat and drop me off per my request. Unfortunately, since I was drunk, I couldn't remember his medallion number, so for all I know he's still out there, skeezing out unsuspecting fares with his horrifyingly unprofessional behavior.
Anyway, Broadway Annie and I must have been psychic, because this morning, I saw my second public masturbator. This morning (at the asscrack of dawn, because I'm pulling a 14 hour day in lab today), I took the dogs for a walk around St. Nicholas park. As we passed by the park playground, I happened to notice there was a guy standing in the door to the men's room there. I normally wouldn't have paid much attention to a guy standing around (loitering at the park is a favorite activity of many Sugar Hill residents), but the park was quite empty at 8:00 a.m. on a rainy Saturday, and he was wearing a conspicuous red sweatshirt that caught my eye. Once I saw him, however, I noticed something even more conspicuous than his hoodie. Namely, his exposed penis (which was quite small by my estimation). He caught me looking and gave me a leery little smile. He had small, creepy teeth, crazy hair, and resembled a lewd, Hispanic version of Gollum. I couldn't help myself. "God, gross!" I said quite loudly, then hurried off with the dogs before this guy could otherwise engage me in conversation. I've now got two sightings of icky creeps pleasuring themselves in public under my belt in as many years. What the hell? New York's finest really should put Detectives Benson and Stabler on this, because there is a freaking masturbatory crime wave going on, and as a sexually-based offense, I have to agree with the NYPD's characterization (or at least "Law and Order's") of it as "especially heinous." To look at. So please, make some room in the jails for these nasty motherfuckers, because I'm getting really tired of stumbling upon them doing their business when I'm trying to mind my own.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Goddamn. I'm getting old. And Jade sucks. So who cares?!
In spite of her amazingly hot ass (in this picture), my biggest complaint about Jade is that she looks kind of old. Even though she's not, it looks like she's slapping on an inch-thick layer of foundation to cover up her wrinkly complexion. Then I remember, Jade is 26. A fucking year YOUNGER than me. So maybe shriveling bitches like myself with the slight beginnings of crows' feet should reserve such harsh judgment.
Just as I was pondering the mystery of Jade's continued retention on "ANTM," I walked Caesar and Chingy! past the corner M3 bus stop. Since I was lost in thought about Tyra Banks calling Jade out for fake crying at judging, I made inadvertant eye contact with a guy leaning against the bus stop sign.
The number one rule for walking around New York City after dark unmolested, especially in a neighborhood like Sugar Hill where a single (read: unaccompanied by a Y-chromosome-bearing individual) blonde haired, blue eyed girl is an obvious minority, is to not make eye contact with random people. The second your eyes meet, it's an open invitation for a bullshit exchange, often involving excessive usage of the terms "sweetie" or "mami" to address me. However, since I'm not the type to walk around diminuitive and cowed like some consumption-ridden bitch in a Bronte novel, my strategy to avoid eye contact is to spend all my time scanning the street around me, thus appearing vigilant, wary, and ready for anything. I think this not only gives me a bitchy appearance, but also makes me seem like a bad target for random crime because of my general awareness and well-honed observational skills. Unfortunately, one of the cons of this strategy is that with all the scanning, you sometimes happen to scan a random stranger. Then you have to acknowledge said stranger, because it's just stupid to run around in life pretending that other people don't exist. I do this with a perfunctory nod of my head, which I hope is simultaneously polite and congenial but also discouraging to people who want to talk to me. This gesture needs a little work, though, because random men sometimes think I'm throwing out an open invitation for conversation.
This guy at the bus stop was harmless, but he also wasn't cute or remotely my age, so I had no intention of chatting him up. However, he decided to follow up on my eye contact and courtesy nod (granted, the shirt I'm wearing tonight is a little on the low-cut side, but cleavage does not imply friendliness!). He takes a long drag on his cigar, one of those midsize stogies with the plastic mouthpiece, and checks out me, and then my dogs. He fixes upon Caesar, who is pulling hard on his leash in an attempt to eat a discarded and half-stepped-on steak fry near the corner garbage can.
I forget that people are often scared of Caesar when they first see him, because to me, he is the dog that jumps on my lap when a car backfires. He is the dog that cries when I'm up to bat at softball, and hides behind my legs when people yell. His fear of fireworks is so extreme that it inspires *explosive* diarrhea. Consequently, I'm not sure how people see a dog trotting around with his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth and his tail wagging like some kind of superpowered metronome and think intimidation, but they must. This guy decided to comment on this.
"Well protected, I see," he said, chomping on his White Owl or whatever.
"Always," I say with a pointedly obligatory polite chuckle. Then I keep walking, but not fast enough to keep him from throwing in his two cents.
"AND well preserved," he hollers after me.
Well preserved? WELL PRESERVED?!?! What am I, the fucking canopic jars of Tutankhamen? Fuck you, asshole! I'm only 27!!!!
This guy just served up my fitting reward for mocking Jade's aged appearance. I guess the next time I decide to make fun of an "ANTM" wannabe for looking older than 21, I should take a gander in the mirror. Because when random old men who take the bus start telling me I look good for my age, I am in no position to Jade-hate. Particularly when I'm too short and too elderly to even qualify for an ANTM audition (cutoffs: 5'8" and 26 YO or less). Then again, this doesn't bother me much, since I'm not trying to be America's Next Top Model. Like I'd ever go on a show hosted and produced by a washed up ex-NBA hoochie trying to be America's Next Top Oprah. Fuck a "one hundred THOUSAND dollar contract with Cover Girl," I'll be happy just to get enough NIH funding to cover the next two years' worth of experiments for my nerd degree. In my estimation, I've paid my karmic debt for belittling unattractive aging mid-twenties-year-old bitches everywhere, so even though I'm terrifyingly almost 30, I can mock Jade with impunity:
You're old, bitch! Quit while you still have a shred of dignity!
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
If you're looking for a challenge, try avoiding anorexia
Apparently, Special K's marketing team knows that Special K is a shitty cereal (after you pour milk on it, that shit is more limp than a frat boy after ten rounds of Patron shots...it's certainly no Kashi Go Lean! Crunch). Therefore, they have pretty much one option in terms of selling their cardboard flakes: cater to insecure women, because they will buy anything. If you don't believe me, look at Anna Nicole Smith. Despite the fact that she could play herself as schizophrenic booze and prescription painkillers hound on a "Law and Order" episode, that severely scrambled bitch is still the spokesperson for Trimspa, which means that Trimspa is still selling. Who is buying this shit? Insecure women who don't give a fuck about how out-of-her-mind crazy Anna Nicole is, because she lost at least 50 pounds using Trimspa. Obviously, Anna Nicole isn't the epitome of credibility, so there's clearly a lot of dumb cunts willing to overlook the spokespersons' inherent insanity and fork over 40 bucks for a month supply of weak-acting herbal meth. Special K decided that this was an untapped market, and began selling their product accordingly.
Since I'm always curious about diet fads (because my diet, the "Eat Whatever the Fuck You Feel Like So Long as you Wash it Down with Copious Quantities of Inexpensive American Lager" Diet, hasn't been on the Times non-fiction bestseller list...yet), I decided to investigate the Special K Challenge a little further. My research mined the most comprehensive source (the internet), and after my many sophisticated analyses, I concluded that Kellogg's (NYSE ticker symbol: K) is taking a page out of the tobacco companies' books and passing off a recipe for chronic disease as a way to "motivate people to continue with a long-term healthier lifestyle." Right, and smoking cigarettes is a great way to prevent lung cancer. Self-hating skanks will spend any amount of money for a vague promise of miracle results, so the Special K team at Kellogg's undoubtedly figured, if it ain't broke, don't fix it, and thus began selling their cereal as a diet product to chunky bitches who will try anything to take an inch off their waists.
In terms of nutritional value, Special K is a fucking shitshow. While nutritiondata.com says that Special K "is very low in Saturated Fat and Cholesterol. It is also a good source of Vitamin A and Vitamin E, and a very good source of Vitamin C, Thiamin, Riboflavin, Niacin, Vitamin B6, Folate, Vitamin B12, Iron, Manganese and Selenium," I don't see anything that I don't get in my Women's One-a-Day. As far as Special K is concerned, so fucking what? If I wanted to starve myself, I'd switch out my daily morning buttered blueberry muffin with any random multivitamin. Replacing two meals a day with Special K is thus the dietary equivalent of embracing an eating disorder.
Unfortunately, women are suckers for food-and-weight issues, so this marketing strategy is probably working. I am just picturing hordes of BBW Notties dancing naked in front of their full-length mirror to the Pussycat Dolls' "Don't Cha" praising Special K for getting them into an Old Navy size 10/12. Thank God for anorexia, it's the only thing that works! It's a horrible thought, but that's what Special K is selling.
Girls, if you want to go all Karen Carpenter nervosa on everyone's asses, just do it the old-fashioned way. Avoid eating, exercise like hell, and don't waste your time with Special K. That shit has way too many calories, anyway.
Monday, April 17, 2006
I can't even go to church without sinning
I can't just go to any church, though. Like everything else, when I church it up, I can't just go to any old corner parish. I have to go to St. Patrick's Cathedral in midtown Manhattan. Built in the 19th century, St. Patrick is the ridiculous epitome of Catholic opulence, complete with flying buttresses. It looks like this:
The interior of St. Pat's makes a worshipper hearken back to the good old days of Catholicism: Latin masses, the selling of indulgences, and gold or marble everything. There is a devotional chapel for virtually every major martyr/saint you can think of inside. Everywhere you look there is an image of what my Aunt Jesus would call a false idol, but what Catholics call St. Peter, St. Anthony, St. Francis, St. Anne, St. Patrick (of course) or the biggest graven image of them all, the Blessed Virgin. I dig Catholic iconography in a serious way (it is the basis for my entire pendant/neck jewelry collection), so I LOVE it. I also have a huge figurative hard-on for St. Pat's because it was built in the Gangs of New York era to appease the huddled masses of drunken Irishmen flowing into the city, and I love me some good immigrant history, especially with regard to my own people (I'm Irish on my non-Viking side). Another good thing about St. Pat's is that, because they have mass all day, each service is always restricted to 50 minutes. In other words, no surprise baptisms at Easter mass to stretch church into a two-hour affair. They get you in, do a little kyrie eleison-ing, read you some Gospel, preach for about 5 minutes, collect some money, feed you some eucharist, sing a hymn, and get you promptly out the ornately engraved doors. Therefore, it is across the board my Easter destination of choice.
Last year, I went to the 5 p.m. mass. By then, the Easter action was winding down, and although the cathedral was full, it wasn't too hard to get in. This year, I thought the same would be true of the 1 p.m. mass. So I told my friend Miss Corbutt to meet me on the steps of the church at 12:30, and we'd find seats at our leisure.
I got off the subway at Rockefeller Center feeling relaxed and happy. A girl on the train even complimented my adorable yet excruciatingly painful pink Easter heels. I was thinking that Easter was off to a capital start. What I didn't think about is that New York City has an Easter parade. This wouldn't be an issue, except that all parades in NYC go down Fifth Avenue. Where is St. Pat's located? On Fifth between 50th and 51st. It took me literally ten minutes to cross Fifth Avenue through the hordes of Easter people wearing crazy pastel-colored hats (the parade tradition is funny hats), only to discover that the line to GET INTO CHURCH was going all the way from 51st and 5th to Madison Avenue, then down Madison, all the way back to 5th on 50th Street.
I met Miss Corbutt, and we got in line at the end. Since we were standing in front of the windows at Saks, we passed about 5 minutes making fun of the spring Louis Vuitton purses (which look the same as every other fucking Louis Vuitton product). Then we got impatient. I proposed that we cut in the line. Miss Corbutt scolded me for proposing such a thing on Easter.
Then, the noon mass got out, and the doors of the cathedral burst open as they hurried the faithful out in time to get the line in for the 1 p.m. mass. I told Miss Corbutt we probably wouldn't get a seat if we stayed where we were, and there was no way in hell I was going to stand in my blister-inducing (but TOTALLY adorable) shoes.
"We're New Yorkers," I said. "This sort of thing is expected from us. Let's just blend in with that mob coming out and cut in line."
Miss Corbutt seemed uncertain. My feet hurt like hell, so I needed to sit.
"Fuck," I said. "This sucks. We have to get to church."
Since Miss Corbutt isn't Catholic (she just likes art and votive candles, but was tickled when I taught her the proper way to cross herself), she may have been worried about offending the Catholics there. It's a reasonable fear, because I've seen people refused communion at St. Pat's because they didn't act Catholic enough when offered the Body of Christ. I told her that, as a card-carrying Mackerel Snapper, and an Irish-American to boot, she would be okay so long as she was rolling with me and she didn't try to take communion once we got in. So without further ado, I grabbed her arm and proceeded to brazenly stroll in front of the people who had been waiting for an hour.
Ten minutes later, when mass started and we were settled in our prime seats with an altar view, I prayed for forgiveness, as I don't think Christ would really look so kindly on my shady tactics for getting into mass. But hey, he hung out with hookers and tax collectors, so maybe he'd break bread with line-cutters too. Isn't that the message of Easter, Mary Magdalene (trashy ho) is first to discover the Risen Savior and all that? I felt much better. J.C. died and rose to free us from the burden of sin. In other words, His sacrifice let me off the moral hook for such debased behavior as shafting honest Catholics out of a seat in mass. Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ. Happy motherfucking Easter!
Friday, April 14, 2006
Much like the Tenth Plague, I'll pass over your sorry ass
Indeed it was one of the dudes who was a one-hit wonder. In fact, it was a guy I elected not to call back LAST FALL after his unimpressive performance. I didn't know it was him calling, because his phone book entry didn't make the cut when I was transferring my contacts to my new cell phone a couple months back. As much as (believe it or not) I'm not the type to fuck and tell (at least not on the internet), I'd like to explain why I decided to stick this guy in the blowoff category.
I met this guy at a bar, and, after copious quantities of Johnnie Walker and a couple Jaeger shots, decided I wanted to get laid, so I brought him back to the crib. Not wasting any time, we promptly attempt to have sex, although attempting is the operative term, because he had consumed a little too much alcohol to get the job done. That alone is not enough to turn me off a guy. I do understand that sometimes, alcohol compromises normal physiological functions, and the penis is often the first organ to go.
Being the team player that I am, I elected to put my big mouth to a friendlier use than its usual insult-spewing, and help him out. His first strike: while I'm sucking him off, he tells me that he doesn't like my dogs. In fact, they make him uncomfortable, because they are in the same room with us and he feels like they are "watching us." I pause, and take canine inventory. Caesar is asleep on the couch, and Chingy! is asleep under my desk. They are not "watching us" (in fact, Chingy! is snoring softly) and since I live in a studio apartment, what the fuck does he expect me to do about it anyway? I'm not waking my dogs up to lock them in the bathroom because some dude with whiskey-dick doesn't like them. He claims it's "psychological," and I say nastily, "that's funny, I just thought it was because you're drunk."
I remember that I'm still trying to get laid, so a fight about my dogs is inadvisable. Therefore, I opt to distract him with slutty behavior, thus returning his focus to the most imperative issue: making his cock work. Since he is Israeli (I found this out because he bragged about his service in the Israeli army like he was some kind of badass commando...when I asked him how many suicide bombings he'd thwarted, he told me he worked with computers), I flatter his sense of patriotism by instructing him to say dirty things to me in Hebrew. He obliges, and we're just getting back into the action, when once again, his brief erection deflates. I sigh, and go back to blowing him. He mutters some stuff (in English) about how he'd like to screw my cleavage. At this point, I'll try anything to help him maintain an erection, so I say okay, and he starts doing that. Strike two: he attributes his erectile dysfunction problems to my breast size, which apparently is inadequate for a decent titty-fucking. I'm really annoyed now, because he hasn't done shit for me, and he has the audacity to blame me for his problems.
Despite my misgivings that I'm doing too much for an undeserving recipient, I return to the only thing that's worked so far (fellatio) hoping that I can get him up long enough to get me off, or at least warrant some reciprocal oral. Obviously that was wishful thinking. Then (pun intended) comes strike three: without a courtesy tap, he pulls back, and gives me a full-on facial, and I don't mean the type you get at the spa. "Oh, sorry," he says, and then adds that with regard to my lack of orgasm, "maybe next time I'll be a little better." Then, with an infuriatingly self-satisfied expression on his face, he settles back in my bed and crosses his arms behind his head. Next time? Keep dreaming, asshole, because there's not going to be a next time. I scoff audibly and call the dogs, who immediately wake up, jump onto the bed, and go back to sleep. Scowling and wiping semen off my cheek, I tell him that since I sleep with my dogs, he'd probably be more comfortable elsewhere, and he should have no trouble finding a cab outside at this time of night (a bald-faced lie, but it did get him out of my apartment). When he called me a week later, I sent him straight to voicemail, and deleted his message ("hey, I had a lot of fun the other night, just thought maybe we could get together again...call me"). No fucking way. I thought he got the message, because I didn't hear from him again, and then I forgot about him.
He apparently didn't forget about me, because he wakes me up only to piss me off with his combined brazen and inept proposal. You would think that after his performance and my subsequent blowing him off, he would bring his best game to the booty call. Some major league balls and a very compelling sales pitch would indeed be required to convince me that I'd like a rerun in spite of such an overwhelmingly deplorable precedent. However, his message was pathetic: "Uh, hey, uh, Razzy, it's (random flaccid-dicked guy). Remember me? We met at Karma and, uh, hung out a while ago. Um, I know I haven't, uh, talked to you in a while, but I was just thinking that uh, we had a really good time, and maybe, uh, you know, we could catch up tonight. Give me a call back, uh, okay?"
Hell fucking no, not okay! Where does this asshole get off thinking that after EIGHT MONTHS I would be all ready to take a faceful of jizz and NOTHING in return?! Then I remember that it's Passover, and I assume that after one too many glasses of Manischevitz at seder, he went through his phone book looking for some willing pussy. Well, I am NOT your girl. And since it was after midnight, that actually makes it Good Friday, and I'm pretty sure that it's a no-no to get hit with an unexpected blast of ejaculate on the day my Lord and Savior got his ass crucified to save sinful bitches like myself. Former one night stands who give me no incentive for a repeat performance should be advised: voicemail is all you're ever going to get, so don't waste your minutes.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Twat-Washer gets her comeuppance
Yesterday, I was getting dressed after my workout, and Twat-Washer walked in. I was in a bad mood, so I resolved not to let her get away with her heinous routine. As she approached the makeup mirror sink with towel in hand, I prepared myself to deliver a withering "I'm a microbiologist you are a totally unacceptable danger to public health"-type lecture. However, I was beaten to the punch by (unbelievably) another middle-aged woman, the type who has previously proved my arch-nemesis in locker room verbal sparring. For once, over-the-hill disapproval was not directed at me.
Twat-Washer stands by the sink and turns on the water, then puts her cellulite-ridden hamhock up on the counter. Just as she's soaping up her towel, this fiftyish woman who I recognize as a doctor at student health services starts drying her hair at the mirror. As Twat-Washer starts going at it, Doctor Student Health turns to her, and says, "You know, there's a lot of people trying to use this mirror right now, and I'd really appreciate it if you'd do that downstairs in the shower." She and Twat-Washer have a brief stare-off. I can tell that Twat-Washer is debating whether or not to argue with her. The locker room was fairly crowded, and everyone is already trying to discreetly pay attention to the conflict. I think it's safe to say that the crowd unanimously was supporting Doctor Student Health's position. Twat-Washer wisely realizes that she is outnumbered, and a lively debate will only bring humiliation, and possibly a public questioning of her gynecological health.
Twat-Washer bows her head in defeat, and waddles off downstairs to the showers. If I had a barrel of Gatorade I would have poured it over Doctor Student Health in a true celebration of victory. Finally, I may have achieved detente with saggy-assed old women at the gym. Some of them, it seems, may even actually be on my side.
Call me a narcissist, but...
And yes, I do have a lab coat with my last name on it. I keep that one at home, for recreational purposes.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
"Deadliest Catch" for only $22.99? Sign me up.
After 20 minutes of watching a group of brave "unconventional crabbers" hit the open sea despite reports of nasty weather, almost die, and then haul in a catch of all-female crabs that have to be thrown back, a commercial came on for Red Lobster's Lobsterfest, which is apparently "back on." This was genius, because as the boat full of crabbers was getting drenched by a violent swell of frigid sea, I was thinking, "God, crab legs are good." Then, this ad comes on, and I was all ready to hit up Lobsterfest. Lobsterfest is exactly what it sounds like: lots of lobster dishes, as well as other assorted crustacean menu items, such as crab. At Red Lobster, you can get a gigantic plate of lobster and crab legs for around $20. I generally sneer at national chain restaurants like Red Lobster, TGIFriday's, or the Olive Garden, but all of a sudden, I'm thinking of recategorizing Red Lobster as "Tolerable" (a classification held only by Chili's). I always figured that Red Lobster was pretty subpar, but now that I know these guys on "Deadliest Catch" are risking their very existence to supplement Lobsterfest with some crab legs, it looks A LOT more delicious. And such a deal! The Red Lobster marketing executives who bought "Deadliest Catch" ad time should get a raise.
I swear, I'm not turning into an artfag
Unfortunately, those two crazy girls decided to ditch Nieuw Amsterdam and run off to Kate's impossibly weird yet freakishly charming hometown in William Penn's Forest before they finished post-production on the lab coat pics. Therefore, all I have to show is this considerably more artsy one that they put on their nerve.com photoblog. I'm not complaining, because they made me look hot in all the pictures (including this one), but just so you all know, this pose wasn't my idea:
Neither was the magenta lipstick. I was going to go with my standard Cocksucker Red, but they insisted on Blow-Up Doll Pink, and since they both have graduate degrees in art from an excellent school, I deferred to their expertise. Anyway, Hot Lab Coat (and very, very little else) pics are forthcoming, as soon as the ladies return from the Quaker State.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Memo to homeless crackheads: "no thanks" on all offers
As usual, I spent my Saturday at my favorite New York hotspot: lab. On my way to lab, I wanted a coffee, so I stopped by Jou Jou, this snobby coffee place (snobby because it's VERY unusual to find places that sell food items incorporating ciabatta bread or mesclun greens in Washington Heights). Jou Jou is on the Project Renewal side of the street. However, I'm not going to go out of my way to cross 168th street just because some random bums might flip me shit. You can't even leave your own apartment building without some jerk giving you their unsolicited two cents in New York, so I'm not going to inconvenience myself on the basis of possible needling and/or panhandling. Besides, in the words of Bone Crusher, T.I., and Killer Mike, I ain't never scared. So, after stopping at Jou Jou, I had a large coffee in my hand and a determination to spend my afternoon doing plaque assays and running protein gels.
Approaching the Armory side door, I noticed that there was an unusually large posse of Project Renewal residents hanging around outside. Since it was really warm out (70 degrees!), I figured they were just enjoying the weather as they scavenged not-fully-smoked cigarette butts out of the gutter. Although the sidewalk party was a little bigger than usual, I still wasn't worried. I was wearing my ultimate New York Bitch face, which is very effective in deterring strangers from engaging me in conversation. Most random hecklers will forgo a tete-a-tete with a person who looks like they will rip out your spine just for saying "hello" and wait for an easier, more complacent mark. I figured my bellicose expression, purposeful gait, and general "I'm Razzy, who the fuck are you?"-ness would deter the congregated derelicts from addressing me. However, in addition to drawing them outside, the pleasant spring weather obviously brought out these guys' feisty side.
As I passed by the side door, one of the guys jumped in my way and said, "Excuse me, miss?"
Wow, he's surprisingly polite for a guy who smells like a combination of cooked cabbage and unprocessed human waste, I thought. Alas, that courtesy was short-lived.
"Can I have some of that coffee of yours? I'm REALLY thirsty," he said.
I forced a compulsory laugh, and said, "Sorry, but I think I need all my coffee," and kept walking. He trotted alongside, immune to my pissed-off disposition and conversation-discouraging response to his query.
"Please, Miss?"
I respond with a much less affable "sorry, but no" and walk faster. I could have gotten confrontational and told him to fuck off, but since I don't have anything to prove in the Telling-Off-Vagabonds department, and combative tactics could push a guy fresh off the pipe over the edge, I elected to peacefully escape as quickly as possible. I figured if I could just get to the crosswalk to the Hammer Health Sciences Center, the intrusive homeless guy will go away. Dodging hobos is essentially akin to playing Capture the Flag. After crossing onto your side, you are immune from tagging, or having to talk to homeless guys. I figured, once I get to the corner of 168th and Fort Washington, I'll be free and clear. This guy knew this too, so he figured he'd make the most of his time and accelerate his plan to seduce me.
"Maybe then you can give up some-a that pussy."
PARDON ME?! Obviously a recovering crack addict isn't cruising the internet for sites like RAZZY.org, so he hasn't seen my list of Rejects and therefore isn't discouraged by the fact that I might expose his embarrassingly bad pick-up techniques. But come ON, what makes a fucking homeless guy think that I would want to share some-a my pussy with him? Even during sex droughts, I would never even remotely CONSIDER having sex with an unshowered ward of the state. Seriously, dude, are you fucking CRAZY?!?! Wait...don't answer that.
While I have to give this guy props for his ENORMOUS chutzpah, strategically ramping up his game on a moment's notice from beseeching me for coffee to demanding access to my sacred feminine center, I have to inform all destitute, unkempt, recovering bag people addicts that I will not be exchanging bodily fluids of any kind with you. This covers sharing my coffee, as well as my genitalia. For the record, cocksure transients, don't squander your limited energies attempting to persuade me to share ANYTHING with you. The answer is an unequivocal NO.
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