Friday, June 30, 2006
Right in time for Independence Day...
...this woman is getting out of prison!!!!!!!
That's right, Lil' Kim is slated to be released from the federal penitentiary where she's been held since last September. She was suppoesd to be there until Sept 20th, but she's apparently "conducted herself in an exemplary manner" and is getting out early for good behavior. Now there's a reason to light some fireworks and celebrate this 4th of July. Let freedom ring for convicted perjurers everywhere!
That's right, Lil' Kim is slated to be released from the federal penitentiary where she's been held since last September. She was suppoesd to be there until Sept 20th, but she's apparently "conducted herself in an exemplary manner" and is getting out early for good behavior. Now there's a reason to light some fireworks and celebrate this 4th of July. Let freedom ring for convicted perjurers everywhere!
Masturbate Theatre
I've been a fan of BloodyTosser's porn poetry since...well, since she started writing it. The bitch has a way with naughty words that rhyme. Now she's done something she and KatieScarlett have been threatening to do for some time: a live reading for their video blog. They've got everything just right: that muted, public television-quality lighting, a thick tome of verse describing the joys of fisting, and BloodyTosser talking all British-like (which is a departure, as she's been living stateside so long that I forget she's actually a Brit unless she calls someone a "wanker" or something). Anyway, everything in this video is, as they say in the U.K., spot on...even though the fake whiskers make her a tad bit Abe Lincoln-esque.
And BloodyTosser, where DID you get that vagina ashtray that makes an appearance in the opening shot?! PLEASE tell me you jacked the Elizabeth Cady Stanton piece from my commencement speaker Judy Chicago's "Dinner Party" installation...sticking your pipe in one of her "sculptures" means you've rendered a great service to Smith College Class of Ought-Ought alumnae everywhere!
(EDIT: I couldn't embed the nerve.com flash player or whatever because instead of Kate and Camilla, ONCE AGAIN that shit was playing the stupid "Annie Mated" cartoon that makes me want to hurl myself off the upper deck of the George Washington Bridge. So I had to download the movie and upload it to YouTube to even put it up here. So nerve.com editors, as you can see I go to great lengths to brag about my cool vlogging friends and inadvertently promote your dumb site (whose only redeeming value is Kate and Camilla's presence there), so don't get all pissy and start throwing around terms like "copyright" or "infringement." I'd debug your dumb flash player myself, but if it's not patently obvious given the total shitshow that this website's design is, the only coding I'm capable of is writing the tags that italicize or boldface things, so I totally don't know how. If you would fix the provided "Embed this Video!" html that you claim corresponds to Kate and Camilla's Nerve videos, I would use your stupid Nerve player, but ain't no way in hell I'm promoting your bullshit sex cartoons about the nerve.com dating adventures of an aging bespectacled hipster banging pretentious New Yorker essayists. No fucking way.)
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Donate to the ACLU on behalf of Paula James
Although she hasn't written me since the last missive I posted on this blog, presumably because she realized that her attacks on my right to free speech were groundless and a waste of time, Paula James hasn't been forgotten.
Today, Morrissey'sHair gave me a great idea. He said he was planning to make a donation to the ACLU in Paula's name, and suggested that I encourage my readers to do the same. This will underscore that the only thing this bitch actually accomplished while trying to hinder my right to free speech is ensuring that the lawyers and lobbyists who protect this right get paid and are able to continue their admirable efforts.
Therefore, if you have a couple extra dollars, please go to the ACLU website donation page and click the "Make an Extra Gift" link. Be sure to add "Paula James" to the "Additional Name" section of the form. Alternatively, you can call 1-800-567-ACLU and tell them what you want to do.
If you don't have money to donate, just go sign the online petition with some more fake hilarious names and drive that stupid bitch even further into submission.
Today, Morrissey'sHair gave me a great idea. He said he was planning to make a donation to the ACLU in Paula's name, and suggested that I encourage my readers to do the same. This will underscore that the only thing this bitch actually accomplished while trying to hinder my right to free speech is ensuring that the lawyers and lobbyists who protect this right get paid and are able to continue their admirable efforts.
Therefore, if you have a couple extra dollars, please go to the ACLU website donation page and click the "Make an Extra Gift" link. Be sure to add "Paula James" to the "Additional Name" section of the form. Alternatively, you can call 1-800-567-ACLU and tell them what you want to do.
If you don't have money to donate, just go sign the online petition with some more fake hilarious names and drive that stupid bitch even further into submission.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Bikini Zone is the new Pantene
Remember how aggravating that Pantene commercial was where that Franklin Mint version of a Joan Collins effigy (actually, it was Steven Seagal's ex-wife Kelly LeBrock, more recently seen on "Celebrity Fit Club 3") said, "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful"? That didn't make me want to use Pantene. I HATED that bitch, having the snobbery to wear pearls while talking down to me about $1.99 (late 1980s dollars) shampoo-conditioner. Furthermore, after years of talking to girls about Pantene usage, I've concluded that one of two things will result from the use of Pantene:
1. The grease-cutting ionic detergent strips your hair cuticle of all the oils that make hair look good as opposed to partially denatured protein clumps.
2. The extra-heavy "conditioning agents" in Pantene will make your hair look like it's covered with an inch-thick layer of dull schmegma. That thing Pantene says about it "containing pro-vitamins!" is bullshit. I'm not disputing that they actually include "pro-vitamins" in the ingredients. "Pro vitamin" really just means something that can eventually be biochemically converted to a vitamin. From a chemical perspective, sulfuric acid, industrial strength lye, and the active ingredient in Hot Pockets can be considered a "pro vitamin." Needless to say, whatever creaming agent Pantene puts in their shampoo and conditioner, it will add a shit-ton of chemically inert build-up to the ravaged protein polymers it leaves behind.
Bikini Zone, a product designed to prevent pussy razor burn, seems to have hired the same ad agency that conceived the "Don't Hate Me Because I'm Beautiful" campaign. The commercial features an okay-looking chick (with a good body, mind you) acting like she's the sexiest bitch on earth. Again, she's okay, but her appeal is mainly based on her body. As she poses like Paris Hilton and/or a veteran of the Mustang Ranch, she snottily says:
"I'm a model. That's why I always have to keep my bikini line looking grah-ut." (Apparently she's trying to be Brazilian, too. What with all their World Cup dominance, monopoly on hot lingerie models, and world-famous stem-to-stern pelvic waxing, I can see why she'd want to pretend to be in their ranks.)
The camera shows a photo montage where this okay-looking bitch acts like she is the hottest woman on the planet. Then she imparts more insincere wisdom:
"I use Bikini Zone, to keep my bikini line looking HOT."
Then another montage of the fake Brazilian posing and preening, presumably to inspire me to purchase a $6.99 tube of Bikini Zone. However, the aggressively "Im hotter than you" bitch incessantly wears BOY SHORTS! Where did she need her razor burn removed from...her happy trail? Her shoulders? Her chest? Why is she covering up the bikini line that this product is supposed to make soft and bump-free?
It's a shame, because I would totally use Bikini Zone, but their commercials not only piss me off, but make me suspect their product is a TOTAL fraud. If it was so goddamned great, shouldn't she be wearing a G-string and showing off her shit? These ads suck, and make me view this product with the deepest suspicion. Don't use Bikini Zone, unless you're trying to get your bikini line ready for some circa 1890s swimwear.
1. The grease-cutting ionic detergent strips your hair cuticle of all the oils that make hair look good as opposed to partially denatured protein clumps.
2. The extra-heavy "conditioning agents" in Pantene will make your hair look like it's covered with an inch-thick layer of dull schmegma. That thing Pantene says about it "containing pro-vitamins!" is bullshit. I'm not disputing that they actually include "pro-vitamins" in the ingredients. "Pro vitamin" really just means something that can eventually be biochemically converted to a vitamin. From a chemical perspective, sulfuric acid, industrial strength lye, and the active ingredient in Hot Pockets can be considered a "pro vitamin." Needless to say, whatever creaming agent Pantene puts in their shampoo and conditioner, it will add a shit-ton of chemically inert build-up to the ravaged protein polymers it leaves behind.
Bikini Zone, a product designed to prevent pussy razor burn, seems to have hired the same ad agency that conceived the "Don't Hate Me Because I'm Beautiful" campaign. The commercial features an okay-looking chick (with a good body, mind you) acting like she's the sexiest bitch on earth. Again, she's okay, but her appeal is mainly based on her body. As she poses like Paris Hilton and/or a veteran of the Mustang Ranch, she snottily says:
"I'm a model. That's why I always have to keep my bikini line looking grah-ut." (Apparently she's trying to be Brazilian, too. What with all their World Cup dominance, monopoly on hot lingerie models, and world-famous stem-to-stern pelvic waxing, I can see why she'd want to pretend to be in their ranks.)
The camera shows a photo montage where this okay-looking bitch acts like she is the hottest woman on the planet. Then she imparts more insincere wisdom:
"I use Bikini Zone, to keep my bikini line looking HOT."
Then another montage of the fake Brazilian posing and preening, presumably to inspire me to purchase a $6.99 tube of Bikini Zone. However, the aggressively "Im hotter than you" bitch incessantly wears BOY SHORTS! Where did she need her razor burn removed from...her happy trail? Her shoulders? Her chest? Why is she covering up the bikini line that this product is supposed to make soft and bump-free?
It's a shame, because I would totally use Bikini Zone, but their commercials not only piss me off, but make me suspect their product is a TOTAL fraud. If it was so goddamned great, shouldn't she be wearing a G-string and showing off her shit? These ads suck, and make me view this product with the deepest suspicion. Don't use Bikini Zone, unless you're trying to get your bikini line ready for some circa 1890s swimwear.
R.I.P. Donna Martin's Progenitor
One of my personal heroes, Aaron Spelling, passed away this weekend at the age of 83. In case you didn't know, Spelling created the BEST SHOW OF ALL TIME, "Beverly Hills, 90210," as well as the best spin-off of all time, "Melrose Place." He also gave us one of the most amusing physically morphing plastic surgery victims in the form of his daughter Tori, who played Donna Martin, the sluttiest virgin in the history of prime time television, on "9-er:"
Obviously, Aaron Spelling has made some of the greatest contributions to popular culture (also he did "Dynasty," "The Love Boat," and "Charlie's Angels"), and thus should be mourned with great weeping and gnashing of teeth. I only hope that up in heaven, one of God's promised many mansions can rival the 57,000 square foot, 123 bedroom monstrosity he lived in while here in this mortal coil.
Obviously, Aaron Spelling has made some of the greatest contributions to popular culture (also he did "Dynasty," "The Love Boat," and "Charlie's Angels"), and thus should be mourned with great weeping and gnashing of teeth. I only hope that up in heaven, one of God's promised many mansions can rival the 57,000 square foot, 123 bedroom monstrosity he lived in while here in this mortal coil.
Save Harry Potter
Today with alarm I read an article in which Harry Potter author J.K. Rowling hints that she might kill off everybody's favorite Boy Who Lived to prevent any unauthorized posthumous fan fiction from being written. I immediately fired off the following e-mail to Wmania and Fallonious Monk, two of my fellow HP fanatics:
To: falloniousmonk@bigexperientialmarketingfirm.com, wmania@bigPRfirm.com
From: razzy@razzy.org
Subject: harry potter can't die!
But it sounds like he's going to...maybe.
Also, it says two characters definitely die. It can't be Ron and
Hermione too! That would be so fucking depressing!!!
My worry was quickly put to rest by Fallonious Monk, drawing upon her relaxed Southern nature combined with her own sage wisdom gained by clawing her way through various temp jobs to the top of the experiential marketing heap in the big city:
To: razzy@razzy.org, wmania@bigPRfirm.com
From: falloniousmonk@bigexperientialmarketingfirm.com
Subject: RE: harry potter can't die!
Naw, it won't be both of them. Could be Neville and Hermione, could be Ginny and Snape... hard to tell... and of course it could be Ron.
But Harry cannot die. He's got a whole midlife, existence-after-the-destruction-of-Pure-Evil-crisis to go through when he moves to London and can't find a job for a year.
Point taken.
To: falloniousmonk@bigexperientialmarketingfirm.com, wmania@bigPRfirm.com
From: razzy@razzy.org
Subject: harry potter can't die!
But it sounds like he's going to...maybe.
Also, it says two characters definitely die. It can't be Ron and
Hermione too! That would be so fucking depressing!!!
My worry was quickly put to rest by Fallonious Monk, drawing upon her relaxed Southern nature combined with her own sage wisdom gained by clawing her way through various temp jobs to the top of the experiential marketing heap in the big city:
To: razzy@razzy.org, wmania@bigPRfirm.com
From: falloniousmonk@bigexperientialmarketingfirm.com
Subject: RE: harry potter can't die!
Naw, it won't be both of them. Could be Neville and Hermione, could be Ginny and Snape... hard to tell... and of course it could be Ron.
But Harry cannot die. He's got a whole midlife, existence-after-the-destruction-of-Pure-Evil-crisis to go through when he moves to London and can't find a job for a year.
Point taken.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Gays make me happy
If it wasn't obvious by the rather strained tone of some of my recent posts, I was under a lot of stress last week. I was having one of those weeks where I just felt like everything was going wrong. I had a big, crappy, political, scary situation at work, none of my experiments were working, the mouse house was undergoing its triannual accredidation so I had to get all my cages in order, quitting smoking was wreaking emotional havoc with me, I was financially destitute, and several of my closest friends were having insane personal drama of their own. By the time Saturday rolled around and I was disturbed by the Jehovah's Witnesses making their rounds, I was on the verge of a meltdown. Not even the dogs could cheer me up.
I tried to relax by drinking beer, eating pizza, and watching Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me with KatieScarlett and Bienvenido-a-Miami, but I just felt more depressed and worn down than ever (note to self: David Lynch films are not an effective pick-me-up, and unless it's Showgirls, movies starring Kyle MacLachlan should be avoided as spirit-lifters). I was too blue to even make a "Tugirlzhugging" MySpace page with KatieScarlett. I was totally out-of-sorts and NOT Razzified at all. I went to bed at like 10 on Saturday, and slept 13 hours. When I woke up Sunday, I felt a little better and was prepared to take Young Jeezy's advice of "bitch, get ya mind right." Serendipitously, J-Sexy called at that moment, and gave me the best idea for cheering up I ever heard: "hey, Razzy, stop moping around and meet me at the Gay Pride parade!!!"
Nothing chases the blues away like the Pride parade. For one thing, the gays celebrate themselves like no other group of people. Lots of peppy music, crazy costumes, and celebratory fervor. Pride is also inspiring because the gays have been through so fucking much. Even in a city like New York where uncloseted gays are commonplace, the gays still have to put up with a ton of bullshit. A few weeks ago, Kevin Aviance, a very famous drag performer, got the shit beat out of him outside a bar in Chelsea (the Castro of NYC) by a bunch of dudes hollering "die, fag"-type epithets. And despite being hospitalized and totally fucked up less than a month ago, this guy was in full regalia, smiling, dancing around to that "What is love? Baby don't hurt me, don't hurt me, no more" song, and generally celebrating his gayness. I might rank on gay people regularly, but in the way that I would tease and mock an adored sibling. I have SO much respect for gay people, because despite all the shit they put up with, they come together and PARTY in the face of adversity, and find joy in being who they are. Pride isn't about being bitter, angry, or resentful; it's about loving youself for being you, and taking pride in being part of a community focusing on that. Showing up at the Pride parade was the best thing I could possibly due to get my Razzy back.
The parade didn't start off great, because it initially took me an hour to get across Seventh Ave to the bar where J-Sexy was waiting. The NYPD take crowd control to a whole other level, where the milling hordes are herded through a labyrinth of "Police Line: Do Not Cross" barriers that is nearly impossible to navigate. Compounding matters was the fact that J-Sexy wasn't sure exactly where she was. One minute it was 7th Ave, the next minute it was Christopher Street, the next it was West 4th, etc. Once I found her, I was like, "Why didn't you just tell me that you were at the bar next to the Stonewall?"
"What's the Stonewall?"
"That bar next door, dude! It's like the most famous gay bar in America! It was where the Pride movement STARTED, dude!" I then explained that 30 years ago, being gay was an arrestable offense, and that after a raid at the Stonewall, the gays decided they weren't going to take it anymore, so they rioted. Those riots turned into the party that is now Pride.
J-Sexy and I from that point on had a great time drinking Pilsner Urquells and fending off advances from the sweet but totally unattractive (and very old) lesbians in the bar next to us. The woman who liked me was a Peruvian lesbian from Miami who was vacationing in NYC for Pride, and every time J-Sexy would run outside to see if the passing float was the Gay Catholics posse our buddy El Polaco was rolling with (pictured) she'd sidle up and say, "Do jou think jour girlfriend will be mad that I am talking to jou?"
"I think that in the spirit of Pride she'll manage to cope," I said. Even though both J-Sexy and I are straight, we were both fully wrapped in the mantle of honorary dykeyness. For one thing, I'm an authentic hasbian, and you can ask anyone I went to high school with. J-Sexy also has dallied in dating lesbians online via Craigslist, although both experiences were disasters (her first date had bad breath and didn't approve when J-Sexy started laughing during Brokeback Mountain, and her second date sent her a 10-year-old picture prior to the date, but in person was morbidly obese...after that, she was back on the dick). Meanwhile, J-Sexy was being hit on by the bouncer, who was the personification of the Classic Butch: efficiently short hair w/ rat tail, bar-sponsored softball jersey, and tough, gruff, curmudgeonly demeanor. We kept hugging and telling them we were a couple. In many ways, we are: I see J-Sexy pretty much all day, every day, I've gone on vacation to foreign countries with her, and I've made out with her. Also, as this website is my pathetic attempt at making supplemental income, J-Sexy's is volunteering as a human guinea pig, and one recent study on mood and heart rate she was in actually designated me as her "significant other," as she sees me more than anyone else. Anyway, we generally had a great time getting drunk with our admirers and hooraying/woo-hooing the floats outside as they passed by. Many pictures were snapped ("Say 'Pride'!") and many beers were consumed.
Then J-Sexy and I wanted pizza, so we walked back up to Chelsea, retrieved Francophile from her apartment, got slices, and found a bar where we could continue drinking. There were people playing stickball in the street and everyone was having a grand time. El Polaco and his consort of gay graduate students arrived, and we went out to dinner, where I started hitting the scotch. Somehow we then found our way to a gay club (obviously, a total sausage fest, with zero chance of me getting laid, but still fun), and I even bopped around a little to the frenetic house music, which is the closest I come to dancing. Nothing too outrageous happened to me but the entire day and night was a total blast, and consequently I feel like I'm back to my old self. Everyone was in wonderful spirits, I saw NUMEROUS topless women (and men with fake breasts) running around painted in rainbow colors, blowing on noisemakers, and cheering raucously. Gays rule.
I tried to relax by drinking beer, eating pizza, and watching Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me with KatieScarlett and Bienvenido-a-Miami, but I just felt more depressed and worn down than ever (note to self: David Lynch films are not an effective pick-me-up, and unless it's Showgirls, movies starring Kyle MacLachlan should be avoided as spirit-lifters). I was too blue to even make a "Tugirlzhugging" MySpace page with KatieScarlett. I was totally out-of-sorts and NOT Razzified at all. I went to bed at like 10 on Saturday, and slept 13 hours. When I woke up Sunday, I felt a little better and was prepared to take Young Jeezy's advice of "bitch, get ya mind right." Serendipitously, J-Sexy called at that moment, and gave me the best idea for cheering up I ever heard: "hey, Razzy, stop moping around and meet me at the Gay Pride parade!!!"
Nothing chases the blues away like the Pride parade. For one thing, the gays celebrate themselves like no other group of people. Lots of peppy music, crazy costumes, and celebratory fervor. Pride is also inspiring because the gays have been through so fucking much. Even in a city like New York where uncloseted gays are commonplace, the gays still have to put up with a ton of bullshit. A few weeks ago, Kevin Aviance, a very famous drag performer, got the shit beat out of him outside a bar in Chelsea (the Castro of NYC) by a bunch of dudes hollering "die, fag"-type epithets. And despite being hospitalized and totally fucked up less than a month ago, this guy was in full regalia, smiling, dancing around to that "What is love? Baby don't hurt me, don't hurt me, no more" song, and generally celebrating his gayness. I might rank on gay people regularly, but in the way that I would tease and mock an adored sibling. I have SO much respect for gay people, because despite all the shit they put up with, they come together and PARTY in the face of adversity, and find joy in being who they are. Pride isn't about being bitter, angry, or resentful; it's about loving youself for being you, and taking pride in being part of a community focusing on that. Showing up at the Pride parade was the best thing I could possibly due to get my Razzy back.
The parade didn't start off great, because it initially took me an hour to get across Seventh Ave to the bar where J-Sexy was waiting. The NYPD take crowd control to a whole other level, where the milling hordes are herded through a labyrinth of "Police Line: Do Not Cross" barriers that is nearly impossible to navigate. Compounding matters was the fact that J-Sexy wasn't sure exactly where she was. One minute it was 7th Ave, the next minute it was Christopher Street, the next it was West 4th, etc. Once I found her, I was like, "Why didn't you just tell me that you were at the bar next to the Stonewall?"
"What's the Stonewall?"
"That bar next door, dude! It's like the most famous gay bar in America! It was where the Pride movement STARTED, dude!" I then explained that 30 years ago, being gay was an arrestable offense, and that after a raid at the Stonewall, the gays decided they weren't going to take it anymore, so they rioted. Those riots turned into the party that is now Pride.
J-Sexy and I from that point on had a great time drinking Pilsner Urquells and fending off advances from the sweet but totally unattractive (and very old) lesbians in the bar next to us. The woman who liked me was a Peruvian lesbian from Miami who was vacationing in NYC for Pride, and every time J-Sexy would run outside to see if the passing float was the Gay Catholics posse our buddy El Polaco was rolling with (pictured) she'd sidle up and say, "Do jou think jour girlfriend will be mad that I am talking to jou?"
"I think that in the spirit of Pride she'll manage to cope," I said. Even though both J-Sexy and I are straight, we were both fully wrapped in the mantle of honorary dykeyness. For one thing, I'm an authentic hasbian, and you can ask anyone I went to high school with. J-Sexy also has dallied in dating lesbians online via Craigslist, although both experiences were disasters (her first date had bad breath and didn't approve when J-Sexy started laughing during Brokeback Mountain, and her second date sent her a 10-year-old picture prior to the date, but in person was morbidly obese...after that, she was back on the dick). Meanwhile, J-Sexy was being hit on by the bouncer, who was the personification of the Classic Butch: efficiently short hair w/ rat tail, bar-sponsored softball jersey, and tough, gruff, curmudgeonly demeanor. We kept hugging and telling them we were a couple. In many ways, we are: I see J-Sexy pretty much all day, every day, I've gone on vacation to foreign countries with her, and I've made out with her. Also, as this website is my pathetic attempt at making supplemental income, J-Sexy's is volunteering as a human guinea pig, and one recent study on mood and heart rate she was in actually designated me as her "significant other," as she sees me more than anyone else. Anyway, we generally had a great time getting drunk with our admirers and hooraying/woo-hooing the floats outside as they passed by. Many pictures were snapped ("Say 'Pride'!") and many beers were consumed.
Then J-Sexy and I wanted pizza, so we walked back up to Chelsea, retrieved Francophile from her apartment, got slices, and found a bar where we could continue drinking. There were people playing stickball in the street and everyone was having a grand time. El Polaco and his consort of gay graduate students arrived, and we went out to dinner, where I started hitting the scotch. Somehow we then found our way to a gay club (obviously, a total sausage fest, with zero chance of me getting laid, but still fun), and I even bopped around a little to the frenetic house music, which is the closest I come to dancing. Nothing too outrageous happened to me but the entire day and night was a total blast, and consequently I feel like I'm back to my old self. Everyone was in wonderful spirits, I saw NUMEROUS topless women (and men with fake breasts) running around painted in rainbow colors, blowing on noisemakers, and cheering raucously. Gays rule.
Item #1 on my wish list
My laptop at home has been acting up and shutting off indiscriminately. I was pleased, therefore, when Mullah AntoniHo sent me links to news about this new product:
That's right, Fitty is in negotiations with Apple to make the official 50 Cent/G-Unit Mac. Presumably all 50 has to do is take a regular Mac PowerBook and, as he says in one of his songs, "bulletproof this bitch and I'm gone." I want one SO FUCKING BAD. G-g-g-g-unit!
That's right, Fitty is in negotiations with Apple to make the official 50 Cent/G-Unit Mac. Presumably all 50 has to do is take a regular Mac PowerBook and, as he says in one of his songs, "bulletproof this bitch and I'm gone." I want one SO FUCKING BAD. G-g-g-g-unit!
Saturday, June 24, 2006
H to the Izzo, V to the Izzay...Please Go Awizzay
NOTHING pisses me off more than the sound of my doorbell on a Saturday morning. I'll be laying comfortably in bed, deciding whether or not to get up, and then I hear it: ding-ding, and my blood pressure is through the roof.
I hate unannounced visitors. Nothing annoys me more than people who just pop on in. I never do this. I ALWAYS call first, because I hate the "pop-in" so damn much. People invariably pop in at the worst possible times. Back in Tacoma, my friend G-Boner would do this ALL THE TIME. I'd be enjoying my highly valued Razzy Time (this is where I watch trashy TV, eat cold pizza, and sit around in nothing but socks and men's boxer briefs), and she would just walk brazenly in my front door without knocking, often with her ex-con boyfriend and/or dog in tow. Then she would eat my food, drink my beer, and change the TV to something I would hate, like "Friends" or "Everybody Loves Raymond" reruns, and I'd finally have to kick her out, which usually precipitated a fight. Finally she had the poor sense to do this on a Sunday in the middle of October, and after me shrieking at her about turning off my precious football games, she at least stopped doing this from late August through February.
When I moved to New York, I thought I would be liberated from frequent popper-inners, on account of living in an apartment. At my current apartment, my buzzer doesn't even work, so it's like my own little fortress of solitude. Nobody knows if I'm home or not, so I can easily avoid being surprised unawares by would-be visitors.
However, I have to deal with one group of people who stop by every Saturday without fail: the Jehovah's Witnesses. They must have one of their number in the building, because every Saturday morning, well-organized teams of them are swarming all over every floor. One Saturday shortly after I first moved here, I answered the door and was confronted by this semi-old woman named Stephanie who started going off about how I was probably really depressed about the thorough beat-down given to the Gulf Coast by Hurricane Katrina, and how she had a book that could help me deal with this. I groaned inwardly, because I knew I had fallen into the clutches of the Jehovah's Witnesses, and as badly as I wanted to tell her to fuck off, she's SO nice it's almost impossible to do so.
She opens the book and says, "Wouldn't it be wonderful if we lived in a world like this?" and shows me this picture:
I thought to myself, hell, no! I have NO desire to move to the Neverland Ranch, or whatever the hell is going on here. My vision of paradise involves a bottomless bottle of Johnnie Walker Black, a 12-month-long football season, a personal chef, and an army of swarthy sex slaves/massage therapists/mercenaries. I never pictured heaven on earth as a petting zoo where I can picnic with big cats and koala bears. Furthermore, this can hardly be heaven when there are KIDS EVERYWHERE!
However, I didn't want to get into this with Stephanie, so I just nodded politely while she told me earnestly how this book would tell me how to achieve a place in a heaven full of ugly clothes. I tried to pull the old "Well, I'm Roman Catholic...see?", directing her to my many graven images of the Blessed Virgin which represent the bulk of my interior decor. That never works, though. Jehovah's Witnesses don't give a fuck if you are anything but Jehovah's Witness. Stephanie just kept going off about how she wanted to talk with me about the "knowledge" to be had in this book. I said that I had to walk my dogs, so I didn't have time. She gave me the book to read at my leisure and said she'd come back. I made a mental note to never answer the door again for an unannounced visitor.
Later, I showed KatieScarlett the book and we had a good time indulging in what the book called "strong drink" and making fun of all the illustrations in it. Then KatieScarlett, who, despite being Russian Orthodox, seems to know an inordinate amount about the 'Hovas, told me about some of their beliefs. In addition to opposing blood transfusions and not celebrating birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas, graduations, Flag Day, etc. (the only thing I already knew about them besides the fact that Michael Jackson being raised one is responsible for his lunacy/pedophilia), they believe in predestination. That's the notion that only a set number of people are getting into heaven, and God already has his mind made up about who's in and who's out. In fact, God decides this before birth. I've always wondered about why, if this is indeed the case, God even bothered with the whole Jesus thing in the first place. Did he send his only son to die for the chosen few, or just to fuck with the heads of the rest of us heathens who aren't on the VIP list and make us all think we had a chance? I envision that scene playing out like some celestial version of "Project Runway," with God stepping in for Heidi Klum to say "You're out! Auf wiedersehn!" to the people not predestined for salvation.
Apparently, the 'Hovas believe that God's list of the saved is limited to a very specific number, like 144,000, or something like that. If this is the case, then I would like to know why they are always trying to convert everybody. Not only do they terrorize my apartment building every Saturday without fail, but they are all over the city trying to convert people. There is always a gaggle of them in the subway station, trying to foist a copy of the "Watchtower" on anyone foolish enough to buy a MetroCard at the kiosk they linger near. Worse, they are always nice old ladies, and once one of them gets a hold of you, they are harder to shake off than a lamprey. I always pretend to be running for the train so as not to be held up by them, because it's just impossible--even for an asshole like me--to tell a nice old lady to fuck off. I always want to ask them why they are wasting everybody's time with the conversion work when most of their newly converted aren't on God's "to-save" list anyway, but I can only imagine how long that conversation would take. Nothing gets zealots worked up like a little saucy theological repartee. Furthermore, I wonder how they explain it to their congregation that only 144,000 are going to be saved, no matter how many poorly illustrated books of "knowledge" they distribute. According to Wikipedia, they have over 6.6 million official members worldwide, so I'm curious how they incorporate the "most of you are going to hell" message in their ministries.
Unfortunately, I never want to spend a lot of time talking to the ministers, so my strategy for dealing with the 'Hovas is to pretend I'm not home. However, if there are any of the old ladies from the Kingdom Hall on 147th and St. Nicholas Ave reading this (doubtful), PLEASE stop coming over at 10 a.m. on a Saturday, ringing my bell repeatedly, and shoving "Watchtowers" under the crack in my door when I don't answer. It wakes me up, it perturbs Caesar, and nothing makes a hangover worse than some unexpected evangelization. And being that I'm not willing to quit with the birthdays, the drinking, the fornicating, or the modern medicine, I'm totally not one of the 144,000, so please direct your energies elsewhere.
I hate unannounced visitors. Nothing annoys me more than people who just pop on in. I never do this. I ALWAYS call first, because I hate the "pop-in" so damn much. People invariably pop in at the worst possible times. Back in Tacoma, my friend G-Boner would do this ALL THE TIME. I'd be enjoying my highly valued Razzy Time (this is where I watch trashy TV, eat cold pizza, and sit around in nothing but socks and men's boxer briefs), and she would just walk brazenly in my front door without knocking, often with her ex-con boyfriend and/or dog in tow. Then she would eat my food, drink my beer, and change the TV to something I would hate, like "Friends" or "Everybody Loves Raymond" reruns, and I'd finally have to kick her out, which usually precipitated a fight. Finally she had the poor sense to do this on a Sunday in the middle of October, and after me shrieking at her about turning off my precious football games, she at least stopped doing this from late August through February.
When I moved to New York, I thought I would be liberated from frequent popper-inners, on account of living in an apartment. At my current apartment, my buzzer doesn't even work, so it's like my own little fortress of solitude. Nobody knows if I'm home or not, so I can easily avoid being surprised unawares by would-be visitors.
However, I have to deal with one group of people who stop by every Saturday without fail: the Jehovah's Witnesses. They must have one of their number in the building, because every Saturday morning, well-organized teams of them are swarming all over every floor. One Saturday shortly after I first moved here, I answered the door and was confronted by this semi-old woman named Stephanie who started going off about how I was probably really depressed about the thorough beat-down given to the Gulf Coast by Hurricane Katrina, and how she had a book that could help me deal with this. I groaned inwardly, because I knew I had fallen into the clutches of the Jehovah's Witnesses, and as badly as I wanted to tell her to fuck off, she's SO nice it's almost impossible to do so.
She opens the book and says, "Wouldn't it be wonderful if we lived in a world like this?" and shows me this picture:
I thought to myself, hell, no! I have NO desire to move to the Neverland Ranch, or whatever the hell is going on here. My vision of paradise involves a bottomless bottle of Johnnie Walker Black, a 12-month-long football season, a personal chef, and an army of swarthy sex slaves/massage therapists/mercenaries. I never pictured heaven on earth as a petting zoo where I can picnic with big cats and koala bears. Furthermore, this can hardly be heaven when there are KIDS EVERYWHERE!
However, I didn't want to get into this with Stephanie, so I just nodded politely while she told me earnestly how this book would tell me how to achieve a place in a heaven full of ugly clothes. I tried to pull the old "Well, I'm Roman Catholic...see?", directing her to my many graven images of the Blessed Virgin which represent the bulk of my interior decor. That never works, though. Jehovah's Witnesses don't give a fuck if you are anything but Jehovah's Witness. Stephanie just kept going off about how she wanted to talk with me about the "knowledge" to be had in this book. I said that I had to walk my dogs, so I didn't have time. She gave me the book to read at my leisure and said she'd come back. I made a mental note to never answer the door again for an unannounced visitor.
Later, I showed KatieScarlett the book and we had a good time indulging in what the book called "strong drink" and making fun of all the illustrations in it. Then KatieScarlett, who, despite being Russian Orthodox, seems to know an inordinate amount about the 'Hovas, told me about some of their beliefs. In addition to opposing blood transfusions and not celebrating birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas, graduations, Flag Day, etc. (the only thing I already knew about them besides the fact that Michael Jackson being raised one is responsible for his lunacy/pedophilia), they believe in predestination. That's the notion that only a set number of people are getting into heaven, and God already has his mind made up about who's in and who's out. In fact, God decides this before birth. I've always wondered about why, if this is indeed the case, God even bothered with the whole Jesus thing in the first place. Did he send his only son to die for the chosen few, or just to fuck with the heads of the rest of us heathens who aren't on the VIP list and make us all think we had a chance? I envision that scene playing out like some celestial version of "Project Runway," with God stepping in for Heidi Klum to say "You're out! Auf wiedersehn!" to the people not predestined for salvation.
Apparently, the 'Hovas believe that God's list of the saved is limited to a very specific number, like 144,000, or something like that. If this is the case, then I would like to know why they are always trying to convert everybody. Not only do they terrorize my apartment building every Saturday without fail, but they are all over the city trying to convert people. There is always a gaggle of them in the subway station, trying to foist a copy of the "Watchtower" on anyone foolish enough to buy a MetroCard at the kiosk they linger near. Worse, they are always nice old ladies, and once one of them gets a hold of you, they are harder to shake off than a lamprey. I always pretend to be running for the train so as not to be held up by them, because it's just impossible--even for an asshole like me--to tell a nice old lady to fuck off. I always want to ask them why they are wasting everybody's time with the conversion work when most of their newly converted aren't on God's "to-save" list anyway, but I can only imagine how long that conversation would take. Nothing gets zealots worked up like a little saucy theological repartee. Furthermore, I wonder how they explain it to their congregation that only 144,000 are going to be saved, no matter how many poorly illustrated books of "knowledge" they distribute. According to Wikipedia, they have over 6.6 million official members worldwide, so I'm curious how they incorporate the "most of you are going to hell" message in their ministries.
Unfortunately, I never want to spend a lot of time talking to the ministers, so my strategy for dealing with the 'Hovas is to pretend I'm not home. However, if there are any of the old ladies from the Kingdom Hall on 147th and St. Nicholas Ave reading this (doubtful), PLEASE stop coming over at 10 a.m. on a Saturday, ringing my bell repeatedly, and shoving "Watchtowers" under the crack in my door when I don't answer. It wakes me up, it perturbs Caesar, and nothing makes a hangover worse than some unexpected evangelization. And being that I'm not willing to quit with the birthdays, the drinking, the fornicating, or the modern medicine, I'm totally not one of the 144,000, so please direct your energies elsewhere.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
June has been officially declared National Hate on Razzy Month
I'm not usually a paranoid person, but this month it seems that everyone and everything is out to get me. First, there was the whole Paula James debacle, which you can all scroll down and read about if you are unfamiliar with our lengthy battles over the content of my website. Although I haven't heard from Paula since she last informed me that she was looking to take "legal actions" against me (I assume that the "best lawyer in Kansas" that she talked to told her to quit wasting his valuable time trying to erode my constitutionally protected right to free speech), it's probably just a matter of time before she or someone equally stupid tries to start more shit with me. While fielding hate mail from idiots is funny and entertaining, the whole Paula thing still amazes me because it's just staggering that someone would seriously devote so much time trying to wage morally righteous war against an author who advertises the fact that ALL of her material is "useless bullshit."
Also, I've got a fucking shitshow on my hands at work that sucks monumentally, because I can't even rant about it here on RAZZY.org like I would normally do, for reasons that I won't get into. I have another shitshow at work that I CAN rant about, but it's boring, so I won't get into that either except to say that my mice are not cooperating with me and are very likely TOTALLY fucked and unable to get the common cold, thus possibly thwarting me from my plan to graduate in two years. I just want to grab them and say, "You little fucking rodents, I'm going to kill you anyway, so do me a favor and express my goddamn rhinovirus receptor transgene in your respiratory tracts! The sooner I graduate, the sooner you stop dying in my CO2 chamber." Unfortunately, whenever I do this they just piss and shit all over my gloves in response. Haters!
Additionally, it seems that my comment pages and razzy@razzy.org e-mail inbox have been filled with an inordinately high number of vitriolic remarks of the "ur a slut" and "ur a racsist" variety, and this is excluding the comments that are obviously personal attacks from individuals who are pissed at me. Not that these random comments/e-mails particularly bother me, and they might even be a good thing because it means RAZZY.org is getting more traffic, but why all the hostility, people? If you don't like my website, why don't you go download new glitter emoticons or animated GIFs of Angelina Jolie for your MySpace pages or something debatably more productive, instead of showcasing your profound stupidity and inability to use a spell-checker? I mean, if you're going to tell me I "sukc", you should at least spell suck correctly.
All this random Razzy-hating isn't limited to my comment pages, however. When I was walking home from my subway stop tonight, some woman outside the Famous Fish Market derisively called me a "Spice Girl." This is actually the third time that someone in my neighborhood has used this term to describe me. While I suppose that "Spice Girl" is better than "honky" or "cracker," it's still annoying. Do I have a fucking sign on my back that says, "Hate on me because I exist" or something?
Anyway, since this month all the simpleminded cretins of the world seem determined to take their best shots, I've decided to declare June OFFICIAL National Hate on Razzy Month. It's like Secretaries' Day, except instead of a day it's a whole month, and instead of sending me flowers you should send me poorly articulated statements about why I'm the worst person on earth since Hitler. Thank God it's almost July.
Also, I've got a fucking shitshow on my hands at work that sucks monumentally, because I can't even rant about it here on RAZZY.org like I would normally do, for reasons that I won't get into. I have another shitshow at work that I CAN rant about, but it's boring, so I won't get into that either except to say that my mice are not cooperating with me and are very likely TOTALLY fucked and unable to get the common cold, thus possibly thwarting me from my plan to graduate in two years. I just want to grab them and say, "You little fucking rodents, I'm going to kill you anyway, so do me a favor and express my goddamn rhinovirus receptor transgene in your respiratory tracts! The sooner I graduate, the sooner you stop dying in my CO2 chamber." Unfortunately, whenever I do this they just piss and shit all over my gloves in response. Haters!
Additionally, it seems that my comment pages and razzy@razzy.org e-mail inbox have been filled with an inordinately high number of vitriolic remarks of the "ur a slut" and "ur a racsist" variety, and this is excluding the comments that are obviously personal attacks from individuals who are pissed at me. Not that these random comments/e-mails particularly bother me, and they might even be a good thing because it means RAZZY.org is getting more traffic, but why all the hostility, people? If you don't like my website, why don't you go download new glitter emoticons or animated GIFs of Angelina Jolie for your MySpace pages or something debatably more productive, instead of showcasing your profound stupidity and inability to use a spell-checker? I mean, if you're going to tell me I "sukc", you should at least spell suck correctly.
All this random Razzy-hating isn't limited to my comment pages, however. When I was walking home from my subway stop tonight, some woman outside the Famous Fish Market derisively called me a "Spice Girl." This is actually the third time that someone in my neighborhood has used this term to describe me. While I suppose that "Spice Girl" is better than "honky" or "cracker," it's still annoying. Do I have a fucking sign on my back that says, "Hate on me because I exist" or something?
Anyway, since this month all the simpleminded cretins of the world seem determined to take their best shots, I've decided to declare June OFFICIAL National Hate on Razzy Month. It's like Secretaries' Day, except instead of a day it's a whole month, and instead of sending me flowers you should send me poorly articulated statements about why I'm the worst person on earth since Hitler. Thank God it's almost July.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
A big huge birthday shout out
MySpace informs me that in addition to today being the official first day of summer, it is also HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair's birthdays. They are two of the biggest RAZZY.org fans out there, and have been since I launched this website about a year ago. My closest friends don't read the site with as much enthusiasm as they do (LL Cool Jew claims RAZZY.org is blocked on her office computer, J-Sexy only reads it when I tell her that there is something good on it, MillerTime says that it's too "NC-17" for the clinic she works at, etc.) However, HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair have been faithfully reading RAZZY.org and sending me feedback and free legal advice for a year now, and since they are both smart, funny guys, I'm flattered that they like my site so much. Plus, it's hot to roll with twins. Therefore, instead of posting a tired "Happy B-Day, dude!" comment on their MySpace pages, I'm giving them both big happy birthday wishes here at RAZZY.org. I hope you guys plan on imbibing massive quantities of alcohol to celebrate, and that you just keep on pimpin' like the hustlas you are. Get drunk, get crunk, and get laid, boys!
And, since they are both unhealthily obsessed with Morrissey, I tracked him down somewhere in the U.K., kidnapped him, forced him to dress as a priest, and sing them happy birthday. Unfortunately I forgot a video camera, so I don't have that on tape, but did I take a picture. Morrissey is not a very cheerful guy, which is why he looks so miserable. Or it might have been due to the fact that I was lashing a whip at his feet and shouting, "Dance! Dance for HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair, you sad, wretched cur!" So I hope it was worth it, because it was a lot of work. Happy birthday, guys!
And, since they are both unhealthily obsessed with Morrissey, I tracked him down somewhere in the U.K., kidnapped him, forced him to dress as a priest, and sing them happy birthday. Unfortunately I forgot a video camera, so I don't have that on tape, but did I take a picture. Morrissey is not a very cheerful guy, which is why he looks so miserable. Or it might have been due to the fact that I was lashing a whip at his feet and shouting, "Dance! Dance for HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair, you sad, wretched cur!" So I hope it was worth it, because it was a lot of work. Happy birthday, guys!
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Fine art or frozen splooge? You decide.
In the spirit of Father's Day, I figured I would point out this website which caught my attention. Instead of becoming fathers by using their semen for its intended purpose of knocking bitches up, men can put it toward a more pseudo-intellectual purpose and contribute to the world of pointless art installations.
Some "artist" is attempting, from what I can tell, to fill up a giant cube with sperm from all over the world. I was unaware that a giant ice cube made of semen represents something you'd find in an art museum as opposed to a fertility clinic, but apparently this represents both a bold contribution to civilization's great artistic achievements and an excellent investment opportunity. Not only can guys donate their precious gametes to this installation, but all people can purchase shares in this shitshow for a mere 5-20 euros. I'm currently debating where to sink my hard-earned cash. It's either a high-yield mutual fund or this:
Some "artist" is attempting, from what I can tell, to fill up a giant cube with sperm from all over the world. I was unaware that a giant ice cube made of semen represents something you'd find in an art museum as opposed to a fertility clinic, but apparently this represents both a bold contribution to civilization's great artistic achievements and an excellent investment opportunity. Not only can guys donate their precious gametes to this installation, but all people can purchase shares in this shitshow for a mere 5-20 euros. I'm currently debating where to sink my hard-earned cash. It's either a high-yield mutual fund or this:
According to the virtually unreadable artfagbabble at spermcube.org, this metric ton of frozen jizz contains "all the possibilities of life, all possible figures in distressing agglomeration, one on top of the other, without a background, or with their own interlacing and gesticulation as background, a biopolitically incorrect machine celibataire that generates anonymity, undifferentiated and powerless life." (What the fuck does that even mean? This achieves new levels of nonsensical pretentiousness.)
And yes, that's right...OF COURSE this artist is French. Leave it to a Frenchman to come up with a sperm ice cube and talk about it like he's Michelangelo. Ugh.
Friday, June 16, 2006
I'm not the only Bellarmine Class of '96-er on nerve.com
Today I went to have a look-see at what KatieScarlett and BloodyTosser have been up to on nerve.com, and was shocked to see my former classmate on the front page, featured in this column about sex advice from soccer players, or something like that. And while said classmate is a Lady Lion, she is NOT my ex-girlfriend, nor is she appearing in the same context in which I've appeared on nerve (naked). So it's nowhere near as exciting, but if anyone wondered what Uchenna is up to...here she is detailing choice injuries to fake for getting out of sex. My advice? If someone fakes an injury to get out of sex, dump that asshole and move on to somebody who will put out!
And on an aside, the male soccer player interviewed in this piece is so hideously ugly, I wonder about his qualifications to give sex advice. The only conceivable way I can imagine that anyone would bang that troll is if they met him in a VERY dark room. If I woke up with that bilious-toothed motherfucker next to me, I'd pull an Oedipus and gouge out my own fucking eyes. He's heinous. Can't nerve.com find any hot male soccer players to interview, or are all the dudes under the age of 40 busy getting their asses handed to them in the FIFA World Cup?
And on an aside, the male soccer player interviewed in this piece is so hideously ugly, I wonder about his qualifications to give sex advice. The only conceivable way I can imagine that anyone would bang that troll is if they met him in a VERY dark room. If I woke up with that bilious-toothed motherfucker next to me, I'd pull an Oedipus and gouge out my own fucking eyes. He's heinous. Can't nerve.com find any hot male soccer players to interview, or are all the dudes under the age of 40 busy getting their asses handed to them in the FIFA World Cup?
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Cheaters never prosper unless you are dumb enough to let them
Yesterday I was instant messaging with my old buddy from high school Mullah AntoniHo, who was relating to me a story of how he broke up his friend (another alumnus of our alma mater) and his girlfriend. I should add that this other friend, B-Pain, is a former conquest of mine. I didn't save the IM conversation, but it went a little something like this:
Mullah AntoniHo: so b-pain and i brawled on my b-day and now his girl is pissed at him
Razzy: why? that same girl he was going out with 4 years ago when i fucked him?
Mullah AntoniHo: same girl
Razzy: you didn't sleep with her, did you?
Mullah AntoniHo: no. we were out drinking on my birthday
Mullah AntoniHo: he was being a total dick to me, accused me of trying to fuck his girlfriend, and wouldn't shut the fuck up, so i told her about all how many times he's cheated
Razzy: serves him right for cheating
Mullah AntoniHo: then i named names and almost sent her their myspaces
Razzy: you didn't send her mine, did you?
Mullah AntoniHo: then i kicked his ass
Razzy: really? how did that work out?
Mullah AntoniHo: i went over to his house and when he opened the door i punched him and beat his ass
Razzy: good for you
Razzy: i can't believe that she hadn't caught on by now, he's obviously an incorrigible philanderer, i doubt he changed his ways...she must really be a stupid bitch
Mullah AntoniHo: she still doesn't really believe it/is in denial. she called me the next day and scolded me for telling her
Mullah AntoniHo: i have at least 4 myspace friends that he's cheated with
Razzy: what an idiot. if she's going to be that dumb she gets what she deserves
Mullah AntoniHo: you should write a blog about it
Razzy: okay, dude, i'll do it tomorrow
So, now I'm making good on my word to Mullah AntoniHo to regale the internet community with the fable of B-Pain the unrepentant cheater and his dim-witted girlfriend, and why they get what they deserve, at least from my point of view.
B-Pain was a skater/snowboarder-type who ran around all the time wearing My Name and Sage shirts (shitty Northwest bands du jour circa 1994). When he wasn't academically underperforming, he hung out with similar types at this coffee place called Bertolino Bros. down the street from our school, smoking clove cigarettes and attempting to perfect the coolness of acting blase. I thought he was kind of hot, and pre-lesbianism had a little crush on him. However, upon embracing my pain-in-the-ass feminist beliefs and transiently becoming a carpet muncher, I basically forgot about him, until about 6 years later.
When I lived in Tacoma after college, Mullah AntoniHo was living in Bellingham, where he was a professional snowboard bum, working as a lift operator or something at Mt. Baker (now he has a real grown-up job that even comes with an office). He would sometimes come down to Tacoma to visit, and when he did, he would stay at my house, since it was more of a party place than his mom's. One day he came down without telling me, and showed up at my front door with B-Pain in tow. I was pajama clad and comfortably involved in Saturday college football.
"Hey, Razzy, let's go get some beers."
"I'm watching football, and I'm not dressed."
"There's football at Hank's. Put some fucking pants on and man up."
I really couldn't think of a good reason to refute that argument, since indeed they did have a TV and it's not the type of establishment with a dress code. Furthermore, Hank's was literally four blocks down the street from my house, so it wasn't hard to get to. I threw on a bra under my old Seahawks shirt, found a semi-clean pair of jeans, and met them over at the bar.
A few pitchers of beer later, and Mullah AntoniHo decided he had to go somewhere else, leaving me and B-Pain alone. I said I'd give him a ride back to my place, because he apparently lived only two blocks away from there on J Street. As soon as we got into my car (yes, I drove four blocks to the bar...I'm lazy), we started making out. I barely managed to drive home because he was literally trying to unbutton my jeans while I was trying to steer and shift, and that is a tricky maneuver in a compact automobile with a manual transmission like my Honda Civic. We got to my house and proceeded to have crazy, dirty-talking, multi-positional sex which culminated in me receiving a pearl necklace, and not the variety favored by blueblooded bitches at New England boarding schools. The next night, he dropped by and interrupted my NFL watching with rug burn-inducing sex on my living room floor.
I knew that he had a girlfriend, but I didn't really care that much. Not because I approve of cheating, but because I mind my own damn business with regard to other people's relationships. For all I know, he and his girlfriend could have had an "open relationship," they could be in the midst of breaking up, or they could be in any number of other situations. Also, if he's determined to bang other chicks, then he'll just go find some other willing partner if I decline his advances, so I may as well get some. In any event, I figured that since I didn't know his girlfriend and had no allegiance to her, managing his relationship was not my problem and I didn't need to involve myself in it by asking him all about it. If he wants to bang me behind his girl's back, that's his affair. Besides, he was totally uninhibited and surprisingly energetic for a stoner, and the sex was hot.
Then I didn't see him for awhile until Mullah AntoniHo came to town again. Just as before, they showed up when I was wearing some type of pajama-themed outfit and compelled me to go out drinking with them. So I went down to my basement to get a pair of jeans out of the dryer. While I was down there, I heard someone on the basement stairs and turned around to see a most absurd sight: B-Pain, attempting to navigate the steep, rickety stairs, with his pants around his ankles. I couldn't help it. I burst out laughing. He looked ridiculous, and not particularly sexy.
"I haven't been able to stop thinking about you. You're so hot," he said.
I raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. I thought he'd have to come up with a better line than that if he was going to make the utterly silly image of him trying to hobble awkwardly down the staircase with his dick hanging out a sexy turn-on. I decided that I was no longer interested in fucking him, so I pulled my pants out of the dryer and put them on.
"Don't put those on!" he said.
"We can't fuck right now. Mullah AntoniHo is right upstairs, and he's waiting for us." I should mention here that I had also recently slept with Mullah AntoniHo (although that's another story), and while we were fuck buddies in the truest sense of the term with no romantic relationship or commitment in the works, I wasn't trying to bounce back and forth between these two like a fucking pinball between two bumpers. I certainly wasn't going to make my slutty reputation worse by banging B-Pain for Mullah AntoniHo to possibly walk in on.
"Come on, we'll be quiet. Let's just have a quickie," he cajoled, finally descending the stairs and waddling towards me, half-tripping over his bunched-up pants, cornering me against the dryer. I deftly side-stepped him and began backing toward the stairs.
"No way, dude. I'm not comfortable with that. Besides, there are spiders down here." Spiders paralyze me with fear, and I don't like to get it on in an environment (such as my dank and cluttered basement on top of the dryer) where there is an extremely high likelihood of seeing one. I thought this was a reasonable excuse. I cut his appeals short by scampering out of the basement, taking two stairs at a time. He emerged shortly after me, with his pants back on. We never hooked up again, and I didn't mind. There were no hard feelings. I'd see him around town with his girlfriend, and she was clearly of the adoring variety, so I'd greet them politely and exchange pleasantries, and was glad that I didn't establish him as a regular screw. Although the sex was hot, his presumptuousness and his seeming lack of concern for both his friend, my declinations, and his girlfriend's devotion were really big turn-offs.
This whole incident occurred over four years ago. I hadn't thought much about it, but when Mullah AntoniHo told me he was STILL dating the same chick, I was amazed. I mean, if he would bang me so casually, I assume he has done so with other girls. I don't see how you can date a guy with such an obviously wandering eye for that long unless you either have no self-esteem, no intelligence, or no worries about him being faithful. Since Mullah AntoniHo said that even after he gave her specific examples (including his own sister) of women that B-Pain cheated on her with, she was still unwilling to believe him, I can only assume it's a combination of the first two. I'd never tolerate that kind of bullshit for a week, much less over four years. If Mullah AntoniHo does decide to forward the URL for this blog post to her as he threatened to do, then girl, let me tell you an unimpeachable fact: he will NEVER stop cheating on you. In my epic career of sluttiness I've banged lots of girls' boyfriends, and if there's one thing I've learned, it's that this is a behavior that they will never stop. However, I never get cheated on. You know why? Because on those rare occasions when I actually have a boyfriend, if I find out he's cheating, his ass gets dropped like my pants after half a bottle of scotch. So either learn to live with it or dump him and find someone who will appreciate you, because his ability to cheat is entirely up to you.
Mullah AntoniHo: so b-pain and i brawled on my b-day and now his girl is pissed at him
Razzy: why? that same girl he was going out with 4 years ago when i fucked him?
Mullah AntoniHo: same girl
Razzy: you didn't sleep with her, did you?
Mullah AntoniHo: no. we were out drinking on my birthday
Mullah AntoniHo: he was being a total dick to me, accused me of trying to fuck his girlfriend, and wouldn't shut the fuck up, so i told her about all how many times he's cheated
Razzy: serves him right for cheating
Mullah AntoniHo: then i named names and almost sent her their myspaces
Razzy: you didn't send her mine, did you?
Mullah AntoniHo: then i kicked his ass
Razzy: really? how did that work out?
Mullah AntoniHo: i went over to his house and when he opened the door i punched him and beat his ass
Razzy: good for you
Razzy: i can't believe that she hadn't caught on by now, he's obviously an incorrigible philanderer, i doubt he changed his ways...she must really be a stupid bitch
Mullah AntoniHo: she still doesn't really believe it/is in denial. she called me the next day and scolded me for telling her
Mullah AntoniHo: i have at least 4 myspace friends that he's cheated with
Razzy: what an idiot. if she's going to be that dumb she gets what she deserves
Mullah AntoniHo: you should write a blog about it
Razzy: okay, dude, i'll do it tomorrow
So, now I'm making good on my word to Mullah AntoniHo to regale the internet community with the fable of B-Pain the unrepentant cheater and his dim-witted girlfriend, and why they get what they deserve, at least from my point of view.
B-Pain was a skater/snowboarder-type who ran around all the time wearing My Name and Sage shirts (shitty Northwest bands du jour circa 1994). When he wasn't academically underperforming, he hung out with similar types at this coffee place called Bertolino Bros. down the street from our school, smoking clove cigarettes and attempting to perfect the coolness of acting blase. I thought he was kind of hot, and pre-lesbianism had a little crush on him. However, upon embracing my pain-in-the-ass feminist beliefs and transiently becoming a carpet muncher, I basically forgot about him, until about 6 years later.
When I lived in Tacoma after college, Mullah AntoniHo was living in Bellingham, where he was a professional snowboard bum, working as a lift operator or something at Mt. Baker (now he has a real grown-up job that even comes with an office). He would sometimes come down to Tacoma to visit, and when he did, he would stay at my house, since it was more of a party place than his mom's. One day he came down without telling me, and showed up at my front door with B-Pain in tow. I was pajama clad and comfortably involved in Saturday college football.
"Hey, Razzy, let's go get some beers."
"I'm watching football, and I'm not dressed."
"There's football at Hank's. Put some fucking pants on and man up."
I really couldn't think of a good reason to refute that argument, since indeed they did have a TV and it's not the type of establishment with a dress code. Furthermore, Hank's was literally four blocks down the street from my house, so it wasn't hard to get to. I threw on a bra under my old Seahawks shirt, found a semi-clean pair of jeans, and met them over at the bar.
A few pitchers of beer later, and Mullah AntoniHo decided he had to go somewhere else, leaving me and B-Pain alone. I said I'd give him a ride back to my place, because he apparently lived only two blocks away from there on J Street. As soon as we got into my car (yes, I drove four blocks to the bar...I'm lazy), we started making out. I barely managed to drive home because he was literally trying to unbutton my jeans while I was trying to steer and shift, and that is a tricky maneuver in a compact automobile with a manual transmission like my Honda Civic. We got to my house and proceeded to have crazy, dirty-talking, multi-positional sex which culminated in me receiving a pearl necklace, and not the variety favored by blueblooded bitches at New England boarding schools. The next night, he dropped by and interrupted my NFL watching with rug burn-inducing sex on my living room floor.
I knew that he had a girlfriend, but I didn't really care that much. Not because I approve of cheating, but because I mind my own damn business with regard to other people's relationships. For all I know, he and his girlfriend could have had an "open relationship," they could be in the midst of breaking up, or they could be in any number of other situations. Also, if he's determined to bang other chicks, then he'll just go find some other willing partner if I decline his advances, so I may as well get some. In any event, I figured that since I didn't know his girlfriend and had no allegiance to her, managing his relationship was not my problem and I didn't need to involve myself in it by asking him all about it. If he wants to bang me behind his girl's back, that's his affair. Besides, he was totally uninhibited and surprisingly energetic for a stoner, and the sex was hot.
Then I didn't see him for awhile until Mullah AntoniHo came to town again. Just as before, they showed up when I was wearing some type of pajama-themed outfit and compelled me to go out drinking with them. So I went down to my basement to get a pair of jeans out of the dryer. While I was down there, I heard someone on the basement stairs and turned around to see a most absurd sight: B-Pain, attempting to navigate the steep, rickety stairs, with his pants around his ankles. I couldn't help it. I burst out laughing. He looked ridiculous, and not particularly sexy.
"I haven't been able to stop thinking about you. You're so hot," he said.
I raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. I thought he'd have to come up with a better line than that if he was going to make the utterly silly image of him trying to hobble awkwardly down the staircase with his dick hanging out a sexy turn-on. I decided that I was no longer interested in fucking him, so I pulled my pants out of the dryer and put them on.
"Don't put those on!" he said.
"We can't fuck right now. Mullah AntoniHo is right upstairs, and he's waiting for us." I should mention here that I had also recently slept with Mullah AntoniHo (although that's another story), and while we were fuck buddies in the truest sense of the term with no romantic relationship or commitment in the works, I wasn't trying to bounce back and forth between these two like a fucking pinball between two bumpers. I certainly wasn't going to make my slutty reputation worse by banging B-Pain for Mullah AntoniHo to possibly walk in on.
"Come on, we'll be quiet. Let's just have a quickie," he cajoled, finally descending the stairs and waddling towards me, half-tripping over his bunched-up pants, cornering me against the dryer. I deftly side-stepped him and began backing toward the stairs.
"No way, dude. I'm not comfortable with that. Besides, there are spiders down here." Spiders paralyze me with fear, and I don't like to get it on in an environment (such as my dank and cluttered basement on top of the dryer) where there is an extremely high likelihood of seeing one. I thought this was a reasonable excuse. I cut his appeals short by scampering out of the basement, taking two stairs at a time. He emerged shortly after me, with his pants back on. We never hooked up again, and I didn't mind. There were no hard feelings. I'd see him around town with his girlfriend, and she was clearly of the adoring variety, so I'd greet them politely and exchange pleasantries, and was glad that I didn't establish him as a regular screw. Although the sex was hot, his presumptuousness and his seeming lack of concern for both his friend, my declinations, and his girlfriend's devotion were really big turn-offs.
This whole incident occurred over four years ago. I hadn't thought much about it, but when Mullah AntoniHo told me he was STILL dating the same chick, I was amazed. I mean, if he would bang me so casually, I assume he has done so with other girls. I don't see how you can date a guy with such an obviously wandering eye for that long unless you either have no self-esteem, no intelligence, or no worries about him being faithful. Since Mullah AntoniHo said that even after he gave her specific examples (including his own sister) of women that B-Pain cheated on her with, she was still unwilling to believe him, I can only assume it's a combination of the first two. I'd never tolerate that kind of bullshit for a week, much less over four years. If Mullah AntoniHo does decide to forward the URL for this blog post to her as he threatened to do, then girl, let me tell you an unimpeachable fact: he will NEVER stop cheating on you. In my epic career of sluttiness I've banged lots of girls' boyfriends, and if there's one thing I've learned, it's that this is a behavior that they will never stop. However, I never get cheated on. You know why? Because on those rare occasions when I actually have a boyfriend, if I find out he's cheating, his ass gets dropped like my pants after half a bottle of scotch. So either learn to live with it or dump him and find someone who will appreciate you, because his ability to cheat is entirely up to you.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Breaking up is hard to do, but rejecting assholes is easy
I haven't been in an exclusive relationship with a guy since 2004. For one thing, I don't really have time. I don't see my friends often enough, so I don't know how I'd be able to make time for a monogamous relationship. Those require nurturing and way more attention than I have to give right now. For another, I'm the type of girl that guys like to bang and drink beers with, but when it comes down to it, many of them would rather bring somebody more ladylike and compliant home to meet their mothers. I'm just too aggressive, too loud, and too macho for many of them to handle as anything but a righteous lay and/or a drinking buddy. Most guys are either intimidated by me, or prefer to pursue long-term relationships with women more demure than me. However, this is not a complaint, because I'm quite content being single. I never have to clean my apartment, my dogs never have to spend the night alone (thus preventing them from destroying most of my personal possessions, which is their favorite form of protest against neglect), and my schedule and lifestyle are entirely my own. In fact, I like the freedom afforded by being unattached so much that I've decided to apply it to every aspect of my life. My love of my own independence is why I'm now attempting to end one relationship I've been in going on almost 15 years now. It's a horrible relationship, one that sucks my wallet dry, makes me feel like shit, drives me insane with longing when I am separated from it, and controls me completely.
I'm talking, of course, about my relationship with cigarettes. I had my first cigarette at 11 (a Salem Ultra Light 100), started really smoking by 13, and was up to a pack of Marlboro Reds per day by 16. In college, after a brief dalliance with Camel Reds, I switched to the bitch sticks that have been my undoing ever since: Parliament Lights. Because they are light cigarettes, I smoke them all the time. I smoke when I first wake up in the morning, I smoke after I walk the dogs, I smoke after the gym, I smoke as soon as I get home from work, I smoke after I eat, I smoke while I drink, I smoke after sex, I smoke right before I go to bed. I smoke ALL THE FUCKING TIME, and I absolutely hate and despise it. It makes me stink like an ashtray, it bleeds me dry financially, it makes my hands yellow, it makes my skin break out, and it makes me lie to my parents ("uh, no, Mom, I'm not smoking anymore" as I hold the phone away while I take a drag so she can't hear it).
There is nothing else in my life that is out of my control, except for this blindingly powerful addiction. I am a fucking nicotine junkie. So last week, after seeing yet another commercial of a dude with no larynx talking through his throat stoma, I decided to once again dare the dread course which has thwarted me so many times: I decided to quit smoking. I am breaking up with Parliament Lights, because I don't want to look like this in 5 years:
I'm talking, of course, about my relationship with cigarettes. I had my first cigarette at 11 (a Salem Ultra Light 100), started really smoking by 13, and was up to a pack of Marlboro Reds per day by 16. In college, after a brief dalliance with Camel Reds, I switched to the bitch sticks that have been my undoing ever since: Parliament Lights. Because they are light cigarettes, I smoke them all the time. I smoke when I first wake up in the morning, I smoke after I walk the dogs, I smoke after the gym, I smoke as soon as I get home from work, I smoke after I eat, I smoke while I drink, I smoke after sex, I smoke right before I go to bed. I smoke ALL THE FUCKING TIME, and I absolutely hate and despise it. It makes me stink like an ashtray, it bleeds me dry financially, it makes my hands yellow, it makes my skin break out, and it makes me lie to my parents ("uh, no, Mom, I'm not smoking anymore" as I hold the phone away while I take a drag so she can't hear it).
There is nothing else in my life that is out of my control, except for this blindingly powerful addiction. I am a fucking nicotine junkie. So last week, after seeing yet another commercial of a dude with no larynx talking through his throat stoma, I decided to once again dare the dread course which has thwarted me so many times: I decided to quit smoking. I am breaking up with Parliament Lights, because I don't want to look like this in 5 years:
Granted, Aileen Wuornos looks particularly careworn on account of years spent sleeping under highway overpasses and hooking on rural Floridian trucker routes, but you bet your ass that if I keep up with the smokes, my hair will be equally lank, my teeth equally rotten, and my face equally sallow and strung-out (although hopefully I won't be mean-mugging everyone with the same crazed serial killer expression). I am at the point where I can reverse my inevitable decline into looking like a female death row inmate on methamphetamine, but I have to quit NOW.
As of today, I've gone 5 days with no cigarettes, and things are not going well. I'm cranky, anxious, and have a splitting headache. I am restless and can't sleep well. Even though I'm using the patch, it's not the same as cigarettes. Right now I feel like the only way the patch will be of any use to me is if I can roll it up and smoke it. Whenever I pass someone smoking, I want to rip the cigarette out of their hand and start sucking on it greedily. I even caught myself looking covetously at the cigarette butts floating in an overflowing storm drain this morning. Right now I just keep repeating a litany of "I'm a non-smoker, I'm a non-smoker" to myself in the hopes that I will eventually believe it and stop obsessing about cigarettes constantly. Without cigarettes, I am a wrathful and hot-tempered RAGING BITCH, and not to be trifled with. Goading me antagonistically or attempting to seduce me with poorly crafted insults is very ill-advised.
Unfortunately, that's exactly what this guy did yesterday. There was a party for this postdoc from another lab, and there was beer there. I said I was just going to drop by for a minute to eat some free Indian food. Then, I decided I was just going to have one beer. Three beers and a glass of wine later, and J-Sexy and I decided that we were going to go over to this guy's apartment and drink more. The buzz I had going relieved some of my anxiety and discomfort from cigarette withdrawal, and J-Sexy assured me that she would vigorously prevent me from smoking should I be tempted. Even though the guy hosting us had some rather negative history with me, we were getting along fine, and I didn't anticipate any problems.
Three years ago, when I came to New York for grad school interviews, I hooked up with this guy, a fellow interviewee. We ended up not having sex because we didn't have any condoms, and it was 4 a.m. and my ass wasn't getting dressed to find an all-night drugstore. I said, "No problem, we can still fool around."
"Just so you know, I'm Jamaican and I don't do that," he said. (This guy is Jamaican-American...he is as Jamaican as I am Norwegian).
"Do what?" I asked.
"I don't go down on girls."
"So...you just expect me to give you a blow job and you won't do shit for me?"
"I'm Jamaican. We don't do that." At the time, I was totally unsympathetic regarding his alleged cultural restriction for pussy eating, and needless to say, that motherfucker did not get head from me that night. I don't always adhere to the Lil' Kim policy of "If you ain't lickin this, you ain't stickin this," but I'm certainly not going to fellate someone who declares up front that they won't under any circumstances reciprocate.
Once I started school, I told J-Sexy and several of our other female classmates about this incident, and the word spread. I considered it a public service to warn fellow loose women, since he seemed to be hooking up with half of our first-year class. He confronted me about this at a party, where he vociferously blamed me for cockblocking him with the other graduate students. I was unapologetic, and told him that's what he gets for not being interested in pleasing his partners. Then, unbelievably, he said, "So are we going to go fuck or what?"
"Or what!" I exclaimed, and ditched his company immediately. I'm not interested in hooking up with a dude who is so obviously proud of being a selfish lover. Our interactions since then have been mainly polite and perfunctory greetings when we run into each other around campus or at social functions. Enough time had passed that I figured bygones were bygones, and we could drink beer in a social setting and play nicely together.
I figured wrong. Once we got to his place, he brought up the whole oral sex issue again for the benefit of all the people gathered there. J-Sexy and C-Money disputed his assertion that this refusal to eat pussy was a Jamaican custom, and they are both actually from Jamaica. To authenticate his Jamaican street cred, he started talking in patois and was really pissed when C-Money said that my patois pronunciations were better than his when I told him to "gwan den, bwoy." "Mi rasta," he said. "Dat gyal (meaning me) no fi ti no dey speak lak in Kingston." I called him a bumbaclot. This encounter erupted into a massive argument, and on account of the many beers I'd consumed and my non-smoking moodiness, we were trading insults like a couple of three-year-olds. I decided to leave.
He walked out with me, and while I waited for the elevator, unbelievably tried to hook up with me again! I told him to go to hell. "Do you think I'm fucking stupid?" I asked. "Do you think you can spend all night picking on me and fighting with me and I'll be falling all over myself to suck your fucking dick? Don't insult my fucking intelligence!" He then swore that he would go down on me. "Oh, so you don't care about your fucking principles anymore?" I asked. He said that he was just saying that, and that he didn't mean it. Then he tried to kiss me. I smacked him in the sternum and pushed him away from me and declared him "fucking insane." I was so angry that he was wasting my time and actually had the audacity to assume that I would inevitably want to fuck him. I shouted, "Well, I don't fuck people who change their stories every five minutes to get what they want, you DISINGENUOUS PRICK! I'm LEAVING! Get out of my way!"
As I stormed home, I realized that if anything was accomplished by this hostile exchange, it was that it made me forget entirely that I wanted a cigarette desperately. For anyone trying to quit smoking, I highly recommend getting into a screaming match with a ridiculous guy who actually just wants to fuck you, so that you can win the fight by rejecting his ass. It's not as satisfying as feeding your addiction, but at least it's an interesting distraction.
Labels: Rxxx Sxxxxxx
Monday, June 12, 2006
Here is what happens when you let your kid use MySpace unsupervised
Today I found this appropriate and timely piece of news on CNN.com about a dumb teenager whose parents didn't monitor her MySpace usage. Take note, Paula James:
MySpace teen is back in her space at home
Paula should also note that in the article it mentions that 13-year-olds are NOT EVEN ALLOWED TO USE MYSPACE! Therefore, she can hardly blame me for the fact that her kid found RAZZY.org there when he's not EVEN SUPPOSED TO BE ON THAT SITE! Again, bitch, parent your fucking kid, lest he end up stealing away to Palestine for some hot pedophile action.
MySpace teen is back in her space at home
Paula should also note that in the article it mentions that 13-year-olds are NOT EVEN ALLOWED TO USE MYSPACE! Therefore, she can hardly blame me for the fact that her kid found RAZZY.org there when he's not EVEN SUPPOSED TO BE ON THAT SITE! Again, bitch, parent your fucking kid, lest he end up stealing away to Palestine for some hot pedophile action.
Threats don't scare me, either from Paula James or Danish privateers
I thought that my detailed analysis of on point case law regarding Paula James's chances of taking me to court on slander and obscenity charges would have beaten her into submission. Apparently, the bitch just can't get enough abuse, so she e-mailed me again:
To: razzy@razzy.org
From: brianandjensmom@yahoo.com
I see that you don't care about a law suit and you should because you are not a lawyer and you don't have one. You won't find one who will stupe to defending your filthy and obscene web site. Another mom who signed my petition, her brother is a lawyer, he is one of the best in KS and he is going to work on this for us or if he can't will refer us to another good lawyer who will. I wish you would take me seriously but since you won't we will proceed with legal actions. If you looked at the petition you will see there are lots of other moms who agree with me about your web site, the number grows every day!! We will force you out of buisness and start with making you take my name and e mail off your web site! Its obvious you don't take me seriously but I promise you will. You should know better then to mess with a mom who loves her kids and will do any thing to protect them.
Paula James
I went and looked at the petition, and as of today there are 15 total signatures. However, I suspect that "Kim Il Jong," "Jack Zoff," "Jesus of Nazareth," "ronald wilson reagan," and "nacho libre" do not represent other concerned mothers rallying around Paula's cause. Even though it appears some heavy hitters of the railroad and oil industries wish to have me locked up in "shackles made of Reardon Metal" and some Scandinavian pirate suggests keelhauling me (ouch!), they wish me more misfortune than a mere lawsuit, and I ain't skerred. Other than recruiting the barons of industry who are so outraged about my site they "want to burn down (their) own oil fields," Paula has found four other seemingly authentic saggy vaginas who hate my website and are willing to wage this futile campaign against me. It looks like I'm squarely in the crosshairs of a bunch of some real power players whose skills (other than negligent parenting) include making Rice Krispie treats and driving Kia minivans.
I am SHAKING in my stiletto-heeled boots that one of these bitches has a brother who is a lawyer, and one of the best in Kansas at that. I'm SO fearful that one of the top barristers in a state so fucking backwards that they teach creationism in public schools is going to consider taking this case. Except he won't, since PAULA JAMES HAS NO FUCKING CASE, except possibly a case of staggering idiocy and mental retardation. Although she's right about me not being a lawyer, I am unconcerned. Since I've probably fucked more lawyers than Paula's friend has bar card-carrying brothers, should I need to retain counsel, I'm sure I can find one who will not only "stupe" to my level, but will be able to spell "stoop" correctly.
Give it up, Paula. You're not doing anything to protect your stupid son by letting him dick around on the internet all day by himself. It's also apparent that apart from your three or four friends, nobody gives a shit about your crusade to shut me down, either. While you're busy firing off poorly written empty threats to me, your son is probably jerking off to Russian homeless people fucking at dam-hobos.com, hitting the Beaver Bong ("it's 4:20...got beaver?"), receiving virtual abuse courtesy of the Mean Bitches, searching for hotter bitches than you with the MILF Hunter, marveling at the sheer volume of the female ejaculation featured at squirters.tv, or being horrified, revolted, and generally grossed the fuck out by Brazilian whores shitting into each others mouths. I found all these websites by Googling "weird or disgusting porn sites," so imagine what your fucking kid has access to. You should be thanking me that he was looking at something as wholesome and family-friendly as RAZZY.org, you stupid, stupid cunt.
To: razzy@razzy.org
From: brianandjensmom@yahoo.com
I see that you don't care about a law suit and you should because you are not a lawyer and you don't have one. You won't find one who will stupe to defending your filthy and obscene web site. Another mom who signed my petition, her brother is a lawyer, he is one of the best in KS and he is going to work on this for us or if he can't will refer us to another good lawyer who will. I wish you would take me seriously but since you won't we will proceed with legal actions. If you looked at the petition you will see there are lots of other moms who agree with me about your web site, the number grows every day!! We will force you out of buisness and start with making you take my name and e mail off your web site! Its obvious you don't take me seriously but I promise you will. You should know better then to mess with a mom who loves her kids and will do any thing to protect them.
Paula James
I went and looked at the petition, and as of today there are 15 total signatures. However, I suspect that "Kim Il Jong," "Jack Zoff," "Jesus of Nazareth," "ronald wilson reagan," and "nacho libre" do not represent other concerned mothers rallying around Paula's cause. Even though it appears some heavy hitters of the railroad and oil industries wish to have me locked up in "shackles made of Reardon Metal" and some Scandinavian pirate suggests keelhauling me (ouch!), they wish me more misfortune than a mere lawsuit, and I ain't skerred. Other than recruiting the barons of industry who are so outraged about my site they "want to burn down (their) own oil fields," Paula has found four other seemingly authentic saggy vaginas who hate my website and are willing to wage this futile campaign against me. It looks like I'm squarely in the crosshairs of a bunch of some real power players whose skills (other than negligent parenting) include making Rice Krispie treats and driving Kia minivans.
I am SHAKING in my stiletto-heeled boots that one of these bitches has a brother who is a lawyer, and one of the best in Kansas at that. I'm SO fearful that one of the top barristers in a state so fucking backwards that they teach creationism in public schools is going to consider taking this case. Except he won't, since PAULA JAMES HAS NO FUCKING CASE, except possibly a case of staggering idiocy and mental retardation. Although she's right about me not being a lawyer, I am unconcerned. Since I've probably fucked more lawyers than Paula's friend has bar card-carrying brothers, should I need to retain counsel, I'm sure I can find one who will not only "stupe" to my level, but will be able to spell "stoop" correctly.
Give it up, Paula. You're not doing anything to protect your stupid son by letting him dick around on the internet all day by himself. It's also apparent that apart from your three or four friends, nobody gives a shit about your crusade to shut me down, either. While you're busy firing off poorly written empty threats to me, your son is probably jerking off to Russian homeless people fucking at dam-hobos.com, hitting the Beaver Bong ("it's 4:20...got beaver?"), receiving virtual abuse courtesy of the Mean Bitches, searching for hotter bitches than you with the MILF Hunter, marveling at the sheer volume of the female ejaculation featured at squirters.tv, or being horrified, revolted, and generally grossed the fuck out by Brazilian whores shitting into each others mouths. I found all these websites by Googling "weird or disgusting porn sites," so imagine what your fucking kid has access to. You should be thanking me that he was looking at something as wholesome and family-friendly as RAZZY.org, you stupid, stupid cunt.
Friday, June 09, 2006
Kate and Camilla go live
KatieScarlett and BloodyTosser have now expanded their nerve.com repertoire to include a weekly video blog. Even though they don't need help promoting it (since unbelievably nerve.com gets a lot more traffic than RAZZY.org...I guess I need more artsy titty shots and pretentious essays analyzing independent films to compete), I figured I would give them a shout out anyway. Besides, there's a brief shot of me drunkenly can-canning with my tits, and I know you all want to see that.
http://www.nervevideo.com/kateandcamilla/001/video.aspx?videoitemId=10
(Here is the link. I intended to embed the actual video, but nerve is fucked up and their code keeps embedding some clip for some porn cartoon that sucks. I could fix it if I weren't so fucking technologically inept, but since I am, above is the link. You don't have to be a nerve premium member or anything, so go check it out, if only to marvel at the fact that Kate is the only person in the world who can pull off a seersucker blazer.)
http://www.nervevideo.com/kateandcamilla/001/video.aspx?videoitemId=10
(Here is the link. I intended to embed the actual video, but nerve is fucked up and their code keeps embedding some clip for some porn cartoon that sucks. I could fix it if I weren't so fucking technologically inept, but since I am, above is the link. You don't have to be a nerve premium member or anything, so go check it out, if only to marvel at the fact that Kate is the only person in the world who can pull off a seersucker blazer.)
Thursday, June 08, 2006
The MTV Movie Awards in real time
I'm not normally an award show watcher. I always just watch the red carpets to see what everyone is wearing, and then catch the key moments via the miracle of the internet. However, MTV award shows are another story. The folks at MTV supplant all the lengthy, tearful speeches and self-righteous celebrations of the arts with shameless corporate promotion and young stars in hot outfits acting like assholes. MTV's genius producers don't fuck around. They just get right down to doing what they do best: entertaining teenagers and twentysomething graduate students in Smith College jogging shorts drinking beer and eating Lean Cuisine on their couches. Therefore, since I know that everyone else probably has something better to do than sit around watching this crap, I'll diligently relate all the awesomeness that transpired at this year's MTV Movie Awards, hosted by the sexy but otherwise untalented Jessica Alba.
9:00-The show kicks off with a stupid skit, featuring Topher Grace (who I always think is Tobey McGuire...I was convinced that's who this was for the first several minutes) threatening Flavor Flav with a squirt gun of piss. The only good thing about this was that Flavor Flav has duct tape over his mouth, thus preventing a view of his cheap-ass grill and him shouting "Yeeah, boyyyyyyy!" incessantly. How this makes us excited to see Jessica Alba's opening monologue (involving a series of lame jokes about how she's the most downloaded woman on the internet) is beyond me.
9:10-Christian Bale gets the award for "Best Hero" for his performance in the INSANELY boring Batman Begins. I don't care about the award, though, because Christian Bale may be one of the hottest guys on the planet. Tall, built, sporting a sexualicious Welsh accent...the only thing unattractive about him is the fact that he's married.
9:21 p.m.-Colin Farrell and Jamie Smarmy Bitch Foxx show up to present the "Best Fight" award/plug Miami Vice. Camera cuts to rumored one-time Colin Farrell lay Rosario Dawson, applauding wildly. Clearly the rumors are true, and I don't blame her. Colin Farrell is FUCKING HOT. Unfortunately, his good looks are ruined by Jamie Foxx next to him attempting to act ghetto "Who wants-a fight me? Oh lawdy, Jessica Simpson gon' get all gangsta!" Then he makes a bad Nick Lachey joke. God, what a tool. And he has a dent in the back of his head. Where is R. Kelly to serve this asshole a hot slice of humility?
9:30 p.m.-Thank God, Justin Timberlake has a new album coming out next year. FINALLY. I've been dying from more lyrics like those on his previous brilliant contribution, Justified. He and Eva Mendes make some tired "ranch hand job" jokes about Brokeback Mountain while guffawing like a pair of hyenas. The camera cuts to Jake Gyllenhaal giggling awkwardly about their borderline offensively homophobic fag jokes. However, they are redeemed when they present Jake and Heath with the "Best Kiss" award. Justin shrugs and says, "It's the fellas." Jake is clearly delighted to finally accept an award after being totally shafted during the serious award shows, since Heath got all the praise for being the top. Heath isn't at the show, and they don't even bother with giving him a video clip to say thanks, so it's Jake's night to shine.
9:34 p.m.-Jimmy Fallon shows up in full Da Vinci Code Tom Hanks overgelled professor mullet to help Jessica Alba desperately struggle through carrying the viewers' interest. Good thing she's hot, because otherwise this shit would be entirely unwatchable. Once Andy Dick shows up playing the self-flagellating murderous albino monk, I decide that this skit sucks. I go take a piss.
9:41-Ali G shows up to mock Kazakhstanians everywhere. He is funny, and I laugh out loud: "Good evening, gentlemans and prostitutes. But I love the movies of Hollywood. Jessica Simpsons, you were great in the Lords of Hazzards. You have beautiful mouth. I could see it through your denim shorts."
9:45-Gnarls Barkley performs dressed as Darth Vader, minus the helmet. Finally Darth is actually portrayed as the mammoth black man he's always sounded like. Except Gnarls doesn't sound like James Earl Jones at all. Weird and incongruous.
9:55-Hayden Christensen gets the "Best Villain" award, and what a skinny, effete hipster bitch he is! Gnarls Barkley wore that Darth Vader suit better than Hayden Christensen ever did. He's dressed like a horrid cross between Lance Bass and the sailor from the Village People. He is rocking a gold sailor-braid trimmed trucker hat! He must have called his stylist and said, “Dress me in whatever you’d like, so long as it involves a pair of bedazzled True Religion jeans and makes me look like I got dressed in a very dark, very gay closet.” Like the one he lives in.
10:00-And speaking of leading men on the down low, Jake Gyllenhaal is cleaning up with the “Best Performance” award. Take that, Heath! I mean, Heath got all the critical recognition (the Best Actor Oscar nod, the Golden Globe and whatnot), but MTV’s audience doesn’t even seem to care that Heath Ledger is nowhere to be found. Tonight is Jake's night, and he doesn't even have any of his ugly girlfriends around to cockblock him with the fellas.
10:05-Famke Janssen and Rebecca Romijn nee Stamos threaten to strip and paint each other. Not that Famke needs it with that overdone Mystic Tan. Seriously, lay off the fake-and-bake, girl, you look like a candied yam! And her dress looks like something Martin Lawrence would have donned in Big Momma's House. Jessica Alba gets the award for "Sexiest Performance" in Sin City. An easy win, considering she was up against Rob Schneider in Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo! That's like sticking some tweeker's paint-by-number of the late Dale Earnhardt next to the Mona Lisa and asking which is the more valuable piece of art. Come on! This isn't even a contest.
10:09-ANOTHER piece of Jessica Alba sketch comedy? That bitch might be ridiculously hot, but she can’t act worth shit, and her attempts at comedy are worse than Britney Spears’s attempts at dieting. She certainly can’t pull off being King Kong's drunken negligee-wearing realtor. Yes, that was the premise of the skit. She didn't make it convincing.
10:12-OH MY GOD, IT’S T.I.! Cue the “What You Know” entrance music! T.I. is scowlingly hot-hot-HOT as usual, and there’s no one standing next to him, so you can’t tell how short he is. However, mothefucker needs to learn how to enunciate! His introduction to Christina Aguilera’s performance sounds like, “Yeeeah, mumble mumble Bankhead! Mumble mumble mumble Steenagalaa. Putcho' hands up.”
10:13-Enter Xtina, who looks great, albeit with just a hint of trannishness. I also kind of like her song. Well, I don’t hate it, so that’s saying something. You go girl!
10:17-The crowd loves Christina, as they should. She sang and danced her gorgeous ass off, and generally gave a solid performance. The camera cuts to Jessica Simpson, who is laughing fakely, looking more beat than a stripper after a Duke lacrosse party in contrast to Xtina’s new Bettie Page-meets-Marilyn Monroe look. You can just see Jessica saying “I hate that bitch” with her eyes.
10:24-Steve Carrell wins for “Best Comedic Performance,” and thanks Jonas Salk in his acceptance speech for his efforts at developing a vaccine against a certain sexy neurotropic picornavirus that was paralyzing stupid kids left and right 50 years ago. Yes! Shout out to polio! My lab's O.G. virus is STILL RELEVANT! Take that, measles, mumps, and rubella!
10:30-Spike Lee gets a lifetime achievement award for Do the Right Thing. Well, actually, it’s the “Silver Bucket of Excellence” award. L.L. Cool J credits him with being the best black man ever since Dr. MLK, Jr. Upon taking the stage to accept the award, Spike’s first order of business is comparing the silver bucket trophy to the Stanley Cup. Nothing screams “black power” like referencing hockey. He then credits Public Enemy for his success, sending Flavor Flav into a “Flay-vor FLAV”-ing frenzy.
10:40-Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock come out to promote their new movie The Lake House (which looks about as enjoyable as a herpes outbreak) and remind everyone that they were in Speed together. This in turn reminds me that I hated them then, and I hate them now. Their forced banter makes me want to put a plastic bag over my head and tie it tight. Then they present the award for "Best Onscreen Team," and I am outraged when Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn beat Harry, Ron, and Hermione for this honor. They fought He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named...Lord Fucking Voldemort, for Chrissake! All Vince and Owen did was show up and act like Vince and Owen. This is the biggest bullshit I've seen since Super Bowl XL.
10:43-Jessica Simpson's dress is HIDEOUS. She looks like she got dressed in some dirty hippie's stank wall tapestry and cinched it with a backward-facing weight-lifting belt. I'm relieved when she finally introduces AFI, so that I no longer have to look at her any longer lest my eyes melt out of their sockets. At least her stank sister doesn't seem to be in attendance.
10:44-To the lead singer of AFI: dude, lay off the blue eyeshadow. You look like the bastard spawn of Anthony Kiedis and Dame Edna.
10:52-Rosario Dawson comes out with Ludacris to present the award for "Best Frightened Performance," and is introduced as "the star of Clerks 2." Isn't that bitch getting better work than THAT? Clerks 2?!
10:55-Will Ferrell presents the "MTV Generation" award to Jim Carrey. Ferrell states that on the basis of his performance in Ace Ventura:Pet Detective, Carrey "makes Thomas Jefferson look like a big fat asshole."
11:09-Who gives a flying sideways reverse cowgirl fuck about the "Student Film Award"? Move on, MTV! I'm getting bored!
11:10-Samuel L. Jackson shows up to give the "Best Movie" award and then guarantees that his upcoming summer film Snakes on a Plane will win the same award next year: "No MO-vie shall triumph over Snakes on a Plane unless I DE-cide to make a movie called Mo Mothafuckin Snakes on Another Mothafuckin Plane!" Scenes from the nominated films (Sin City, King Kong, Wedding Crashers, Batman Begins) are then shown to the tune of Bubba Sparxx's "Ms. New Booty." Wedding Crashers wins.
11:14-Jessica Alba wishes everyone good night, then tells the kids to follow their dreams and they might one day end up following in the hallowed footsteps of her, Lindsay Lohan, Sarah Michelle Gellar, and Kirsten Dunst: hosting the MTV Movie Awards.
Fucking awesome.
9:00-The show kicks off with a stupid skit, featuring Topher Grace (who I always think is Tobey McGuire...I was convinced that's who this was for the first several minutes) threatening Flavor Flav with a squirt gun of piss. The only good thing about this was that Flavor Flav has duct tape over his mouth, thus preventing a view of his cheap-ass grill and him shouting "Yeeah, boyyyyyyy!" incessantly. How this makes us excited to see Jessica Alba's opening monologue (involving a series of lame jokes about how she's the most downloaded woman on the internet) is beyond me.
9:10-Christian Bale gets the award for "Best Hero" for his performance in the INSANELY boring Batman Begins. I don't care about the award, though, because Christian Bale may be one of the hottest guys on the planet. Tall, built, sporting a sexualicious Welsh accent...the only thing unattractive about him is the fact that he's married.
9:21 p.m.-Colin Farrell and Jamie Smarmy Bitch Foxx show up to present the "Best Fight" award/plug Miami Vice. Camera cuts to rumored one-time Colin Farrell lay Rosario Dawson, applauding wildly. Clearly the rumors are true, and I don't blame her. Colin Farrell is FUCKING HOT. Unfortunately, his good looks are ruined by Jamie Foxx next to him attempting to act ghetto "Who wants-a fight me? Oh lawdy, Jessica Simpson gon' get all gangsta!" Then he makes a bad Nick Lachey joke. God, what a tool. And he has a dent in the back of his head. Where is R. Kelly to serve this asshole a hot slice of humility?
9:30 p.m.-Thank God, Justin Timberlake has a new album coming out next year. FINALLY. I've been dying from more lyrics like those on his previous brilliant contribution, Justified. He and Eva Mendes make some tired "ranch hand job" jokes about Brokeback Mountain while guffawing like a pair of hyenas. The camera cuts to Jake Gyllenhaal giggling awkwardly about their borderline offensively homophobic fag jokes. However, they are redeemed when they present Jake and Heath with the "Best Kiss" award. Justin shrugs and says, "It's the fellas." Jake is clearly delighted to finally accept an award after being totally shafted during the serious award shows, since Heath got all the praise for being the top. Heath isn't at the show, and they don't even bother with giving him a video clip to say thanks, so it's Jake's night to shine.
9:34 p.m.-Jimmy Fallon shows up in full Da Vinci Code Tom Hanks overgelled professor mullet to help Jessica Alba desperately struggle through carrying the viewers' interest. Good thing she's hot, because otherwise this shit would be entirely unwatchable. Once Andy Dick shows up playing the self-flagellating murderous albino monk, I decide that this skit sucks. I go take a piss.
9:41-Ali G shows up to mock Kazakhstanians everywhere. He is funny, and I laugh out loud: "Good evening, gentlemans and prostitutes. But I love the movies of Hollywood. Jessica Simpsons, you were great in the Lords of Hazzards. You have beautiful mouth. I could see it through your denim shorts."
9:45-Gnarls Barkley performs dressed as Darth Vader, minus the helmet. Finally Darth is actually portrayed as the mammoth black man he's always sounded like. Except Gnarls doesn't sound like James Earl Jones at all. Weird and incongruous.
9:55-Hayden Christensen gets the "Best Villain" award, and what a skinny, effete hipster bitch he is! Gnarls Barkley wore that Darth Vader suit better than Hayden Christensen ever did. He's dressed like a horrid cross between Lance Bass and the sailor from the Village People. He is rocking a gold sailor-braid trimmed trucker hat! He must have called his stylist and said, “Dress me in whatever you’d like, so long as it involves a pair of bedazzled True Religion jeans and makes me look like I got dressed in a very dark, very gay closet.” Like the one he lives in.
10:00-And speaking of leading men on the down low, Jake Gyllenhaal is cleaning up with the “Best Performance” award. Take that, Heath! I mean, Heath got all the critical recognition (the Best Actor Oscar nod, the Golden Globe and whatnot), but MTV’s audience doesn’t even seem to care that Heath Ledger is nowhere to be found. Tonight is Jake's night, and he doesn't even have any of his ugly girlfriends around to cockblock him with the fellas.
10:05-Famke Janssen and Rebecca Romijn nee Stamos threaten to strip and paint each other. Not that Famke needs it with that overdone Mystic Tan. Seriously, lay off the fake-and-bake, girl, you look like a candied yam! And her dress looks like something Martin Lawrence would have donned in Big Momma's House. Jessica Alba gets the award for "Sexiest Performance" in Sin City. An easy win, considering she was up against Rob Schneider in Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo! That's like sticking some tweeker's paint-by-number of the late Dale Earnhardt next to the Mona Lisa and asking which is the more valuable piece of art. Come on! This isn't even a contest.
10:09-ANOTHER piece of Jessica Alba sketch comedy? That bitch might be ridiculously hot, but she can’t act worth shit, and her attempts at comedy are worse than Britney Spears’s attempts at dieting. She certainly can’t pull off being King Kong's drunken negligee-wearing realtor. Yes, that was the premise of the skit. She didn't make it convincing.
10:12-OH MY GOD, IT’S T.I.! Cue the “What You Know” entrance music! T.I. is scowlingly hot-hot-HOT as usual, and there’s no one standing next to him, so you can’t tell how short he is. However, mothefucker needs to learn how to enunciate! His introduction to Christina Aguilera’s performance sounds like, “Yeeeah, mumble mumble Bankhead! Mumble mumble mumble Steenagalaa. Putcho' hands up.”
10:13-Enter Xtina, who looks great, albeit with just a hint of trannishness. I also kind of like her song. Well, I don’t hate it, so that’s saying something. You go girl!
10:17-The crowd loves Christina, as they should. She sang and danced her gorgeous ass off, and generally gave a solid performance. The camera cuts to Jessica Simpson, who is laughing fakely, looking more beat than a stripper after a Duke lacrosse party in contrast to Xtina’s new Bettie Page-meets-Marilyn Monroe look. You can just see Jessica saying “I hate that bitch” with her eyes.
10:24-Steve Carrell wins for “Best Comedic Performance,” and thanks Jonas Salk in his acceptance speech for his efforts at developing a vaccine against a certain sexy neurotropic picornavirus that was paralyzing stupid kids left and right 50 years ago. Yes! Shout out to polio! My lab's O.G. virus is STILL RELEVANT! Take that, measles, mumps, and rubella!
10:30-Spike Lee gets a lifetime achievement award for Do the Right Thing. Well, actually, it’s the “Silver Bucket of Excellence” award. L.L. Cool J credits him with being the best black man ever since Dr. MLK, Jr. Upon taking the stage to accept the award, Spike’s first order of business is comparing the silver bucket trophy to the Stanley Cup. Nothing screams “black power” like referencing hockey. He then credits Public Enemy for his success, sending Flavor Flav into a “Flay-vor FLAV”-ing frenzy.
10:40-Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock come out to promote their new movie The Lake House (which looks about as enjoyable as a herpes outbreak) and remind everyone that they were in Speed together. This in turn reminds me that I hated them then, and I hate them now. Their forced banter makes me want to put a plastic bag over my head and tie it tight. Then they present the award for "Best Onscreen Team," and I am outraged when Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn beat Harry, Ron, and Hermione for this honor. They fought He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named...Lord Fucking Voldemort, for Chrissake! All Vince and Owen did was show up and act like Vince and Owen. This is the biggest bullshit I've seen since Super Bowl XL.
10:43-Jessica Simpson's dress is HIDEOUS. She looks like she got dressed in some dirty hippie's stank wall tapestry and cinched it with a backward-facing weight-lifting belt. I'm relieved when she finally introduces AFI, so that I no longer have to look at her any longer lest my eyes melt out of their sockets. At least her stank sister doesn't seem to be in attendance.
10:44-To the lead singer of AFI: dude, lay off the blue eyeshadow. You look like the bastard spawn of Anthony Kiedis and Dame Edna.
10:52-Rosario Dawson comes out with Ludacris to present the award for "Best Frightened Performance," and is introduced as "the star of Clerks 2." Isn't that bitch getting better work than THAT? Clerks 2?!
10:55-Will Ferrell presents the "MTV Generation" award to Jim Carrey. Ferrell states that on the basis of his performance in Ace Ventura:Pet Detective, Carrey "makes Thomas Jefferson look like a big fat asshole."
11:09-Who gives a flying sideways reverse cowgirl fuck about the "Student Film Award"? Move on, MTV! I'm getting bored!
11:10-Samuel L. Jackson shows up to give the "Best Movie" award and then guarantees that his upcoming summer film Snakes on a Plane will win the same award next year: "No MO-vie shall triumph over Snakes on a Plane unless I DE-cide to make a movie called Mo Mothafuckin Snakes on Another Mothafuckin Plane!" Scenes from the nominated films (Sin City, King Kong, Wedding Crashers, Batman Begins) are then shown to the tune of Bubba Sparxx's "Ms. New Booty." Wedding Crashers wins.
11:14-Jessica Alba wishes everyone good night, then tells the kids to follow their dreams and they might one day end up following in the hallowed footsteps of her, Lindsay Lohan, Sarah Michelle Gellar, and Kirsten Dunst: hosting the MTV Movie Awards.
Fucking awesome.
Historical Razzy battles with censorship: a page from the Smith College archives
In college, my extracurricular activity was working for the school paper, The Sophian. This publication was a TOTAL shitshow, because we spent most of the time that we were "putting it to bed" drinking copious quantities of PBR and smoking pot in our unused darkroom. It was great fun. Without The Sophian I wouldn't have met LL Cool Jew, Wmania, or JerseyGirl, I wouldn't have discovered my calling for exhibitionism, and most importantly, I wouldn't have appreciated the cathartic joy of ranting and raving in a public forum. By my senior year, I was so good at this that I was given half of the Op/Ed page for my own column, appropriately titled "Angie's Weekly Rant," where I went off on whatever was pissing me off any given week. Last night I was leafing through my old clippings, and realized that many of them are along the lines of "fuck off, don't censor us." Given all the recent Paula James hijinks, I thought I would share some of my older work as evidence that I've been fighting the good fight for free speech for years now. This particular piece reflects my outrage at stupid Smith girls offended by a party that my house threw.
"Angie's Weekly Rant: Pimps and Hos Rule Smith"
Originally published in the Feb. 17, 2000 issue of The Smith College Sophian
By a Younger, Nicer, More Innocent Razzy
Last Saturday, Jordan House celebrated its second annual "Pimps and Hos" party. To the credit of the Jordan social chairs, the party was a great success, minus the stereo theft and multiple fire alarms at the conclusion of the evening.
Many of the revelers in attendance did not show any obvious objection to the theme of the party; to the contrary, almost everyone showed up either dressed in tight faux leopard or in a leisure suit with gold chains aplenty. However, unbeknownst to many of those in attendance, the theme was the source of a minor scandal.
Enter the Dean of Students, Mela Dutka, who informed the social chairs and residential life staff of Jordan House that the theme was offensive and degrading to women. Consequently, the party should not be advertised outside of Jordan House so as not to offend the delicate sensibilities of the complaint-happy political correctness police elsewhere on campus.
Ironically, the social chairs and head resident of Jordan were informed that their signs were demoralizing to women on the same day that the word "VAGINA" appeared in flaming red letters on the side of Seelye Hall, an occurrence considered to be either cute, funny, or even empowering by many of the women who saw it. Still, probably more women were offended by the big "VAGINA" than by the party theme "Pimps and Hos." The logic at work here is the same that allowed a mock slave auction to be a part of Celebration of Sisterhood, but considers a whimsical party theme too licentious and indecent for display on campus. I'm unclear as to why the word "VAGINA" as an advertisement is somehow acceptable where a lighthearted theme about the world's oldest profession is not. Is it because the "VAGINA" was an advertisement for a performance art piece, and as art is automatically not subject to the same rules as the advertisement for a party? Or because "VAGINA" splayed ostentatiously on the front of an academic building somehow celebrates women? Or is it because the college wants to crack down on the already pitiful party scene on this campus? Maybe some were concerned about the supposed "reputation" that keeps meriting inane discussion in the Smith Daily Jolt forum.
Logical reasoning suggests that if you censor "Pimps and Hos," and if you're interested in implementing your policies consistently, you should censor anything that smacks of degradation to women. Arguments could be made that anything from Coming Out Day chalkings to those "A Century of Women on Top" t-shirts in the bookstore suggest an image of women that offends at least one person. Are Smith students willing to compromise their freedom of expression because somebody has a problem with what they're saying? I seem to remember Smith pimping its openness, tolerance, and freedom in admissions brochures.
Let me share a personal example. Two years ago, I posed nude for the April Fool's edition of the Sophian. I did not consider this to be degrading or objectifying in any way whatsoever, or degrading to women in general. However, I'm certain that there were people on campus who found that centerfold insulting, vulgar, dehumanizing, or abhorrent to their moral opinions concerning women. That is not my problem. That is their problem. A person should not be held liable for the reactions of others, especially when those reactions are comprised only of hurt feelings or moral contempt.
We live in a society where freedom is a sacred tenet of our national identity. There are some risks that come with that freedom, such as the risk of being offended. For example, members of the Ku Klux Klan and other hate groups are free to peacefully demonstrate and distribute publications. I, like most Americans, am morally appalled by the beliefs these groups promote. Unless these groups commit a crime, however, they have the right to speak freely. I would rather endure being offended by skinheads than deprive everybody of their right to free expression because I can't cope emotionally with moral outrage.
At Smith, we deal with this issue on a daily basis. Politically conservative students say they feel their opinions are stifled because conservative views at this school are considered offensive or idiotic by many of their peers. At the same time, many conservative students are equally offended by certain aspects of the predominantly liberal climate on campus. No matter who you are or what you believe, offending someone at Smith is almost as easy as breathing.
I think the sense of humor is slowly being phased out of campus. The "Pimps and Hos" party was described by numerous postings in the Daily Jolt forum as great fun and an all-too-infrequent occurrence. I'm disappointed that neither the administration nor many students at Smith College no longer seem to appreciate the value of having a good time, resulting in the systematic stamping out of potentially insulting material before anyone's feelings get hurt. Students so easily offended should just grow up and deal with themselves. The world beyond Smith is full of disappointment, moral repugnance, and flat-out cruelty, and others will neither care nor be held accountable for an individual's feelings. The Dean of Students should realize that by coddling those who are offended and rushing to meet their demands, she and the college are not adequately preparing students for the coping skills they will need beyond Smith, for the rest of their lives.
By limiting content of communications between students, even in the form of advertising, this college is stifling open dialogue and free expression in every aspect of our residential life. I applaud the Jordan social chairs for continuing to plaster Jordan House itself with "Pimps and Hos" advertisements, despite the Dean's instructions to keep the signs off the rest of campus. I encourage all students to resist such mandates for censorship based on perceived offensiveness and support the right of every student and organization to speak freely. I praise those students who believe that it's better to be offended than to be told to shut up.
"Angie's Weekly Rant: Pimps and Hos Rule Smith"
Originally published in the Feb. 17, 2000 issue of The Smith College Sophian
By a Younger, Nicer, More Innocent Razzy
Last Saturday, Jordan House celebrated its second annual "Pimps and Hos" party. To the credit of the Jordan social chairs, the party was a great success, minus the stereo theft and multiple fire alarms at the conclusion of the evening.
Many of the revelers in attendance did not show any obvious objection to the theme of the party; to the contrary, almost everyone showed up either dressed in tight faux leopard or in a leisure suit with gold chains aplenty. However, unbeknownst to many of those in attendance, the theme was the source of a minor scandal.
Enter the Dean of Students, Mela Dutka, who informed the social chairs and residential life staff of Jordan House that the theme was offensive and degrading to women. Consequently, the party should not be advertised outside of Jordan House so as not to offend the delicate sensibilities of the complaint-happy political correctness police elsewhere on campus.
Ironically, the social chairs and head resident of Jordan were informed that their signs were demoralizing to women on the same day that the word "VAGINA" appeared in flaming red letters on the side of Seelye Hall, an occurrence considered to be either cute, funny, or even empowering by many of the women who saw it. Still, probably more women were offended by the big "VAGINA" than by the party theme "Pimps and Hos." The logic at work here is the same that allowed a mock slave auction to be a part of Celebration of Sisterhood, but considers a whimsical party theme too licentious and indecent for display on campus. I'm unclear as to why the word "VAGINA" as an advertisement is somehow acceptable where a lighthearted theme about the world's oldest profession is not. Is it because the "VAGINA" was an advertisement for a performance art piece, and as art is automatically not subject to the same rules as the advertisement for a party? Or because "VAGINA" splayed ostentatiously on the front of an academic building somehow celebrates women? Or is it because the college wants to crack down on the already pitiful party scene on this campus? Maybe some were concerned about the supposed "reputation" that keeps meriting inane discussion in the Smith Daily Jolt forum.
Logical reasoning suggests that if you censor "Pimps and Hos," and if you're interested in implementing your policies consistently, you should censor anything that smacks of degradation to women. Arguments could be made that anything from Coming Out Day chalkings to those "A Century of Women on Top" t-shirts in the bookstore suggest an image of women that offends at least one person. Are Smith students willing to compromise their freedom of expression because somebody has a problem with what they're saying? I seem to remember Smith pimping its openness, tolerance, and freedom in admissions brochures.
Let me share a personal example. Two years ago, I posed nude for the April Fool's edition of the Sophian. I did not consider this to be degrading or objectifying in any way whatsoever, or degrading to women in general. However, I'm certain that there were people on campus who found that centerfold insulting, vulgar, dehumanizing, or abhorrent to their moral opinions concerning women. That is not my problem. That is their problem. A person should not be held liable for the reactions of others, especially when those reactions are comprised only of hurt feelings or moral contempt.
We live in a society where freedom is a sacred tenet of our national identity. There are some risks that come with that freedom, such as the risk of being offended. For example, members of the Ku Klux Klan and other hate groups are free to peacefully demonstrate and distribute publications. I, like most Americans, am morally appalled by the beliefs these groups promote. Unless these groups commit a crime, however, they have the right to speak freely. I would rather endure being offended by skinheads than deprive everybody of their right to free expression because I can't cope emotionally with moral outrage.
At Smith, we deal with this issue on a daily basis. Politically conservative students say they feel their opinions are stifled because conservative views at this school are considered offensive or idiotic by many of their peers. At the same time, many conservative students are equally offended by certain aspects of the predominantly liberal climate on campus. No matter who you are or what you believe, offending someone at Smith is almost as easy as breathing.
I think the sense of humor is slowly being phased out of campus. The "Pimps and Hos" party was described by numerous postings in the Daily Jolt forum as great fun and an all-too-infrequent occurrence. I'm disappointed that neither the administration nor many students at Smith College no longer seem to appreciate the value of having a good time, resulting in the systematic stamping out of potentially insulting material before anyone's feelings get hurt. Students so easily offended should just grow up and deal with themselves. The world beyond Smith is full of disappointment, moral repugnance, and flat-out cruelty, and others will neither care nor be held accountable for an individual's feelings. The Dean of Students should realize that by coddling those who are offended and rushing to meet their demands, she and the college are not adequately preparing students for the coping skills they will need beyond Smith, for the rest of their lives.
By limiting content of communications between students, even in the form of advertising, this college is stifling open dialogue and free expression in every aspect of our residential life. I applaud the Jordan social chairs for continuing to plaster Jordan House itself with "Pimps and Hos" advertisements, despite the Dean's instructions to keep the signs off the rest of campus. I encourage all students to resist such mandates for censorship based on perceived offensiveness and support the right of every student and organization to speak freely. I praise those students who believe that it's better to be offended than to be told to shut up.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Fuck off, Paula...the law is on my side
Last night I attempted to see The Omen with KatieScarlett and Bienvenido-a-Miami. Apparently, we were not the only ones to fall for the "Heed the Omen-6/6/06" promotion for this movie, and it was sold out, so we ended up just going drinking with CorporateCard. I should have known that our failure to see The Omen was, in fact, a bad omen. When I got home last night, I discovered that Paula James, Single Mom Extraordinaire, was at it again.
First, she left a comment on my blog (well, I assume it's her, even though she left it anonymously) directing people to a fucking online petition to shut down RAZZY.org. Although I disagree with her assertions that I'm "antichristian and antisemitic" (I AM Christian and I don't see how a list of Hot Jews is degrading to God's Chosen people, but whatever), I signed the petition anyway, since I wholeheartedly agree with her statement that children shouldn't read my site. Then I checked my e-mail, and found another threatening missive from her there.
To: razzy@razzy.org
From: brianandjensmom@yahoo.com
To whom it may concern,
I hoped that this could be handled like adults but it seems you would rather riddicule me then see reason.I never gave permission to publish my letter or use my name and now I see that it is on your web site. I demand you take it down because you have no right to put my name or my email address on line and I won't be associated with your horrible web site. I hoped that you would write back so this could be settled off line and so that you would take your web site down not turn my concerns into more of your filthy garbage. I wish you understood that my only concern here is for my son and other kids damaged by your xxx rated web site. But since you admit to hating children I know I was right and you are a very bad person with no care in the world about the harm you do to others. I talked to a few other moms about this and we're ready to fight you truth and nail!!!!! We are considering hiring a lawyer to shut down your web site and to sue you for slandering me! I think that we will be able to do both, we are looking into restraning orders that will shut you down. You can say what ever you want unless it harms people which your web site definately does. I wanted to handle this like adults without taking this kind of action but you leave me no choice because you not only don't care about the children you harm but you like it too because you are sick. We are also setting up an on line petition to shut you down by grass roots activism. I think you will see that there are many concerned parents who will not put up with their kids seeing your filth and smut. In the future you should respond by replying to this message and not on your web site because it violates my privacy and it will put you in danger of a law suit for slander!!!
Paula James
PS, I also want you to know that what ever you might say about my son he is a good boy and he does use his computer for homework, I monitor him closely and we talk all the time and he does not want to find web sites full of trash talk and dirty stories.
Okay, bitch, bring it on. I went straight to the ACLU website which directed me to a Supreme Court decision, Miller v. California, that establishes a three-part test for whether or not something can be considered obscene:
The basic guidelines for the trier of fact must be:
(a) whether "the average person, applying contemporary community standards" would find that the work, taken as a whole, appeals to the prurient interest, Roth, supra, at 489
Well, I do have a lot of comments that seem to suggest that at least parts of my site appeal to the "prurient interest" (and I'm under the impression that's a point for Paula, even though the last time I brushed up on my GRE vocabulary words, "prurient" means sex-obsessed, and who isn't). In fact, in addition to the several "your hot wanna fuck? ;)p"-type comments that seem to suggest "prurient interest," HotLawyer even used those exact words in a comment he left (on an aside, dude, thanks for using the legalese...that's obviously going to come back to haunt me should this slut ever succeed in hauling me into court). So maybe the "community standards" will bite me in the ass, but that depends entirely on what community you're talking about. If the jury is made up of the community of RAZZY.org readers, their standards will say my site rules.
(b) whether the work depicts or describes, in a patently offensive way, sexual conduct specifically defined by the applicable state law
I looked up the relevant state law and found this: "The New York statute prohibits persons from knowingly promoting a sexual performance by a child under the age of 16 by distributing material which depicts such a performance. The statute defines "sexual performance" as any performance that includes sexual conduct by such a child, and "sexual conduct" is in turn defined as actual or simulated sexual intercourse, deviate sexual intercourse, sexual bestiality, masturbation, sado-masochistic abuse, or lewd exhibition of the genitals."
Since I make it a rule to steer clear of putting kiddie porn on my site, I am in the clear as far as rule (b) is concerned. The only genitals being lewdly exhibited here are mine and Mr. Right Guard's, and given his receding hairline, I'm willing to bet he's older than 16.
(c) whether the work, taken as a whole, lacks serious literary, artistic, political, or scientific value. If a state obscenity law is thus limited, First Amendment values are adequately protected by ultimate independent appellate review of constitutional claims when necessary.
Now here is where Paula's argument is really flawed, because if there's anything RAZZY.org has in droves it's literary (all my stories are Pulitzer material), artistic (all pictures by Kate and Camilla are ARTWORK because they are ARTISTS), political (I make fun of people, including world leaders and politicians), and scientific (none of you would know about northern blotting, phenol burns, or how to humanely sacrifice a mouse without me) value. Looks according to part (c) of the standard, I'm also in the "not obscene" category.
Apparently, the standards set in Miller were upheld in 2002 in Ashcroft v. American Civil Liberties Union regarding material on the internet, although this only applies to material "for commercial purposes" which is "harmful to minors" (ie: child pornography). Since apart from the pair of Journalist panties and D-Unit gear that LL Cool Jew bought from my online store, I haven't made a dime on this site, I don't think that the "commercial purposes" term applies. While the ACLU seems to be quibbling with the government about the "community standards" in the first part of the obscenity test, overall it seems to me that since there's no FUCKING PORN OF ANY KIND, KIDDIE OR OTHERWISE on my website, I surmise that in the words of T.I. and Young Jeezy, "I'm straight" with regard to being legally obscene.
I'm not, therefore, going to worry about this bitch thinking that she can get a "restraning order" to force me off the internet. Regarding her accusations of slander, I don't think that there is any expectation of privacy when you send a hostile, threatening e-mail to a stranger that has already posted other people's pictures and correspondences on her website. For fuck's sake, I put a picture of a dude's penis on my site and I haven't heard a peep out of him! He e-mailed it to me without permission to use it, but probably knows that when you send strangers pictures of your wang, you are essentially making it their picture to do with as they choose. If you want to keep something private, then keep it to your fucking self.
Just to make sure I was not going to get in trouble, though, I decided to do some more internet legal research to find out if she had grounds for a defamation lawsuit. I learned that slander is defined as "publishing a false statement that negatively affects someone's reputation." Well, since I didn't edit out a goddamned thing (not even the many unnecessary spaces favored by Paula in her writing style) from her e-mails, I haven't made any false statements. If she can harangue me for her own negligence as a parent, I'm certainly entitled to respond to what SHE wrote. So good luck finding a lawyer who will take this case, Paula, because if your reputation is negatively affected, you only have yourself to blame. And if you don't want your e-mail published, then sign up for a new fucking free Yahoo account, and while you're at it, think up a better address than "brianandjensmom," you officious cunt.
I'm astounded that Paula has decided to pick on me, because compared with THOUSANDS of other sites on the internet, mine is relatively tame. Certainly there are other websites more worthy of her inane harping on variations of the "filth" and "garbage" theme. She'd be much more accurate accusing me of being a useless bullshit-mongerer. I would at least hope that she'd check out MySpace and see how useful that online shitshow is for homework. All she would have to do is search MySpace for sex, and she can see for herself what kind of degeneracy her "good boy" has access to while he's allegedly working on his fucking pre-algebra or whatever. I imagine, however, that her idea of parental involvement must be something like this:
Paula James: "Are you trying to find websites about impoverished drunken graduate students with nothing better to do than talk about their sex lives and write shitty horror movie reviews or are you doing homework?"
Paula James's stupid kid: "Homework."
Paula James: "Okay, then, go back to using the internet without any supervision. I'm going to sue that pornographer Razzy and fight her 'truth and nail'!"
If this is her idea of good parenting, then she's even more monumentally stupid than I initially thought. Who did she learn to raise kids from, Cronos? Actually, probably not, because even Zeus's baby-swallowing father took a more active role in his children's upbringing. Again, I will reiterate that Paula James's one-woman (well, three woman, if you check out her petition) crusade to bring my site down is a waste of her fucking time. She is still a dumb bitch, and a bad mother to boot. If I had a dick, I'd tell her to suck it.
First, she left a comment on my blog (well, I assume it's her, even though she left it anonymously) directing people to a fucking online petition to shut down RAZZY.org. Although I disagree with her assertions that I'm "antichristian and antisemitic" (I AM Christian and I don't see how a list of Hot Jews is degrading to God's Chosen people, but whatever), I signed the petition anyway, since I wholeheartedly agree with her statement that children shouldn't read my site. Then I checked my e-mail, and found another threatening missive from her there.
To: razzy@razzy.org
From: brianandjensmom@yahoo.com
To whom it may concern,
I hoped that this could be handled like adults but it seems you would rather riddicule me then see reason.I never gave permission to publish my letter or use my name and now I see that it is on your web site. I demand you take it down because you have no right to put my name or my email address on line and I won't be associated with your horrible web site. I hoped that you would write back so this could be settled off line and so that you would take your web site down not turn my concerns into more of your filthy garbage. I wish you understood that my only concern here is for my son and other kids damaged by your xxx rated web site. But since you admit to hating children I know I was right and you are a very bad person with no care in the world about the harm you do to others. I talked to a few other moms about this and we're ready to fight you truth and nail!!!!! We are considering hiring a lawyer to shut down your web site and to sue you for slandering me! I think that we will be able to do both, we are looking into restraning orders that will shut you down. You can say what ever you want unless it harms people which your web site definately does. I wanted to handle this like adults without taking this kind of action but you leave me no choice because you not only don't care about the children you harm but you like it too because you are sick. We are also setting up an on line petition to shut you down by grass roots activism. I think you will see that there are many concerned parents who will not put up with their kids seeing your filth and smut. In the future you should respond by replying to this message and not on your web site because it violates my privacy and it will put you in danger of a law suit for slander!!!
Paula James
PS, I also want you to know that what ever you might say about my son he is a good boy and he does use his computer for homework, I monitor him closely and we talk all the time and he does not want to find web sites full of trash talk and dirty stories.
Okay, bitch, bring it on. I went straight to the ACLU website which directed me to a Supreme Court decision, Miller v. California, that establishes a three-part test for whether or not something can be considered obscene:
The basic guidelines for the trier of fact must be:
(a) whether "the average person, applying contemporary community standards" would find that the work, taken as a whole, appeals to the prurient interest, Roth, supra, at 489
Well, I do have a lot of comments that seem to suggest that at least parts of my site appeal to the "prurient interest" (and I'm under the impression that's a point for Paula, even though the last time I brushed up on my GRE vocabulary words, "prurient" means sex-obsessed, and who isn't). In fact, in addition to the several "your hot wanna fuck? ;)p"-type comments that seem to suggest "prurient interest," HotLawyer even used those exact words in a comment he left (on an aside, dude, thanks for using the legalese...that's obviously going to come back to haunt me should this slut ever succeed in hauling me into court). So maybe the "community standards" will bite me in the ass, but that depends entirely on what community you're talking about. If the jury is made up of the community of RAZZY.org readers, their standards will say my site rules.
(b) whether the work depicts or describes, in a patently offensive way, sexual conduct specifically defined by the applicable state law
I looked up the relevant state law and found this: "The New York statute prohibits persons from knowingly promoting a sexual performance by a child under the age of 16 by distributing material which depicts such a performance. The statute defines "sexual performance" as any performance that includes sexual conduct by such a child, and "sexual conduct" is in turn defined as actual or simulated sexual intercourse, deviate sexual intercourse, sexual bestiality, masturbation, sado-masochistic abuse, or lewd exhibition of the genitals."
Since I make it a rule to steer clear of putting kiddie porn on my site, I am in the clear as far as rule (b) is concerned. The only genitals being lewdly exhibited here are mine and Mr. Right Guard's, and given his receding hairline, I'm willing to bet he's older than 16.
(c) whether the work, taken as a whole, lacks serious literary, artistic, political, or scientific value. If a state obscenity law is thus limited, First Amendment values are adequately protected by ultimate independent appellate review of constitutional claims when necessary.
Now here is where Paula's argument is really flawed, because if there's anything RAZZY.org has in droves it's literary (all my stories are Pulitzer material), artistic (all pictures by Kate and Camilla are ARTWORK because they are ARTISTS), political (I make fun of people, including world leaders and politicians), and scientific (none of you would know about northern blotting, phenol burns, or how to humanely sacrifice a mouse without me) value. Looks according to part (c) of the standard, I'm also in the "not obscene" category.
Apparently, the standards set in Miller were upheld in 2002 in Ashcroft v. American Civil Liberties Union regarding material on the internet, although this only applies to material "for commercial purposes" which is "harmful to minors" (ie: child pornography). Since apart from the pair of Journalist panties and D-Unit gear that LL Cool Jew bought from my online store, I haven't made a dime on this site, I don't think that the "commercial purposes" term applies. While the ACLU seems to be quibbling with the government about the "community standards" in the first part of the obscenity test, overall it seems to me that since there's no FUCKING PORN OF ANY KIND, KIDDIE OR OTHERWISE on my website, I surmise that in the words of T.I. and Young Jeezy, "I'm straight" with regard to being legally obscene.
I'm not, therefore, going to worry about this bitch thinking that she can get a "restraning order" to force me off the internet. Regarding her accusations of slander, I don't think that there is any expectation of privacy when you send a hostile, threatening e-mail to a stranger that has already posted other people's pictures and correspondences on her website. For fuck's sake, I put a picture of a dude's penis on my site and I haven't heard a peep out of him! He e-mailed it to me without permission to use it, but probably knows that when you send strangers pictures of your wang, you are essentially making it their picture to do with as they choose. If you want to keep something private, then keep it to your fucking self.
Just to make sure I was not going to get in trouble, though, I decided to do some more internet legal research to find out if she had grounds for a defamation lawsuit. I learned that slander is defined as "publishing a false statement that negatively affects someone's reputation." Well, since I didn't edit out a goddamned thing (not even the many unnecessary spaces favored by Paula in her writing style) from her e-mails, I haven't made any false statements. If she can harangue me for her own negligence as a parent, I'm certainly entitled to respond to what SHE wrote. So good luck finding a lawyer who will take this case, Paula, because if your reputation is negatively affected, you only have yourself to blame. And if you don't want your e-mail published, then sign up for a new fucking free Yahoo account, and while you're at it, think up a better address than "brianandjensmom," you officious cunt.
I'm astounded that Paula has decided to pick on me, because compared with THOUSANDS of other sites on the internet, mine is relatively tame. Certainly there are other websites more worthy of her inane harping on variations of the "filth" and "garbage" theme. She'd be much more accurate accusing me of being a useless bullshit-mongerer. I would at least hope that she'd check out MySpace and see how useful that online shitshow is for homework. All she would have to do is search MySpace for sex, and she can see for herself what kind of degeneracy her "good boy" has access to while he's allegedly working on his fucking pre-algebra or whatever. I imagine, however, that her idea of parental involvement must be something like this:
Paula James: "Are you trying to find websites about impoverished drunken graduate students with nothing better to do than talk about their sex lives and write shitty horror movie reviews or are you doing homework?"
Paula James's stupid kid: "Homework."
Paula James: "Okay, then, go back to using the internet without any supervision. I'm going to sue that pornographer Razzy and fight her 'truth and nail'!"
If this is her idea of good parenting, then she's even more monumentally stupid than I initially thought. Who did she learn to raise kids from, Cronos? Actually, probably not, because even Zeus's baby-swallowing father took a more active role in his children's upbringing. Again, I will reiterate that Paula James's one-woman (well, three woman, if you check out her petition) crusade to bring my site down is a waste of her fucking time. She is still a dumb bitch, and a bad mother to boot. If I had a dick, I'd tell her to suck it.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Who is the world's craziest dictator?
In the spirit of 6/6/06, what will all the Apocalypse talk, I decided that this is a relevant question. While it probably won't happen today on 6/6/6, it's only a matter of time before one of these wackjobs pulls a Def Leppard and Armageddons it with their nuclear ambitions and lack of rational thinking. The real question is, which of these kooks will usher in the end of life on earth? Which foreign leader is the fucking craziest?
Is it Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, President of Iran?
Is it Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, President of Iran?
He might look non-threatening in his khaki Members Only jacket, but Mahmoud is a real firecracker. He has been in office since August 2005, and has hit the ground running since assuming the presidency. Some highlights of his administration thus far:
-Kissed the Ayatollah repeatedly to demonstrate his loyalty, thus demonstrating the complete closure of any gap between church and state that may have existed
-Enriching uranium to hasten nuclear holocaust in the Middle East
-Claimed that the Holocaust was a myth engineered to persecute Palestinians, but if it DID happen (and he's not conceding it did), then Israel should be set up in Germany or Austria instead
-Said, "Our dear Imam said that the occupying regime (read: Israel) should be wiped off the map and that was a very wise statement." Other translations of this from the original Farsi should be read as, "Hey, you Zionist pigs! Bring it!" To which Israel will inevitably respond, "Oh, it's already been brought," and fire off a couple plutonium warhead-equipped Jericho missiles in response.
-After making these statements, accused Western journalists of "trying to portray Iran as an anti-Semitic country."
-Earned the title "aspiring genocidist" from American pundit Charles Krauthammer
-Takes great glee in taunting President Bush into military action. Iran '07, baby! It's going to happen.
Or is it Kim Jong Il, Dictator/North Korean Cult of Personality?
-Enriching uranium to hasten nuclear holocaust...wherever. Russia? South Korea? The U.S.? Who knows who will draw his ire next!?
-Afraid of flying and will not travel anywhere he can't reach by train
-Rabid collector of Donald Duck paraphernalia
-Obsessive love with cinema compelled him to kidnap a famous South Korean movie director and his wife, to start a North Korean film industry
-Deals with insurrectionists (ie: people who complain about the severe famine afflicting North Korea) using network of gulags
-Wears platform shoes to seem taller (a la Tom Cruise, who is likewise crazy and fortunately isn't a head of state). Ironic, considering his reported love of NBA basketball and fanatical obsession with extra-tall NBA players.
I just can't decide which Axis of Evil leader is nuttier. Every time I'm about to give the prize to Kim Jong Il, Mahmoud gives some sort of insane press conference and pulls ahead in the psycho national leader contest. Man, it's awesome that guys like these are going nuclear. I can't wait for the end of the fucking world.
Monday, June 05, 2006
I knew this MySpace thing was going to cause problems
I resisted MySpace for a long time, until I realized that it was a useful means for increasing traffic at RAZZY.org. However, not all of this traffic is desirable, as I found out yesterday when I checked my razzy@razzy.org e-mail and found this choice piece of correspondence awaiting me:
To: razzy@razzy.org
From: brianandjensmom@yahoo.com
To whom it may conern at the "razzy" web site,
I found my 13 year old son was reading this web site today in his room and was shocked that something like it is allowed on the internet. This web site is full of profanity, dirty talk, obscenities and pornography. I can't believe there are people out there who want to read this kind of filth but I guess it must make lots of money being in tuned with the perveted freaks of nature. I want to give you the chance to do the right thing and make sure kids can't read your garbage and trash!! I will not sit quiety and let you continue damaging children like this already has and I demand for you to take it off line right away. My son told me that he found the site from one of his school friends through a web site called my space. My space is a web site where my son talks to his friends about their school projects, and he shouldnt worry about having to see nudity and horrible language and profanity when he is trying to do his homework. I am a single mom and I don't think its unreasonable to expect that he can do his school work without being exposed to filth and garbage!!! You probably don't know that kids are reading your web site unless you are the worst kind of perverted freak, but, I'm, pretty sure, its illegal for kids to see your obscene web site, curse words, disgusting sex talk and pronography. So I will give you a chance to take down your web site and prove you are good people but if you don't I warn you I will go to the authorities and report you! Then you might have some legal problems to deal with and could end up in real trouble so please do the right thing and take this site off and make parents everywhere secure that their kids can use the web safely.
Paula James
When I read this, I immediately thought she was wrong to blame me for her son's problems, but quickly ran down my list of responsibilities just to make sure:
-Walk dogs
-Kill mice
-Pay bills
-Take birth control pill
-Update RAZZY.org
-Go to gym
-Shower
-Do dishes
-Take out garbage
-Consume scotch
-Get laid
I've gone over and over this list, and nowhere on it do I see "parenting Paula James's kid." It's not my problem if she lets him spend all day surfing the internet, presumably without supervision (since she can't be monitoring him very closely if she thinks MySpace is a website for doing homework). If that's the case, then RAZZY.org is the least of her problems. Hasn't she ever seen one of those "To Catch a Predator" specials on Dateline? If she lets this brat dick around online all day, eventually some man-titted pedophile will be walking into her kitchen with a sixer of Bartles and Jaymes and the intent of teaching her kid how kewl molestation is.
I'm especially irritated that yet again I've been accused of being a pornographer. Since when did a couple random titty shots constitute pornography? I don't consider that porn, and I am a porn aficionado, so I should know. I Dream of Jenna is porn. Mr. Short Stud is porn. Edward Penishands, Willy Wanker and the Fudge Packing Factory, Big Trouble in Little Vagina,The El Paso Wrecking Crew, Moulin Splooge, Fat Girls Need Loving Too, Poke 'Er Mon, All Anal on the Western Front, and Kinky Kunt-Kraving Kuties are ALL PORN. Pictures of me drinking a 24-ouncer of Beck's with no clothes on may be incredibly smoking-hot nudity, but IT IS NOT PORN! I can see how RAZZY.org could irreparably damage a teenaged boy with unhindered internet access, because in the panoply of disgusting and obscene material on the web, there's nothing more insidious than pictures of my breasts.
I'm curious regarding the "authorities" she plans on reporting me to, since I was unaware that the content of the world wide web was being regulated by the morality police. I'd hate to have "legal problems" or end up in "real trouble," so maybe I should consult with my attorney friends HotLawyer or Morrissey'sHair about the validity of this threat. However, I don't need to distract them from respectively negotiating plea deals for meth-addled prostitutes and structuring bankruptcy settlements, because I'm certain they would advise me that the FIRST FUCKING AMENDMENT guarantees me the right to put whatever the hell I want on my website. I've never studied constitutional law, but I am positive there is not a rider on the Bill of Rights that negates freedom of speech when some uptight single mom with piss-poor parenting skills doesn't want her kid reading useless bullshit.
I don't want kids reading my website. I hate kids. If I knew how to keep kids from reading RAZZY.org I would, because in keeping with my hatred of kids, I think they should be deprived of the mind-blowing orgasm of magnificent awesomeness that is my website. I strongly advocate keeping kids away from anything they might find funny or that might bring joy to their lives. Therefore, Paula James should use the fucking "Parental Control" feature offered by virtually EVERY internet service provider and block her dipshit son from visiting my website again instead of demanding that I relinquish my time-wasting hobby of authoring the greatest website in the history of the internet. If this bitch would take a break from misplacing culpability for the fact that her son is a depraved little fucktard (again, the kid told his mom that MySpace is a website for doing homework...he's obviously an accomplished liar), maybe she could take an active role in his upbringing and we could accomplish our mutual goal of keeping her kid off my fucking website.
Stupid parents who think it's somehow my duty to pick up their slack should be warned that I have ZERO sympathy for their concerns. If I wanted to hone my parenting skills, I'd have my own fucking kids. However, since I don't, I hardly think that I should worry about parenting someone else's brats. RAZZY.org will remain online and continue to furnish all 12 of my readers with their regular useless bullshit requirements. Paula James will remain a dumb bitch.
To: razzy@razzy.org
From: brianandjensmom@yahoo.com
To whom it may conern at the "razzy" web site,
I found my 13 year old son was reading this web site today in his room and was shocked that something like it is allowed on the internet. This web site is full of profanity, dirty talk, obscenities and pornography. I can't believe there are people out there who want to read this kind of filth but I guess it must make lots of money being in tuned with the perveted freaks of nature. I want to give you the chance to do the right thing and make sure kids can't read your garbage and trash!! I will not sit quiety and let you continue damaging children like this already has and I demand for you to take it off line right away. My son told me that he found the site from one of his school friends through a web site called my space. My space is a web site where my son talks to his friends about their school projects, and he shouldnt worry about having to see nudity and horrible language and profanity when he is trying to do his homework. I am a single mom and I don't think its unreasonable to expect that he can do his school work without being exposed to filth and garbage!!! You probably don't know that kids are reading your web site unless you are the worst kind of perverted freak, but, I'm, pretty sure, its illegal for kids to see your obscene web site, curse words, disgusting sex talk and pronography. So I will give you a chance to take down your web site and prove you are good people but if you don't I warn you I will go to the authorities and report you! Then you might have some legal problems to deal with and could end up in real trouble so please do the right thing and take this site off and make parents everywhere secure that their kids can use the web safely.
Paula James
When I read this, I immediately thought she was wrong to blame me for her son's problems, but quickly ran down my list of responsibilities just to make sure:
-Walk dogs
-Kill mice
-Pay bills
-Take birth control pill
-Update RAZZY.org
-Go to gym
-Shower
-Do dishes
-Take out garbage
-Consume scotch
-Get laid
I've gone over and over this list, and nowhere on it do I see "parenting Paula James's kid." It's not my problem if she lets him spend all day surfing the internet, presumably without supervision (since she can't be monitoring him very closely if she thinks MySpace is a website for doing homework). If that's the case, then RAZZY.org is the least of her problems. Hasn't she ever seen one of those "To Catch a Predator" specials on Dateline? If she lets this brat dick around online all day, eventually some man-titted pedophile will be walking into her kitchen with a sixer of Bartles and Jaymes and the intent of teaching her kid how kewl molestation is.
I'm especially irritated that yet again I've been accused of being a pornographer. Since when did a couple random titty shots constitute pornography? I don't consider that porn, and I am a porn aficionado, so I should know. I Dream of Jenna is porn. Mr. Short Stud is porn. Edward Penishands, Willy Wanker and the Fudge Packing Factory, Big Trouble in Little Vagina,The El Paso Wrecking Crew, Moulin Splooge, Fat Girls Need Loving Too, Poke 'Er Mon, All Anal on the Western Front, and Kinky Kunt-Kraving Kuties are ALL PORN. Pictures of me drinking a 24-ouncer of Beck's with no clothes on may be incredibly smoking-hot nudity, but IT IS NOT PORN! I can see how RAZZY.org could irreparably damage a teenaged boy with unhindered internet access, because in the panoply of disgusting and obscene material on the web, there's nothing more insidious than pictures of my breasts.
I'm curious regarding the "authorities" she plans on reporting me to, since I was unaware that the content of the world wide web was being regulated by the morality police. I'd hate to have "legal problems" or end up in "real trouble," so maybe I should consult with my attorney friends HotLawyer or Morrissey'sHair about the validity of this threat. However, I don't need to distract them from respectively negotiating plea deals for meth-addled prostitutes and structuring bankruptcy settlements, because I'm certain they would advise me that the FIRST FUCKING AMENDMENT guarantees me the right to put whatever the hell I want on my website. I've never studied constitutional law, but I am positive there is not a rider on the Bill of Rights that negates freedom of speech when some uptight single mom with piss-poor parenting skills doesn't want her kid reading useless bullshit.
I don't want kids reading my website. I hate kids. If I knew how to keep kids from reading RAZZY.org I would, because in keeping with my hatred of kids, I think they should be deprived of the mind-blowing orgasm of magnificent awesomeness that is my website. I strongly advocate keeping kids away from anything they might find funny or that might bring joy to their lives. Therefore, Paula James should use the fucking "Parental Control" feature offered by virtually EVERY internet service provider and block her dipshit son from visiting my website again instead of demanding that I relinquish my time-wasting hobby of authoring the greatest website in the history of the internet. If this bitch would take a break from misplacing culpability for the fact that her son is a depraved little fucktard (again, the kid told his mom that MySpace is a website for doing homework...he's obviously an accomplished liar), maybe she could take an active role in his upbringing and we could accomplish our mutual goal of keeping her kid off my fucking website.
Stupid parents who think it's somehow my duty to pick up their slack should be warned that I have ZERO sympathy for their concerns. If I wanted to hone my parenting skills, I'd have my own fucking kids. However, since I don't, I hardly think that I should worry about parenting someone else's brats. RAZZY.org will remain online and continue to furnish all 12 of my readers with their regular useless bullshit requirements. Paula James will remain a dumb bitch.
Friday, June 02, 2006
Nothing says class and sophistication like a chemical burn
Today I was busy prepping RNA from mouse lungs, which involves homogenizing the organ in this stuff called TRIzol. TRIzol is a mixture of a lovely carcinogenic, extremely caustic chemical called phenol and this other caustic chemical called guanidinium isothiocyanate. Normally, I use a mechanical blender/smoothie machine-type thing for this purpose. However, I've been having a lot of problems with RNA degradation lately, and I think it's because of the blender. Therefore, I decided to do my preps today the old school way, with Dounces. These are sort of like specialized glass mortar and pestles designed for grinding up tissue. As per usual, I was flagrantly flouting established safety regulations, and was doing this without a lab coat or safety goggles.
Even though I've been designated our lab's "Chemical Hygiene Officer," I am hardly a strict enforcer of chemical safety rules. I rarely wear "personal protective equipment," unless I think I'm at risk of splashing something on myself or I'm working with radiation. I wasn't using isotopes today, and I figured there was a low splash risk. Besides, I felt lazy today, and dressed in an old wife-beater and jeans. I didn't really feel like getting gussied up in my finery this morning, as I was going to spend the day holed up in lab, and I'm not planning on going out tonight (since I have to get up early and come in to lab tomorrow!) Unfortunately, I underestimated the risk of splashing mouse guts and TRIzol all over myself.
As I was grinding up my last lung sample, I pulled the mortar part of the Dounce out of the tube too quickly and shot TRIzol all over my face and shoulders. "Oh, fuck!" I shouted. J-Sexy looked over and asked what was wrong. "I've got TRIzol all over my shit!" I exclaimed. "What should I do?"
"Wash your face off before it burns you! Use some detergent, to get out the organics," she advised. So I went to the sink and actually washed my face with virucidal lab hand soap, which is considerably less gentle to the delicate skin of one's face than my usual Neutrogena cleanser. The lab soap dried the fuck out of my skin, which consequently gave my complexion a sickeningly oily sheen. Gross. I looked like Tonya Harding without the huge bangs. Additionally, I didn't get my soap on quickly enough, and thus still ended up feeling the unpleasant tingling sensation that I recognized as symptomatic of phenol exposure to bare skin.
As if the wife-beater, lack of makeup, and beat-up flip flops I was wearing today didn't make me look P.W.T. enough, now I have some incredibly attractive chemical burns on my face and shoulders to enhance my unbearably sexy I-run-a-meth-lab-in-rural-Pierce-County mystique. Obviously, you can take the girl out of Puyallup, but you can't take the Puyallup out of the girl.
Here's a really good-looking close-up of my shoulder:
I am one foxy broad, right? This weekend is going to be GREAT. Nothing gets me more fired up than looking like I'm developing leprosy. Skin lesions are really in this season, so it's a shame that I have to spend so much of the weekend in lab. If I were to go out, I'd undoubtedly be the toast of New York with my fashion-forward look. I'd be right up there with other similarly tricked-out sex symbols, like the Phantom of the Opera, Eric Stoltz's character in the movie Mask, and Pizza the Hut from Spaceballs. I'm SOOOO lucky to work in a lab where I'm lucky enough to be showered in dangerous and disfiguring chemicals! Science rules!
Even though I've been designated our lab's "Chemical Hygiene Officer," I am hardly a strict enforcer of chemical safety rules. I rarely wear "personal protective equipment," unless I think I'm at risk of splashing something on myself or I'm working with radiation. I wasn't using isotopes today, and I figured there was a low splash risk. Besides, I felt lazy today, and dressed in an old wife-beater and jeans. I didn't really feel like getting gussied up in my finery this morning, as I was going to spend the day holed up in lab, and I'm not planning on going out tonight (since I have to get up early and come in to lab tomorrow!) Unfortunately, I underestimated the risk of splashing mouse guts and TRIzol all over myself.
As I was grinding up my last lung sample, I pulled the mortar part of the Dounce out of the tube too quickly and shot TRIzol all over my face and shoulders. "Oh, fuck!" I shouted. J-Sexy looked over and asked what was wrong. "I've got TRIzol all over my shit!" I exclaimed. "What should I do?"
"Wash your face off before it burns you! Use some detergent, to get out the organics," she advised. So I went to the sink and actually washed my face with virucidal lab hand soap, which is considerably less gentle to the delicate skin of one's face than my usual Neutrogena cleanser. The lab soap dried the fuck out of my skin, which consequently gave my complexion a sickeningly oily sheen. Gross. I looked like Tonya Harding without the huge bangs. Additionally, I didn't get my soap on quickly enough, and thus still ended up feeling the unpleasant tingling sensation that I recognized as symptomatic of phenol exposure to bare skin.
As if the wife-beater, lack of makeup, and beat-up flip flops I was wearing today didn't make me look P.W.T. enough, now I have some incredibly attractive chemical burns on my face and shoulders to enhance my unbearably sexy I-run-a-meth-lab-in-rural-Pierce-County mystique. Obviously, you can take the girl out of Puyallup, but you can't take the Puyallup out of the girl.
Here's a really good-looking close-up of my shoulder:
I am one foxy broad, right? This weekend is going to be GREAT. Nothing gets me more fired up than looking like I'm developing leprosy. Skin lesions are really in this season, so it's a shame that I have to spend so much of the weekend in lab. If I were to go out, I'd undoubtedly be the toast of New York with my fashion-forward look. I'd be right up there with other similarly tricked-out sex symbols, like the Phantom of the Opera, Eric Stoltz's character in the movie Mask, and Pizza the Hut from Spaceballs. I'm SOOOO lucky to work in a lab where I'm lucky enough to be showered in dangerous and disfiguring chemicals! Science rules!
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