Monday, July 31, 2006
Governor Mitt Romney brings new meaning to the term "masshole"
Governor Mitt Romney (R-Assachusetts) recently called the shitshow otherwise known as the Big Dig construction project a "tar baby" at a Republican fundraiser. Specifically, he said, "The best thing politically would be to stay as far away from that tar baby as I can." Apparently, Governor Romney was using the term to mean a "sticky situation," and was fucking UNAWARE that this term has been used as a derogatory expression for black people. His spokesperson stated, "He was unaware that some people find the term objectionable and he's sorry if anyone's offended." How can you NOT realize that "tar baby" might be interpreted as racially offensive? That's like calling a gay person a "faggot" and saying that you meant to compare him to a bundle of sticks meant for burning.
Governor Romney is a MORON. I can only imagine how in his putative presidential bid he's going to manage to piss off every minority group in the U.S. with his ignorance of degrading epithets. I can only imagine him saying things like, "I will work harder for the American people than a spic in a strawberry field," or "We need to get some chinks in here to crunch some numbers and balance our budget deficit" during his presidential campaign, and then saying, "Now hold on...are you calling me a racist? Surely you jest...this is totally non-offensive American vernacular and I can't BELIEVE that some people might be offended by it." I guess Gov. Romney won't think that dressing like this on campaign tours will be offensive either. It certainly is a new strategy for a Yankee blueblood to court the Southern vote:
What a complete and total fucktard. This further validates my hypothesis that Assachusetts is the second worst state in the U.S. (Connecticut being the undisputed shittiest). They give us either John Kerry or Mitt Romney, who are politically opposite but have equal measures of idiotic arrogance. I'm sorry, but not all the Yankee Candles in the world can offset the sheer volume of asshole politicians produced by this state. Assachusetts SUCKS.
Governor Romney is a MORON. I can only imagine how in his putative presidential bid he's going to manage to piss off every minority group in the U.S. with his ignorance of degrading epithets. I can only imagine him saying things like, "I will work harder for the American people than a spic in a strawberry field," or "We need to get some chinks in here to crunch some numbers and balance our budget deficit" during his presidential campaign, and then saying, "Now hold on...are you calling me a racist? Surely you jest...this is totally non-offensive American vernacular and I can't BELIEVE that some people might be offended by it." I guess Gov. Romney won't think that dressing like this on campaign tours will be offensive either. It certainly is a new strategy for a Yankee blueblood to court the Southern vote:
What a complete and total fucktard. This further validates my hypothesis that Assachusetts is the second worst state in the U.S. (Connecticut being the undisputed shittiest). They give us either John Kerry or Mitt Romney, who are politically opposite but have equal measures of idiotic arrogance. I'm sorry, but not all the Yankee Candles in the world can offset the sheer volume of asshole politicians produced by this state. Assachusetts SUCKS.
Labels: Assachusetts, assholes, John Kerry, Mitt Romney, politics
Friday, July 28, 2006
Razzy v. Wifey: A "Dynasty"-esque bitch-fight in the making
The official reason for this trip to the P-N-Dub is that I am attending a wedding of an old friend from high school, M-Boner. Her wedding is tomorrow, which will be the culmination in a week of nuptial-related events. Yesterday, while I was hanging out with her while she got her pre-wedding mani/pedi, she and her twin sister G-Boner were regaling me with stories of the week-long festivities that have marked this joyous occasion. There's been a party every night everywhere from north Seattle to Orting, interspersed with several apparent hysterical freak-outs by the normally very stable M-Boner. Needless to say, I tried to do my part at the nail salon yesterday by keeping M-Boner's glass of champagne perpetually full (as well as my own).
Tonight is the rehearsal and subsequent dinner, which is a barbecue at the Boner sister's family farm. I have to go to the rehearsal, because I am sort o in the wedding: I'm reading a prayer, probably one of the petitions before communion (unfortunately, M-Boner decided to be a good Catholic and include a mass in her wedding, which means that it will be like two fucking hours long. I can only hope the rehearsal does not take that much time.) Unlike my Aunt Jesus, M-Boner does not hold me quite on par with Jezebel, and must not imagine that I'll burst into flames as I stand on the altar and speak holy words to God on her special day. I also have to fill in for G-Boner as the Maid of Honor at the rehearsal, because she is going to be late on account of her poorly scheduled nail appointment. Needless to say, I will be most eager to get to what I can only hope is ample amounts of alcohol at the barbecue afterward.
I cannot rely on the barbecue to provide the much-needed post-rehearsal buzz I seek, however, because my ex is going to be there, and my situation with him is one filled with drama. As I mentioned in the last post, I lost my virginity at the Boner family farm, but that is by no means the only time I've gotten laid there. Shortly after I graduated from college, M-Boner invited me over to the farm to barbecue. It was a small gathering: her, G-Boner and her boyfriend at the time, myself, and their older cousin J. I had the hots for J since high school, although unlike Bubba, J, being eleven years older than myself, was a decent enough guy NOT to tap my high school ass. Instead he bought us beer and taught me how to shoot a rifle. However, after college, it was a different story. He was in his early thirties, and I was twenty-one, totally legal, and recently single. M-Boner and I decided that it would be a great idea to start drinking cosmopolitans at like 2 p.m. at this barbecue, and then to sit in the sun until it went down. We had a lot of fun, ate a lot of steak, and got killer tans and extremely drunk.
M-Boner finally got sick at like 8 or 9 p.m., so J and I put her to bed. G-Boner and her boyfriend took off, leaving a very drunken J and myself to our own devices. Naturally, we decided to make more drinks and go in the hot tub. I think what happened next is pretty fucking predictable. I believe he dared me to take off my bikini. Within about 10 minutes, we were having such drunken vigorous sex that we splashed half the water out of the hot tub and actually had to refill it the next day. Apparently he'd always had the hots for me, too, so that night we got no sleep at all.
J lived with G-Boner at her brother's house in Tacoma, and since I was often there, I'd see him all the time. Therefore, I'd sleep with him all the time. We went out for sushi a week or so after all this started, and had a discussion of sorts regarding the nature of our relationship. J was moving to California in a month, so I suggested that we keep things light. Yes, there could be plenty of sex, and plenty of beer drinking and hanging out, but no heavy commitment or emotional progression. I pointed out that this was probably for the best both because of his impending move, and because G-Boner hit the fucking roof when she found out about it. She accused me of "incest," and did not see my side of things when I pointed out that though I may be an honorary member of the Boner family, in actuality I am not related to them. She also accused me of "taking advantage" of J, and when I disagreed that a 21-year-old chick offering sex with no strings attached to a 32-year-old guy could be construed as "taking advantage" of him, she was very angry. It caused a rift in our friendship that still is unrepaired. Yesterday I asked G-Boner if J was going to be at M-Boner's wedding, and she got a very funny look on her face, like she'd just taken a drink of sour milk, when she replied in the affirmative.
Anyway, during J's last month in Tacoma, I often stayed over with him, and things went pretty much as we had discussed. Lots of sex, bookended by lots of hanging out and beer-drinking. We were certainly fond of one another, and went on a few dinner-and-a-movie-type dates, but things never got too serious, or so I thought. After he moved, we stayed in touch via the occasional dirty "wish you were here, naked, and doing me" e-mail, but I moved on to a slew of other Puget Sound ne'er-do-wells, and I assumed that he was hitting it with some hot blondes in Santa Barbara.
That year when he came back to Tacoma for Christmas, he asked if I would pick him up at the airport, and if he could spend the night at my place. "Sure," I said, eager to get some. I picked him up, brought him home, and did him. Unfortunately, the tone of our sex had changed dramatically. During our previous torrid affair, it had been hot and rambunctious, as in bend me over and drill me like a Texas oil rig, as befits a summer fling. This time, it was slow, missionary position lovemaking, full of whispered sweet nothings and romantic sentiments. Unlike many women, I'm totally NOT into this sort of thing. Then he told his whole family, without consulting me, that we were a couple, and invited/insisted that I go spend New Year's in Sun Valley with him. I was very put off by all this, and began to send him to voice mail, as I was alarmed and taken aback by this change in tone. In his case, absence did not only make the heart grow fonder, but it also made the heart deluded into thinking we were a committed couple. I felt that exchanging a few "I sure do miss boning your brains out" e-mails was not exactly the hallmark of two people falling deeply in love. Therefore I did what I always do when confronted with someone who has a disproportionately lovey-dovey view of my sexual relationship with them, I ran as fast as I could in the opposite direction. He kept trying to do all this GF/BF stuff with me, so finally I had to break it to him that I was unhappy with the direction our relationship was going, and thought it best that we stop sleeping together and resume a platonichanging out-only relationship.
I don't think he liked this idea much, because his correspondence with me became very short and mildly standoffish. Eventually, we stopped e-mailing altogether. I heard from the Boner sisters that he'd acquired a new girlfriend in California, and the next time he came home, she was with him, so I didn't see him. Rumor had it that she had heard of me from him, and absolutely refused to meet me or let him anywhere near me, so I ended up being excluded from several Boner functions which I probably would otherwise have been invited to. Although I was annoyed and unsympathetic, I also am well aware that many women are insecure and jealous when they are confronted with their boyfriend's former lovers (especially ones like me who are particularly notable for their nymphomania) so she was probably right to worry about his wandering eye.
Her worries proved valid when, a couple years later, he came up to Tacoma without the old lady, and called me promptly. He brought over a bottle of wine to my house, to "catch up" in a friendly way. Of course, after the wine was gone, our clothes were on the floor and we were up in my room doing it much like we had back in the old days. In fact, I believe that night we had such loud, wild, rug-burns-on-my-ass sex that Caesar was worried I was being hurt and I had to lock him out of my room, causing him to scratch at my bedroom door and cry piteously (normally he ignores me when I am having sex). I guess that between myself and J, the sex is only hot when there is no possibility of a relationship coming out of it.
Anyway, a few months later, I was in Santa Barbara on vacation with some friends, and I called him up to say hi and see if he wanted to grab some coffee or something. I knew he lived with his girlfriend and I wasn't looking for a repeat of illicit cheating sex. I was just calling because I always call people when I happen to be unexpectedly in the place where they live, and I've known J for years. He replied that he was on his way back to Santa Barbara from Las Vegas, where he had just MARRIED HIS GIRLFRIEND! Although I was initially shocked at his having eloped only a few short months after cheating with me, I wasn't terribly surprised. He clearly had a sentimental streak that predisposed him for marriage, and I'm certainly not the marrying type, so good for him for finding a girl who is. I haven't seen him since our last tryst, but I am positive I'm going to see him and the missus tonight.
Since I've been reminded several times by several different Boner family members that J's wife has stated unequivocally and publicly that she hopes she NEVER meets me, I don't anticipate a happy meeting tonight. I can be very charming with strangers, and particularly in family party situations. I smile a lot, I'm quick to introduce myself, I'm funny, and I invite easy conversation. However, I can only imagine that when I am face to face with this woman, it's going to be a be a bitchy stare-down on par with something out of an episode of "Melrose Place." In preparation, I made sure to bring every slutty yet wedding-appropriate dress/sexualicious pair of stiletto heels I own home with me, so that I am not caught looking anything less than stunningly hot when the big meeting occurs. I do hope that it's not as bad, hostile, or awkward as I anticipate it being in my mind, but I'm feeling pessimistic. This bitch has spent the past four or five years making it common knowledge that she hates the mere idea of my existence, so I can only imagine the bone-crushing handshakes she and I will be exchanging.
Weddings certainly are a time for happy celebration of a couple in love (and believe me, I'm not going to do anything to ruin or otherwise disrupt M-Boner's special day...I do have the barest modicum of maturity), but in this case, it's also going to have a sideshow that is one hell of a cunty showdown. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go prepare for battle/paint my toenails.
Tonight is the rehearsal and subsequent dinner, which is a barbecue at the Boner sister's family farm. I have to go to the rehearsal, because I am sort o in the wedding: I'm reading a prayer, probably one of the petitions before communion (unfortunately, M-Boner decided to be a good Catholic and include a mass in her wedding, which means that it will be like two fucking hours long. I can only hope the rehearsal does not take that much time.) Unlike my Aunt Jesus, M-Boner does not hold me quite on par with Jezebel, and must not imagine that I'll burst into flames as I stand on the altar and speak holy words to God on her special day. I also have to fill in for G-Boner as the Maid of Honor at the rehearsal, because she is going to be late on account of her poorly scheduled nail appointment. Needless to say, I will be most eager to get to what I can only hope is ample amounts of alcohol at the barbecue afterward.
I cannot rely on the barbecue to provide the much-needed post-rehearsal buzz I seek, however, because my ex is going to be there, and my situation with him is one filled with drama. As I mentioned in the last post, I lost my virginity at the Boner family farm, but that is by no means the only time I've gotten laid there. Shortly after I graduated from college, M-Boner invited me over to the farm to barbecue. It was a small gathering: her, G-Boner and her boyfriend at the time, myself, and their older cousin J. I had the hots for J since high school, although unlike Bubba, J, being eleven years older than myself, was a decent enough guy NOT to tap my high school ass. Instead he bought us beer and taught me how to shoot a rifle. However, after college, it was a different story. He was in his early thirties, and I was twenty-one, totally legal, and recently single. M-Boner and I decided that it would be a great idea to start drinking cosmopolitans at like 2 p.m. at this barbecue, and then to sit in the sun until it went down. We had a lot of fun, ate a lot of steak, and got killer tans and extremely drunk.
M-Boner finally got sick at like 8 or 9 p.m., so J and I put her to bed. G-Boner and her boyfriend took off, leaving a very drunken J and myself to our own devices. Naturally, we decided to make more drinks and go in the hot tub. I think what happened next is pretty fucking predictable. I believe he dared me to take off my bikini. Within about 10 minutes, we were having such drunken vigorous sex that we splashed half the water out of the hot tub and actually had to refill it the next day. Apparently he'd always had the hots for me, too, so that night we got no sleep at all.
J lived with G-Boner at her brother's house in Tacoma, and since I was often there, I'd see him all the time. Therefore, I'd sleep with him all the time. We went out for sushi a week or so after all this started, and had a discussion of sorts regarding the nature of our relationship. J was moving to California in a month, so I suggested that we keep things light. Yes, there could be plenty of sex, and plenty of beer drinking and hanging out, but no heavy commitment or emotional progression. I pointed out that this was probably for the best both because of his impending move, and because G-Boner hit the fucking roof when she found out about it. She accused me of "incest," and did not see my side of things when I pointed out that though I may be an honorary member of the Boner family, in actuality I am not related to them. She also accused me of "taking advantage" of J, and when I disagreed that a 21-year-old chick offering sex with no strings attached to a 32-year-old guy could be construed as "taking advantage" of him, she was very angry. It caused a rift in our friendship that still is unrepaired. Yesterday I asked G-Boner if J was going to be at M-Boner's wedding, and she got a very funny look on her face, like she'd just taken a drink of sour milk, when she replied in the affirmative.
Anyway, during J's last month in Tacoma, I often stayed over with him, and things went pretty much as we had discussed. Lots of sex, bookended by lots of hanging out and beer-drinking. We were certainly fond of one another, and went on a few dinner-and-a-movie-type dates, but things never got too serious, or so I thought. After he moved, we stayed in touch via the occasional dirty "wish you were here, naked, and doing me" e-mail, but I moved on to a slew of other Puget Sound ne'er-do-wells, and I assumed that he was hitting it with some hot blondes in Santa Barbara.
That year when he came back to Tacoma for Christmas, he asked if I would pick him up at the airport, and if he could spend the night at my place. "Sure," I said, eager to get some. I picked him up, brought him home, and did him. Unfortunately, the tone of our sex had changed dramatically. During our previous torrid affair, it had been hot and rambunctious, as in bend me over and drill me like a Texas oil rig, as befits a summer fling. This time, it was slow, missionary position lovemaking, full of whispered sweet nothings and romantic sentiments. Unlike many women, I'm totally NOT into this sort of thing. Then he told his whole family, without consulting me, that we were a couple, and invited/insisted that I go spend New Year's in Sun Valley with him. I was very put off by all this, and began to send him to voice mail, as I was alarmed and taken aback by this change in tone. In his case, absence did not only make the heart grow fonder, but it also made the heart deluded into thinking we were a committed couple. I felt that exchanging a few "I sure do miss boning your brains out" e-mails was not exactly the hallmark of two people falling deeply in love. Therefore I did what I always do when confronted with someone who has a disproportionately lovey-dovey view of my sexual relationship with them, I ran as fast as I could in the opposite direction. He kept trying to do all this GF/BF stuff with me, so finally I had to break it to him that I was unhappy with the direction our relationship was going, and thought it best that we stop sleeping together and resume a platonichanging out-only relationship.
I don't think he liked this idea much, because his correspondence with me became very short and mildly standoffish. Eventually, we stopped e-mailing altogether. I heard from the Boner sisters that he'd acquired a new girlfriend in California, and the next time he came home, she was with him, so I didn't see him. Rumor had it that she had heard of me from him, and absolutely refused to meet me or let him anywhere near me, so I ended up being excluded from several Boner functions which I probably would otherwise have been invited to. Although I was annoyed and unsympathetic, I also am well aware that many women are insecure and jealous when they are confronted with their boyfriend's former lovers (especially ones like me who are particularly notable for their nymphomania) so she was probably right to worry about his wandering eye.
Her worries proved valid when, a couple years later, he came up to Tacoma without the old lady, and called me promptly. He brought over a bottle of wine to my house, to "catch up" in a friendly way. Of course, after the wine was gone, our clothes were on the floor and we were up in my room doing it much like we had back in the old days. In fact, I believe that night we had such loud, wild, rug-burns-on-my-ass sex that Caesar was worried I was being hurt and I had to lock him out of my room, causing him to scratch at my bedroom door and cry piteously (normally he ignores me when I am having sex). I guess that between myself and J, the sex is only hot when there is no possibility of a relationship coming out of it.
Anyway, a few months later, I was in Santa Barbara on vacation with some friends, and I called him up to say hi and see if he wanted to grab some coffee or something. I knew he lived with his girlfriend and I wasn't looking for a repeat of illicit cheating sex. I was just calling because I always call people when I happen to be unexpectedly in the place where they live, and I've known J for years. He replied that he was on his way back to Santa Barbara from Las Vegas, where he had just MARRIED HIS GIRLFRIEND! Although I was initially shocked at his having eloped only a few short months after cheating with me, I wasn't terribly surprised. He clearly had a sentimental streak that predisposed him for marriage, and I'm certainly not the marrying type, so good for him for finding a girl who is. I haven't seen him since our last tryst, but I am positive I'm going to see him and the missus tonight.
Since I've been reminded several times by several different Boner family members that J's wife has stated unequivocally and publicly that she hopes she NEVER meets me, I don't anticipate a happy meeting tonight. I can be very charming with strangers, and particularly in family party situations. I smile a lot, I'm quick to introduce myself, I'm funny, and I invite easy conversation. However, I can only imagine that when I am face to face with this woman, it's going to be a be a bitchy stare-down on par with something out of an episode of "Melrose Place." In preparation, I made sure to bring every slutty yet wedding-appropriate dress/sexualicious pair of stiletto heels I own home with me, so that I am not caught looking anything less than stunningly hot when the big meeting occurs. I do hope that it's not as bad, hostile, or awkward as I anticipate it being in my mind, but I'm feeling pessimistic. This bitch has spent the past four or five years making it common knowledge that she hates the mere idea of my existence, so I can only imagine the bone-crushing handshakes she and I will be exchanging.
Weddings certainly are a time for happy celebration of a couple in love (and believe me, I'm not going to do anything to ruin or otherwise disrupt M-Boner's special day...I do have the barest modicum of maturity), but in this case, it's also going to have a sideshow that is one hell of a cunty showdown. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go prepare for battle/paint my toenails.
Labels: alcoholism, Catholicism, G-Boner, M-Boner, P-N-Dub, sex
Thursday, July 27, 2006
My anniversary
I realized last night after returning from having a few Vitamin Rs at the totally awesome Roadhouse Tavern with MillerTime that I had almost forgotten it was July 26th. July 26th is a very important day in my life. Why? Because July 26th, 1995, I lost my virginity (with a guy).
As you might imagine, I wanted to make sure that my first time was just as special and magical as every girl dreams it should be. And not in the way that bitches in weird third-world countries where their grandma runs outside showing everyone the bloody sheets from their marriage bed imagine it, but in the way that it DOESN'T HURT LIKE HELL. Therefore, I made sure to get good and drunk beforehand.
I was at my best friend from high school G-Boner's mom's house. She lives on a farm out in a town called Orting (not just a town, it's also a verb!) Orting is famous because it's going to be the first town wiped from the face of the earth when our local volcano Mt. Rainier blows up and inundates it with boiling lahars. I was 16, and fresh off my recent and extremely unfortunate forays into girl-on-girl fingerbanging. G-Boner was friends with this guy who had graduated high school the year before we started as freshmen, and he was 5 years older than us. I'll call him Bubba, because that's what his friends called him. He was decidedly unattractive, as his most prominent physical feature was his overgrown monobrow. However, he had one incredibly appealing attribute: he was 21. Therefore, G-Boner invited him over one sultry summer night when her mom was out of town on the condition that he bring two cases of Rainier Ice with him. He gladly obliged, as most upstanding adult men love to bring alcohol to willing idiotic teenage girls. Looking back, it was like something out of a "To Catch a Predator" edition of Dateline, except it was before the advent of instant messaging.
Anyway, he showed up with his other 21-year-old friend who G-Boner had the hots for, and we all started drinking. Then we decided to hit the hot tub, except wait! None of us had swimming suits! So we all went in our skivvies. A few Rainier Ices, and probably a few hits of pot from a Coke can later, and G-Boner and her guy decided to take the party back inside. Bubba and I immediately began making out. He was a *horrible* kisser (ie: one of those guys who roughly licks all over your face but NEVER manages to actually find your mouth), but I didn't care. After breaking up with my high school girlfriend and going through a tortured "I'm suicidal and I write poetry phase", I decided that I needed to turn over a new leaf, and step numero uno was getting the fuck gone with my virginity. I wanted penis, and I wanted it now.
Bubba was obviously willing, and I couldn't have picked a more fortuitous partner, although I didn't realize it at the time. Now that I'm well versed in the types of dicks that most guys are packing, I would characterize his dick as decidedly small and slender. Girthwise, it was equivalent to one of those training "junior-sized" tampons they sell for 12-year-old bitches who have just gotten their periods and are uncomfortable with the prospect of shoving shit wider than a Bic roller ball into their vaginas. It wasn't as bad as Chapstick Dick's, but it was pretty small. Therefore, my goal of losing my virginity with someone who wouldn't hurt me was about to be fully realized, although I did not appreciate this at the time. I just knew that he had a hard dick, and wanted to put it in me, and I saw an easy means to an end.
For some reason I can't remember, I didn't want to do it in the hot tub (I think I'd heard some rumor that this makes you sterile or gives you the clap or something totally absurd like that). So we grabbed a blanket and headed out into the freshly mowed hayfield. I gave him what must have been the most amateurish and clumsy blow job of all time, because afterward he patted my head in an almost paternal way, as if to say, "Aw, shucks, inexperienced hasbian teenage girls do the darndest things." Then I was like, "So...do you want to, um, have sex?"
To his credit, he was like, "Are you sure you want to do that?" I said, "Yes, I'm 100% positive." So I braced myself for what my few devirginized friends and all the literature I'd ever read reported was a painful, bloody experience. I remember not really enjoying it, but being pleasantly surprised how NOT painful it was. In fact, it didn't really feel good (in hindsight, this was due to both his small penis and his abhorrent, piss-poor jackhammering technique), but it didn't feel bad either. I even started to try to get into it, moaning and whatnot, until he blew the whole mood.
"Damn, Razzy," he said. "Your pussy is tight!"
Even back then, deep down inside the asshole I am today was present. I gave him a scornful look, and said, "Well, DUH! I'm a fucking virgin!"
He looked somewhat abashed, and then I felt bad, because I was a teenager not wanting to offend. So then I said, "Well, I guess not anymore!" and laughed. I think he was actually embarrassed to have deflowered me, because after that he was always very shy and respectful around me.
Years later, after I was out of college and living in Tacoma, I ran into him at Magoo's, the bar where all the people from high school you don't want to see converge. I turned to Miss Corbutt, who I was with, and said, "Dude, this is Bubba! The guy who took my virginity!" He blushed BRIGHT red and could barely say another word. It was awesome.
Happy anniversary, Razzy's Deflowered Vagina! It's been one hell of an eleven years since!
As you might imagine, I wanted to make sure that my first time was just as special and magical as every girl dreams it should be. And not in the way that bitches in weird third-world countries where their grandma runs outside showing everyone the bloody sheets from their marriage bed imagine it, but in the way that it DOESN'T HURT LIKE HELL. Therefore, I made sure to get good and drunk beforehand.
I was at my best friend from high school G-Boner's mom's house. She lives on a farm out in a town called Orting (not just a town, it's also a verb!) Orting is famous because it's going to be the first town wiped from the face of the earth when our local volcano Mt. Rainier blows up and inundates it with boiling lahars. I was 16, and fresh off my recent and extremely unfortunate forays into girl-on-girl fingerbanging. G-Boner was friends with this guy who had graduated high school the year before we started as freshmen, and he was 5 years older than us. I'll call him Bubba, because that's what his friends called him. He was decidedly unattractive, as his most prominent physical feature was his overgrown monobrow. However, he had one incredibly appealing attribute: he was 21. Therefore, G-Boner invited him over one sultry summer night when her mom was out of town on the condition that he bring two cases of Rainier Ice with him. He gladly obliged, as most upstanding adult men love to bring alcohol to willing idiotic teenage girls. Looking back, it was like something out of a "To Catch a Predator" edition of Dateline, except it was before the advent of instant messaging.
Anyway, he showed up with his other 21-year-old friend who G-Boner had the hots for, and we all started drinking. Then we decided to hit the hot tub, except wait! None of us had swimming suits! So we all went in our skivvies. A few Rainier Ices, and probably a few hits of pot from a Coke can later, and G-Boner and her guy decided to take the party back inside. Bubba and I immediately began making out. He was a *horrible* kisser (ie: one of those guys who roughly licks all over your face but NEVER manages to actually find your mouth), but I didn't care. After breaking up with my high school girlfriend and going through a tortured "I'm suicidal and I write poetry phase", I decided that I needed to turn over a new leaf, and step numero uno was getting the fuck gone with my virginity. I wanted penis, and I wanted it now.
Bubba was obviously willing, and I couldn't have picked a more fortuitous partner, although I didn't realize it at the time. Now that I'm well versed in the types of dicks that most guys are packing, I would characterize his dick as decidedly small and slender. Girthwise, it was equivalent to one of those training "junior-sized" tampons they sell for 12-year-old bitches who have just gotten their periods and are uncomfortable with the prospect of shoving shit wider than a Bic roller ball into their vaginas. It wasn't as bad as Chapstick Dick's, but it was pretty small. Therefore, my goal of losing my virginity with someone who wouldn't hurt me was about to be fully realized, although I did not appreciate this at the time. I just knew that he had a hard dick, and wanted to put it in me, and I saw an easy means to an end.
For some reason I can't remember, I didn't want to do it in the hot tub (I think I'd heard some rumor that this makes you sterile or gives you the clap or something totally absurd like that). So we grabbed a blanket and headed out into the freshly mowed hayfield. I gave him what must have been the most amateurish and clumsy blow job of all time, because afterward he patted my head in an almost paternal way, as if to say, "Aw, shucks, inexperienced hasbian teenage girls do the darndest things." Then I was like, "So...do you want to, um, have sex?"
To his credit, he was like, "Are you sure you want to do that?" I said, "Yes, I'm 100% positive." So I braced myself for what my few devirginized friends and all the literature I'd ever read reported was a painful, bloody experience. I remember not really enjoying it, but being pleasantly surprised how NOT painful it was. In fact, it didn't really feel good (in hindsight, this was due to both his small penis and his abhorrent, piss-poor jackhammering technique), but it didn't feel bad either. I even started to try to get into it, moaning and whatnot, until he blew the whole mood.
"Damn, Razzy," he said. "Your pussy is tight!"
Even back then, deep down inside the asshole I am today was present. I gave him a scornful look, and said, "Well, DUH! I'm a fucking virgin!"
He looked somewhat abashed, and then I felt bad, because I was a teenager not wanting to offend. So then I said, "Well, I guess not anymore!" and laughed. I think he was actually embarrassed to have deflowered me, because after that he was always very shy and respectful around me.
Years later, after I was out of college and living in Tacoma, I ran into him at Magoo's, the bar where all the people from high school you don't want to see converge. I turned to Miss Corbutt, who I was with, and said, "Dude, this is Bubba! The guy who took my virginity!" He blushed BRIGHT red and could barely say another word. It was awesome.
Happy anniversary, Razzy's Deflowered Vagina! It's been one hell of an eleven years since!
Labels: alcoholism, G-Boner, P-N-Dub, Razzification, sex
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
I am now officially a guest in my own home
After last night's many beers, a couple solid rolls in the sack with Ken Lay, and negligible sleep, I managed to haul my sorry ass on a JFK-bound A train at 5:30 a.m. and get on a flight to Seattle. My brother Lil' Tevie picked me up, took me to Taco Time (first order of business, obviously), then brought me back to my parents' house. I realized quickly that my parents' mission to strip my former bedroom of all my personal touches, thus transforming it into the "guest room" or the "computer room" is almost complete.
They got rid of the Barbie I hung in effigy with a rosary from my ceiling (which I thought a very clever way to show my disgust for both Catholicism and the patriarchy when I was 14). They got rid of the conduct referral I kept on my bulletin board that my 8th grade P.E. teacher gave me for hitting Kent Slagle on the head with a rolled-up poster for the Presidential Fitness Challenge and subsequently being "inappropriately disrespectful to an authority figure." I hated that teacher so much, and the feeling was mutual: he later kicked me out of class for "inciting a riot", which was actually a peaceful sit-in designed to get him to let our class play floor hockey without protective gear, an activity that he'd previously banned on account of rampant high-sticking. They got rid of my "A Woman Needs a Man Like a Fish Needs a Bicycle" bumper sticker (although that's no loss). They also got rid of the heinous gray carpet that I picked when my parents unwisely allowed me to decorate my own room at the age of ten and replaced it with wood. My mom then filled up the closet with her work clothes and other random shit she never wears. My room is no longer "my room." When my dad got home today, after hugging me and saying hello, the first thing he said was "how do you like what we did with the guest room?"
"The guest room?! Dad, that's my room!"
"That was your room. You don't actually plan on ever moving back in, do you?" He gave me a look that said "please, dear God, no." While I have a great relationship with both my parents, it is predicated on one important fact: we do not live under the same roof. As they frown on some of my lifestyle choices, like heavy drinking, shouting curse words, and fucking random strangers, it is best that I limit time under the same roof with them to brief visits home. The last time I lived with them for any length of time was the dark period between graduating college and getting my first job slinging T-cells. At the end of those two and a half months, my parents could not wait to help me move out.
"Don't worry, Dad. I think it's HIGHLY unlikely I'll ever be back here except for visits." He looked relieved. "But Dad, why did you have to get rid of all my stuff? Couldn't you have left something for old time's sake, like a monument to the wayward daughter who once lived here?"
"What, like that Barbie?" he scoffed. "Relax, we kept a few things we thought you might want, anyway."
He directed me to the bulletin board, where this Far Side page-a-day calendar entry from four years ago hung, with alterations made by my dear mother so that I could showcase her opinion of me in my cubicle at work:
Thanks a lot, Mom. I'm glad that every guest who stays at my parents' house will get to see my mother making jokes about me being a geek.
My dad then pointed out that they also kept this book, a real gem that was given to me in high school when I was at the height of my obnoxious, uber-feminist stage by a couple of wisenheimers who thought they could get a rise out of me with it.
By obnoxious, I mean that I was the type of person who felt that all references to God in the Bible using the pronoun "He" should be changed to "He/She" to prevent women from being excluded. No WONDER I couldn't get a date for my junior prom. Anyway, I was sitting in AP US History or something when this book was delivered to me in class. I opened it up, and found this inscription:
Then I turned to see HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair snickering at me and knew instantly that they were my "Right Wing Pals" behind this. Back in our high school days they were super right wing and even founded our school's young Republican club, which was called (shit you not) the Grand Old Party Posse, and distributed shirts with Reagan's picture on them. Now, they're both so liberal they practically qualify as socialists, and I vote Republican. Anyway, when my mom was cleaning out my closet she found this book and decided that it would be a terrific historical relic to display in the space formerly known as Razzy's room. This is my legacy: a Far Side comic altered by my mother to indicate that I'm a nerd, and a Rush Limbaugh book entitled See I Told You So. Thanks a lot, Mom and Dad, for these small attempts to preserve my spirit in a room that now admittedly looks much less like a psychotic lesbian member of the Trenchcoat Mafia lives there. You've done a bang-up job with my old place.
They got rid of the Barbie I hung in effigy with a rosary from my ceiling (which I thought a very clever way to show my disgust for both Catholicism and the patriarchy when I was 14). They got rid of the conduct referral I kept on my bulletin board that my 8th grade P.E. teacher gave me for hitting Kent Slagle on the head with a rolled-up poster for the Presidential Fitness Challenge and subsequently being "inappropriately disrespectful to an authority figure." I hated that teacher so much, and the feeling was mutual: he later kicked me out of class for "inciting a riot", which was actually a peaceful sit-in designed to get him to let our class play floor hockey without protective gear, an activity that he'd previously banned on account of rampant high-sticking. They got rid of my "A Woman Needs a Man Like a Fish Needs a Bicycle" bumper sticker (although that's no loss). They also got rid of the heinous gray carpet that I picked when my parents unwisely allowed me to decorate my own room at the age of ten and replaced it with wood. My mom then filled up the closet with her work clothes and other random shit she never wears. My room is no longer "my room." When my dad got home today, after hugging me and saying hello, the first thing he said was "how do you like what we did with the guest room?"
"The guest room?! Dad, that's my room!"
"That was your room. You don't actually plan on ever moving back in, do you?" He gave me a look that said "please, dear God, no." While I have a great relationship with both my parents, it is predicated on one important fact: we do not live under the same roof. As they frown on some of my lifestyle choices, like heavy drinking, shouting curse words, and fucking random strangers, it is best that I limit time under the same roof with them to brief visits home. The last time I lived with them for any length of time was the dark period between graduating college and getting my first job slinging T-cells. At the end of those two and a half months, my parents could not wait to help me move out.
"Don't worry, Dad. I think it's HIGHLY unlikely I'll ever be back here except for visits." He looked relieved. "But Dad, why did you have to get rid of all my stuff? Couldn't you have left something for old time's sake, like a monument to the wayward daughter who once lived here?"
"What, like that Barbie?" he scoffed. "Relax, we kept a few things we thought you might want, anyway."
He directed me to the bulletin board, where this Far Side page-a-day calendar entry from four years ago hung, with alterations made by my dear mother so that I could showcase her opinion of me in my cubicle at work:
Thanks a lot, Mom. I'm glad that every guest who stays at my parents' house will get to see my mother making jokes about me being a geek.
My dad then pointed out that they also kept this book, a real gem that was given to me in high school when I was at the height of my obnoxious, uber-feminist stage by a couple of wisenheimers who thought they could get a rise out of me with it.
By obnoxious, I mean that I was the type of person who felt that all references to God in the Bible using the pronoun "He" should be changed to "He/She" to prevent women from being excluded. No WONDER I couldn't get a date for my junior prom. Anyway, I was sitting in AP US History or something when this book was delivered to me in class. I opened it up, and found this inscription:
Then I turned to see HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair snickering at me and knew instantly that they were my "Right Wing Pals" behind this. Back in our high school days they were super right wing and even founded our school's young Republican club, which was called (shit you not) the Grand Old Party Posse, and distributed shirts with Reagan's picture on them. Now, they're both so liberal they practically qualify as socialists, and I vote Republican. Anyway, when my mom was cleaning out my closet she found this book and decided that it would be a terrific historical relic to display in the space formerly known as Razzy's room. This is my legacy: a Far Side comic altered by my mother to indicate that I'm a nerd, and a Rush Limbaugh book entitled See I Told You So. Thanks a lot, Mom and Dad, for these small attempts to preserve my spirit in a room that now admittedly looks much less like a psychotic lesbian member of the Trenchcoat Mafia lives there. You've done a bang-up job with my old place.
Labels: aging, family matters, HotLawyer, Morrissey'sHair, P-N-Dub
Monday, July 24, 2006
Gym Drama: The Next Generation
Since I went to Wisconsin, where I drank many heavy beers and ate a lot of fried foods without much exercise, I've been sweating my tits off at the gym to make up for it. The shitty-ass Columbia gym isn't air-conditioned, so it literally feels like working out in a sauna. That means two things: fewer people in the gym on account of horrendous conditions, and ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY post-gym showers. Not that I've ever considered showering after working out optional (I tend to err on the side of extra showering...you can really never be too fresh or too clean), but in this environment, a post-Gauntlet shower is a MUST.
Yesterday, I had hopped out of my post-gym shower and was getting dressed. Despite the generally miserable heat and humidity, I was pleased that I pretty much had the locker room to myself. I reflected on how relaxing it is to get dressed at my leisure, without having to share space and wait for a spot at the mirror on account of all the other bitches in the gym. I reflected too soon.
Because I have had a number of problems at the gym, starting with Treadmill Bitch, continuing with the skank who stepped to me about my underwear habits, and culminating in the horror that was Twat-Washer, I'm always on the lookout for saggy, old harpies trying to step to me. Therefore, I was unprepared for someone outside of this demographic to assault my dignity while naked and dressing.
As I was dressing, all of a sudden I heard the scampering of feet. A little boy, about 6 or 7 years old, ran up the stairs with his mother in tow. He ran around the bank of lockers I was standing at, froze staring at me, pointed, and shouted, "BOOBIES!" at the top of his lungs. I just stood there, mouth hanging open, completely dumbfounded at having just been sexually harassed by a first-grader in a ladies locker room.
His mother then appeared, and took her son by the shoulder. Amazingly, she neither apologized to me, nor chastized her son for running up to a naked stranger and screaming about her tits. I gave the mother a "what the fuck?!"-type look. She gave me a half-assed shrug which said to me, "Well, he IS a child. I can't control him."
I had to speak up. For one thing, my hatred for children is well-documented, and when they behave in this manner, I want to squash them like cockroaches. The more important issue, however, is the fact that any male child old enough to scream about a topless woman's "boobies" has no business anywhere that adult women expect to get naked without having to hear shit about it. In dressing rooms, locker rooms, doctor's offices, spas, etc., there is an expectation that you can take your fucking shirt off and not have some moron make asinine comments about your tits. I can appreciate moms needing to take their very young sons into these sacred female spaces from time to time, and that is acceptable ONCE IN A WHILE when your son is an infant or a toddler, and considers a breast no different than a fucking slice of pizza. However, the second your son starts hollering and laughing hysterically about having seen a woman's breasts, he is TOO OLD to be running around in an environment where some women might feel self-conscious about this. I told this woman my feelings regarding this.
"I'm really uncomfortable with your son being here," I said. "He is obviously an age where it is inappropriate for him to be here."
"Oh," said the mom, looking entirely unabashed. "Well, he is a child. He doesn't mean what he's saying."
Yeah, bitch, keep that attitude right up. In ten years you'll be sitting at your brat's rape trial telling everyone in earshot that he didn't mean it if you keep not only excusing this type of bullshit behavior, but enabling it. She ushered her son out while I glared furiously at the pair of them.
I realize that I am not particularly shy about showing my body to the masses. I realize that I've put full-frontal nudity of myself on this website, for anyone to peruse, and that's fine by me. However, every time someone looks at those pictures, I don't have to put up with the bullshit experience of an idiot running up to me and shouting "Boobies!" Furthermore, I put those pictures on my site on MY terms. Similarly, when I go out in public wearing low-cut shirts, I am doing so on MY terms. When I am putting on lotion, weighing myself, brushing my hair, and doing all the other little primpy things I do in the ladies locker room after my shower, I am NOT doing it for an audience, and it is not wrong for me to expect not to have one in the fucking women's locker room.
Obviously, I've had problems with women not leaving me alone in the past. Putting up with this crap from a FIRST-GRADE BOY in the locker room is exponentially more aggravating because his idiot mother not only allows this, but because he's not even supposed to be in the locker room in the first place. All mothers should consider themselves warned: the next time I see a shrieking boy running around in a place where women are supposed to get naked with a modicum of privacy, I am going to raise hell and not stop until your kid dissolves in hysterical tears. If I have to be verbally assaulted by some kid commenting on my fucking feminine features, I will instill upon the kid a lifelong fear of breasts and the angry bitches behind them. I will ensure that your kid is fucking traumatized. These boobies bite back, so keep your male children OUT of my fucking locker room!
Yesterday, I had hopped out of my post-gym shower and was getting dressed. Despite the generally miserable heat and humidity, I was pleased that I pretty much had the locker room to myself. I reflected on how relaxing it is to get dressed at my leisure, without having to share space and wait for a spot at the mirror on account of all the other bitches in the gym. I reflected too soon.
Because I have had a number of problems at the gym, starting with Treadmill Bitch, continuing with the skank who stepped to me about my underwear habits, and culminating in the horror that was Twat-Washer, I'm always on the lookout for saggy, old harpies trying to step to me. Therefore, I was unprepared for someone outside of this demographic to assault my dignity while naked and dressing.
As I was dressing, all of a sudden I heard the scampering of feet. A little boy, about 6 or 7 years old, ran up the stairs with his mother in tow. He ran around the bank of lockers I was standing at, froze staring at me, pointed, and shouted, "BOOBIES!" at the top of his lungs. I just stood there, mouth hanging open, completely dumbfounded at having just been sexually harassed by a first-grader in a ladies locker room.
His mother then appeared, and took her son by the shoulder. Amazingly, she neither apologized to me, nor chastized her son for running up to a naked stranger and screaming about her tits. I gave the mother a "what the fuck?!"-type look. She gave me a half-assed shrug which said to me, "Well, he IS a child. I can't control him."
I had to speak up. For one thing, my hatred for children is well-documented, and when they behave in this manner, I want to squash them like cockroaches. The more important issue, however, is the fact that any male child old enough to scream about a topless woman's "boobies" has no business anywhere that adult women expect to get naked without having to hear shit about it. In dressing rooms, locker rooms, doctor's offices, spas, etc., there is an expectation that you can take your fucking shirt off and not have some moron make asinine comments about your tits. I can appreciate moms needing to take their very young sons into these sacred female spaces from time to time, and that is acceptable ONCE IN A WHILE when your son is an infant or a toddler, and considers a breast no different than a fucking slice of pizza. However, the second your son starts hollering and laughing hysterically about having seen a woman's breasts, he is TOO OLD to be running around in an environment where some women might feel self-conscious about this. I told this woman my feelings regarding this.
"I'm really uncomfortable with your son being here," I said. "He is obviously an age where it is inappropriate for him to be here."
"Oh," said the mom, looking entirely unabashed. "Well, he is a child. He doesn't mean what he's saying."
Yeah, bitch, keep that attitude right up. In ten years you'll be sitting at your brat's rape trial telling everyone in earshot that he didn't mean it if you keep not only excusing this type of bullshit behavior, but enabling it. She ushered her son out while I glared furiously at the pair of them.
I realize that I am not particularly shy about showing my body to the masses. I realize that I've put full-frontal nudity of myself on this website, for anyone to peruse, and that's fine by me. However, every time someone looks at those pictures, I don't have to put up with the bullshit experience of an idiot running up to me and shouting "Boobies!" Furthermore, I put those pictures on my site on MY terms. Similarly, when I go out in public wearing low-cut shirts, I am doing so on MY terms. When I am putting on lotion, weighing myself, brushing my hair, and doing all the other little primpy things I do in the ladies locker room after my shower, I am NOT doing it for an audience, and it is not wrong for me to expect not to have one in the fucking women's locker room.
Obviously, I've had problems with women not leaving me alone in the past. Putting up with this crap from a FIRST-GRADE BOY in the locker room is exponentially more aggravating because his idiot mother not only allows this, but because he's not even supposed to be in the locker room in the first place. All mothers should consider themselves warned: the next time I see a shrieking boy running around in a place where women are supposed to get naked with a modicum of privacy, I am going to raise hell and not stop until your kid dissolves in hysterical tears. If I have to be verbally assaulted by some kid commenting on my fucking feminine features, I will instill upon the kid a lifelong fear of breasts and the angry bitches behind them. I will ensure that your kid is fucking traumatized. These boobies bite back, so keep your male children OUT of my fucking locker room!
Labels: destroy all children, exercise drama, nudity, stank vaginas
Saturday, July 22, 2006
More on "Miami Vice"
Since I was out of town last week and since next week I'm rolling back to the P-N-Dub for over a week, I'm spending the weekend working. That means a LAME Saturday night, at home, watching TV. I was pleased to see tonight that I wouldn't have to suffer through the river of unprocessed sewage that is summer weekend TV, because NBC was rerunning the pilot episode of the original "Miami Vice." It's fucking rad.
I watch "Miami Vice" episodes when I happen to catch them. The problem is that whatever weird channel actually shows "Miami Vice" episodes is so obscure and forgettable that I never remember to see if "Miami Vice" is on. When I do see them, it's usually later-era "Miami Vice" episodes. These are all sleek and cool, and Don Johnson's character is married to Sheena Easton, and the show is a fully refined formula. Chase drug dealers, look cool, make cool wisecracks, chase drug dealers, shoot at drug dealers, get yelled at by Edward James Olmos, shoot at drug dealers, check out random bitches in bikinis, speed around the bay in cigarette boat, shoot at drug dealers, make cool wisecracks, meet hot chicks/hot wives for implied sex. The End. In the pilot, the show is still a little rough around the edges and that just makes it kick more ass.
For one thing, Det. James "Sonny" Crockett isn't married to Sheena Easton. His estranged wife is kind of hot in an '80s mom (think Meredith Baxter Birney) kind of way, but there's only so much vague MILFiness can do for you if you're wearing stirrup stretch pants. His marriage to this woman has apparently hit the skids on account of his drinking problem and working vice, which is a career that is not congruent with a successful marriage. In the pilot, Sonny is very upset because his partner Jimmy Smits got blown up by a car bomb, which only compels him to hit the bottle harder, at least until Tubbs comes along and helps him begin the healing process. I also forgot that Sonny was an All-American wide receiver at Florida State. Unfortunately, his career in the pros was derailed when he "traded it all for 2 years in the southeast Asian conference," thus leading to the next obvious career move, which was (obviously) vice cop.
Crockett and Tubbs' methods for tracking down the nefarious drug lord Calderone are tantamount to something in a Nancy Drew novel. Their idea of "undercover" includes them calling up people at increasingly higher levels in Kingpin Calderone's cocaine food chain and saying something like, "Hi, I want to buy $200,000 worth of coke. $40 grand a key. No, I'm not a cop. Okay, meet you at the docks. Adios." (Winks and high fives are exchanged by Crockett and Tubbs for once again duping one of Calderone's henchmen with their slick use of Spanish-speaking). Granted, I've never personally infiltrated international drug smuggling conglomerates by deceptive means, but somehow I suspect that in real life it's more involved than this. Despite the expensive cars and speedboats and designer suits that are presumably part of their cover, Crockett and Tubbs have no problem walking straight from meetings with higher-ups in the Colombian coke import business to the police precinct, where they take their gigantic badges out from under their fly linen suits and eat donuts. Vice is apparently the easiest undercover gig in the world, as all you have to do to succeed is rock hot material possessions, show up for meetings, and speak a clumsy dialect of gringo spanish (or in Tubbs's case, talk to the drug lords in the most affected, piss-poor imitation of Jamaican patois I've ever heard). At least it's pretty sweet for the male vice cops; the female vice cops are apparently required to dress like prostitutes all day long, even when on desk duty. Crockett tries to impress upon Tubbs that it's not all sportscars and hot chicks, and in fact is the toughest vice gig EVER, as he says to Tubbs (a NYPD import), "This isn't New York, or the Bronx, or wherever the hell you're from. This is Miami: you need a program to know all the players." Then, after we meet Crockett's pet alligator (also part of his "cover"), they go grab a bite to eat and a fruity cocktail (Tubbs seems to favor Singapore Slings), and watch (of course) Gloria Estefan and the Miami Sound Machine tear shit up at some heavily neon-lit club somewhere. I don't know if this qualifies as exemplary police work, but it sure is entertaining to watch.
You can tell that this is a show from yesteryear, because Don Johnson smokes so much throughout that I feel like I'm watching a Quentin Tarantino movie. He smokes CONSTANTLY, and you never see lead characters in prime-time puffing away like an industrial revolution-era textile mill anymore. As I'm now mostly a non-smoker (I've cheated a couple times, but for the most part I've been smoke-free for over a month), it's actually quite torturous to watch his gratuitous smoking. But man, it sure does look fucking cool with his sportscar and pastel suit. I could watch "Miami Vice" all day. I think that a DVD purchase is in order.
And I'm including this video clip from this episode, just because it's awesome and I can. Nothing screams "badass" like an 80s-model Testarossa with Phil Collins bumping on the system:
And P.S. check it out: Tubbs is wearing a Members Only jacket with the collar popped. HOT.
I watch "Miami Vice" episodes when I happen to catch them. The problem is that whatever weird channel actually shows "Miami Vice" episodes is so obscure and forgettable that I never remember to see if "Miami Vice" is on. When I do see them, it's usually later-era "Miami Vice" episodes. These are all sleek and cool, and Don Johnson's character is married to Sheena Easton, and the show is a fully refined formula. Chase drug dealers, look cool, make cool wisecracks, chase drug dealers, shoot at drug dealers, get yelled at by Edward James Olmos, shoot at drug dealers, check out random bitches in bikinis, speed around the bay in cigarette boat, shoot at drug dealers, make cool wisecracks, meet hot chicks/hot wives for implied sex. The End. In the pilot, the show is still a little rough around the edges and that just makes it kick more ass.
For one thing, Det. James "Sonny" Crockett isn't married to Sheena Easton. His estranged wife is kind of hot in an '80s mom (think Meredith Baxter Birney) kind of way, but there's only so much vague MILFiness can do for you if you're wearing stirrup stretch pants. His marriage to this woman has apparently hit the skids on account of his drinking problem and working vice, which is a career that is not congruent with a successful marriage. In the pilot, Sonny is very upset because his partner Jimmy Smits got blown up by a car bomb, which only compels him to hit the bottle harder, at least until Tubbs comes along and helps him begin the healing process. I also forgot that Sonny was an All-American wide receiver at Florida State. Unfortunately, his career in the pros was derailed when he "traded it all for 2 years in the southeast Asian conference," thus leading to the next obvious career move, which was (obviously) vice cop.
Crockett and Tubbs' methods for tracking down the nefarious drug lord Calderone are tantamount to something in a Nancy Drew novel. Their idea of "undercover" includes them calling up people at increasingly higher levels in Kingpin Calderone's cocaine food chain and saying something like, "Hi, I want to buy $200,000 worth of coke. $40 grand a key. No, I'm not a cop. Okay, meet you at the docks. Adios." (Winks and high fives are exchanged by Crockett and Tubbs for once again duping one of Calderone's henchmen with their slick use of Spanish-speaking). Granted, I've never personally infiltrated international drug smuggling conglomerates by deceptive means, but somehow I suspect that in real life it's more involved than this. Despite the expensive cars and speedboats and designer suits that are presumably part of their cover, Crockett and Tubbs have no problem walking straight from meetings with higher-ups in the Colombian coke import business to the police precinct, where they take their gigantic badges out from under their fly linen suits and eat donuts. Vice is apparently the easiest undercover gig in the world, as all you have to do to succeed is rock hot material possessions, show up for meetings, and speak a clumsy dialect of gringo spanish (or in Tubbs's case, talk to the drug lords in the most affected, piss-poor imitation of Jamaican patois I've ever heard). At least it's pretty sweet for the male vice cops; the female vice cops are apparently required to dress like prostitutes all day long, even when on desk duty. Crockett tries to impress upon Tubbs that it's not all sportscars and hot chicks, and in fact is the toughest vice gig EVER, as he says to Tubbs (a NYPD import), "This isn't New York, or the Bronx, or wherever the hell you're from. This is Miami: you need a program to know all the players." Then, after we meet Crockett's pet alligator (also part of his "cover"), they go grab a bite to eat and a fruity cocktail (Tubbs seems to favor Singapore Slings), and watch (of course) Gloria Estefan and the Miami Sound Machine tear shit up at some heavily neon-lit club somewhere. I don't know if this qualifies as exemplary police work, but it sure is entertaining to watch.
You can tell that this is a show from yesteryear, because Don Johnson smokes so much throughout that I feel like I'm watching a Quentin Tarantino movie. He smokes CONSTANTLY, and you never see lead characters in prime-time puffing away like an industrial revolution-era textile mill anymore. As I'm now mostly a non-smoker (I've cheated a couple times, but for the most part I've been smoke-free for over a month), it's actually quite torturous to watch his gratuitous smoking. But man, it sure does look fucking cool with his sportscar and pastel suit. I could watch "Miami Vice" all day. I think that a DVD purchase is in order.
And I'm including this video clip from this episode, just because it's awesome and I can. Nothing screams "badass" like an 80s-model Testarossa with Phil Collins bumping on the system:
And P.S. check it out: Tubbs is wearing a Members Only jacket with the collar popped. HOT.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Behold, the beauty of the tiger
Britney Spears is out of her mind. I've been following the decline and fall of Britney for some time now, and much like Rome, Britney has gotten to the point where her fat, Sonic Hot Fudge Brownie Blast-stuffed ass is fiddling while her career goes down around her in flames. The most recent example of this is the stream of consciousness musing that Britney has taken to crafting for her website. It's in the "Love B" bubble that will pop up after the frightening faerie-filled Flash intro at britneyspears.com. Britney's site design in itself is awesome. It's like the Smith College pagan society's Samhain flyer clip art had sex with the airbrushed cover of a Lisa Frank peechee and then gave birth to a pack of super femmy Magic cards.
In other words, it's amazing, novel, and painful to look upon, as are Britney's literary stylings. Here is a sample:
"I'm mesmerized by tigers. Their eyes, their stripes, their constant quest for survival. They almost have a sense of mysteriousness about them."
Britney loves tigers, or at least velvet paintings of them, almost as much as she loves deep fried Twinkies. This girl is fucking trashtastic. Keep writing, Britney. The pen is mightier than the taut abs you will NEVER have again now that Federlame has ruined your midriff with his demon spawn, and you might as well just amuse people by posting your crazy diary entries/"poetry" and inventing new words like "mysteriousness."
In other words, it's amazing, novel, and painful to look upon, as are Britney's literary stylings. Here is a sample:
"I'm mesmerized by tigers. Their eyes, their stripes, their constant quest for survival. They almost have a sense of mysteriousness about them."
Britney loves tigers, or at least velvet paintings of them, almost as much as she loves deep fried Twinkies. This girl is fucking trashtastic. Keep writing, Britney. The pen is mightier than the taut abs you will NEVER have again now that Federlame has ruined your midriff with his demon spawn, and you might as well just amuse people by posting your crazy diary entries/"poetry" and inventing new words like "mysteriousness."
Notes from Party Central, I mean ASV 2006
I know you are all DYING to hear how my trip to Madison, Wisconsin went. Well, needless to say, I tore up the virology scene with my talents, both for making negative data look SEXY and for consuming near limitless quantities of domestic beer.
The conference organizers, unfortunately, decided to schedule lots of hot infectious action from dawn to well past dusk each day. Obviously, I'm totally into viruses, but sixteen straight hours of them for several days are a bit much. When I get bored, I tend to daydream, so I made sure to purchase a notebook, with the idea that I would take copious notes so as to not only retain what people talked about, but also to keep my attention on the viruses. This strategy was only partially effective. While I did take plenty of notes, during the times when I got bored, I would keep taking notes, but direct my notes at amusing J-Sexy (who was usually sitting next to me), rather than keeping a comprehensive record of what other grad students aresuffering through working diligently on.
For example, I often would start editorializing about many of my colleagues' chosen fields of research. In particular, I would often opine on how some viruses, like Semliki forest virus, are so pussified that it would just be embarrassing to die from them.
Also, as the conference was full of talks about coronaviruses, I quickly lost patience with hearing about them. I mean, SARS is so 2003! These coronavirus dorks should have given these talks with red Kabbalah strings and trucker hats, because those are about as in fashion as SARS research is. Get with the times, people.
And even if I approved of the viruses some of the speakers I saw worked on, I often took issue with the caliber of experiments being described. Apart from a number of talks in which the error bars were either nonexistent or huge (indicating, respectively, possible data manipulation and poor reproducibility), some people couldn't even explain their experiments in a way comprehensible to a room full of scientists.
Some of the presenters combined these confusing and essentially worthless experimental results with totally inadvisable presentation techniques, like reading off a script and failing to spell-check Power Point slides.
Also drawing my ire was a girl who decided to be original when it comes to the pronunciations of the word "basal" and the acronym for "interferon-stimulated genes", or "ISGs".
Blog comment-level spelling errors aside, some showed still other issues with their presentations, like this one poor girl who gave a talk about HIV, all the while sounding as though she were one frowny-face away from dissolving into tears:
Or, I would start pointing out their sometimes ruinous and regrettable taste in clothes. Scientists are already famous for their ineptitude at personal style, but even I was amazed at some of the new fashion lows achieved by some of my esteemed colleagues. When faced with a roomful of evidence, I was yet again amazed at how many people in the virus biz manage to accomplish MAJOR fashion don'ts on a regular basis.
For example, MANY of the female scientists decided that their data presentations would go best with the frumpiest, fugliest ensembles in their closets.
I don't want you to get the impression that the ladies were the only ones vying for the Worst Dressed at ASV '06 award. There were plenty of dudes actively getting their hideous on. For example, there's one guy from another unnamed institution in the greater NYC area whose general unattractiveness J-Sexy and I have been discussing for years...it's that bad. We call him "Skeletor", or, alternatively "Zombie Jesus", on account of his wan complexion, sunken eyes, and unkempt messianic hair and beard-style. Through the conference we were following both his misadventures in flower patterned shirts and socks-and-sandal combos, and his surprisingly intriguing love life.
There were plenty of other guys looking slovenly, disheveled, and/or badly groomed:
However, there were a few hot guys, as well. Strangely, several of them were in the coronavirus business, leading me to feel conflicted about my overriding condemnation of SARS research that was a major theme of my notetaking.
Mainly, all my notetaking culminated in the desperate longing for alcohol. These were the type of notes I was taking around 10:30 p.m. one night, when I was sitting through an interminable talk about viral myocarditis:
Naturally, this resulted in me bemoaning the effects of exactly what happened when I burned those drink tickets, as well as a few gigantic steins of pilsner and a glass of Jameson's later that night:
Anyway, that was mostly what happened at the conference. On account of all the virology followed by all the ABSOLUTELY necessary drinking with other graduate students, I did not have time to track down hot farm boys to fuck. However, a couple funny things happened. The first night, I discovered to my pleasant surprise that an old drinking buddy from Smith, who I haven't seen since Smith, was there, as she's getting her Ph.D in viral geekification at Brown. We immediately rekindled our drinking buddy relationship, and had a great time. She even surprised me by being simultaneously married and really fucking cool.
I also drank large quantities of beer out of a giant boot, and J-Sexy and I had a memorably good time fucking with an exceedingly drunk local who was hitting on us at a bar post-conference. He told us he was a network engineer (translation: configures Windows for a living) and immediately started bragging about his salary (60K per annum...impressive only when compared with a graduate stipend). When I realized we weren't goint to rid ourselves of him in the usual way (being bitchy and uninterested), I resorted to a method I developed back when I lived in Tacoma. Assuming that if I can't be rid on an idiot, I might as well amuse myself by toying with his idiocy. This means telling him ridiculous lies. I told him that I engineered smallpox-polio hybrid viruses for use as a biological weapon by the U.S. military, a whopper that he swallowed hook, line, and sinker. All was going well until J-Sexy decided to get in on the action, and told him that we were diehard Bush republicans. "What do you care if we support the greatest president that ever existed?" I asked. "You're just a sore loser because Bush kicks terrorist ass, unlike that pinko flip-flopping abortionist Kerry." He became visibly angry with us, and took to insulting our intelligence. "Look, I'm sure you're really smart," he said to my breasts (showcased, as usual, with a plunging halter top). "Yeah, I am," I responded. "As you can CLEARLY see, I have two extra brains, here on my chest." Things got worse from there, with him slobberingly asking us, "You two aren't even making sense. What is your point?"
"My point," I said, standing and giving him my best "fuck you, asshole" look, "is that we are disproportionately hotter than YOU. So what you have to say or what you think of us is totally fucking irrelevant." At that, J-Sexy and I went to find the posse of partying grad students that fortuitously called us at that very moment.
Anyway, Madison was kind of fun, until J-Sexy and I had to fly back to New York while still drunk with 1 hour of sleep under our belts on Wednesday morning. Needless to say, the Detroit airport is not a fun place to vomit (lots of traffic in the ladies room means NO PRIVACY, and people think you're bulimic. I wanted to lean out of my stall and shout, "I don't have an eating disorder, I have a drinking problem!!!", but I always realize that doesn't make me seem much more composed). The only real tragedy was that David Baltimore wasn't at the conference, and I couldn't find C.J. Peters anywhere despite vigilantly stalking him from the moment I showed up at the Monona Terrace Conference Center. Oh well, there's always next year's conference, during which I will undoubtedly rock Corvallis, Oregon to its core with my combined virological prowess and outrageous partying. Professional meetings are fun.
The conference organizers, unfortunately, decided to schedule lots of hot infectious action from dawn to well past dusk each day. Obviously, I'm totally into viruses, but sixteen straight hours of them for several days are a bit much. When I get bored, I tend to daydream, so I made sure to purchase a notebook, with the idea that I would take copious notes so as to not only retain what people talked about, but also to keep my attention on the viruses. This strategy was only partially effective. While I did take plenty of notes, during the times when I got bored, I would keep taking notes, but direct my notes at amusing J-Sexy (who was usually sitting next to me), rather than keeping a comprehensive record of what other grad students are
For example, I often would start editorializing about many of my colleagues' chosen fields of research. In particular, I would often opine on how some viruses, like Semliki forest virus, are so pussified that it would just be embarrassing to die from them.
Also, as the conference was full of talks about coronaviruses, I quickly lost patience with hearing about them. I mean, SARS is so 2003! These coronavirus dorks should have given these talks with red Kabbalah strings and trucker hats, because those are about as in fashion as SARS research is. Get with the times, people.
And even if I approved of the viruses some of the speakers I saw worked on, I often took issue with the caliber of experiments being described. Apart from a number of talks in which the error bars were either nonexistent or huge (indicating, respectively, possible data manipulation and poor reproducibility), some people couldn't even explain their experiments in a way comprehensible to a room full of scientists.
Some of the presenters combined these confusing and essentially worthless experimental results with totally inadvisable presentation techniques, like reading off a script and failing to spell-check Power Point slides.
Also drawing my ire was a girl who decided to be original when it comes to the pronunciations of the word "basal" and the acronym for "interferon-stimulated genes", or "ISGs".
Blog comment-level spelling errors aside, some showed still other issues with their presentations, like this one poor girl who gave a talk about HIV, all the while sounding as though she were one frowny-face away from dissolving into tears:
Or, I would start pointing out their sometimes ruinous and regrettable taste in clothes. Scientists are already famous for their ineptitude at personal style, but even I was amazed at some of the new fashion lows achieved by some of my esteemed colleagues. When faced with a roomful of evidence, I was yet again amazed at how many people in the virus biz manage to accomplish MAJOR fashion don'ts on a regular basis.
For example, MANY of the female scientists decided that their data presentations would go best with the frumpiest, fugliest ensembles in their closets.
I don't want you to get the impression that the ladies were the only ones vying for the Worst Dressed at ASV '06 award. There were plenty of dudes actively getting their hideous on. For example, there's one guy from another unnamed institution in the greater NYC area whose general unattractiveness J-Sexy and I have been discussing for years...it's that bad. We call him "Skeletor", or, alternatively "Zombie Jesus", on account of his wan complexion, sunken eyes, and unkempt messianic hair and beard-style. Through the conference we were following both his misadventures in flower patterned shirts and socks-and-sandal combos, and his surprisingly intriguing love life.
There were plenty of other guys looking slovenly, disheveled, and/or badly groomed:
However, there were a few hot guys, as well. Strangely, several of them were in the coronavirus business, leading me to feel conflicted about my overriding condemnation of SARS research that was a major theme of my notetaking.
Mainly, all my notetaking culminated in the desperate longing for alcohol. These were the type of notes I was taking around 10:30 p.m. one night, when I was sitting through an interminable talk about viral myocarditis:
Naturally, this resulted in me bemoaning the effects of exactly what happened when I burned those drink tickets, as well as a few gigantic steins of pilsner and a glass of Jameson's later that night:
Anyway, that was mostly what happened at the conference. On account of all the virology followed by all the ABSOLUTELY necessary drinking with other graduate students, I did not have time to track down hot farm boys to fuck. However, a couple funny things happened. The first night, I discovered to my pleasant surprise that an old drinking buddy from Smith, who I haven't seen since Smith, was there, as she's getting her Ph.D in viral geekification at Brown. We immediately rekindled our drinking buddy relationship, and had a great time. She even surprised me by being simultaneously married and really fucking cool.
I also drank large quantities of beer out of a giant boot, and J-Sexy and I had a memorably good time fucking with an exceedingly drunk local who was hitting on us at a bar post-conference. He told us he was a network engineer (translation: configures Windows for a living) and immediately started bragging about his salary (60K per annum...impressive only when compared with a graduate stipend). When I realized we weren't goint to rid ourselves of him in the usual way (being bitchy and uninterested), I resorted to a method I developed back when I lived in Tacoma. Assuming that if I can't be rid on an idiot, I might as well amuse myself by toying with his idiocy. This means telling him ridiculous lies. I told him that I engineered smallpox-polio hybrid viruses for use as a biological weapon by the U.S. military, a whopper that he swallowed hook, line, and sinker. All was going well until J-Sexy decided to get in on the action, and told him that we were diehard Bush republicans. "What do you care if we support the greatest president that ever existed?" I asked. "You're just a sore loser because Bush kicks terrorist ass, unlike that pinko flip-flopping abortionist Kerry." He became visibly angry with us, and took to insulting our intelligence. "Look, I'm sure you're really smart," he said to my breasts (showcased, as usual, with a plunging halter top). "Yeah, I am," I responded. "As you can CLEARLY see, I have two extra brains, here on my chest." Things got worse from there, with him slobberingly asking us, "You two aren't even making sense. What is your point?"
"My point," I said, standing and giving him my best "fuck you, asshole" look, "is that we are disproportionately hotter than YOU. So what you have to say or what you think of us is totally fucking irrelevant." At that, J-Sexy and I went to find the posse of partying grad students that fortuitously called us at that very moment.
Anyway, Madison was kind of fun, until J-Sexy and I had to fly back to New York while still drunk with 1 hour of sleep under our belts on Wednesday morning. Needless to say, the Detroit airport is not a fun place to vomit (lots of traffic in the ladies room means NO PRIVACY, and people think you're bulimic. I wanted to lean out of my stall and shout, "I don't have an eating disorder, I have a drinking problem!!!", but I always realize that doesn't make me seem much more composed). The only real tragedy was that David Baltimore wasn't at the conference, and I couldn't find C.J. Peters anywhere despite vigilantly stalking him from the moment I showed up at the Monona Terrace Conference Center. Oh well, there's always next year's conference, during which I will undoubtedly rock Corvallis, Oregon to its core with my combined virological prowess and outrageous partying. Professional meetings are fun.
Monday, July 17, 2006
So very sad
I am addicted to reading the sad, sad postings of a certain former high school classmate of mine on MySpace. As tortured as I am by this damn virology conference, the only thing more tragic than listening to people ramble on about their viruses all day is reading this bitch's heartwrenching bulletin surveys.
Anyway, here are some examples of the things this poor girl typically writes:
how many numbers do you have in your cell phone?
About 10
When's the last time you cried?
Thursday (the day this was posted)
What are your plans for the upcoming weekend?
nothing
Where is the weirdest place you've ever had sex?
I've never had sex.
Current Crush?
No one.
Do you party every weekend?
no
Are you an honest person?
For the most part. Sometimes I may do something like say I'm fine when I'm really not, but I think most people do that once in awhile.
Who are you in love with?
No one.
What was the last thing you had to drink?
Some water.
Do you miss anyone right now?
I miss having someone to talk to in person late at night.
Do you have a tan?
LOL, no I am usually only one of two colors: white or red.
Who is 5th on your incoming call list?
I don't have incoming calls on my list, just outgoing.
What are you wearing right now?
Light blue pjs with stars all over them.
What does your last text message say?
Too long ago to remember.
What are your plans for tonight?
Bed.
I don't know what's wrong with me, or why I can't stop reading the miserable details that this poor girl shares with the world. I am a bad, bad, BAD person. Alright, I guess I'd better go convince everyone that I'm saving the world from the common cold to try to make myself feel like I'm not a TOTALLY evil, horrible bitch with a sick and bizarre addiction to the misery of others.
Anyway, here are some examples of the things this poor girl typically writes:
how many numbers do you have in your cell phone?
About 10
When's the last time you cried?
Thursday (the day this was posted)
What are your plans for the upcoming weekend?
nothing
Where is the weirdest place you've ever had sex?
I've never had sex.
Current Crush?
No one.
Do you party every weekend?
no
Are you an honest person?
For the most part. Sometimes I may do something like say I'm fine when I'm really not, but I think most people do that once in awhile.
Who are you in love with?
No one.
What was the last thing you had to drink?
Some water.
Do you miss anyone right now?
I miss having someone to talk to in person late at night.
Do you have a tan?
LOL, no I am usually only one of two colors: white or red.
Who is 5th on your incoming call list?
I don't have incoming calls on my list, just outgoing.
What are you wearing right now?
Light blue pjs with stars all over them.
What does your last text message say?
Too long ago to remember.
What are your plans for tonight?
Bed.
I don't know what's wrong with me, or why I can't stop reading the miserable details that this poor girl shares with the world. I am a bad, bad, BAD person. Alright, I guess I'd better go convince everyone that I'm saving the world from the common cold to try to make myself feel like I'm not a TOTALLY evil, horrible bitch with a sick and bizarre addiction to the misery of others.
Friday, July 14, 2006
I'm off to the shores of Lake Monona
Tomorrow J-Sexy and I are flying out to Madison, Wisconsin for one of the hottest events of the year: the 25th Annual Meeting of the American Society for Virology. So, sadly, I may not be posting much while I am there. Despite the fact that the glossy program touts "multiple internet cafes with e-mail and web access", I'm not sure how much blogging I will be able to accomplish. Furthermore, I'm going to be awfully busy attending lectures and poster presentations like these:
"Norwalk virus specific binding to oyster digestive tissues." I am so glad that some of my esteemed colleagues have tackled the problem of oyster diarrhea.
"Koala retrovirus--unraveling the mystery behind the emergence of a novel gammaretrovirus closely related to gibbon ape leukemia virus." How is it that our lab is getting shafted for polio grant money when some other motherfucker is getting funded to just go out and see what kind of new viruses can be dug out of a koala bear?
"Norovirus detection in stool samples of children using real time RT-PCR technology." That sounds like a REALLY fun project to work on. The only thing better than doing some shakily reproducible assay like real time PCR is doing it on cDNA samples you prepped out of some little kid's shit!
"Levels of inflammation in HHV-8 (Human Herpesvirus-8, also called Kaposi's Sarcoma Herpesvirus) infected normal prostates." I can't wait to see all the high magnification shots of enlarged herpes-riddled prostates. Sexy!
"Poliovirus environmental surveillance in sewage system of Tehran." That also sounds like a fun job: collecting samples out of an Iranian sewer, centrifuging out the solid pieces of shit, and plaquing infectious polio out of the supernatant. Boy, I wish I had considered Iran as a place to study picornaviruses.
"Evaluation of rapid diagnostic methods for pediatric viral diarrhea using stool samples collected in Korea." More shit work. Literally.
"Utilizing avian influenza role-play to encourage virology learning in non-science majors." Role playing? Sounds sexy. Oh, wait, it's more like, "Pretend you are plucking a chicken that lives in your hut in Vietnam, and that it aerosolizes a lethal dose of dried particulate infectious shit all over you (influenza is a gastrointestinal disease in birds) as it flaps its wings. Now you have deadly H5N1 bird flu! Then pretend you go hang out in an enclosed space with poor ventilation and all your closest friends. What do you think will happen next?" Thanks, but I think I'll stick to my usual "Hello Mr. Plumber, I need you to unclog my pipes" role-playing games.
Anyway, I should mention that there are LOTS of things about viral immunity and hemorrhagic fevers that I'm totally excited about seeing, so it's not all going to be diarrhea and sewage-related talks. Also, I have my fingers crossed that I might get to see two scientists who I have a HUGE intellectual hard-on for:
This is David Baltimore, the President of Cal Tech, receiving the National Medal of Science from SUPER hot President William Jefferson Clinton. David Baltimore discovered reverse transcriptase, which is essentially the defining nucleic acid polymerase of retroviruses, an achievement for which he was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1975. He also discovered NF-kappaB (the Brad Pitt of transcriptional activators in terms of its sexiness) and did a shit-ton of polio work. My PI (boss) got his first Science and Nature papers during his postdoc in the Baltimore lab, for being the first to successfully sequence and clone a virus (polio, of course). I've always wanted to meet David, and perhaps I'll get the chance.
Second, I know for a fact that the man responsible for my initial interest in virology will be there. Retired Colonel C.J. Peters, M.D., former chair of the CDC's Special Pathogens Branch, and expert on hemorrhagic fever viruses, with particular knowledge concerning all things Ebola. I read The Hot Zone, which is a somewhat scientifically dumbed-down but nonetheless impressive account of the outbreak of Ebola which occurred in a monkey colony at a medical research facility in Reston, Virginia. For some reason, that strain did not cause disease in humans, but turned the monkeys into puddles of oozing goo. Frighteningly, that strain was airborne (unlike previous strains of Ebola), and showed a disturbingly high level of antigenic and genetic similarity to Ebola Zaire, the subtype with a 90% mortality rate (in humans).
I know, he might look a little like Santa Claus, but in actuality, he was one of the first "virus cowboys," these guys who go out to investigate these crazy, unknown, and often extremely lethal diseases. Ebolavirus, for example, can liquefy every tissue in the human body except skeletal muscle and bone. People with the more lethal strains of Ebola will vomit up their stomach lining, slough off the surface of their tongues, and go blind because of the amount of blood that leaks into their eyes. Needless to say, walking into a remote village in Africa where this is going down, especially in 1976 before the virus had even been identified and its means of transmission were known, takes major league balls. C.J. Peters is the fucking man. He's giving a talk and presenting two posters about Rift Valley fever virus, so I'm on it like white on rice.
Anyway, please be patient with what I expect to be a lack of posting during this scintillating scientific meeting. In my spare time when I'm not getting my virology on, I plan to get slutted out with J-Sexy and hit all the U-Dub Madison bars with $0.25 beer specials, where hopefully I will impress the locals with my knowledge of Packer football and my deep and unconditional love for cheese and bratwurst. Ideally, this will culminate in me scoring some hot, corn-fed Midwestern boy ass. Nothing gets you in the mood for some casual sex like spending all day talking about infectious viruses.
"Norwalk virus specific binding to oyster digestive tissues." I am so glad that some of my esteemed colleagues have tackled the problem of oyster diarrhea.
"Koala retrovirus--unraveling the mystery behind the emergence of a novel gammaretrovirus closely related to gibbon ape leukemia virus." How is it that our lab is getting shafted for polio grant money when some other motherfucker is getting funded to just go out and see what kind of new viruses can be dug out of a koala bear?
"Norovirus detection in stool samples of children using real time RT-PCR technology." That sounds like a REALLY fun project to work on. The only thing better than doing some shakily reproducible assay like real time PCR is doing it on cDNA samples you prepped out of some little kid's shit!
"Levels of inflammation in HHV-8 (Human Herpesvirus-8, also called Kaposi's Sarcoma Herpesvirus) infected normal prostates." I can't wait to see all the high magnification shots of enlarged herpes-riddled prostates. Sexy!
"Poliovirus environmental surveillance in sewage system of Tehran." That also sounds like a fun job: collecting samples out of an Iranian sewer, centrifuging out the solid pieces of shit, and plaquing infectious polio out of the supernatant. Boy, I wish I had considered Iran as a place to study picornaviruses.
"Evaluation of rapid diagnostic methods for pediatric viral diarrhea using stool samples collected in Korea." More shit work. Literally.
"Utilizing avian influenza role-play to encourage virology learning in non-science majors." Role playing? Sounds sexy. Oh, wait, it's more like, "Pretend you are plucking a chicken that lives in your hut in Vietnam, and that it aerosolizes a lethal dose of dried particulate infectious shit all over you (influenza is a gastrointestinal disease in birds) as it flaps its wings. Now you have deadly H5N1 bird flu! Then pretend you go hang out in an enclosed space with poor ventilation and all your closest friends. What do you think will happen next?" Thanks, but I think I'll stick to my usual "Hello Mr. Plumber, I need you to unclog my pipes" role-playing games.
Anyway, I should mention that there are LOTS of things about viral immunity and hemorrhagic fevers that I'm totally excited about seeing, so it's not all going to be diarrhea and sewage-related talks. Also, I have my fingers crossed that I might get to see two scientists who I have a HUGE intellectual hard-on for:
This is David Baltimore, the President of Cal Tech, receiving the National Medal of Science from SUPER hot President William Jefferson Clinton. David Baltimore discovered reverse transcriptase, which is essentially the defining nucleic acid polymerase of retroviruses, an achievement for which he was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1975. He also discovered NF-kappaB (the Brad Pitt of transcriptional activators in terms of its sexiness) and did a shit-ton of polio work. My PI (boss) got his first Science and Nature papers during his postdoc in the Baltimore lab, for being the first to successfully sequence and clone a virus (polio, of course). I've always wanted to meet David, and perhaps I'll get the chance.
Second, I know for a fact that the man responsible for my initial interest in virology will be there. Retired Colonel C.J. Peters, M.D., former chair of the CDC's Special Pathogens Branch, and expert on hemorrhagic fever viruses, with particular knowledge concerning all things Ebola. I read The Hot Zone, which is a somewhat scientifically dumbed-down but nonetheless impressive account of the outbreak of Ebola which occurred in a monkey colony at a medical research facility in Reston, Virginia. For some reason, that strain did not cause disease in humans, but turned the monkeys into puddles of oozing goo. Frighteningly, that strain was airborne (unlike previous strains of Ebola), and showed a disturbingly high level of antigenic and genetic similarity to Ebola Zaire, the subtype with a 90% mortality rate (in humans).
I know, he might look a little like Santa Claus, but in actuality, he was one of the first "virus cowboys," these guys who go out to investigate these crazy, unknown, and often extremely lethal diseases. Ebolavirus, for example, can liquefy every tissue in the human body except skeletal muscle and bone. People with the more lethal strains of Ebola will vomit up their stomach lining, slough off the surface of their tongues, and go blind because of the amount of blood that leaks into their eyes. Needless to say, walking into a remote village in Africa where this is going down, especially in 1976 before the virus had even been identified and its means of transmission were known, takes major league balls. C.J. Peters is the fucking man. He's giving a talk and presenting two posters about Rift Valley fever virus, so I'm on it like white on rice.
Anyway, please be patient with what I expect to be a lack of posting during this scintillating scientific meeting. In my spare time when I'm not getting my virology on, I plan to get slutted out with J-Sexy and hit all the U-Dub Madison bars with $0.25 beer specials, where hopefully I will impress the locals with my knowledge of Packer football and my deep and unconditional love for cheese and bratwurst. Ideally, this will culminate in me scoring some hot, corn-fed Midwestern boy ass. Nothing gets you in the mood for some casual sex like spending all day talking about infectious viruses.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
How to be a hipster asshole, by Chloe Sevigny
I can't stand Chloe Sevigny. Every time I see her walking down a red carpet, sneering boredly at everyone to show how fucking cool she is, I just want to start bitch-slapping her. Making matters worse is that practically everyone in New York has a Chloe Sevigny story. "I went to a party at Chloe Sevigny's loft", "Chloe Sevigny stole my table at this sushi restaurant in Brooklyn", "I saw Chloe Sevigny buying some undoubtedly hideous yet expensive outfit at Barney's", "I did coke with Chloe Sevigny in the bathroom at Marquee," etc. You hear personal anecdotes about run-ins with Chloe Sevigny all the time. When my day inevitably comes to be faced with this bitch, I'm not sure I can be trusted to hold my tongue or my fists of fury around her. Last night, as I was watching some trashy E! or whatever, Chloe Sevigny appeared on the screen, and I had a revelation. An Archimedes-in-the-bathtub type revelation about why precisely Chloe Sevigny has elicited so much of my ire: she is the prototype hipster.
Hipsters drive me crazy, and I'm pretty sure that Chloe Sevigny wrote the book on how to be a celebrity hipster. She is the mold from which all hipsters are cast, the fountain of bad fashion and sour attitude from which all these fuckers on the F train reading their Nietzsche spring. She has achieved hipster prototype status by following several key principles to being an obnoxious hipster asshole.
1. Only participate in projects that "aren't mainstream" but are still mainstream enough to get you noticed, like Gummo, American Psycho, The Last Days of Disco, or that show about polygamous Mormons on HBO. The key here is doing lots of horrifying sex scenes, which gets you press AND indie film street cred. There was that scene in Kids where she gets date raped and gives her rapist AIDS...that was pretty awesome. There was also the scene in If These Walls Could Talk 2 where she does it with Michelle Williams (I mean, Michelle Williams? She looks like a Cabbage Patch Kid! Ew.) There's also this classic from Boys Don't Cry where Hilary Swank goes down on her and then bangs her with a strap-on. Apart from the fact that this movie was horribly depressing, what would normally be hot girl-on-F2M tranny action is ruined by the hideous mole on Chloe's left breast.
Go to a dermatologist and get that fucking witch's tit sliced off! I mean, Chloe does nude scenes all the time, and I bet she thinks that this gross mole makes her unique or original. On the contrary, it makes her look like she's getting melanoma. That's SO sexy and hip!
2. Three words: hideous fucking clothing. The goal is to look like you filled a bag with the spoils of a thrift store shopping spree specializing in Laura Ingalls Wilder couture, Western-style detailing (like pocket piping, turquoise, and fringe), and castoffs from Liberace's estate sale. Pair this with some mukluks and a designer clutch, and it's next stop, fashion icon! Here are some examples of the taste and style that has catapulted Chloe to fashionista status:
Chloe either stole this puffy shouldered metallic number out of Liz Taylor's closet or got it cheap when Aaron Spelling's estate auctioned off Joan Collins's old costumes from "Dynasty."
Nothing goes with an old blazer made out of 1970s couch upholstery material like a pair of glossy tights and no pants, except maybe junkie-inspired unwashed hair and wan complexion. This is a look fresh off the runway:
The ultimate accessories for a one-piece sweatshort jumper? Wicker patio furniture, Roman centurion-inspired strappy sandals, and a pair of Vuarnet shades. It's like 1987 meets a WASP garden party meets the crucifixion at Golgotha. In other words, fashion forward!
Ever wondered what would happen if you bred a zebra with a silver shower curtain and then let Edward Scissorhands have a go at it? Thanks to Chloe, your curiousity has now been satiated:
Chloe obviously just finished a competetive game of "Candy Land" when she picked out this noxious ballerina get-up. Either that, or she's angling to be cast in the Cirque du Soleil.
Nothing says sophistication and style like combining the best aspects of Tweety Bird and an arrangement of daffodils:
EVERYONE, and I mean EVERYONE will be wearing dresses made out of kite material and shoelaces this season.
Don't you wish your cardio step class could be more like a eurotrash disco party? Well, just wear your legwarmers with a dress that looks like a disco ball. It's like bringing the club with you to the gym!
One part L.A. Gear, one part Veruca Salt, one part my relatives who decorate their kitchens with gingham and geese, one part Louis Vuitton. Mix, and you end up with this:
3. Date a revolting yet equally pretentious avant-garde jerk like Vincent Gallo.
Is he trying to impersonate Johnny Cash?
Or perhaps he's going for a more Charles Manson-ish look.
Either way, Gallo is totally ripping off looks already claimed by previous pop culture icons, and when it comes right down to it, he's just a dirty fucking hippie who ALSO has horrific taste in clothing. Nice faux fur, Vincent.
Now, where have I seen this nappy fox fur coat before?
That's right, Gallo's jacked the look Jamie Lee Curtis rocked to great effect in her role as two-bit whore Ophelia from the movie Trading Places. H-O-T.
4. Find a way to make porn or otherwise sexually titillating material boring, heavy handed, and downright gross, possibly with aforementioned fellow hipster love interest. Did you see The Brown Bunny? Well, neither did I, because although it sounds deceptively like it could be vintage porn, it is actually a seemingly interminable tribute to Vincent Gallo's own sense of I'm-so-goddamned-deep-and-creative-ness. Chloe was obviously in this movie, and they wound up getting this movie a NC-17 rating because she gives him some of the most tired head ever. I mean, oral sex is like apple pie or blue jeans...it's always in style, and never really gets old. Unless it's Chloe Sevigny, performing the most blase, boring, uninspired fellatio I've ever seen on Gallo, presumably because only a staggering intellect and a really fucking unique icon can render a perfectly solid BJ more soporific than an all-day marathon of Pride and Prejudice on PBS.
Ladies, take note: Gallo totally has a pencil dick. It's a small, SKINNY penis (color me unsurprised that this is what Gallo's packing), which is probably why she looks so bored. His wiener is no more challenging to swallow than a piece of stuffed ziti. However, I'm a glass-half-full type of girl, so I'll look at the bright side: at least we don't have to look at Gallo's unkempt, I-wish-I-was-indigent hairstyle or Mansonesque face in this horrible scene.
5. Stare at people like you are simultaneously stoned, deaf, retarded, and unbearably annoyed by everything around you. When people speak, don't respond, just fixate them with your bored gaze and wait for them to talk about how cool you are. Sometimes going Goth can help with this:
Or being photographed in black and white...that always makes you seem extra haunted, which is just SO hot right now. It complements the braless, saggy-titted look perfectly:
Chloe Sevigny pisses me off so much, I've literally spent three hours now thinking of new ways to rip on her. I think I could actually write a lengthy book about this, but it would probably result in me becoming dangerously hypertensive. In any event, I'm going to have some choice things to say when I finally have my inevitable New York City run-in with old Chloe. She sucks.
Hipsters drive me crazy, and I'm pretty sure that Chloe Sevigny wrote the book on how to be a celebrity hipster. She is the mold from which all hipsters are cast, the fountain of bad fashion and sour attitude from which all these fuckers on the F train reading their Nietzsche spring. She has achieved hipster prototype status by following several key principles to being an obnoxious hipster asshole.
1. Only participate in projects that "aren't mainstream" but are still mainstream enough to get you noticed, like Gummo, American Psycho, The Last Days of Disco, or that show about polygamous Mormons on HBO. The key here is doing lots of horrifying sex scenes, which gets you press AND indie film street cred. There was that scene in Kids where she gets date raped and gives her rapist AIDS...that was pretty awesome. There was also the scene in If These Walls Could Talk 2 where she does it with Michelle Williams (I mean, Michelle Williams? She looks like a Cabbage Patch Kid! Ew.) There's also this classic from Boys Don't Cry where Hilary Swank goes down on her and then bangs her with a strap-on. Apart from the fact that this movie was horribly depressing, what would normally be hot girl-on-F2M tranny action is ruined by the hideous mole on Chloe's left breast.
Go to a dermatologist and get that fucking witch's tit sliced off! I mean, Chloe does nude scenes all the time, and I bet she thinks that this gross mole makes her unique or original. On the contrary, it makes her look like she's getting melanoma. That's SO sexy and hip!
2. Three words: hideous fucking clothing. The goal is to look like you filled a bag with the spoils of a thrift store shopping spree specializing in Laura Ingalls Wilder couture, Western-style detailing (like pocket piping, turquoise, and fringe), and castoffs from Liberace's estate sale. Pair this with some mukluks and a designer clutch, and it's next stop, fashion icon! Here are some examples of the taste and style that has catapulted Chloe to fashionista status:
Chloe either stole this puffy shouldered metallic number out of Liz Taylor's closet or got it cheap when Aaron Spelling's estate auctioned off Joan Collins's old costumes from "Dynasty."
Nothing goes with an old blazer made out of 1970s couch upholstery material like a pair of glossy tights and no pants, except maybe junkie-inspired unwashed hair and wan complexion. This is a look fresh off the runway:
The ultimate accessories for a one-piece sweatshort jumper? Wicker patio furniture, Roman centurion-inspired strappy sandals, and a pair of Vuarnet shades. It's like 1987 meets a WASP garden party meets the crucifixion at Golgotha. In other words, fashion forward!
Ever wondered what would happen if you bred a zebra with a silver shower curtain and then let Edward Scissorhands have a go at it? Thanks to Chloe, your curiousity has now been satiated:
Chloe obviously just finished a competetive game of "Candy Land" when she picked out this noxious ballerina get-up. Either that, or she's angling to be cast in the Cirque du Soleil.
Nothing says sophistication and style like combining the best aspects of Tweety Bird and an arrangement of daffodils:
EVERYONE, and I mean EVERYONE will be wearing dresses made out of kite material and shoelaces this season.
Don't you wish your cardio step class could be more like a eurotrash disco party? Well, just wear your legwarmers with a dress that looks like a disco ball. It's like bringing the club with you to the gym!
One part L.A. Gear, one part Veruca Salt, one part my relatives who decorate their kitchens with gingham and geese, one part Louis Vuitton. Mix, and you end up with this:
3. Date a revolting yet equally pretentious avant-garde jerk like Vincent Gallo.
Is he trying to impersonate Johnny Cash?
Or perhaps he's going for a more Charles Manson-ish look.
Either way, Gallo is totally ripping off looks already claimed by previous pop culture icons, and when it comes right down to it, he's just a dirty fucking hippie who ALSO has horrific taste in clothing. Nice faux fur, Vincent.
Now, where have I seen this nappy fox fur coat before?
That's right, Gallo's jacked the look Jamie Lee Curtis rocked to great effect in her role as two-bit whore Ophelia from the movie Trading Places. H-O-T.
4. Find a way to make porn or otherwise sexually titillating material boring, heavy handed, and downright gross, possibly with aforementioned fellow hipster love interest. Did you see The Brown Bunny? Well, neither did I, because although it sounds deceptively like it could be vintage porn, it is actually a seemingly interminable tribute to Vincent Gallo's own sense of I'm-so-goddamned-deep-and-creative-ness. Chloe was obviously in this movie, and they wound up getting this movie a NC-17 rating because she gives him some of the most tired head ever. I mean, oral sex is like apple pie or blue jeans...it's always in style, and never really gets old. Unless it's Chloe Sevigny, performing the most blase, boring, uninspired fellatio I've ever seen on Gallo, presumably because only a staggering intellect and a really fucking unique icon can render a perfectly solid BJ more soporific than an all-day marathon of Pride and Prejudice on PBS.
Ladies, take note: Gallo totally has a pencil dick. It's a small, SKINNY penis (color me unsurprised that this is what Gallo's packing), which is probably why she looks so bored. His wiener is no more challenging to swallow than a piece of stuffed ziti. However, I'm a glass-half-full type of girl, so I'll look at the bright side: at least we don't have to look at Gallo's unkempt, I-wish-I-was-indigent hairstyle or Mansonesque face in this horrible scene.
5. Stare at people like you are simultaneously stoned, deaf, retarded, and unbearably annoyed by everything around you. When people speak, don't respond, just fixate them with your bored gaze and wait for them to talk about how cool you are. Sometimes going Goth can help with this:
Or being photographed in black and white...that always makes you seem extra haunted, which is just SO hot right now. It complements the braless, saggy-titted look perfectly:
Chloe Sevigny pisses me off so much, I've literally spent three hours now thinking of new ways to rip on her. I think I could actually write a lengthy book about this, but it would probably result in me becoming dangerously hypertensive. In any event, I'm going to have some choice things to say when I finally have my inevitable New York City run-in with old Chloe. She sucks.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
That's Hasselhoff. David Hasselhoff.
I can't decide if David Hasselhoff is a marketing genius or merely stumbled upon the vein he seems to have tapped in the pop cultural zeitgeist. That "Jump in my Car" video was on at least 3 different celebrity gossip/humor shows on E! and Vh1, and has been linked on every major gossip website I frequent, so clearly I'm not the only one who is, frankly, floored by it. Da Hoff celebrated the public's suddenly renewed interest in his contributions to MTV Deutschland's Top 20 video countdown by getting shitfaced at Wimbledon and getting kicked out, thus garnering even more media attention with his rowdy celebrity antics. Always an opportunist, Hasselhoff decided to drop yet another new video on the internet audience, this time a remake of "Secret Agent Man." Again, Hoff flexes his acting muscles in a sort-of faux James Bond theme mockup. To really make it contemporary and sleek, though, Hasslehoff has some seriously awesome James Bond font streaming graphic effects to accompany his acting, as well as more tranny hookers to sing backup, this time wielding sleek little semi-automatic spy pistols that look like the Walther PPK from that Nintendo 64 "Goldeneye" game that my brother always used to whip my ass at in multiplayer. In fact, this video has more unnecessarily wielded guns than your average 50 Cent video. It's almost like Da Hoff is in cahoots with the NRA lobby if it weren't for the ample stylistic signatures indicating that this shit came from Europe.
Did you notice the part where one of the Adam's apple-having M2F prostitutes SHAVES HER ASS? Seriously, watch carefully around 2.5 minutes into the song. That's silhouetted tranny hooker ass shaving if I ever saw it.
Did you notice the part where one of the Adam's apple-having M2F prostitutes SHAVES HER ASS? Seriously, watch carefully around 2.5 minutes into the song. That's silhouetted tranny hooker ass shaving if I ever saw it.
Dia-beetis
Caution! You're about to enter an old people's commercials zone! That's what Bill O'Reilly SHOULD say at the beginning of "The Factor", because that's precisely what goes on when O'Reilly is not making snide jabs at Al Franken, interrupting people, or trying to hawk "No Spin Zone" clocks to his viewers. All the commercials that fill out most of the shows on FOX News are CLEARLY geared toward the elderly. There's lots of commercials for nursing home insurance, supplementary Medicare plans, and ingenious technological solutions for the infirm and non-ambulatory. Presumably the elderly represent the largest audience that is stupid and/or senile enough to actually think they are getting some type of "news" on O'Reilly's show, and not the rambling circular logic of a curmudgeonly, sexually abusive food fetishist. Anyway, commercials for old people are usually slow, boring, and so low budget they aren't even campy or funny, and I generally hate them. However, there is one notable exception. The commercials for Liberty Medical Supply, which not only will provide you with lancets and glucometers and other diabetes testing supplies (as well as a full selection of ostomy bags), and they hired a heavy hitter to be their corporate spokesman. Wilford Brimley, who apparently got sick of endorsing a newfangled product like Quaker Oats, appears in various guises throughout these commercials, and exhorts old people to buy their testing supplies from Liberty Medical. Specifically, he says, "If you suffer from dia-beetis blah blah blah Liberty Medical for your dia-beetis." His pronunciation of the word diabetes is SO awesome that some joker on the internet remixed it into a dance track. I can't fully articulate why, but this is just fucking hilarious to me:
I've got that dia-beetis!
I've got that dia-beetis!
Monday, July 10, 2006
The Miami Vice conundrum
All over New York, there are these posters for the new Miami Vice movie coming out this summer, and every time I see one, I am faced with a real dilemma. On one hand, there's Colin Farrell, and he looks REALLY hot with his longish hair and the 5 o'clock shadow which Don Johnson made the trademark of Detective James "Sonny" Crockett in the original TV series (well, along with pastel linen suit/t-shirt combos). However, all my hot horniness for Colin Farrell is instantaneously deflated by the revolting presence of the self-proclaimed "Savior of R&B," smug, smarmy Ray Charles impersonator Jamie Foxx:
It's strange being simulataneously turned on and completely repulsed at the same time. On one hand I want to run up to the poster and lick Colin Farrell's handsome visage, and on the other I want to throw acid on it and permanently remove the stain of Jamie Foxx forever. Despite my general policy of refusing to see movies with Jamie Foxx in them, I'm totally going to see Miami Vice when it comes out, because I love that freaking TV show. I still sometimes catch reruns of it on various obscure cable channels, because it's AWESOME watching Crockett and Tubbs having Uzi battles with the cheesiest excuses for South American drug lords you've ever seen. It's also awesome when Edward James Olmos, or Lieutenant Castillo as he's known on the show, tries to keep Crockett and Tubbs in check (tries is the operative term, because if there were ever a pair of rule-breakers, it's old Sonny and Rico.) Plus, I love speculating how Crockett finances his Versace suits and his Ferrari on a policeman's salary. I know, though, that when I see the movie, there is just no way I'm going to be able to stomach Jamie Foxx running around doing a TOTAL disservice to the Oscar-worthy performances as Detective Ricardo "Rico" Tubbs given back in the '80s by Philip Michael Thomas. If Philip Michael Thomas were dead, he'd be rolling over in his grave, because there's no way in hell Jamie Foxx can bring back this old magic:
It's strange being simulataneously turned on and completely repulsed at the same time. On one hand I want to run up to the poster and lick Colin Farrell's handsome visage, and on the other I want to throw acid on it and permanently remove the stain of Jamie Foxx forever. Despite my general policy of refusing to see movies with Jamie Foxx in them, I'm totally going to see Miami Vice when it comes out, because I love that freaking TV show. I still sometimes catch reruns of it on various obscure cable channels, because it's AWESOME watching Crockett and Tubbs having Uzi battles with the cheesiest excuses for South American drug lords you've ever seen. It's also awesome when Edward James Olmos, or Lieutenant Castillo as he's known on the show, tries to keep Crockett and Tubbs in check (tries is the operative term, because if there were ever a pair of rule-breakers, it's old Sonny and Rico.) Plus, I love speculating how Crockett finances his Versace suits and his Ferrari on a policeman's salary. I know, though, that when I see the movie, there is just no way I'm going to be able to stomach Jamie Foxx running around doing a TOTAL disservice to the Oscar-worthy performances as Detective Ricardo "Rico" Tubbs given back in the '80s by Philip Michael Thomas. If Philip Michael Thomas were dead, he'd be rolling over in his grave, because there's no way in hell Jamie Foxx can bring back this old magic:
My neighborhood celebrity
Even though the park that I let Caese and Chingy! off-leash in every day is huge and could easily accomodate an official dog-friendly space, there is no designated dog run there. This means that every day, I run the risk of getting a $150 ticket ($300 x 2 dogs) every time I want to throw sticks for Caesar and let Chingy! wander off. Therefore, I support building a dog run where my dogs can roam and piss freely without risk of monetary penalty, and am on the St. Nick Park Dog Run E-mail List Google Group, or whatever.
SInce being added to the list by Jet's owner (most of the dog people in the park never know each other's names, but know everyone else by their dogs), I've received several updates on the status of how the run is doing through the Tammany Hall-esque network of Community Boards and Community Panel and Community Council-type groups we have to appease in order to get official approval to build the dog run. I keep waiting for the e-mail that says "Show up and shovel gravel," because as I'm perennially broke, I feel that physical labor will be my contribution to the Dog Run efforts. In addition to tracking the arduous process of navigating the dog run civic bureaucracy, I've also received e-mails from many of my neighbors who wish to alert one another about wine tastings, outdoor jazz concerts, and other various non-dog-related events. One particularly enthusiastic proponent of these events was someone named "Tamara Tunie." I couldn't think why that name sounded so familiar, because I was pretty sure I didn't know someone by that name. Yet every time I got one of her e-mails, I wondered why I felt like I'd seen the name a thousand times.
Then, when I actually went to one of these events from the dog run mailing list (outdoor Afro-Cuban jazzfest down the street), I was with the d-o-double g's, J-Sexy, Neo (+ dog), Cubdiggity (+ dog), and Francophile sitting on our blanket waiting for the concert to start. I was busy trying to control Caesar, who was considerably agitated on account of the approaching thunderstorms that ultimately resulted in the concert ending after an hour anyway. J-Sexy suddenly started elbowing me frantically.
I looked up, and saw this woman walking by. I had seen her around the park with her French bulldog, who was friendly with Chingy! as they are both smashed-face, dense little dogs. I can't explain it, but Chingy! just loves to see other Pugs, bulldogs of any kind, and Boston terriers, seemingly on the basis that they are all squat, low-slung, heavy little dogs that are built like furry little hams stuffed with lead or mercury. On the occasions that Chingy! and her Frenchie started grunting at each other, I always thought she looked recognizable, but I couldn't quite place where I'd seen her.
However, once J-Sexy started elbowing me, it all clicked together. J-Sexy is OBSESSED with "Law and Order: Special Victims Unit," and immediately recognized that the familiar name "Tamara Tunie" was associated with this familiar face:
And HERE is a picture I found of her going topless in the suck-ass movie The Devil's Advocate that I'm including just because gratuitous tit-shots are fun:
Anyway, she plays the medical examiner on "SVU", and apparently has been in a bunch of stuff on Broadway, and was in "As the World Turns" for awhile. So, while it might be a bit of a stretch to call her a "celebrity," she's at least on TV, and she's not too cool to live in Sugar Hill! And her dog is really cute. And her boobs are really perky!
SInce being added to the list by Jet's owner (most of the dog people in the park never know each other's names, but know everyone else by their dogs), I've received several updates on the status of how the run is doing through the Tammany Hall-esque network of Community Boards and Community Panel and Community Council-type groups we have to appease in order to get official approval to build the dog run. I keep waiting for the e-mail that says "Show up and shovel gravel," because as I'm perennially broke, I feel that physical labor will be my contribution to the Dog Run efforts. In addition to tracking the arduous process of navigating the dog run civic bureaucracy, I've also received e-mails from many of my neighbors who wish to alert one another about wine tastings, outdoor jazz concerts, and other various non-dog-related events. One particularly enthusiastic proponent of these events was someone named "Tamara Tunie." I couldn't think why that name sounded so familiar, because I was pretty sure I didn't know someone by that name. Yet every time I got one of her e-mails, I wondered why I felt like I'd seen the name a thousand times.
Then, when I actually went to one of these events from the dog run mailing list (outdoor Afro-Cuban jazzfest down the street), I was with the d-o-double g's, J-Sexy, Neo (+ dog), Cubdiggity (+ dog), and Francophile sitting on our blanket waiting for the concert to start. I was busy trying to control Caesar, who was considerably agitated on account of the approaching thunderstorms that ultimately resulted in the concert ending after an hour anyway. J-Sexy suddenly started elbowing me frantically.
I looked up, and saw this woman walking by. I had seen her around the park with her French bulldog, who was friendly with Chingy! as they are both smashed-face, dense little dogs. I can't explain it, but Chingy! just loves to see other Pugs, bulldogs of any kind, and Boston terriers, seemingly on the basis that they are all squat, low-slung, heavy little dogs that are built like furry little hams stuffed with lead or mercury. On the occasions that Chingy! and her Frenchie started grunting at each other, I always thought she looked recognizable, but I couldn't quite place where I'd seen her.
However, once J-Sexy started elbowing me, it all clicked together. J-Sexy is OBSESSED with "Law and Order: Special Victims Unit," and immediately recognized that the familiar name "Tamara Tunie" was associated with this familiar face:
And HERE is a picture I found of her going topless in the suck-ass movie The Devil's Advocate that I'm including just because gratuitous tit-shots are fun:
Anyway, she plays the medical examiner on "SVU", and apparently has been in a bunch of stuff on Broadway, and was in "As the World Turns" for awhile. So, while it might be a bit of a stretch to call her a "celebrity," she's at least on TV, and she's not too cool to live in Sugar Hill! And her dog is really cute. And her boobs are really perky!
Friday, July 07, 2006
A weekend on the island
In case anyone is still wondering whether or not Ken Lay faked his death, I have conclusive proof that he's alive and well. I'm spending a long weekend with my boyfriend Ernest Hemingway on the island in the South Pacific where he's chilling with his fellow life-after-faked-death buddies. Ken Lay just arrived yesterday, and informed us over maitais that when they scatter his "ashes" they're going to be the carbon residue of burned-up accounting records. Then the Hussein brothers lit up a stogie to celebrate. The only one who refused to party was Kennedy...God, he's such a stiff. Anyway, we took a picture to commemorate Mr. Lay's arrival:
I was swimming when Ken arrived and my boyfriend Ernest had to shout at me, "Hey, Razzy, get your fine ass up here so you can be in this picture!" Ernest is really grouchy on account of all the flirting that was going on between myself and Ken Lay on the comment pages yesterday. However, since he's taken up with a few of the local Polynesian hotties, he can just learn to cope. If he can deal with his injuries from World War I-era ordnance like mustard gas and grenade shrapnel, he can handle competition from a bald white-collar criminal.
I was swimming when Ken arrived and my boyfriend Ernest had to shout at me, "Hey, Razzy, get your fine ass up here so you can be in this picture!" Ernest is really grouchy on account of all the flirting that was going on between myself and Ken Lay on the comment pages yesterday. However, since he's taken up with a few of the local Polynesian hotties, he can just learn to cope. If he can deal with his injuries from World War I-era ordnance like mustard gas and grenade shrapnel, he can handle competition from a bald white-collar criminal.
Lil' Kim: Spawn of a Reject
My old Smith buddy and former indie film co-star DocDrizzle sent me a MySpace message today pointing out something outrageous. She had told me a while ago that Razzy's Reject #2, Leann/Latoya had also contacted her via Friendster and attempted through a series of increasingly bizarre e-mails to get some hot Sapphic action with her. I was certainly right in thinking that Leann/Latoya was casting a wide net looking for some willing pussy, because DocDrizzle lives in southern Oregon. Admittedly, that's a little closer to California (where Leann/Latoya lives) than New York City, but still...
Anyway, today DocDrizzle sent me this message:
To: Razzy
From: DocDrizzle
Subject: Dude
Go to this link...scroll about half way down until you see lil kim... getting into the limo... I swear that chick with her is the freaky chick that stalked you on friendster and also stalked me...that lived in indio or whatever...
I was cracking up ...totally looks like her.
This is the picture in question:
And this is Leann/Latoya, for comparison:
"That chick" with Lil' Kim is actually her mother, Ruby Jones Mitchell, but her resemblance to Leann/Latoya is uncanny! Could it be she's living a secret lesbish life on the D.L., covertly picking up straight(ish) chicks on Friendster for some illicit muff diving?! It makes me wonder...
Anyway, today DocDrizzle sent me this message:
To: Razzy
From: DocDrizzle
Subject: Dude
Go to this link...scroll about half way down until you see lil kim... getting into the limo... I swear that chick with her is the freaky chick that stalked you on friendster and also stalked me...that lived in indio or whatever...
I was cracking up ...totally looks like her.
This is the picture in question:
And this is Leann/Latoya, for comparison:
"That chick" with Lil' Kim is actually her mother, Ruby Jones Mitchell, but her resemblance to Leann/Latoya is uncanny! Could it be she's living a secret lesbish life on the D.L., covertly picking up straight(ish) chicks on Friendster for some illicit muff diving?! It makes me wonder...
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Cascading Style Sheets make me want to kill myself
As you can see, I've given the blog yet another facelift, one which took me literally TWO HOURS of tinkering with the template code. Blogger says that it's "easy" to change around template colors and styles, because CSS is a very "simple" system to work with. Simple, maybe, if you're on the fucking geek squad, but if you're like me, you're missing the part of the brain that intuitively understands how these things work. Anyway, I'm sure you will all have fun finding things that are wrong with my customizations. They never taught us CSS when I was learning computers in the Puyallup gifted program I was in...I only learned how to program in Basic on an Apple IIE. And I sucked at that. I was always like, let's cut the computer geek stuff and go back to doing Mock City Council, reading comprehension games, and logic puzzles. My lifelong retardation with manipulating computer languages indicates that these template edits will be, much like the rest of my site design, a total shitshow. But whatever...it's the content that counts, and that continues to rule.
A retraction and wholehearted apology to MillerTime
I just fielded a furious e-mail from MillerTime, who was mad about the teasing she received in the 9/11 entry from a couple days ago, or as she called it, "a MillerTime bashing session." She also took issue with what she felt was a portrayal of her as "one of the yellow-ribbon car-sticker-toting, mini-flag-blowing-from-my-windows drivers." Most of the time I never back down from the snide bullshit that I write up here, but pissing off my best girls is not my intent. Therefore, I am going to swallow my pride, and print the following retraction:
1. Had I been thinking straight, I would have known that MillerTime only sent me this to point out that her boyfriend's father sends these super-I'm-proud-to-be-American forwards to her. MillerTime has never sent me a forward like this before, so it would be silly to assume she was sending it now to be a mindlessly patriotic Red Stater. In fact, she may live in Puyallup, but there's only one of us who has sang "Courtesy of the Red, White, and Blue" by Toby Keith in karaoke, and it's not her.
2. I was exaggerating about MillerTime's love of horses. While she is fond of the equine species, she never had horse-themed clothing, she ditched the horse Trapper Keeper in the 2nd grade, and her room at her parents' house was primarily decorated with Dave Matthews Band posters. I've just always particularly enjoyed teasing MillerTime about horses since we went to the Puyallup Fair about 6 years ago and she spent a long time in the horse barn. She has a healthy like of horses, but she is not a freak about it, and it was wrong for me to depict her as such.
3. I am genuinely very sorry about any embarrassment I have caused MillerTime. There is no sarcastic tone to this. She is one of my closest friends and has been since we were small fry, and I love her and think she is an intelligent, interesting, generally badass person who would impress the shit out of you with her charming conversational skills, her sweet nature, and her overwhelming sexiness if you met her in person. Therefore, I want you all to know that I was joking when ribbing her about sending me 9/11-related animated GIFs. And I actually like all her cute dog forwards, so I hope she doesn't stop sending them to me.
I HEART YOU, MILLERTIME! I HEART YOU SO MUCH!
1. Had I been thinking straight, I would have known that MillerTime only sent me this to point out that her boyfriend's father sends these super-I'm-proud-to-be-American forwards to her. MillerTime has never sent me a forward like this before, so it would be silly to assume she was sending it now to be a mindlessly patriotic Red Stater. In fact, she may live in Puyallup, but there's only one of us who has sang "Courtesy of the Red, White, and Blue" by Toby Keith in karaoke, and it's not her.
2. I was exaggerating about MillerTime's love of horses. While she is fond of the equine species, she never had horse-themed clothing, she ditched the horse Trapper Keeper in the 2nd grade, and her room at her parents' house was primarily decorated with Dave Matthews Band posters. I've just always particularly enjoyed teasing MillerTime about horses since we went to the Puyallup Fair about 6 years ago and she spent a long time in the horse barn. She has a healthy like of horses, but she is not a freak about it, and it was wrong for me to depict her as such.
3. I am genuinely very sorry about any embarrassment I have caused MillerTime. There is no sarcastic tone to this. She is one of my closest friends and has been since we were small fry, and I love her and think she is an intelligent, interesting, generally badass person who would impress the shit out of you with her charming conversational skills, her sweet nature, and her overwhelming sexiness if you met her in person. Therefore, I want you all to know that I was joking when ribbing her about sending me 9/11-related animated GIFs. And I actually like all her cute dog forwards, so I hope she doesn't stop sending them to me.
I HEART YOU, MILLERTIME! I HEART YOU SO MUCH!
Ken Lay lives
I have a suspicion that Ken Lay has moved to the same island where my boyfriend Ernest Hemingway and 2Pac, the brothers Hussein, and JFK, Jr. have been residing in tropical luxury post-death fakage. Apparently, the island is equipped with broadband internet and that sly old fox has found his way onto Blogger:
Anyway, it turns out that the "Ken Lay" running this blog is my friend Wmania's former intern. Two years ago, at Wmania's birthday party at Karma, I poured vodka sodas down his innocent 21-year-old throat, commandeered him to buy me a gyro at that Bereket place down on 2nd and Houston, took him back to my crib, and banged the hell out of him. The blogosphere is certainly one small fucking world.
So go look at Ken Lay Lives! by Ken Razzy's Former Lay. It's funny.
Anyway, it turns out that the "Ken Lay" running this blog is my friend Wmania's former intern. Two years ago, at Wmania's birthday party at Karma, I poured vodka sodas down his innocent 21-year-old throat, commandeered him to buy me a gyro at that Bereket place down on 2nd and Houston, took him back to my crib, and banged the hell out of him. The blogosphere is certainly one small fucking world.
So go look at Ken Lay Lives! by Ken Razzy's Former Lay. It's funny.
It's not a makeover, it's ineptitude
You may have noticed the new less-colorful look of the RazzyBlog. This is not because I decided that making it MORE gray would make my writing stand out more...I actually liked the old maroon accents a lot more. However, somehow, my old template got fucked up and I am too incompetent to fix it. I tried to recreate the old layout but it still looked like shit. Part of the problem is that I have no idea what part of the incomprehensible jibberish that seems to comprise the source code behind the "Rounders 2" template is even messed up. Since I don't have the skills to make a new, Razzified custom template, I just grabbed another one off Blogger that sort of fits with the RAZZY.org black, red, and gray color scheme, and here it is. I think it's temporary, because I think I may be actually motivated to learn how to do something else in terms of web design. It's time for some Razzy Q.T. with the GoLive for Dummies book, and then I'll come up with something laughably amateurish, but something I'm totally proud of, and that you will all be required to compliment me on.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
How to pick up strippers, by R.S. Kelly
Tonight I was sweeping around my apartment, and because I have to offset the misery of housework with something that cheers me up, I was listening to the melodious music of my boyfriend, this handsome devil:
Kells begins by making simulated sex noises, to indicate to his mark in the most animal way what's in store for her should she choose to accept the proposition he is about to make. He begins by introducing himself and his agenda:
"In the Playa's Club
Checkin at ya body, baby,
Steadily tossin' that cash flow, baby,
'Cause it drives me crazy.
Won't you be my lady?"
R. Kelly impresses the stripper with this rather polite explanation for why he's been stuffing dollars in this particular skank's g-string all night. However, he knows that after initiating a dialogue, it's time to dispense with the pleasantries and get right down to business:
"Betcha I can make your body talk to me (talk to me)
All I need is my CD, bag of weed, and some Cristie (yeah).
Then I'm gonna stroke you up and down,
Messin' with your head,
And when you leave up out my room,
You'll be walkin' bow legged."
At this point, I imagine that the stripper is intrigued by the man with the bandana and the cornrows in the Gale Sayers throwback jersey, both for his boldness (the man just suggested that the key to great sex is listening to his own CD!) and his remarkable gift for smooth talk. Kells continues to build her interest, extolling the benefits of getting sexed up by him after her shift onstage at the Playa's Club ends:
"I can keep your body comin' like a CTA. [Chicago Transit Authority]
You're dealin with a true baller, babe,
Givin' you the keys to my Mercedes."
Not to bust on Robert's techniques, as he's obviously a master of the fine art of seduction, but offering your expensive luxury automobile to a stripper is an extremely risky move. Fortunately for Kells, his confidence in his overwhelmingly superb abilities at lovemaking is enough to mitigate the liability incurred by offering a pricey car to a woman of dubious background. Therefore, he chooses to focus on the less tangible aspects of the deal as he continues negotiation through the chorus:
"I'm not gonna stop til' you scream my name
And say, 'ooh, Kelly, you make me holla
Keep on jumpin' like an Impala.'
You slidin' that sexy ass down the pole like what,
What, what, what, what, what
Come and get some of this R&B thug, baby
I'm just an R&B thug, babe,
Tryin' to get some ass, babe.
Do you wanna thug babe?
I'm just an R&B thug, babe,
Lookin' for some love, babe,
Do you wanna date babe?"
A date? Is that what they're calling one-night trysts with exotic dancers these days? Because in other circles, this might also be called soliciting a prostitute. R. Kelly just offered a professional sex worker compensation to the tune of an E-class in exchange for giving a true baller a true balling. I'd never snitch on Kells, though, because I dream of the day when I can tell some dude boning me that he "makes me holla" and then compare him to Dr. Dre's car. Robert remains supremely unconcerned about the possible presence of the Chicago vice squad working undercover at the Playa's Club (presumably, not being Playa's, any plainclothes police not happening to be Ice-T would be recognized and ejected anyway). In the second verse, he delineates yet another advantage of screwing him, which he previously alluded to with that whole "bow legged" remark.
"You're gonna trip, gonna trip,
Gonna trip, gonna trip, gonna trip
When I show you my love jones babe
And make the room go black."
Yes, it's true. R. Kelly's penis is so huge that it will block out the sun, lamps, light fixtures, or any other source of illumination in his immediate vicinity. We're lucky he keeps that shit behind closed doors, lest he plunge the world into eternal darkness and send humanity the way of the dinosaurs.
"Baby girl, keep your body right there.
I'm gonna sock it to you, baby.
I wanna hear you say yeah, yeah.
Now the sign on the knob says privacy,
You and me
On the low, fruit bowls and whipped cream.
We can get up on a fancy suite
Thugged out with some Hennessy.
See, see, see
Lock your body up and throw away the key."
Ah, yes. Nothing sets the mood like the old strawberries-and-Cool Whip routine. It goes particularly well with a "fancy suite" (read: motel that doesn't charge by the hour) stocked with a mini bar full of his thugged-out cognac. I am sure that at this point, the stripper is ready to have Kells sock it to her as promised, but he reiterates the chorus again anyway, presumably doing some of that "messin' with ya head" he promised in verse one. Finally, Kells decides to lay out in no uncertain terms how he feels about the situation:
"Now feel a knot down in my pants
While you breakin' me off with a lap dance, babe."
I'm sure that this stripper is accustomed to guys getting a hard-on during a lap dance, but this is why Kells is different from other guys. I've noticed in my trips to many strip clubs, guys are actually the most well-behaved while getting a lap dance, because any monkey business and the bouncer will ensure that they are immediately thrown out on their ass. In another example of his brazen ballsiness, he is absolutely not even the slightest bit worried about getting in trouble for touching the stripper, and in fact, only encourages her to note the serious erection that her work has inspired. Instead of feeling her up and getting reprimanded for touching, he turns the tables and has her feel him up! This is yet another example of R. Kelly's particular brand of genius.
"Said it's getting me high, it's got me feelin' hazy.
I'm goin around your body like a worldwide tour.
I'll make you say 'toot toot, beep beep,'
Pull up to my bumper, baby."
Robert's methods in the sack must be fucking phenomenal, because I've certainly never had a guy compel me to say "toot toot," "beep beep," or any other sound derived from a plane, train, or automobile. However, this is one of Kells's trademarks, because he also references women making similar vehicular noises at the height of pleasure in his song "Ignition (Remix)".
This is pretty much the end of the song, except Kells sings the chorus a few more times, then encourages his audience to make more simulated sex noises: "if you're horny say ooh, ooh, ooh, ahh, ahh, ahh" and "ladies, if you want it say yeah, yeah, yeah, mmm, mmm, mmm." Presumably the song then ends, as the stripper would not be able to resist the R-uh any longer. The next song on TP-2.com is called "The Greatest Sex," which presumably is what this R&B thug provided for the lucky exotic dancer who won his affections with her pole-dancing.
Anyway, as you can see, "R&B Thug" represents Kells at his finest and most impressive. This one is right up there with "Feelin' on yo Booty", "You Remind Me of Something," "Snake," and "Thoia Thoing" in terms of the art of brilliant lyricism and engaging, expository narrative. Robert really takes the lyrics to the next level of verse here, and this achievement merits special recognition. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, R. Kelly, for your contribution. You are not just a R&B Thug, babe. You are THE R&B thug, babe.
Kells begins by making simulated sex noises, to indicate to his mark in the most animal way what's in store for her should she choose to accept the proposition he is about to make. He begins by introducing himself and his agenda:
"In the Playa's Club
Checkin at ya body, baby,
Steadily tossin' that cash flow, baby,
'Cause it drives me crazy.
Won't you be my lady?"
R. Kelly impresses the stripper with this rather polite explanation for why he's been stuffing dollars in this particular skank's g-string all night. However, he knows that after initiating a dialogue, it's time to dispense with the pleasantries and get right down to business:
"Betcha I can make your body talk to me (talk to me)
All I need is my CD, bag of weed, and some Cristie (yeah).
Then I'm gonna stroke you up and down,
Messin' with your head,
And when you leave up out my room,
You'll be walkin' bow legged."
At this point, I imagine that the stripper is intrigued by the man with the bandana and the cornrows in the Gale Sayers throwback jersey, both for his boldness (the man just suggested that the key to great sex is listening to his own CD!) and his remarkable gift for smooth talk. Kells continues to build her interest, extolling the benefits of getting sexed up by him after her shift onstage at the Playa's Club ends:
"I can keep your body comin' like a CTA. [Chicago Transit Authority]
You're dealin with a true baller, babe,
Givin' you the keys to my Mercedes."
Not to bust on Robert's techniques, as he's obviously a master of the fine art of seduction, but offering your expensive luxury automobile to a stripper is an extremely risky move. Fortunately for Kells, his confidence in his overwhelmingly superb abilities at lovemaking is enough to mitigate the liability incurred by offering a pricey car to a woman of dubious background. Therefore, he chooses to focus on the less tangible aspects of the deal as he continues negotiation through the chorus:
"I'm not gonna stop til' you scream my name
And say, 'ooh, Kelly, you make me holla
Keep on jumpin' like an Impala.'
You slidin' that sexy ass down the pole like what,
What, what, what, what, what
Come and get some of this R&B thug, baby
I'm just an R&B thug, babe,
Tryin' to get some ass, babe.
Do you wanna thug babe?
I'm just an R&B thug, babe,
Lookin' for some love, babe,
Do you wanna date babe?"
A date? Is that what they're calling one-night trysts with exotic dancers these days? Because in other circles, this might also be called soliciting a prostitute. R. Kelly just offered a professional sex worker compensation to the tune of an E-class in exchange for giving a true baller a true balling. I'd never snitch on Kells, though, because I dream of the day when I can tell some dude boning me that he "makes me holla" and then compare him to Dr. Dre's car. Robert remains supremely unconcerned about the possible presence of the Chicago vice squad working undercover at the Playa's Club (presumably, not being Playa's, any plainclothes police not happening to be Ice-T would be recognized and ejected anyway). In the second verse, he delineates yet another advantage of screwing him, which he previously alluded to with that whole "bow legged" remark.
"You're gonna trip, gonna trip,
Gonna trip, gonna trip, gonna trip
When I show you my love jones babe
And make the room go black."
Yes, it's true. R. Kelly's penis is so huge that it will block out the sun, lamps, light fixtures, or any other source of illumination in his immediate vicinity. We're lucky he keeps that shit behind closed doors, lest he plunge the world into eternal darkness and send humanity the way of the dinosaurs.
"Baby girl, keep your body right there.
I'm gonna sock it to you, baby.
I wanna hear you say yeah, yeah.
Now the sign on the knob says privacy,
You and me
On the low, fruit bowls and whipped cream.
We can get up on a fancy suite
Thugged out with some Hennessy.
See, see, see
Lock your body up and throw away the key."
Ah, yes. Nothing sets the mood like the old strawberries-and-Cool Whip routine. It goes particularly well with a "fancy suite" (read: motel that doesn't charge by the hour) stocked with a mini bar full of his thugged-out cognac. I am sure that at this point, the stripper is ready to have Kells sock it to her as promised, but he reiterates the chorus again anyway, presumably doing some of that "messin' with ya head" he promised in verse one. Finally, Kells decides to lay out in no uncertain terms how he feels about the situation:
"Now feel a knot down in my pants
While you breakin' me off with a lap dance, babe."
I'm sure that this stripper is accustomed to guys getting a hard-on during a lap dance, but this is why Kells is different from other guys. I've noticed in my trips to many strip clubs, guys are actually the most well-behaved while getting a lap dance, because any monkey business and the bouncer will ensure that they are immediately thrown out on their ass. In another example of his brazen ballsiness, he is absolutely not even the slightest bit worried about getting in trouble for touching the stripper, and in fact, only encourages her to note the serious erection that her work has inspired. Instead of feeling her up and getting reprimanded for touching, he turns the tables and has her feel him up! This is yet another example of R. Kelly's particular brand of genius.
"Said it's getting me high, it's got me feelin' hazy.
I'm goin around your body like a worldwide tour.
I'll make you say 'toot toot, beep beep,'
Pull up to my bumper, baby."
Robert's methods in the sack must be fucking phenomenal, because I've certainly never had a guy compel me to say "toot toot," "beep beep," or any other sound derived from a plane, train, or automobile. However, this is one of Kells's trademarks, because he also references women making similar vehicular noises at the height of pleasure in his song "Ignition (Remix)".
This is pretty much the end of the song, except Kells sings the chorus a few more times, then encourages his audience to make more simulated sex noises: "if you're horny say ooh, ooh, ooh, ahh, ahh, ahh" and "ladies, if you want it say yeah, yeah, yeah, mmm, mmm, mmm." Presumably the song then ends, as the stripper would not be able to resist the R-uh any longer. The next song on TP-2.com is called "The Greatest Sex," which presumably is what this R&B thug provided for the lucky exotic dancer who won his affections with her pole-dancing.
Anyway, as you can see, "R&B Thug" represents Kells at his finest and most impressive. This one is right up there with "Feelin' on yo Booty", "You Remind Me of Something," "Snake," and "Thoia Thoing" in terms of the art of brilliant lyricism and engaging, expository narrative. Robert really takes the lyrics to the next level of verse here, and this achievement merits special recognition. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, R. Kelly, for your contribution. You are not just a R&B Thug, babe. You are THE R&B thug, babe.
Labels: hilarious shit, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly, sex
The City of Destiny is all over Urban Dictionary
Since this is my fifth posting of the day, it should be obvious to everyone that I am not getting any work done, and am choosing to waste time on the internet rather than kill mice or dick around with viruses. I was perusing urbandictionary.com, a website that is an essential research tool for me when deciphering rap lyrics, and discovered that there are several terms relating to that fine city where I once resided, Tacoma, WA in the beautiful P-N-Dub, and they are all awesome.
Of course, there's the classic T-town nickname, which merited two definitions:
Tacompton: 1. An offensive term used to describe Tacoma, Washington; usually heard on the isolated campus of UPS. "Yeah, dude, I go to UPS, in Tacompton." (Razzy aside-UPS is right down the street from where I went to high school). 2. Nickname for Tacoma, Washington, derived from the city of Compton, California. Highlights the crime and gang violence prevalent in many areas of Tacoma. "Bring your pepper spray, because that party is in Tacompton."
There's also this term, which I previously didn't realize was slang worthy of Urban Dictionary:
Tacoman: A person who lives in the city of Tacoma. This word can be used just to say you are from Tacoma, or as an insult like most Seattlites use. "What do you think I am, a Tacoman?"
Then, I found this genius term that I'd never heard before, but which has immediately found a place in my vocabulary:
Tacomatism: 1. the art of fucking things up at the last possible minute, as practiced to perfection by the residents of the city of Tacoma, WA and its outlying regions. "Garth's tacomatism landed him in rehab just on the verge of a huge record deal." 2. An equation which states that one's rate of success varies in direct proportion with one's potential to self-sabotage, and one's proximity to downtown Tacoma. The effect on others is not a variable in this equation, and is not taken into account. "Stephen has been showing signs of tacomatism ever since he moved into that apartment on Division St.; he seems to fuck himself over every time something good comes along."
I can't wait to start telling everyone they suffer from Tacomatism on my next vacation to the P-N-Dub (which, incidentally, is July 26-August 6, so all my drankin patnaz best mark they calendars!)
Of course, there's the classic T-town nickname, which merited two definitions:
Tacompton: 1. An offensive term used to describe Tacoma, Washington; usually heard on the isolated campus of UPS. "Yeah, dude, I go to UPS, in Tacompton." (Razzy aside-UPS is right down the street from where I went to high school). 2. Nickname for Tacoma, Washington, derived from the city of Compton, California. Highlights the crime and gang violence prevalent in many areas of Tacoma. "Bring your pepper spray, because that party is in Tacompton."
There's also this term, which I previously didn't realize was slang worthy of Urban Dictionary:
Tacoman: A person who lives in the city of Tacoma. This word can be used just to say you are from Tacoma, or as an insult like most Seattlites use. "What do you think I am, a Tacoman?"
Then, I found this genius term that I'd never heard before, but which has immediately found a place in my vocabulary:
Tacomatism: 1. the art of fucking things up at the last possible minute, as practiced to perfection by the residents of the city of Tacoma, WA and its outlying regions. "Garth's tacomatism landed him in rehab just on the verge of a huge record deal." 2. An equation which states that one's rate of success varies in direct proportion with one's potential to self-sabotage, and one's proximity to downtown Tacoma. The effect on others is not a variable in this equation, and is not taken into account. "Stephen has been showing signs of tacomatism ever since he moved into that apartment on Division St.; he seems to fuck himself over every time something good comes along."
I can't wait to start telling everyone they suffer from Tacomatism on my next vacation to the P-N-Dub (which, incidentally, is July 26-August 6, so all my drankin patnaz best mark they calendars!)
Don't Hassle Da Hoff!
I'm not in the celebrity gossip business (although I am an avid consumer of the aforementioned), but I'd be remiss if I didn't report on the latest incident regarding David Hasslehoff. He's had a rough week. First there was his recent freak shaving accident that culminated in tendon surgery, then his video for "Jump in my Car" showcased his laughable dance moves and ability to manipulate Eurotrash M2F transgendered prostitutes, and now he's been kicked out of Wimbledon!
The Sun reports that he got into what the Brits call "a blazing row" with the buttoned-up, super proper Wimbledon guards for being "steaming drunk." It seems that Da Hoff didn't get the memo that at tennis matches you're supposed to be quiet and well-behaved so the tennis players can concentrate. Therefore, he spent the day swilling beer and hollering like a boozed-up redneck at a monster truck show. I can just picture a drunken Hasselhoff shrieking "Grave Digger! Bring out Grave Digger! YEAAAAH!" as Roger Federer glares furiously up into the stands from Centre Court.
The best part? Shortly before being 86-ed from the facility entirely, every bar at Wimbledon cut his ass off. Da Hoff figured that his near-Jesus status in Europe would get the bar to let him in, and brazenly attempted to pull celebrity rank, saying, "You should let me in. Do you know who I am?! I'm THE HOFF!" Fucking amazing.
The Sun reports that he got into what the Brits call "a blazing row" with the buttoned-up, super proper Wimbledon guards for being "steaming drunk." It seems that Da Hoff didn't get the memo that at tennis matches you're supposed to be quiet and well-behaved so the tennis players can concentrate. Therefore, he spent the day swilling beer and hollering like a boozed-up redneck at a monster truck show. I can just picture a drunken Hasselhoff shrieking "Grave Digger! Bring out Grave Digger! YEAAAAH!" as Roger Federer glares furiously up into the stands from Centre Court.
The best part? Shortly before being 86-ed from the facility entirely, every bar at Wimbledon cut his ass off. Da Hoff figured that his near-Jesus status in Europe would get the bar to let him in, and brazenly attempted to pull celebrity rank, saying, "You should let me in. Do you know who I am?! I'm THE HOFF!" Fucking amazing.
Finally, Uberbelle makes it happen
Apparently Kate and Camilla were having a couple business-related issues with Uberbelle.com, the fashiony naked girl site that hired them to hire me to model, and that's why my pictures have not yet appeared there. However, these issues have now apparently been ironed out, so my pictures will be up there any day now. In the meantime, Uberbelle wanted me to fill out a questionnaire...apparently to provide some personality behind the tits and ass shots. I thought this questionnaire was dumb, because I surmise that no dude whacking it to Uberbelle gives a fuck what movies I like to watch. I figured I could at least use it to promote my website, and to act like an asshole for the benefit of whatever pretentious hipster douchebags that like their jerk-off material artfaggy (presumably this is the bulk of Uberbelle subscribers).
UBERBELLE MODEL QUESTIONNAIRE
1. Stats
a. Height: 5’3”
b. Weight: 130
c. Chest: 34B
d. Waist: I have no idea, and I don’t have a measuring tape. I’m a size 4.
e. Hips: thick as hell
f. Eyes: Blue
g. Hair: Blonde
h. Age:27
2. Hometown: Puyallup, WA
3. Cultural Background (i.e. Italian, German, Czech, Martian): Viking Irish
4. Favorite body part: A solid tie between my tits and ass. I’m also quite partial to my big, sexy brain.
5. Least favorite body part: My liver, which is why I’m dead-set on obliterating it with alcohol
6. Favorite finger: the middle one…duh
7. A few of my favorite things: dogs, fucking, the National Football League, meat, RAZZY.org, infection and immunity, swarthy rogues
8. Movies I never get tired of: The Running Man, Predator, Total Recall, Terminator Trilogy, Starship Troopers, The Faculty, RoboCop, Lord of the Rings, Gladiator, Varsity Blues. I’m also partial to porn with ridiculous backstories, like Mr. Short Stud, a film in which a dummy comes to life to satisfy two masturbation-crazy female roommates, or Edward Penishands, in which a dead-ringer for Johnny Depp demonstrates his ability to bang two women at once instead of making ice sculptures or trimming hedges.
9. What’s on my Ipod: I don’t have an iPod, but if I did, it would undoubtedly be filled with Southern ass rap, Def Leppard’s greatest hits, and Lionel Richie. And Toby Keith. And Megadeth.
10. What keeps me a couch potato: the TV
11. Best date ever: One where I get laid, and either go hunting with Ted Nugent or eat steak.
12. Worst date ever: One where I don’t get laid, or where I end up losing my temper on MTV’s “Boiling Points” and thus don’t get any money.
13. Type of underwear you’re most likely to find me in: none
14. Can touch my tongue to my nose (yes/no): I refuse to answer on the grounds that this question is stupid.
15. Why I’m the best Uberbelle ever: Because I’m Razzy. Obviously.
UBERBELLE MODEL QUESTIONNAIRE
1. Stats
a. Height: 5’3”
b. Weight: 130
c. Chest: 34B
d. Waist: I have no idea, and I don’t have a measuring tape. I’m a size 4.
e. Hips: thick as hell
f. Eyes: Blue
g. Hair: Blonde
h. Age:27
2. Hometown: Puyallup, WA
3. Cultural Background (i.e. Italian, German, Czech, Martian): Viking Irish
4. Favorite body part: A solid tie between my tits and ass. I’m also quite partial to my big, sexy brain.
5. Least favorite body part: My liver, which is why I’m dead-set on obliterating it with alcohol
6. Favorite finger: the middle one…duh
7. A few of my favorite things: dogs, fucking, the National Football League, meat, RAZZY.org, infection and immunity, swarthy rogues
8. Movies I never get tired of: The Running Man, Predator, Total Recall, Terminator Trilogy, Starship Troopers, The Faculty, RoboCop, Lord of the Rings, Gladiator, Varsity Blues. I’m also partial to porn with ridiculous backstories, like Mr. Short Stud, a film in which a dummy comes to life to satisfy two masturbation-crazy female roommates, or Edward Penishands, in which a dead-ringer for Johnny Depp demonstrates his ability to bang two women at once instead of making ice sculptures or trimming hedges.
9. What’s on my Ipod: I don’t have an iPod, but if I did, it would undoubtedly be filled with Southern ass rap, Def Leppard’s greatest hits, and Lionel Richie. And Toby Keith. And Megadeth.
10. What keeps me a couch potato: the TV
11. Best date ever: One where I get laid, and either go hunting with Ted Nugent or eat steak.
12. Worst date ever: One where I don’t get laid, or where I end up losing my temper on MTV’s “Boiling Points” and thus don’t get any money.
13. Type of underwear you’re most likely to find me in: none
14. Can touch my tongue to my nose (yes/no): I refuse to answer on the grounds that this question is stupid.
15. Why I’m the best Uberbelle ever: Because I’m Razzy. Obviously.
Statistics are fun
This morning I was dicking around, looking at the usage statistics for RAZZY.org, and couldn't believe some of the Google searches that led people to my site. These are the top 20 search strings for June 2006:
While I have no doubt that the many people searching for information about rap beefs and hot Jews were satisfied with the veritable gold mine of useless bullshit on those topics, I am curious if the people searching for "soccer bitch" found what they were looking for in RAZZY.org. I'm sure the people searching for "andrea lowell fucking" were disappointed, as all I do is mention "Andrea Lowell" and the word "fucking" in the same sentence without actually having pictures or descriptions of that. I can totally help the people trying to find out if Rena Sofer sang on "Melrose Place," though. Her character Eve sang at Kyle's Upstairs jazz club, which in the later years of "MP" replaced Shooter's as the gang's hangout of choice. I guess nobody believed that crack neurosurgeons like Dr. Peter Burns (Jack Wagner), hotshot advertising executives like Amanda Woodward (Heather Locklear) and Billy Campbell (Andrew Shue), successful designers like Jane Mancini (Josie Bissett), or high-class hookers like Sydney Andrews Mancini (Laura Leighton) would hang out at a "dive bar" like Shooter's, even though they all lived in the same shitty apartment complex for like 10 years, so they invented Kyle's Upstairs. Rena Sofer's character was tearing it up nightly with her brand of smooth jazz before she married Dr. Peter Burns, it came out that she was an ex-con who had done 15 years for killing Amanda's would-be rapist when it was actually AMANDA who killed him, she went crazy and attempted to blow up Melrose Place AGAIN, inspired Amanda and Peter to fake their deaths and move to Bali, and showed up at their memorial service dressed like a cheerleader and talking crazy. Before all that happened, she did, in fact, sing.
While I have no doubt that the many people searching for information about rap beefs and hot Jews were satisfied with the veritable gold mine of useless bullshit on those topics, I am curious if the people searching for "soccer bitch" found what they were looking for in RAZZY.org. I'm sure the people searching for "andrea lowell fucking" were disappointed, as all I do is mention "Andrea Lowell" and the word "fucking" in the same sentence without actually having pictures or descriptions of that. I can totally help the people trying to find out if Rena Sofer sang on "Melrose Place," though. Her character Eve sang at Kyle's Upstairs jazz club, which in the later years of "MP" replaced Shooter's as the gang's hangout of choice. I guess nobody believed that crack neurosurgeons like Dr. Peter Burns (Jack Wagner), hotshot advertising executives like Amanda Woodward (Heather Locklear) and Billy Campbell (Andrew Shue), successful designers like Jane Mancini (Josie Bissett), or high-class hookers like Sydney Andrews Mancini (Laura Leighton) would hang out at a "dive bar" like Shooter's, even though they all lived in the same shitty apartment complex for like 10 years, so they invented Kyle's Upstairs. Rena Sofer's character was tearing it up nightly with her brand of smooth jazz before she married Dr. Peter Burns, it came out that she was an ex-con who had done 15 years for killing Amanda's would-be rapist when it was actually AMANDA who killed him, she went crazy and attempted to blow up Melrose Place AGAIN, inspired Amanda and Peter to fake their deaths and move to Bali, and showed up at their memorial service dressed like a cheerleader and talking crazy. Before all that happened, she did, in fact, sing.
Big Kim
Okay, so that last post is using an outdated picture. Judging by the date on her Teaneck, NJ mug shot and the pre-surgerized state of her face, it's about 10 years old. This is a more current picture of Lil' Kim, who apparently has put on a few pounds while paying her debt to society. The NY Post put a similar pic of Lil' Kim on its front page yesterday, along with the headline (in 72-point font) "Big Kim."
Poor girl. She hasn't put on THAT much weight...I mean, she' s only 4'11", so even a couple pounds looks like a lot. However, this is probably going to send her straight into a plastic surgery tailspin, and she's going to look virtually unrecognizable after she gets her prison weight liposucked out. Regardless, I am just praying that BET is following up with her rehabilitation and reintroduction to the real world with more reality television.
Poor girl. She hasn't put on THAT much weight...I mean, she' s only 4'11", so even a couple pounds looks like a lot. However, this is probably going to send her straight into a plastic surgery tailspin, and she's going to look virtually unrecognizable after she gets her prison weight liposucked out. Regardless, I am just praying that BET is following up with her rehabilitation and reintroduction to the real world with more reality television.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Free at last! Free at last! Thank God almighty...
...Lil' Kim is free at last, and more importantly, free to get some pink/blue/platinum blonde extensions put in, pronto!
Kim said upon her release from prison that she plans to spend her first weekend post-lockdown "playing tennis and meditating." Apparently characterizing the white collar prison that famous convicted perjurers get sent to a "country club" isn't too far off base, since apparently incarceration in a federal penitentiary has turned her into a WASP. What else is Kim planning for the Fourth? 18 holes of golf? A rousing match of polo? Attending a meeting of the Junior League? Whatever else she has on tap, it sure seems like a far cry from the days when she'd suck 'em to sleep, take the keys to the Jeep, and tell him she'll be back while she goes to fuck with some other cats, having dreams of fucking some R&B dick, or ordering buffoons to eat her pussy while she watches cartoons. What the hell, Kim?
Kim said upon her release from prison that she plans to spend her first weekend post-lockdown "playing tennis and meditating." Apparently characterizing the white collar prison that famous convicted perjurers get sent to a "country club" isn't too far off base, since apparently incarceration in a federal penitentiary has turned her into a WASP. What else is Kim planning for the Fourth? 18 holes of golf? A rousing match of polo? Attending a meeting of the Junior League? Whatever else she has on tap, it sure seems like a far cry from the days when she'd suck 'em to sleep, take the keys to the Jeep, and tell him she'll be back while she goes to fuck with some other cats, having dreams of fucking some R&B dick, or ordering buffoons to eat her pussy while she watches cartoons. What the hell, Kim?
Happy 9/11...I mean, 4th of July...to you too!
My friend MillerTime is one of the few people I know who routinely sends e-mailed forwards. Hers don't really piss me off, because they're usually just a photo gallery of dogs doing silly things or dressed in silly outfits. She knows better than to bombard me with chain letters that threaten dire consequences if you don't immediately send them off to annoy your entire address book. Also, MillerTime is one of those girls that is naturally into cute animal pictures. We met in CYO horse camp in the 5th grade, and back then she was one of those horse-crazy girls. You know the type...there's always a couple girls in grade school who are fanatically obsessed with horses. They have horse-themed clothing, they decorate everything in the theme of horse, they had horses on their Trapper Keepers. Even after college, her bedroom at her parents' house was still (and probably is still) completely plastered with pictures of horsies. Nowadays she's not into horses anymore, because she's into Boston terriers ever since she and her boyfriend, DeputyRoscoe, adopted my nephew Stretch.
Anyway, this morning I checked my e-mail, and saw another forward from MillerTime. The last few days, I've been battling off the flu, or possibly something worse...on account of my horrible headache last night I was convinced that I was getting some type of hemorrhagic fever, and by today my eyes would be red, my skin covered with petechiae, and I'd be vomiting up my bloody stomach lining. Fortunately this morning my fever broke, my headache has diminished, my cough seems more productive and less like the death-rattle of consumption, and I seem to generally be on the mend. Once again, my paranoia that I'd somehow miraculously been exposed to Ebola, Machupo, or Lassa fever was unfounded. I was actually pleased to see an e-mail forward from her, because I thought that cute puppy pictures would make me feel even better and really set me right on the road to recovery. I hoped she would send me something like this cranky pug (and no, that's not Chingy!, it's just some random pug who appears to be most displeased by his outfit):
Anyway, this morning I checked my e-mail, and saw another forward from MillerTime. The last few days, I've been battling off the flu, or possibly something worse...on account of my horrible headache last night I was convinced that I was getting some type of hemorrhagic fever, and by today my eyes would be red, my skin covered with petechiae, and I'd be vomiting up my bloody stomach lining. Fortunately this morning my fever broke, my headache has diminished, my cough seems more productive and less like the death-rattle of consumption, and I seem to generally be on the mend. Once again, my paranoia that I'd somehow miraculously been exposed to Ebola, Machupo, or Lassa fever was unfounded. I was actually pleased to see an e-mail forward from her, because I thought that cute puppy pictures would make me feel even better and really set me right on the road to recovery. I hoped she would send me something like this cranky pug (and no, that's not Chingy!, it's just some random pug who appears to be most displeased by his outfit):
Instead of a frowning pug, I was shocked to see that her forward contained this uplifting photograph:
An aerial shot of the freshly Al Qaeda'd Ground Zero?! What the fuck, MillerTime?! And to make matters worse, the forward included the piece of crap seen below. Nothing constitutes a solemn memorial to the innocent lives lost in the 9/11 attacks like a glitter-animated GIF:
Living in New York, I see these types of messages all the time. In fact, at this grocery store called Gristede's, all their plastic bags have clip art of the Twin Towers along with the words, "In our hearts, in our minds, let us never forget what they did." Well, I haven't forgotten about 9/11, and it's not because my grocery bags keep reminding me of it or because I keep getting e-mail forwards about it. Like most Americans, I consider the events of 9/11 to be tragic, appalling, upsetting, and most grievous. That's why I don't need reminding of it in my inbox; when I open my e-mail forwards, I want to see some cute puppies, not the smoldering rubble of the World Trade Center, dammit! Also by virtue of living in New York, I'm constantly hearing on the local news about all these thwarted terror plots to bomb the subway, bomb Giant Stadium, bomb the Empire State and/or the Chrysler building, bomb the Statue of Liberty, etc. Since 9/11, NYC is perpetually at terror alert level orange, even when the rest of the country is chilling at level yellow. Every time I turn on the fucking TV, it's TERROR! TERROR! TERROR! I'm fucking sick and tired of terror. So no more terror-related e-mail forwards. It's the Fourth of July...send me some pictures of fireworks, or of a stupid kid blowing his face off with some fireworks, but ixnay on the ine-eleven-nay.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Picklephobia
I've always been a fan of Maury Povich. LL Cool Jew and I used to watch it every morning back when we lived together. Unlike Jerry Springer, who doesn't cover up the fact that he's exploiting the hell out of his freaktastic guests and is even proud of it, Maury acts like he's doing his guests a great service by bringing them on his show to air out their personal problems on national TV. For example, he loves paternity testing. He'll find some woman who has no idea which of many guys is the father of her child, and he'll test them all one by one. Some of these women will come back on the show 5 or 6 times and test like 15 guys. Of course, every time Maury says, "When it comes to 3-year-old Taequan, Larry, you are NOT the father!", which causes the woman to burst into tears and flee the stage, and the freshly proved not-father to celebrate gleefully. Another thing Maury likes to do is polygraph tests. He'll get some cheated-on woman to say that she thinks her boyfriend is cheating because he comes home with hickeys on his neck, she found a pair of panties in the backseat of his car, and one of her friends saw him making out with a stripper or something. The cheater will always give some lame excuse, like he makes out with all his stripper friends, and there's only panties in his car because he was a nice guy and let a stripper change her clothes there. Then Maury will break out the lie detector test and say, "You claim that you came home with hickeys on your neck because you were attacked by a canister vacuum? The lie detector test proves THAT was a lie. You were asked if you had sex with the stripper you were kissing. You said no. THAT was a lie, in fact you had sex with her over 50 times!" Needless to say, the Maury show is awesome.
It seems that recently Maury has decided to branch out and confront people about other problems besides who sired their bastard children and the fidelity of their double negative-using common law spouses. Any topic is okay with Maury, so long as it results in someone's life being ruined and/or running from the stage in a fit of sorrow. Recently, he had an episode in which people came on to discuss their irrational fears. This isn't so strange, since everyone has at least one irrational fear. Mine is spiders. I know that most spiders can't hurt me, and in fact they're helpful at controlling insect populations, but there's just something about the way they look that makes me go into a state of total panic whenever I see one. For other people, if it's not spiders, it's snakes, the dark, enclosed spaces, heights, deep water, rats, etc. However, it turns out that for some people, irrational fears can be inspired by just about anything, like hot dog condiments. Maury found these people, and decided to exploit them under the guise of helping them conquer their fears. In this priceless clip, Maury terrorizes a woman as he confronts her about her fear of pickles:
Somehow, I don't think that Maury chasing this bitch around with a tray of pickles is going to do anything to assuage her fears, but that's Maury for you. It doesn't matter if his tactics actually leave a person more damaged than they were before they came on his show; it only matters that he gives the appearance of trying to do these people a real service. Remind me never to call up Maury for help getting over my arachnophobia problem. I'd be talking to him, hoping to get some help one minute, and the next he'd have me suspended by the ankles over a tank of tarantulas. That's how the Pove rolls.
It seems that recently Maury has decided to branch out and confront people about other problems besides who sired their bastard children and the fidelity of their double negative-using common law spouses. Any topic is okay with Maury, so long as it results in someone's life being ruined and/or running from the stage in a fit of sorrow. Recently, he had an episode in which people came on to discuss their irrational fears. This isn't so strange, since everyone has at least one irrational fear. Mine is spiders. I know that most spiders can't hurt me, and in fact they're helpful at controlling insect populations, but there's just something about the way they look that makes me go into a state of total panic whenever I see one. For other people, if it's not spiders, it's snakes, the dark, enclosed spaces, heights, deep water, rats, etc. However, it turns out that for some people, irrational fears can be inspired by just about anything, like hot dog condiments. Maury found these people, and decided to exploit them under the guise of helping them conquer their fears. In this priceless clip, Maury terrorizes a woman as he confronts her about her fear of pickles:
Somehow, I don't think that Maury chasing this bitch around with a tray of pickles is going to do anything to assuage her fears, but that's Maury for you. It doesn't matter if his tactics actually leave a person more damaged than they were before they came on his show; it only matters that he gives the appearance of trying to do these people a real service. Remind me never to call up Maury for help getting over my arachnophobia problem. I'd be talking to him, hoping to get some help one minute, and the next he'd have me suspended by the ankles over a tank of tarantulas. That's how the Pove rolls.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
Once again, RNA viruses conclusively beat Razzy's ass
I'm sick, and I have been for the last several days. I took DayQuil and worked over the weekend, but now I've come to the conclusion that I might just be sick enough to stay home tomorrow. Of course, even if I should stay home I won't, because my experimental plans don't factor in sick days, but I might still actually be that sick. On Friday when I woke up, I noticed that I couldn't seem to effectively clear my throat, and I didn't quite feel fully Razzed up, but hell, it was a long last couple of weeks for me and some of my friends. Over the last two weeks, my circle of trust has had to cope with moving, family planning issues, a crazed stalker, quitting smoking, a wedding, a trip to Guatemala, and HOLY SHIT, LL COOL JEW IS ENGAGED TO BIGBAGEL!!!! And, more importantly, her bachelorette party is going to be in Las Vegas. Therefore, when I wasn't feeling like conquering the world Friday like I usually do, I figured it was the natural aftermath of a period of total drama.
So I shrugged it off, consumed lots of caffeine and over-the-counter stimulants/expectorants/pain relievers, and figured at the worst I'd picked up a cold. After all, I'm surrounded by infectious cold viruses every day. It's not surprising that in a moment of weakness I FINALLY picked up a URI (upper respiratory infection) with Coxsackievirus A24, which (despite having the most awesomely hilarious name for a virus EVER--yes, it is pronounced "Cock Sacky") can actually rock it as a respiratory pathogen as well as a causative agent of conjunctivitis. Anyway, I thought it was a relatively minor viral infection that I'd shrug off by killing mice, going to an impromptu grad student barbecue and drinking caipirinhas after I exhausted the beer supply, and otherwise ignore.
As usual, viruses once again laughed in my face at my unsuccessful attempts to predict their behavior. As I walked the dogs tonight, my DayQuil wore off as the heavens opened with a torrential downpour. A miserably humid New York summer downpour is not cold. Despite pouring rain, the temperature was probably around 75 degrees at the chilliest. Nonetheless, I started shivering. My teeth were chattering, and I was cold. Plus, I noticed that I was experiencing myalgia (the medical term for deep muscle aches), and my coughs were getting deeper and distressingly more rattling and "productive" (the medical term for my chest being full of fucking snot).
The problem with knowing lots of things about viruses is that every time I get sick, I start mentally interviewing the likely suspects. Upper respiratory tract inflammation and headache? Sounds like rhinovirus, Coxsackievirus, respiratory syncytial virus, or some other random bitch virus out of the "common cold" grab bag. Lower respiratory tract inflammation, mucus production, febrile, and experiencing muscle aches? Sorry, bitch, but you've got motherfucking influenza.
I obviously don't have the "bird flu" that the media was hysterical about all winter, being that I don't operate a stall in a Vietnamese poultry market or otherwise routinely pluck, butcher, or eviscerate any type of fowl, but I'm pretty sure at this point that I am dealing with the damn flu. It may be an average ho-hum A/H3N2 virus instead of the greatly feared H5N1 that has gotten so much attention because it killed like 50 people in Asia over the last 10 years...but it's still the flu, and it sucks to have it. Normally you don't get fever and chills with cold viruses unless you are already dealing with some other serious problem (like AIDS or a recent bone marrow transplant), nor do you have notable lower tract disease, like excessive lung-derived mucus or a tubercular wheeze. Yes, I'm REALLY attractive right now.
I'm pissed because I went to the trouble of getting a flu shot this year. For years, I've pooh-poohed flu shots, because they are essentially a gamble. A bunch of orthomyxovirologist eggheads hook up with a bunch of epidemiologist eggheads and a bunch of computer geek bioinformatic eggheads, and they cook up some half-assed scenario about which flu viruses will emerge this year that then gets passed on to the FDA. The FDA fills out six months worth of unnecessary paperwork, and then they tell the companies that make flu vaccine which strains of virus to make the vaccine against. Then they all go out for drinks and congratulate each other on a job well done, and President Bush reassures the American public that the "evian" flu problem is totally under control. Obviously, given that we've been hearing about the scourge of bird flu for years and the bird flu pandemic has yet to happen, the flu-predicting powers that be don't have this down to an exact science. Unfortunately for me, I've just proved one of two things: that my flu vaccine didn't work against the flu I have now, or that the flu vaccine is not effective. Either way, I'm screwed, because I had to get yet another shot (as both a virologist and a slut, I get a lot of shots and general phlebotomy action...flu vaccine, hepatitis B vaccine, antibody titer checks, HIV tests, etc.), and now I still have the damn flu!
Once again, viruses have completely humbled me. I am going to go make some soup and take some vitamin C (there is something to be said for the placebo effect), and plan how I can use my virus knowledge to make it so that when you get a flu shot, you don't ACTUALLY still wind up getting the flu. And cure the common cold while I'm at it. And graduate. And...oh shit, at this point, the DayQuil is talking. The moral of the story is this: even if you know everything about viruses, you'll still get them, which is why they're the baddest-ass, non-living biological forms on the planet. Viruses fucking rule, to the point where they're currently ruling me. Y'all betta recognize!
So I shrugged it off, consumed lots of caffeine and over-the-counter stimulants/expectorants/pain relievers, and figured at the worst I'd picked up a cold. After all, I'm surrounded by infectious cold viruses every day. It's not surprising that in a moment of weakness I FINALLY picked up a URI (upper respiratory infection) with Coxsackievirus A24, which (despite having the most awesomely hilarious name for a virus EVER--yes, it is pronounced "Cock Sacky") can actually rock it as a respiratory pathogen as well as a causative agent of conjunctivitis. Anyway, I thought it was a relatively minor viral infection that I'd shrug off by killing mice, going to an impromptu grad student barbecue and drinking caipirinhas after I exhausted the beer supply, and otherwise ignore.
As usual, viruses once again laughed in my face at my unsuccessful attempts to predict their behavior. As I walked the dogs tonight, my DayQuil wore off as the heavens opened with a torrential downpour. A miserably humid New York summer downpour is not cold. Despite pouring rain, the temperature was probably around 75 degrees at the chilliest. Nonetheless, I started shivering. My teeth were chattering, and I was cold. Plus, I noticed that I was experiencing myalgia (the medical term for deep muscle aches), and my coughs were getting deeper and distressingly more rattling and "productive" (the medical term for my chest being full of fucking snot).
The problem with knowing lots of things about viruses is that every time I get sick, I start mentally interviewing the likely suspects. Upper respiratory tract inflammation and headache? Sounds like rhinovirus, Coxsackievirus, respiratory syncytial virus, or some other random bitch virus out of the "common cold" grab bag. Lower respiratory tract inflammation, mucus production, febrile, and experiencing muscle aches? Sorry, bitch, but you've got motherfucking influenza.
I obviously don't have the "bird flu" that the media was hysterical about all winter, being that I don't operate a stall in a Vietnamese poultry market or otherwise routinely pluck, butcher, or eviscerate any type of fowl, but I'm pretty sure at this point that I am dealing with the damn flu. It may be an average ho-hum A/H3N2 virus instead of the greatly feared H5N1 that has gotten so much attention because it killed like 50 people in Asia over the last 10 years...but it's still the flu, and it sucks to have it. Normally you don't get fever and chills with cold viruses unless you are already dealing with some other serious problem (like AIDS or a recent bone marrow transplant), nor do you have notable lower tract disease, like excessive lung-derived mucus or a tubercular wheeze. Yes, I'm REALLY attractive right now.
I'm pissed because I went to the trouble of getting a flu shot this year. For years, I've pooh-poohed flu shots, because they are essentially a gamble. A bunch of orthomyxovirologist eggheads hook up with a bunch of epidemiologist eggheads and a bunch of computer geek bioinformatic eggheads, and they cook up some half-assed scenario about which flu viruses will emerge this year that then gets passed on to the FDA. The FDA fills out six months worth of unnecessary paperwork, and then they tell the companies that make flu vaccine which strains of virus to make the vaccine against. Then they all go out for drinks and congratulate each other on a job well done, and President Bush reassures the American public that the "evian" flu problem is totally under control. Obviously, given that we've been hearing about the scourge of bird flu for years and the bird flu pandemic has yet to happen, the flu-predicting powers that be don't have this down to an exact science. Unfortunately for me, I've just proved one of two things: that my flu vaccine didn't work against the flu I have now, or that the flu vaccine is not effective. Either way, I'm screwed, because I had to get yet another shot (as both a virologist and a slut, I get a lot of shots and general phlebotomy action...flu vaccine, hepatitis B vaccine, antibody titer checks, HIV tests, etc.), and now I still have the damn flu!
Once again, viruses have completely humbled me. I am going to go make some soup and take some vitamin C (there is something to be said for the placebo effect), and plan how I can use my virus knowledge to make it so that when you get a flu shot, you don't ACTUALLY still wind up getting the flu. And cure the common cold while I'm at it. And graduate. And...oh shit, at this point, the DayQuil is talking. The moral of the story is this: even if you know everything about viruses, you'll still get them, which is why they're the baddest-ass, non-living biological forms on the planet. Viruses fucking rule, to the point where they're currently ruling me. Y'all betta recognize!
Jump in my car
David Hasselhoff has been quite the newsmaker this week. First, he wound up having tendon surgery for a freak shaving chandelier accident, and now he has released this new music video. It's no "Hooked on a Feeling," but it's an interesting window into Da Hoff's world. I'm never quite sure if he's making fun of himself, or if he really thinks that reminding everyone about the TV shows he used to be in will do more to cement his pop culture icon status (in Europe) than the piano key necktie he wore when performing on the Berlin Wall back in the day.
Basically, in this video, he tries to pick up a pack of European tranny hookers on the basis of his driving around in the car from "Knight Rider." (On an aside, I don't recall KITT having the steering wheel on what is the passenger side here in the good old U.S. of A. Then again, here in the States, it's doubtful that any drag prostitute would be tempted by a washed-up and barely employable actor rolling in a 1980s-model customized Pontiac Trans Am unless s/he is working the strip in Puyallup). Anyway, then Hasselhoff takes a break to dance like an old man with a bum hip and pay low-budget homage to himself, donning his lifeguard outfit from "Babewatch" and fantasizing about all the products he could potentially endorse ("a hot cup of HOFFee"). In the end, he realizes that the hooker he picked up is totally a man, and instructs KITT to eject her from the vehicle. Okay, well that's the subtext that he never really sings about, but it's there. Trust me. Do yourself a favor and watch this...it's priceless Hasselhoff.
Basically, in this video, he tries to pick up a pack of European tranny hookers on the basis of his driving around in the car from "Knight Rider." (On an aside, I don't recall KITT having the steering wheel on what is the passenger side here in the good old U.S. of A. Then again, here in the States, it's doubtful that any drag prostitute would be tempted by a washed-up and barely employable actor rolling in a 1980s-model customized Pontiac Trans Am unless s/he is working the strip in Puyallup). Anyway, then Hasselhoff takes a break to dance like an old man with a bum hip and pay low-budget homage to himself, donning his lifeguard outfit from "Babewatch" and fantasizing about all the products he could potentially endorse ("a hot cup of HOFFee"). In the end, he realizes that the hooker he picked up is totally a man, and instructs KITT to eject her from the vehicle. Okay, well that's the subtext that he never really sings about, but it's there. Trust me. Do yourself a favor and watch this...it's priceless Hasselhoff.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Yet another reason why MySpace is dumb
I'm always annoyed by these MySpace bulletins people leave that say something along the lines of "Go to Google and type your name with 'needs' after it and see what pops up, then write it here and repost it! No cheating LOL!" This one girl that I went to high school with is always posting these, as well as these stupid quizzes that ask things like "What is the thing you want to change most about yourself?" and "What did you have for dinner last night?" and "What celebrity would you most like to meet?" These dumb quizzes and exercises in pointless Googling are quite possibly the most idiotic way to spend one's time imaginable, but every day without fail, my bulletin board is cluttered with them, and they are usually from this former classmate of mine.
I can't bust too hard on this poor girl because I feel SO sorry for her. She is one of the least attractive human beings I've ever seen (no chin to be seen, a borderline Downs Syndrome-y jaw structure, terrible skin, etc), and from the virtually CONSTANT stream of quizzes/surveys she posts, I've learned that she's an unemployed librarian who has never had sex. It usually goes something like this:
What are you wearing right now?
Yellow PJs with ducks on them
What is your greatest fantasy?
Getting a job
Where is the strangest place you've had sex?
I've never had sex
What don't you like about yourself?
Everything
See what I mean? It's just DEPRESSING to read this. I'm not terribly surprised that she's so pitiful or lonely, but it still makes me feel sad. I don't think she's changed in any way since high school. She is still writing the same atrocious Hallmark Card poetry, she still is way into Boyz 2 Men, and she's still (unfortunately) physically repulsive. Yet she has no problem showcasing any and ALL of this to her MySpace friends (and she seems to be a friend collector...within 1 day of joining MySpace she was soliciting an add from me, and I know it's not because she reads RAZZY.org on the regular). When I was in high school, I ragged on this girl mercilessly, and old habits die hard. However, I just can't believe that she is so willing to constantly identify herself to everyone on MySpace as what can only be described as a truly pathetic person.
Today I saw she had posted a bulletin saying "needs," and I looked at it. Why? I don't know. For the same reason I sometimes watch Lifetime Original Movies. I hate watching boring dramas about wives being battered, but I flip past it and linger on that damn Lifetime channel. For some reason that I don't fully understand, I am entranced by the sight of Lisa Rinna, Candace Cameron, or Tori Spelling cowering in terror from their ugly abusive boyfriend and I just CAN'T turn it off. Anyway, this was one of those where you type your name in to Google with "need" after it. I did not do that, but I went to Google and typed in something better and more appropriate for me, just to see what would show up:
"Razzy fuck"
Guess what popped up first with those search parameters? That's right...RAZZY.org. Fucking awesome.
I can't bust too hard on this poor girl because I feel SO sorry for her. She is one of the least attractive human beings I've ever seen (no chin to be seen, a borderline Downs Syndrome-y jaw structure, terrible skin, etc), and from the virtually CONSTANT stream of quizzes/surveys she posts, I've learned that she's an unemployed librarian who has never had sex. It usually goes something like this:
What are you wearing right now?
Yellow PJs with ducks on them
What is your greatest fantasy?
Getting a job
Where is the strangest place you've had sex?
I've never had sex
What don't you like about yourself?
Everything
See what I mean? It's just DEPRESSING to read this. I'm not terribly surprised that she's so pitiful or lonely, but it still makes me feel sad. I don't think she's changed in any way since high school. She is still writing the same atrocious Hallmark Card poetry, she still is way into Boyz 2 Men, and she's still (unfortunately) physically repulsive. Yet she has no problem showcasing any and ALL of this to her MySpace friends (and she seems to be a friend collector...within 1 day of joining MySpace she was soliciting an add from me, and I know it's not because she reads RAZZY.org on the regular). When I was in high school, I ragged on this girl mercilessly, and old habits die hard. However, I just can't believe that she is so willing to constantly identify herself to everyone on MySpace as what can only be described as a truly pathetic person.
Today I saw she had posted a bulletin saying "needs," and I looked at it. Why? I don't know. For the same reason I sometimes watch Lifetime Original Movies. I hate watching boring dramas about wives being battered, but I flip past it and linger on that damn Lifetime channel. For some reason that I don't fully understand, I am entranced by the sight of Lisa Rinna, Candace Cameron, or Tori Spelling cowering in terror from their ugly abusive boyfriend and I just CAN'T turn it off. Anyway, this was one of those where you type your name in to Google with "need" after it. I did not do that, but I went to Google and typed in something better and more appropriate for me, just to see what would show up:
"Razzy fuck"
Guess what popped up first with those search parameters? That's right...RAZZY.org. Fucking awesome.
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]
