Thursday, August 31, 2006
Another resounding endorsement of the Bush Administration
As usual, my boyfriend 50 Cent opens his mouth and, instead of showing off a rose gold grill, drops supremely quotable witticisms. Perez Hilton just quoted him as saying:
"You wanna know something? I actually like George W. Bush. In some ways, I'm the George W. Bush of hip hop: nobody likes me, but I'm still gonna run it for the next four years."
They are pretty similar in other ways, too. Bush loves Jesus, for example, and 50 is always rocking at least one platinum cross. Similarly, they both enjoy guns and warfare. Also, I'm sure Bush likes doing "presidential shit", and 50 has said several times that he enjoys smoking "presidential shit." Interesting.
I think an invitation to the White House is in order, so that these two can gaze lovingly at one another, exchange sweet nothings, and make sweet, sweet love. Down low poker night in the West Wing is surely inevitable.
Que romantico!
"You wanna know something? I actually like George W. Bush. In some ways, I'm the George W. Bush of hip hop: nobody likes me, but I'm still gonna run it for the next four years."
They are pretty similar in other ways, too. Bush loves Jesus, for example, and 50 is always rocking at least one platinum cross. Similarly, they both enjoy guns and warfare. Also, I'm sure Bush likes doing "presidential shit", and 50 has said several times that he enjoys smoking "presidential shit." Interesting.
I think an invitation to the White House is in order, so that these two can gaze lovingly at one another, exchange sweet nothings, and make sweet, sweet love. Down low poker night in the West Wing is surely inevitable.
Que romantico!
Labels: 50 cent, boyfriends, politics, rap, vulgar display of faggotry
Dutty wine
J-Sexy sent me this video today to show me that my piss-poor wining skills are not representative of other non-Jamaicans' wining abilities, as this dude is quite skilled at it (and according to YouTube, he's Colombiano). I often try to do these moves in lab while singing R. Kelly's "Slow Wind" to her ("You're a Jamaican queen, I'm an American king...let's get together and mix cultures"), which usually inspires laughter and not the respect generally accorded to queens of the dancehall. Anyway, this guy seems to have dutty wining down technically, proving that there's hope for me yet:
Labels: I hate dancing, J-Sexy, ridiculous absurdity
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
You've traumatized my dog. Thanks a lot, Weather.com.
Caesar has been on edge lately. I haven't been able to figure out why, because he's participated in an excess of stick chasing in the past couple days, and that is typically the Caesar equivalent of what eating a really rare steak, having an orgasm, and watching Total Recall represents for me. A near-perfect day, in other words. However, he's been acting really nervous and skittish, giving me a lot of pointed looks and such to communicate his state of perturbation. Caesar delivers really piercing, emotive, you-should-feel-guilty looks when he's upset, and I consequently scramble to correct whatever dog issues he's having, because that's what you do when you are blessed with ownership of the best dog in the universe.
Granted, he could just be mad at me because I went out on Saturday night, and then I went out for the past two evenings. Last night I came home drunk on lychee martinis and tried to placate him with the remains of the lamb cone pita sandwich I bought at Bereket before hopping into the cab home, and while he ate said Mediterranean delight, he was not pleased that I'd been out and about until the wee hours. Therefore, when he gave me dog attitude tonight (grousing in doggity half-barks, refusing to sit in the elevator, and general passive-aggressive, standoffish behavior), I attributed it to the usual you're-an-absent-mother issues and resolved to make up for it with some hot extra fetch action at the park tomorrow morning.
However, I suddenly realized what the problem was. My computer is hooked up to speakers that were inadvertantly cranked up on account of my listening to Yung Joc while preparing for my evening out. While I did turn off the Yung Joc before departing, I neglected to turn off the speakers. There is a severe weather warning for the greater New York metropolitan area, and therefore the fucking Weather.com thermometer I installed in my Windows toolbar kept making thunderclap alarm sounds, to alert me of impending thunderstorms and possibility of flash floods. Since my speakers were cranked, it had apparently been thundering loudly at 5 minute intervals ALL NIGHT LONG.
Caesar hasn't been mad at me for being gone. He's mad at me for leaving him alone for hours tormented by sounds that he's found utterly terrifying since he was detached from the communal placenta he shared with his ten littermates. I feel terrible. I've permanently damaged my dog at the deepest psychological level. I wouldn't be surprised if he parleys his above average dog intelligence into the sociopathic behavior of the profoundly disturbed. If I find out that Caesar has been secretly killing random old women and making fishnet stockings with their varicose veins, I'll only have myself to blame for my negligence. Well, myself, and weather.com, because what the fuck? If there's thunder, I'll hear it in the real world, and not from my fucking Windows toolbar. Come up with a better "severe weather" alert sound! Please...for the sake of my sweet dog!!!
Granted, he could just be mad at me because I went out on Saturday night, and then I went out for the past two evenings. Last night I came home drunk on lychee martinis and tried to placate him with the remains of the lamb cone pita sandwich I bought at Bereket before hopping into the cab home, and while he ate said Mediterranean delight, he was not pleased that I'd been out and about until the wee hours. Therefore, when he gave me dog attitude tonight (grousing in doggity half-barks, refusing to sit in the elevator, and general passive-aggressive, standoffish behavior), I attributed it to the usual you're-an-absent-mother issues and resolved to make up for it with some hot extra fetch action at the park tomorrow morning.
However, I suddenly realized what the problem was. My computer is hooked up to speakers that were inadvertantly cranked up on account of my listening to Yung Joc while preparing for my evening out. While I did turn off the Yung Joc before departing, I neglected to turn off the speakers. There is a severe weather warning for the greater New York metropolitan area, and therefore the fucking Weather.com thermometer I installed in my Windows toolbar kept making thunderclap alarm sounds, to alert me of impending thunderstorms and possibility of flash floods. Since my speakers were cranked, it had apparently been thundering loudly at 5 minute intervals ALL NIGHT LONG.
Caesar hasn't been mad at me for being gone. He's mad at me for leaving him alone for hours tormented by sounds that he's found utterly terrifying since he was detached from the communal placenta he shared with his ten littermates. I feel terrible. I've permanently damaged my dog at the deepest psychological level. I wouldn't be surprised if he parleys his above average dog intelligence into the sociopathic behavior of the profoundly disturbed. If I find out that Caesar has been secretly killing random old women and making fishnet stockings with their varicose veins, I'll only have myself to blame for my negligence. Well, myself, and weather.com, because what the fuck? If there's thunder, I'll hear it in the real world, and not from my fucking Windows toolbar. Come up with a better "severe weather" alert sound! Please...for the sake of my sweet dog!!!
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, doggity style, grad school bullshit, NYC, Razzification
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Too bad there's no natural cure for stupidity
I have a few MySpace "friends" who seem to have nothing better to do than post bulletins all day. In particular, this one guy, Greyson, is always posting things either about tattooing, shitty metal bands, and conspiracies. For a while, he just would not shut the fuck up about the 9/11 conspiracy (as in, the federal government somehow sneakily orchestrated the attacks on the Twin Towers and Pentagon as part of a convoluted scheme to invade Iraq), and kept providing videos and forwarded e-mails from fellow conspiracy nuts "proving" said theory. I could go off about that for hours, but today I'm going to rant instead about one of Greyson's latest bulletins, "Natural cures THEY don't want you to know about." All of his bulletins start off like this..."THEY don't want you to know about (insert modifier about 9/11, alternate sources of energy, or the health-enhancing benefits of marijuana here)." Who the fuck are "they"? Despite his apparent overwhelming compulsion to constantly post debatably informative MySpace bulletins, Greyson has yet to explain who "they" are. Well, he once posted a video of war images juxtaposed with Marilyn Manson's "Beautiful People" which that led me to believe that "they" are Osama Bin Laden, President Bush, and Adolf Hitler, but I can't figure out for the life of me how exactly those three are in cahoots with each other to keep old hippies in California from smoking pot. Even more aggravating than his failure to explain himself regarding the many nefarious forces conspiring against him is his tendency to call people who disagree with him "sheep", as in "even though I'm a stoned old man who probably eschews showering and still goes to Burning Man every year despite being thirty years too old for it, perhaps my amateurish engineering analysis of the particulars of skyscrapers being taken down by controlled demolition versus a fucking plane flying into it will convince all the sheep that 9/11 was a plot carried out by the U.S. military to further our fascist leader's evil schemes." I'm sorry, but this asshole is not a credible resource, at the very least because I don't trust anyone who has relinquished hairbrushes along with their patriotism:
Today Greyson posted this shit about "natural cures", confirming my suspicions that this dumbass will buy anything, so long as it's conspiracy-flavored. Someone named T-Rex had apparently sent him this factual treatise and he posted it so that we might all benefit. Incidentally, T-Rex's entire profile is a rambling, poorly spelled diatribe comprised of his sanguine adulation of hydrogen powered engines and vitriol about the government: "LEADERS OF THIS COUNTRY SUCK ASS. yah, YOU!", "Corperate Money Grabbers. Choke on it!", and "Let's put these royal penis's in JAIL." Anyway, T-Rex wrote this shit and posted it as a bulletin so that we might all be aware of yet another transgression by the powers that be: the global illness caused by the pharmaceutical industry.
This is the information that "they" don't want you to know. The drug companies do not want you to know that virtually all non-prescription and prescription drugs are the number one cause of illness and disease in the world! The TV media does not want you to know this either because they receive so much advertising revenue from the drug companies they do not want to offend their number one source of profits. Additionally, the news media has officers and directors and shareholders that are directly financially tied to the drug industry. The US Government and governments around the world do not want you to know how dangerous drugs are either. They want the population to be heavily drugged, and the politicians are in office primarily because of the funding received from the drug industry. The drug industry today is the same as it has been throughout history. Go back and read about the opium trade between the British and China. The British used the opium trade to finance their imperialistic expansion around the world and to control the population of China. The Chinese leaders wanted the population to be heavily drugged on opium to keep them under total control and to ensure no uprising. Remember it's always all about the money, and remember the second thing after money, and in many cases before money, is power! Always remember the motivation why things occur. It's always about money, power, influence, prestige or status.
Yes, this dipshit just compared the British East India Company's monopoly on opium (and concomitant forcible opium imports to China) to "non-prescription or prescription drugs". Because I'm sure that is what is being used as the model for the pharmaceutical-mediated domination of the New World Order (the conspirators, not the mid-90s wrestling troupe) or whatever. Didn't you ever hear of the Boxer Rebellion, dumbass? Because that whole "control the population with opium" thing didn't work out too well for the people with "money, power, influence, prestige, or status" when the Boxers kicked their tea-drinking hegemonious asses out of China. Then the entire West united against them and stomped the Boxers into oblivion. Imperialism declined, the Chinese suffered, the opium-for-tea market crashed, and World War I ensued. If you're into trench foot, economic devastation, laying the groundwork for national socialism, and facilitation of the spread of the worst pandemic flu in recorded history, then World War I ruled. If you're not, then you'd probably agree that nobody won. So if this dude's hypothesis is correct, the drug companies' strategy to exert dominating global influence via heavily drugging the population is going to end in social, political, and economic upheaval, not profit and power. Since the drug companies are supposedly controlling the entire world, I'd like to think that they've embraced a model ensuing continual world domination, not the failed shitshow that emerged from imperialist mercantilism.
I recently appeared on CNBC's talk show, "The Big Idea" with Donny Deutsch. Donny is an excel-lent interviewer and is a very intelligent, articulate man. He is incredibly successful and comes from the advertising world where he built a huge successful advertising giant. Remember CNBC is a news station all about business. If you watch any of their news shows, you will see that there is much talk about the profitability of stocks and pharmaceutical companies. If you look at the amount of advertising revenue CNBC receives from the pharmaceutical companies, it's staggering. CNBC of course is a part of NBC, which of course is owned by GE, and the chain goes up from there. The officers and directors of GE are heavily financially tied to and have financial interests in the pharmaceutical industry as well as fast food and oil. This is the way it is on virtually every major conglomerate. When I appeared on CNBC, and was interviewed by Donny, he interrupted and cut off my sentence every single time I opened my mouth! It appeared that he was petrified that I would say certain things about the drug companies. In fact, the one moment I brought up the drug companies, he cut me off saying don't go there, don't go there, don't go there. That's the whole point folks. The news media doesn't want to "go there". Nobody wants to "go there". Well this is where we must go. Going there means talking about the financial conflict of interest with the drug companies. Going there means exposing how dangerous and deadly the drugs are. Going there is exposing that all the drug research and scientific evidence about drugs comes directly from the drug companies -- the companies themselves that actually sell the product and have a financial interest in getting you to buy it! Even independent research is funded by the drug companies. This is where nobody wants to go. But this is where we all need to go.
First off, I don't believe that someone who, based on their MySpace page, has problems with proper capitalization and writes stuff like "I love when Big Oil Companies use our Military to Clepto Oil from other Countries then tell us 10,000 lies" has EVER been invited on the Donny Deutsch show. If CNBC is just a cog in the big "corperate" conspiracy wheel, why would they "go there" by having your paranoid ass on in the first place? Furthermore, while Donny Deutsch is, in fact, "intelligent" and "articulate," why would he want to interview someone who can't even spell "excel-lent" correctly? I want to see a clip of T-Rex and the Deutschman getting their interview on, because I don't believe that he ever "went there." In fact, I don't believe that he went any further than posting rapidly-deleted-by-an-administrator posts in Donny Deutsch's "Big Idea" forum of this ilk: "Ur a corperate pawn, ur part of the conspiracy, y are you trieing to keep the people addickted to Tylenol!"
Nonprescription and prescription drugs are the number one cause of disease. Check out your medicine cabinet. You have a slew of nonprescription and prescription drugs. Everything from Neosporin®, Ex-Lax®, Advil®, Tylenol®, NyQuil®, Afrin®, etc. You have nonprescription drugs that you don't even think are drugs any more. You think they're just regular products. The fact is they are powerful dangerous drugs. Just because you don't need a prescription doesn't mean they're not incredibly dangerous.
Neosporin: Antibiotics that have been in use since the 1950s. The only way they are dangerous is if you ingest them (Neosporin is topical) or are allergic to them. NOT DANGEROUS.
Ex-Lax: This example contradicts this dumbass's own argument. Ex-Lax is extracted from senna, which is A FUCKING HERB! Doesn't that make it "natural"?
Advil: There are 20 years worth of papers in the medical literature demonstrating scientifically that ibuprofen only causes significant side effects when taken at overdose levels. Even then, an ibuprofen overdose won't kill you.
Tylenol: Guess what, dipshit? People have been trying to commit suicide with Tylenol for over twenty years, and it's only in that context when it causes liver damage. If you pop two Tylenols once in a while for your hangover, you will have caused more damage to your liver getting that hangover than from taking Tylenol for the subsequent headache.
Afrin: This is a nasal decongestant which, when used in excess, can cause a person to become even stuffier, resulting in dependence. However, if you become addicted to a product on the basis of its moderating the amount of snot in your fucking nose, you deserve what you get. Schering-Plough is hardly to blame.
Just recently, as reported on Fox News, Tylenol® has now been determined to be a significant cause of liver damage. Another cause, of course, is the statin family of drugs, used for lowering cholesterol. This is vitally important. People have been popping Tylenol® like candy not realizing that it is affecting their liver in a negative way. Why is this important? When your liver is not operating properly, it instantly and automatically leads to a breakdown throughout the entire body and leads to illness and disease!
Also NOT TRUE. Liver failure is typically a very slow process. Look at David Crosby, for example. He had to have a liver transplant after a lifetime of drug and alcohol abuse, and it took FORTY FUCKING YEARS for his damaged liver to fail, and even after it did, he still was spry enough to sperminate Melissa Etheridge. Unless you eat a whole bottle of Tylenol in one sitting and chase it with a bottle of Wild Turkey, your liver will not "instantly and automatically" break down. Quit getting your medical facts from conspiracytheory.com, you moron.
This is the whole point. When you have an illness or disease, a medical doctor wants to give you some type of drug or surgical procedure to handle and address the symptoms you are experiencing. They do not ask "what's the cause". If they did, it almost always routes back to excess toxicity, which is caused by nonprescription and prescription drugs. If you have an illness and it can be linked back to a liver that's not operating properly, and then determined that the liver is not operating properly because of the Tylenol® you've been taking and the statins for lowering cholesterol like Lipitor®, you could then easily "cure your disease" by stopping the Tylenol® and the Lipitor®, taking care of your liver and strengthening it with herbs and nutrients under the care of a licensed healthcare practitioner, thus letting your body heal itself, normalize and then as if by magic your symptoms go away. Remember drugs do not heal anything, they just suppress symptoms by making the body do something unnatural.
WRONG. Certainly drugs like Tylenol do relieve symptoms, because it is an analgesic (pain relieving) drug. It doesn't treat what's causing the pain, but it relieves it. Lipitor, on the other hand, does "cure" a condition: hypercholesterolemia, by lowering cholesterol, thus staving off arterial sclerosis (hardening) and reducing the risk of heart attack and stroke. Taking liver herbs isn't going to stop you from throwing a clot and dying of heart disease.
Also, I've heard this "unnatural" argument before with regard to pharmaceuticals, and I'm not buying it. Why is it more "natural" to take an herb efficaciously proven only by hippie folklore, as opposed to a drug that's gone through extensive research and development and multiphase (>10,000 patients) randomized double-blind clinical trials? Sure, an herb is a plant and a drug is the product of a lab, but either way you're imbibing a foreign substance expecting it to pharmacologically influence your body. How are herbs any more natural in terms of the effect they have on your biochemistry than a drug?
The body heals itself. Just recently researchers have been amazed that a man in a coma with incurable brain damage miraculously came out of his coma because the body miraculously and "impossibly" rebuilt the brain cells that scientists had said were beyond repair! You read this right. The body repaired brain cells that medical doctors and scientists had said could never be repaired. The body heals itself. If you are ill, do not believe that doctors heal you or drugs heal you, they do not, they suppress symptoms by making the body do something unnatural, and they actually cause illness and disease. If you have illness and disease, put the body back in balance by getting rid of the toxins, finding the cause of your disease, handling nutritional deficiencies, reducing stress, and allowing the body to repair and heal itself.
You know what's more dangerous than doctors and drugs? Assholes like this guy who convince stupid people that they shouldn't go to the doctor when they are sick.
Additionally, the example here of spontaneous coma emergence due to neuron regrowth is not unique. There are a number of cases of neural regeneration in the medical literature, so doctors definitely don't think it's "impossible." Furthermore, I doubt the scientists who would know were asked whether or not this patient's neurons could be repaired, because we've known about neural stem cells for a long time now. In fact, it's only because of cases like these that neuroscience is able to determine the mechanism behind this phenomenon, so a drug can be made that will allow it to happen for everyone. To date I haven't heard of an herb that stimulates cellular repair of severe nerve damage or necrosis, but I am well aware that there are a number of academic labs and drug companies working on it, since it would be very beneficial if EVERYONE in a coma could emerge from it as opposed to this one guy out of (literally) a million.
So what is the evidence that nonprescription and prescription drugs cause disease? - There is plenty. Remember the tobacco industry had knowledge that cigarette smoking caused disease as early as 1950. Even with that knowledge the tobacco company executives made the decision to lie and deceive the public and even congress about the dangers of cigarette smoking. They made a financial decision to let millions of people die so that they could make billions and billions of dollars in profits. The pharmaceutical industry is doing exactly the same thing. They conduct research on drugs in third world countries, watching people suffer and die from drug trials that are never made public. There was an actual movie describing this practice called The Constant Gardener; I highly recommend you watch it. It is in effect a true story. The drug companies have evidence and knowledge that nonprescription and prescription drugs cause disease. They're hiding this information from you and lying about it. Even so, independent reporters around the world are picking this up, finding the facts and evidence and reporting it. The Associated Press, Reuters, and other news organizations have articles exposing this. Even lawsuits are being filed. This information, however, is being hidden from the public at large because it is not making front page news or making headlines on television news programs or radio news programs.
Here we get to the meat of his argument. He saw The Constant Gardener. And if a Hollywood movie starring Hot Jew Rachel Weisz says this is going on, it MUST be true. I guess despite the numerous critical accolades The Constant Gardener received and the subsequent media attention this movie garnered, the conspirators trying desperately to hide their knowledge that all drugs are the cause of disease decided to let it slide. It makes much more sense to suppress a weed-addled fucktard's MySpace bulletin ramblings than a major motion picture distributed globally. It's that kind of clever thinking that got the drug companies following the British East India Company model for long-lasting global domination via addiction disease.
The reason, as I mentioned before, is that the media, including TV, radio, and newspapers retain so much advertising profits from the drug industry that they cannot publicize the dangers of nonprescription and prescription drugs. The officers and directors also had major financial conflicts of interests and ties to the pharmaceutical industry so they do not want their newspapers, radio, and television entities disseminating information about the dangers and ineffectiveness of drugs. Let's go through a couple interesting articles. New York Times, April 22, 2006, describes the avalanche of drug lawsuits being filed against drug manufacturers for drugs that are causing severe medical problems and even death. Merck is dealing with over 11,500 lawsuits over the fact that they sold Vioxx®, a worthless painkiller that would not save one life, even though there is evidence that they knew that it might kill thousands or even hundreds of people. Many other companies are bracing for lawsuits over a number of other widely used medications. A hormone therapy drug manufactured by Wyeth called Prempro® has been linked to a series of diseases. Ortho-Evra®, a birth control patch, manufactured by Johnson & Johnson has now been found to cause a whole host of medical problems. The drug manufacturer, AstraZeneca, manufactured an antipsychotic drug called Seroquel®. This drug has been shown to cause weight gain and a host of other deadly diseases. Merck manufactured an Osteoporosis medication called Fosamax®, which has been linked to severe jaw decay.
I don't think anyone questions whether or not drugs have side effects. Furthermore, anyone not in a coma would surmise that no amount of clinical trials can characterize what all of these are. However, that's why we have lawsuits, as this asshole just pointed out.
These four drugs alone have annual sales of over seven billion dollars. They are used by millions of patients. These patients had been put at risk for stroke, breast cancer, weight gain, jaw decay, and a host of other side effects. The drug companies knew this. They didn't care. They simply cared about increasing profits. Ambien®, the widely used sleep medication, has major side effects that are now being discovered. This was reported in Yahoo news.
Well, guess what? These patients probably ALSO put themselves at risk for stroke, breast cancer, weight gain, jaw decay, and host of other shit by their own lifestyles. People eat shitty food, smoke cigarettes, guzzle booze, etc., myself included. And, as a former therapeutics company employee, I can say that drug companies care more about the side effects of their drugs than the shit that people put into themselves on a daily basis. If you have a heart attack and you're taking Ambien, it's much easier to sue Aventis than yourself.
The antibiotic Tequin® manufactured by Bristol Myers Squibb causes severe blood sugar complications and is being pulled by the market. At least 20 people have died by taking this antibiotic in its proper dosage and over 150 people hospitalized. These are the known cases. Insiders tell me that they estimate virtually tens of thousands of people hospitalized after taking this medication and not knowing that their hospitalization or symptoms were caused by this widely used antibiotic. This was reported on MSNBC. Both ABC News and the New York Times reported that GlaxoSmithKline in combination with the FDA sent a letter to doctors warning that the antidepressant Paxil® would increase suicide behavior in young adults. There are more side effects of Paxil® that are being revealed and will be published shortly. Guidant pace makers and defibrillators have been found to have serious side effects. Lawsuits are going to be filed against the manufacturers. The Osteoporosis class of drugs called Bisphosphonates, which has been used to prevent broken and deteriorating bones and cancer in Osteoporosis patients has now been shown to actually cause Osteoporosis in the areas of the jaw. It seems that drugs that are being given to prevent or treat Osteoporosis or the weakening of the bones are actually causing deterioration of the bones. This was reported in the New York Times and the Spartanburg Herald-Journal. Yahoo News reported that headache drugs actually give people headaches. It appears that several types of drugs used for migraine headaches, as well as other types of pain killers, actually increase headaches and cause other, potentially lethal, medical side effects. The Journal of the American Medical Association, USA Today, and Yahoo News reported that antidepressant drugs such as Prozac® actually increase the risk of Type II Diabetes. It was also discovered that Prozac®, which was used to treat anorexia was found to be absolutely worthless in the treatment of anorexia and actually caused eating disorders. Pfizer's drug for lowering cholesterol, Lipitor®, has now been shown to cause lasting muscle damage! This is one of the most widely used drugs in the world and has already been known to cause liver problems. Over twelve billion dollars a year is generated for Pfizer with the sale of Lipitor®. The research now shows that Lipitor® causes pain, weakness, and memory problems. It also causes pain, fatigue, and tingling sensation in both hands and feet as well as degeneration of muscle mass and liver problems. Lipitor® absolutely makes the body unhealthy and leads to a series of diseases. This was reported in Yahoo News.
Okay, drugs have side effects, and sometimes they are unpleasant. Well, so do herbs. Remember when all those athletes died of heat stroke after taking ephedra? That's a fucking herb. Same with Laetrile, an almond extract frequently used by Mexican cancer clinics. If not extracted from almonds properly, it contains large quantities of hydrocyanic acid, also known as cyanide. Also, numerous deaths have been attributed to taking oleander for cancer or heart conditions, pennyroyal to stimulate menstruation, etc. etc. Whether drug or herb, undesirable physiological effects can occur when you put something foreign in your body. Period.
Vaccines cause disease as reported by the Association of American Physicians and Surgeons. There are over 50 poisonous elements in vaccines. The most poisonous is the mercury laced Thimerosal. However, it has been reported that all vaccines cause disease.
Yes, they do. Let's look at one of my favorite viruses, polio, for example. There are two types of polio vaccine. One is an inactivated vaccine developed by Jonas Salk. This involves giving a person dead virus so they will develop immunity to the way the virus "looks". However, Albert Sabin found that the immunity lasted longer when people were given an attenuated (weakened) virus. This means that you swallow a strain of live virus that does not cause poliomyelitis, the virus replicates in your gut just like a wild, virulent poliovirus would, and you develop lifelong immunity to both the way the virus "looks" and the proteins it produces during its replication cycle. So you have to develop a "disease" to get immunized against polio, but I guarantee that unnoticed viral replication in the intestine is MUCH more desirable than getting your ass paralyzed and winding up in an iron lung.
Prostate cancer treatments are unnecessary and actually harmful. As reported in the British Journal of Cancer and Yahoo News prostate cancer treatments result in serious side effects including impotence and incontinence.
NO SHIT, Sherlock. Surgery and radiotherapy aren't perfect, and sometimes when they're taking out a tumor up a guy's ass behind his choad, nerves and blood vessels attached to the penis can be damaged. My uncle survived prostate cancer twice, and I guarantee he'd gladly take his Depends and his penis pump any day over fatal bone metastases and an extremely painful death. Prostate cancer is the second highest cancer killer among men (second only to lung cancer), so to suggest that treating it is "unnecessary" is fucking reprehensible.
The Association of American Physicians and Surgeons has reportedly concluded that the measles vaccine is the cause of Autism. Additionally, vaccines have now been shown to cause serious intestinal inflammation.
First off, every vaccine under the sun has been blamed for autism. So have naturally occuring viral infections, chemical exposure, genetics, child abuse, and everything else under the sun. In fact, multiple studies have shown NO LINK between the MMR vaccine and autism, and medicine still has no idea what the fuck causes autism. And as I pointed out before, OF COURSE vaccines cause inflammation. Inflammation is part of a robust immune response. Vaccines wouldn't work if they didn't cause inflammation.
Lawsuits are being filed against the manufacturers of Ritalin®, Prozac®, Adderall®, Zoloft®, Neurontin®, Concerta®, Lexapro®, Effexor®, and Strattera®. It is now proven that these drugs all have serious side effects resulting in a host of illnesses including potential heart attacks, strokes, blood clots, and other disease.
All drugs have side effects. It sucks, but they do. All of the drugs he mentions here are psychotropic drugs. It is not really known in great detail exactly how they work, so of course they are going to have more unforeseen side effects. However, they help a lot of people, so the FDA has balanced the risk of side effects with the number of people that can be helped by them. Furthermore, it's difficult to do the kind of studies that establish a link between common ailments like heart attacks and strokes. They involve thousands of patients, many of which have other preexisting conditions, and are so fraught with variables that there's really no way to prove this. However, would you prefer to have a depressed person kill themselves, or take Effexor?
Rheumatoid Arthritis drugs Humira® and Remicade® may double your risk of getting serious infection and triple your risk of developing various kinds of cancer. These drugs have also been shown to cause lymphoma, tuberculosis, and pneumonia. New research now shows that these drugs also lead to skin, gastrointestinal, breast, and lung tumors. This was reported in US Today, MSNBC, and The Journal of the American Medical Association.
Okay. Fine. These drugs suppress inflammation, which can also suppress surveillance and elimination of tumors by the immune system. They work by making you immunocompromised, so nobody is shocked that you are more susceptible to infections. Again, this sucks, but what is worse: risking a tumor, or suffering from a chronic degenerative autoimmune disease? Pick your fucking poison.
Blood pressure drugs linked to major birth defects. As reported on AOL News, blood pressure medications previously thought to be safe now are shown to raise major birth defects as well as cause a host of other problems including heart attack and stroke - you're reading this right. People take high blood pressure medication to reduce their risk of heart attack and stroke but the research now shows that it actually increases your risk of heart attack and stroke as well as causing severe birth defects.
Which drugs are these? People who take these drugs are ALREADY at a higher risk of heart attack and stroke, so stop the press that more people on drugs treating cardiac disease die from heart problems.
The bottom line is nonprescription and prescription drugs cause disease. If you want to be healthy, if you want to cure symptoms you have, you must stop taking nonprescription and prescription drugs. If you go to a doctor who gives you prescription or nonprescription drugs to take for simple symptoms, go to another doctor. Go to www.naturalcures.com and find a licensed healthcare practitioner in your area who does not use drugs and surgery. Medical doctors have no knowledge or training in alternatives to drugs and surgery. Remember they are paid to give you drugs. The more drugs they prescribe, the more money they make from the drug companies. They have both a financial conflict of interest to give you drugs and they don't have any knowledge or information about alternatives.
Medical doctors are not paid to give people drugs. I don't think there are any doctors who will risk their patients' safety (and expose them to unnecessary malpractice liability) because some drug rep gave them a Viagra paperweight or a pad of Lipitor Post-Its.
ADD and ADHD cured! If you have children who are experiencing symptoms that have been classified as Attention Deficit Disorder or Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, you must know that your children are not suffering from a deficiency in Ritalin® or some other psychiatric prescribed drug. If your children are experiencing symptoms such as hyperactivity, inability to be attentive, inability to learn or grasp new information, there could be a host of potential reasons. First, the children could be growing at a rate that is not normal. This could be caused by meat and dairy products. Meat and dairy products are loaded with bovine growth hormone. This hormone causes children to grow at an abnormal rate. This could be one of the causes. Avoid all meat and dairy that has bovine growth hormone in it. Only feed your children meat and dairy that is organic without bovine growth hormone.
I've been listening to this tired schtick about rBGH for years, and it's been identified as the cause of everything from ADHD to cancer. Eat organic if you don't want your kids to eat it, but don't declare that something is "cured" just because you've identified a possible and unproven link to a supplement that may or may not be in your food.
Another cause is nitrites in food. Many sandwich meats, hotdogs are loaded with nitrites causing extra brain activity resulting in symptoms called ADHD. Additionally, artificial sweeteners such as Splenda® and Nutrasweet® have been linked to the ADD and ADHD symptoms. Aspartame is found in almost all snack food. Splenda® is also rampant.
Whatever. Where did you get this information, from some holistic charlatan's website? Cite your source, idiot.
Please read the labels. Monosodium glutamate (MSG) also falls into this category of excito-toxins and when consumed by young children causes this type of behavior and symptoms. MSG is loaded in fast foods such as Taco Bell, McDonalds, Burger King, even Pizza Hut.
EVEN PIZZA HUT? Say it ain't so! I thought that a deep dish stuffed crust meatzza was an elixir guaranteeing long life and robust health.
If your children eat fast food, they're being loaded with monosodium glutamate and other excito-toxins. If they eat hotdogs and lunchmeats, they are being loaded with nitrites. If they eat snack foods, such as potato chips, Doritos, corn chips, or other type of snacks, they are loaded with monosodium glutamate. If they drink any type of diet or "sugar free" product, they are being loaded with artificial sweeteners, such as Splenda® or Aspartame. These all can be a cause of ADD and ADHD. Simply eliminating these from the diet can in a matter of days correct the symptoms.
"Excito-toxins", eh? Did you make that scientistic word up all by yourself?
The University of Adelaide in Australia also found that children who have severe symptoms of ADHD are deficient in omega 3's. Omega 3's can be found in fish oils. When you are deficient in omega 3's, depression also exists. Supplementing your children's diet with fish oils can be very effective at solving the ADD phenomenon combined with simple dietary changes. Remember drugs are not the answer. ADHD drugs cause serious side effects including insomnia, personality changes, suicidal thoughts, heart attacks, stroke, sudden death, and depression. It also stunts the growth and leads to major psychological and physiological problems later in life. Remember ADHD drugs are more powerful than cocaine. One of the most effective ways to get omega 3's is by taking krill oil.
I have better things to do than listen to this asshole's bogus arguments about how ADD can be cured by taking plankton oil. The point is, when I'm seeking out medical information, I don't look to MySpace. I am glad that apparently stupid people do, however, because it will just hasten nature's course. These morons will believe this, take plankton oil and liver herbs instead of seeing their doctor when they get sick, and die, thus eliminating their dumbasses from the gene pool and strengthening our species from a Darwinian standpoint.
Today Greyson posted this shit about "natural cures", confirming my suspicions that this dumbass will buy anything, so long as it's conspiracy-flavored. Someone named T-Rex had apparently sent him this factual treatise and he posted it so that we might all benefit. Incidentally, T-Rex's entire profile is a rambling, poorly spelled diatribe comprised of his sanguine adulation of hydrogen powered engines and vitriol about the government: "LEADERS OF THIS COUNTRY SUCK ASS. yah, YOU!", "Corperate Money Grabbers. Choke on it!", and "Let's put these royal penis's in JAIL." Anyway, T-Rex wrote this shit and posted it as a bulletin so that we might all be aware of yet another transgression by the powers that be: the global illness caused by the pharmaceutical industry.
This is the information that "they" don't want you to know. The drug companies do not want you to know that virtually all non-prescription and prescription drugs are the number one cause of illness and disease in the world! The TV media does not want you to know this either because they receive so much advertising revenue from the drug companies they do not want to offend their number one source of profits. Additionally, the news media has officers and directors and shareholders that are directly financially tied to the drug industry. The US Government and governments around the world do not want you to know how dangerous drugs are either. They want the population to be heavily drugged, and the politicians are in office primarily because of the funding received from the drug industry. The drug industry today is the same as it has been throughout history. Go back and read about the opium trade between the British and China. The British used the opium trade to finance their imperialistic expansion around the world and to control the population of China. The Chinese leaders wanted the population to be heavily drugged on opium to keep them under total control and to ensure no uprising. Remember it's always all about the money, and remember the second thing after money, and in many cases before money, is power! Always remember the motivation why things occur. It's always about money, power, influence, prestige or status.
Yes, this dipshit just compared the British East India Company's monopoly on opium (and concomitant forcible opium imports to China) to "non-prescription or prescription drugs". Because I'm sure that is what is being used as the model for the pharmaceutical-mediated domination of the New World Order (the conspirators, not the mid-90s wrestling troupe) or whatever. Didn't you ever hear of the Boxer Rebellion, dumbass? Because that whole "control the population with opium" thing didn't work out too well for the people with "money, power, influence, prestige, or status" when the Boxers kicked their tea-drinking hegemonious asses out of China. Then the entire West united against them and stomped the Boxers into oblivion. Imperialism declined, the Chinese suffered, the opium-for-tea market crashed, and World War I ensued. If you're into trench foot, economic devastation, laying the groundwork for national socialism, and facilitation of the spread of the worst pandemic flu in recorded history, then World War I ruled. If you're not, then you'd probably agree that nobody won. So if this dude's hypothesis is correct, the drug companies' strategy to exert dominating global influence via heavily drugging the population is going to end in social, political, and economic upheaval, not profit and power. Since the drug companies are supposedly controlling the entire world, I'd like to think that they've embraced a model ensuing continual world domination, not the failed shitshow that emerged from imperialist mercantilism.
I recently appeared on CNBC's talk show, "The Big Idea" with Donny Deutsch. Donny is an excel-lent interviewer and is a very intelligent, articulate man. He is incredibly successful and comes from the advertising world where he built a huge successful advertising giant. Remember CNBC is a news station all about business. If you watch any of their news shows, you will see that there is much talk about the profitability of stocks and pharmaceutical companies. If you look at the amount of advertising revenue CNBC receives from the pharmaceutical companies, it's staggering. CNBC of course is a part of NBC, which of course is owned by GE, and the chain goes up from there. The officers and directors of GE are heavily financially tied to and have financial interests in the pharmaceutical industry as well as fast food and oil. This is the way it is on virtually every major conglomerate. When I appeared on CNBC, and was interviewed by Donny, he interrupted and cut off my sentence every single time I opened my mouth! It appeared that he was petrified that I would say certain things about the drug companies. In fact, the one moment I brought up the drug companies, he cut me off saying don't go there, don't go there, don't go there. That's the whole point folks. The news media doesn't want to "go there". Nobody wants to "go there". Well this is where we must go. Going there means talking about the financial conflict of interest with the drug companies. Going there means exposing how dangerous and deadly the drugs are. Going there is exposing that all the drug research and scientific evidence about drugs comes directly from the drug companies -- the companies themselves that actually sell the product and have a financial interest in getting you to buy it! Even independent research is funded by the drug companies. This is where nobody wants to go. But this is where we all need to go.
First off, I don't believe that someone who, based on their MySpace page, has problems with proper capitalization and writes stuff like "I love when Big Oil Companies use our Military to Clepto Oil from other Countries then tell us 10,000 lies" has EVER been invited on the Donny Deutsch show. If CNBC is just a cog in the big "corperate" conspiracy wheel, why would they "go there" by having your paranoid ass on in the first place? Furthermore, while Donny Deutsch is, in fact, "intelligent" and "articulate," why would he want to interview someone who can't even spell "excel-lent" correctly? I want to see a clip of T-Rex and the Deutschman getting their interview on, because I don't believe that he ever "went there." In fact, I don't believe that he went any further than posting rapidly-deleted-by-an-administrator posts in Donny Deutsch's "Big Idea" forum of this ilk: "Ur a corperate pawn, ur part of the conspiracy, y are you trieing to keep the people addickted to Tylenol!"
Nonprescription and prescription drugs are the number one cause of disease. Check out your medicine cabinet. You have a slew of nonprescription and prescription drugs. Everything from Neosporin®, Ex-Lax®, Advil®, Tylenol®, NyQuil®, Afrin®, etc. You have nonprescription drugs that you don't even think are drugs any more. You think they're just regular products. The fact is they are powerful dangerous drugs. Just because you don't need a prescription doesn't mean they're not incredibly dangerous.
Neosporin: Antibiotics that have been in use since the 1950s. The only way they are dangerous is if you ingest them (Neosporin is topical) or are allergic to them. NOT DANGEROUS.
Ex-Lax: This example contradicts this dumbass's own argument. Ex-Lax is extracted from senna, which is A FUCKING HERB! Doesn't that make it "natural"?
Advil: There are 20 years worth of papers in the medical literature demonstrating scientifically that ibuprofen only causes significant side effects when taken at overdose levels. Even then, an ibuprofen overdose won't kill you.
Tylenol: Guess what, dipshit? People have been trying to commit suicide with Tylenol for over twenty years, and it's only in that context when it causes liver damage. If you pop two Tylenols once in a while for your hangover, you will have caused more damage to your liver getting that hangover than from taking Tylenol for the subsequent headache.
Afrin: This is a nasal decongestant which, when used in excess, can cause a person to become even stuffier, resulting in dependence. However, if you become addicted to a product on the basis of its moderating the amount of snot in your fucking nose, you deserve what you get. Schering-Plough is hardly to blame.
Just recently, as reported on Fox News, Tylenol® has now been determined to be a significant cause of liver damage. Another cause, of course, is the statin family of drugs, used for lowering cholesterol. This is vitally important. People have been popping Tylenol® like candy not realizing that it is affecting their liver in a negative way. Why is this important? When your liver is not operating properly, it instantly and automatically leads to a breakdown throughout the entire body and leads to illness and disease!
Also NOT TRUE. Liver failure is typically a very slow process. Look at David Crosby, for example. He had to have a liver transplant after a lifetime of drug and alcohol abuse, and it took FORTY FUCKING YEARS for his damaged liver to fail, and even after it did, he still was spry enough to sperminate Melissa Etheridge. Unless you eat a whole bottle of Tylenol in one sitting and chase it with a bottle of Wild Turkey, your liver will not "instantly and automatically" break down. Quit getting your medical facts from conspiracytheory.com, you moron.
This is the whole point. When you have an illness or disease, a medical doctor wants to give you some type of drug or surgical procedure to handle and address the symptoms you are experiencing. They do not ask "what's the cause". If they did, it almost always routes back to excess toxicity, which is caused by nonprescription and prescription drugs. If you have an illness and it can be linked back to a liver that's not operating properly, and then determined that the liver is not operating properly because of the Tylenol® you've been taking and the statins for lowering cholesterol like Lipitor®, you could then easily "cure your disease" by stopping the Tylenol® and the Lipitor®, taking care of your liver and strengthening it with herbs and nutrients under the care of a licensed healthcare practitioner, thus letting your body heal itself, normalize and then as if by magic your symptoms go away. Remember drugs do not heal anything, they just suppress symptoms by making the body do something unnatural.
WRONG. Certainly drugs like Tylenol do relieve symptoms, because it is an analgesic (pain relieving) drug. It doesn't treat what's causing the pain, but it relieves it. Lipitor, on the other hand, does "cure" a condition: hypercholesterolemia, by lowering cholesterol, thus staving off arterial sclerosis (hardening) and reducing the risk of heart attack and stroke. Taking liver herbs isn't going to stop you from throwing a clot and dying of heart disease.
Also, I've heard this "unnatural" argument before with regard to pharmaceuticals, and I'm not buying it. Why is it more "natural" to take an herb efficaciously proven only by hippie folklore, as opposed to a drug that's gone through extensive research and development and multiphase (>10,000 patients) randomized double-blind clinical trials? Sure, an herb is a plant and a drug is the product of a lab, but either way you're imbibing a foreign substance expecting it to pharmacologically influence your body. How are herbs any more natural in terms of the effect they have on your biochemistry than a drug?
The body heals itself. Just recently researchers have been amazed that a man in a coma with incurable brain damage miraculously came out of his coma because the body miraculously and "impossibly" rebuilt the brain cells that scientists had said were beyond repair! You read this right. The body repaired brain cells that medical doctors and scientists had said could never be repaired. The body heals itself. If you are ill, do not believe that doctors heal you or drugs heal you, they do not, they suppress symptoms by making the body do something unnatural, and they actually cause illness and disease. If you have illness and disease, put the body back in balance by getting rid of the toxins, finding the cause of your disease, handling nutritional deficiencies, reducing stress, and allowing the body to repair and heal itself.
You know what's more dangerous than doctors and drugs? Assholes like this guy who convince stupid people that they shouldn't go to the doctor when they are sick.
Additionally, the example here of spontaneous coma emergence due to neuron regrowth is not unique. There are a number of cases of neural regeneration in the medical literature, so doctors definitely don't think it's "impossible." Furthermore, I doubt the scientists who would know were asked whether or not this patient's neurons could be repaired, because we've known about neural stem cells for a long time now. In fact, it's only because of cases like these that neuroscience is able to determine the mechanism behind this phenomenon, so a drug can be made that will allow it to happen for everyone. To date I haven't heard of an herb that stimulates cellular repair of severe nerve damage or necrosis, but I am well aware that there are a number of academic labs and drug companies working on it, since it would be very beneficial if EVERYONE in a coma could emerge from it as opposed to this one guy out of (literally) a million.
So what is the evidence that nonprescription and prescription drugs cause disease? - There is plenty. Remember the tobacco industry had knowledge that cigarette smoking caused disease as early as 1950. Even with that knowledge the tobacco company executives made the decision to lie and deceive the public and even congress about the dangers of cigarette smoking. They made a financial decision to let millions of people die so that they could make billions and billions of dollars in profits. The pharmaceutical industry is doing exactly the same thing. They conduct research on drugs in third world countries, watching people suffer and die from drug trials that are never made public. There was an actual movie describing this practice called The Constant Gardener; I highly recommend you watch it. It is in effect a true story. The drug companies have evidence and knowledge that nonprescription and prescription drugs cause disease. They're hiding this information from you and lying about it. Even so, independent reporters around the world are picking this up, finding the facts and evidence and reporting it. The Associated Press, Reuters, and other news organizations have articles exposing this. Even lawsuits are being filed. This information, however, is being hidden from the public at large because it is not making front page news or making headlines on television news programs or radio news programs.
Here we get to the meat of his argument. He saw The Constant Gardener. And if a Hollywood movie starring Hot Jew Rachel Weisz says this is going on, it MUST be true. I guess despite the numerous critical accolades The Constant Gardener received and the subsequent media attention this movie garnered, the conspirators trying desperately to hide their knowledge that all drugs are the cause of disease decided to let it slide. It makes much more sense to suppress a weed-addled fucktard's MySpace bulletin ramblings than a major motion picture distributed globally. It's that kind of clever thinking that got the drug companies following the British East India Company model for long-lasting global domination via addiction disease.
The reason, as I mentioned before, is that the media, including TV, radio, and newspapers retain so much advertising profits from the drug industry that they cannot publicize the dangers of nonprescription and prescription drugs. The officers and directors also had major financial conflicts of interests and ties to the pharmaceutical industry so they do not want their newspapers, radio, and television entities disseminating information about the dangers and ineffectiveness of drugs. Let's go through a couple interesting articles. New York Times, April 22, 2006, describes the avalanche of drug lawsuits being filed against drug manufacturers for drugs that are causing severe medical problems and even death. Merck is dealing with over 11,500 lawsuits over the fact that they sold Vioxx®, a worthless painkiller that would not save one life, even though there is evidence that they knew that it might kill thousands or even hundreds of people. Many other companies are bracing for lawsuits over a number of other widely used medications. A hormone therapy drug manufactured by Wyeth called Prempro® has been linked to a series of diseases. Ortho-Evra®, a birth control patch, manufactured by Johnson & Johnson has now been found to cause a whole host of medical problems. The drug manufacturer, AstraZeneca, manufactured an antipsychotic drug called Seroquel®. This drug has been shown to cause weight gain and a host of other deadly diseases. Merck manufactured an Osteoporosis medication called Fosamax®, which has been linked to severe jaw decay.
I don't think anyone questions whether or not drugs have side effects. Furthermore, anyone not in a coma would surmise that no amount of clinical trials can characterize what all of these are. However, that's why we have lawsuits, as this asshole just pointed out.
These four drugs alone have annual sales of over seven billion dollars. They are used by millions of patients. These patients had been put at risk for stroke, breast cancer, weight gain, jaw decay, and a host of other side effects. The drug companies knew this. They didn't care. They simply cared about increasing profits. Ambien®, the widely used sleep medication, has major side effects that are now being discovered. This was reported in Yahoo news.
Well, guess what? These patients probably ALSO put themselves at risk for stroke, breast cancer, weight gain, jaw decay, and host of other shit by their own lifestyles. People eat shitty food, smoke cigarettes, guzzle booze, etc., myself included. And, as a former therapeutics company employee, I can say that drug companies care more about the side effects of their drugs than the shit that people put into themselves on a daily basis. If you have a heart attack and you're taking Ambien, it's much easier to sue Aventis than yourself.
The antibiotic Tequin® manufactured by Bristol Myers Squibb causes severe blood sugar complications and is being pulled by the market. At least 20 people have died by taking this antibiotic in its proper dosage and over 150 people hospitalized. These are the known cases. Insiders tell me that they estimate virtually tens of thousands of people hospitalized after taking this medication and not knowing that their hospitalization or symptoms were caused by this widely used antibiotic. This was reported on MSNBC. Both ABC News and the New York Times reported that GlaxoSmithKline in combination with the FDA sent a letter to doctors warning that the antidepressant Paxil® would increase suicide behavior in young adults. There are more side effects of Paxil® that are being revealed and will be published shortly. Guidant pace makers and defibrillators have been found to have serious side effects. Lawsuits are going to be filed against the manufacturers. The Osteoporosis class of drugs called Bisphosphonates, which has been used to prevent broken and deteriorating bones and cancer in Osteoporosis patients has now been shown to actually cause Osteoporosis in the areas of the jaw. It seems that drugs that are being given to prevent or treat Osteoporosis or the weakening of the bones are actually causing deterioration of the bones. This was reported in the New York Times and the Spartanburg Herald-Journal. Yahoo News reported that headache drugs actually give people headaches. It appears that several types of drugs used for migraine headaches, as well as other types of pain killers, actually increase headaches and cause other, potentially lethal, medical side effects. The Journal of the American Medical Association, USA Today, and Yahoo News reported that antidepressant drugs such as Prozac® actually increase the risk of Type II Diabetes. It was also discovered that Prozac®, which was used to treat anorexia was found to be absolutely worthless in the treatment of anorexia and actually caused eating disorders. Pfizer's drug for lowering cholesterol, Lipitor®, has now been shown to cause lasting muscle damage! This is one of the most widely used drugs in the world and has already been known to cause liver problems. Over twelve billion dollars a year is generated for Pfizer with the sale of Lipitor®. The research now shows that Lipitor® causes pain, weakness, and memory problems. It also causes pain, fatigue, and tingling sensation in both hands and feet as well as degeneration of muscle mass and liver problems. Lipitor® absolutely makes the body unhealthy and leads to a series of diseases. This was reported in Yahoo News.
Okay, drugs have side effects, and sometimes they are unpleasant. Well, so do herbs. Remember when all those athletes died of heat stroke after taking ephedra? That's a fucking herb. Same with Laetrile, an almond extract frequently used by Mexican cancer clinics. If not extracted from almonds properly, it contains large quantities of hydrocyanic acid, also known as cyanide. Also, numerous deaths have been attributed to taking oleander for cancer or heart conditions, pennyroyal to stimulate menstruation, etc. etc. Whether drug or herb, undesirable physiological effects can occur when you put something foreign in your body. Period.
Vaccines cause disease as reported by the Association of American Physicians and Surgeons. There are over 50 poisonous elements in vaccines. The most poisonous is the mercury laced Thimerosal. However, it has been reported that all vaccines cause disease.
Yes, they do. Let's look at one of my favorite viruses, polio, for example. There are two types of polio vaccine. One is an inactivated vaccine developed by Jonas Salk. This involves giving a person dead virus so they will develop immunity to the way the virus "looks". However, Albert Sabin found that the immunity lasted longer when people were given an attenuated (weakened) virus. This means that you swallow a strain of live virus that does not cause poliomyelitis, the virus replicates in your gut just like a wild, virulent poliovirus would, and you develop lifelong immunity to both the way the virus "looks" and the proteins it produces during its replication cycle. So you have to develop a "disease" to get immunized against polio, but I guarantee that unnoticed viral replication in the intestine is MUCH more desirable than getting your ass paralyzed and winding up in an iron lung.
Prostate cancer treatments are unnecessary and actually harmful. As reported in the British Journal of Cancer and Yahoo News prostate cancer treatments result in serious side effects including impotence and incontinence.
NO SHIT, Sherlock. Surgery and radiotherapy aren't perfect, and sometimes when they're taking out a tumor up a guy's ass behind his choad, nerves and blood vessels attached to the penis can be damaged. My uncle survived prostate cancer twice, and I guarantee he'd gladly take his Depends and his penis pump any day over fatal bone metastases and an extremely painful death. Prostate cancer is the second highest cancer killer among men (second only to lung cancer), so to suggest that treating it is "unnecessary" is fucking reprehensible.
The Association of American Physicians and Surgeons has reportedly concluded that the measles vaccine is the cause of Autism. Additionally, vaccines have now been shown to cause serious intestinal inflammation.
First off, every vaccine under the sun has been blamed for autism. So have naturally occuring viral infections, chemical exposure, genetics, child abuse, and everything else under the sun. In fact, multiple studies have shown NO LINK between the MMR vaccine and autism, and medicine still has no idea what the fuck causes autism. And as I pointed out before, OF COURSE vaccines cause inflammation. Inflammation is part of a robust immune response. Vaccines wouldn't work if they didn't cause inflammation.
Lawsuits are being filed against the manufacturers of Ritalin®, Prozac®, Adderall®, Zoloft®, Neurontin®, Concerta®, Lexapro®, Effexor®, and Strattera®. It is now proven that these drugs all have serious side effects resulting in a host of illnesses including potential heart attacks, strokes, blood clots, and other disease.
All drugs have side effects. It sucks, but they do. All of the drugs he mentions here are psychotropic drugs. It is not really known in great detail exactly how they work, so of course they are going to have more unforeseen side effects. However, they help a lot of people, so the FDA has balanced the risk of side effects with the number of people that can be helped by them. Furthermore, it's difficult to do the kind of studies that establish a link between common ailments like heart attacks and strokes. They involve thousands of patients, many of which have other preexisting conditions, and are so fraught with variables that there's really no way to prove this. However, would you prefer to have a depressed person kill themselves, or take Effexor?
Rheumatoid Arthritis drugs Humira® and Remicade® may double your risk of getting serious infection and triple your risk of developing various kinds of cancer. These drugs have also been shown to cause lymphoma, tuberculosis, and pneumonia. New research now shows that these drugs also lead to skin, gastrointestinal, breast, and lung tumors. This was reported in US Today, MSNBC, and The Journal of the American Medical Association.
Okay. Fine. These drugs suppress inflammation, which can also suppress surveillance and elimination of tumors by the immune system. They work by making you immunocompromised, so nobody is shocked that you are more susceptible to infections. Again, this sucks, but what is worse: risking a tumor, or suffering from a chronic degenerative autoimmune disease? Pick your fucking poison.
Blood pressure drugs linked to major birth defects. As reported on AOL News, blood pressure medications previously thought to be safe now are shown to raise major birth defects as well as cause a host of other problems including heart attack and stroke - you're reading this right. People take high blood pressure medication to reduce their risk of heart attack and stroke but the research now shows that it actually increases your risk of heart attack and stroke as well as causing severe birth defects.
Which drugs are these? People who take these drugs are ALREADY at a higher risk of heart attack and stroke, so stop the press that more people on drugs treating cardiac disease die from heart problems.
The bottom line is nonprescription and prescription drugs cause disease. If you want to be healthy, if you want to cure symptoms you have, you must stop taking nonprescription and prescription drugs. If you go to a doctor who gives you prescription or nonprescription drugs to take for simple symptoms, go to another doctor. Go to www.naturalcures.com and find a licensed healthcare practitioner in your area who does not use drugs and surgery. Medical doctors have no knowledge or training in alternatives to drugs and surgery. Remember they are paid to give you drugs. The more drugs they prescribe, the more money they make from the drug companies. They have both a financial conflict of interest to give you drugs and they don't have any knowledge or information about alternatives.
Medical doctors are not paid to give people drugs. I don't think there are any doctors who will risk their patients' safety (and expose them to unnecessary malpractice liability) because some drug rep gave them a Viagra paperweight or a pad of Lipitor Post-Its.
ADD and ADHD cured! If you have children who are experiencing symptoms that have been classified as Attention Deficit Disorder or Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, you must know that your children are not suffering from a deficiency in Ritalin® or some other psychiatric prescribed drug. If your children are experiencing symptoms such as hyperactivity, inability to be attentive, inability to learn or grasp new information, there could be a host of potential reasons. First, the children could be growing at a rate that is not normal. This could be caused by meat and dairy products. Meat and dairy products are loaded with bovine growth hormone. This hormone causes children to grow at an abnormal rate. This could be one of the causes. Avoid all meat and dairy that has bovine growth hormone in it. Only feed your children meat and dairy that is organic without bovine growth hormone.
I've been listening to this tired schtick about rBGH for years, and it's been identified as the cause of everything from ADHD to cancer. Eat organic if you don't want your kids to eat it, but don't declare that something is "cured" just because you've identified a possible and unproven link to a supplement that may or may not be in your food.
Another cause is nitrites in food. Many sandwich meats, hotdogs are loaded with nitrites causing extra brain activity resulting in symptoms called ADHD. Additionally, artificial sweeteners such as Splenda® and Nutrasweet® have been linked to the ADD and ADHD symptoms. Aspartame is found in almost all snack food. Splenda® is also rampant.
Whatever. Where did you get this information, from some holistic charlatan's website? Cite your source, idiot.
Please read the labels. Monosodium glutamate (MSG) also falls into this category of excito-toxins and when consumed by young children causes this type of behavior and symptoms. MSG is loaded in fast foods such as Taco Bell, McDonalds, Burger King, even Pizza Hut.
EVEN PIZZA HUT? Say it ain't so! I thought that a deep dish stuffed crust meatzza was an elixir guaranteeing long life and robust health.
If your children eat fast food, they're being loaded with monosodium glutamate and other excito-toxins. If they eat hotdogs and lunchmeats, they are being loaded with nitrites. If they eat snack foods, such as potato chips, Doritos, corn chips, or other type of snacks, they are loaded with monosodium glutamate. If they drink any type of diet or "sugar free" product, they are being loaded with artificial sweeteners, such as Splenda® or Aspartame. These all can be a cause of ADD and ADHD. Simply eliminating these from the diet can in a matter of days correct the symptoms.
"Excito-toxins", eh? Did you make that scientistic word up all by yourself?
The University of Adelaide in Australia also found that children who have severe symptoms of ADHD are deficient in omega 3's. Omega 3's can be found in fish oils. When you are deficient in omega 3's, depression also exists. Supplementing your children's diet with fish oils can be very effective at solving the ADD phenomenon combined with simple dietary changes. Remember drugs are not the answer. ADHD drugs cause serious side effects including insomnia, personality changes, suicidal thoughts, heart attacks, stroke, sudden death, and depression. It also stunts the growth and leads to major psychological and physiological problems later in life. Remember ADHD drugs are more powerful than cocaine. One of the most effective ways to get omega 3's is by taking krill oil.
I have better things to do than listen to this asshole's bogus arguments about how ADD can be cured by taking plankton oil. The point is, when I'm seeking out medical information, I don't look to MySpace. I am glad that apparently stupid people do, however, because it will just hasten nature's course. These morons will believe this, take plankton oil and liver herbs instead of seeing their doctor when they get sick, and die, thus eliminating their dumbasses from the gene pool and strengthening our species from a Darwinian standpoint.
Labels: crazies, MySpace, retard rage, science
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Calling all New Yorkers who like naked bitches
I'm currently trying to narrow down a list of strip clubs for LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party. Thanks to the legacy of Mayor Giuliani and a stupid fucking New York state law that somehow prevents concurrent alcohol sales and full nudity, I'm having a difficult time deciding between them.
Being that I'm poor, I haven't had a chance to go to many of the financial black holes that are Manhattan's many strip clubs. In fact, I've only been to the Penthouse Executive Club, and (on account of the massive amounts of scotch and other substances I'd imbibed, snorted, and inhaled that night prior to hitting the strip club) all I remember is that all the chicks there had really fake-looking tits. The girl who gave me a lap dance had such serious capsular contraction going on with her implants that it looked like she had two Bocce balls on her chest where her breasts were supposed to be.
Anyway, all of you who live in New York or who have visited New York and spent time stuffing money into stripper g-strings, send me your suggestions, either as a comment or by e-mailing me at razzy@razzy.org. These are the standards:
1. Must serve alcohol. I cannot emphasize this enough.
2. As much nudity as possible. The objective is to have cooch being shoved in the bride-to-be's face (she used to be a lesbian, and we all like our women bomb-ass naked).
3. NO CHIPPENDALES OR OTHER MALE STRIPPERS. If I want to see some musclebound gay dude waggling his package around I'll go see a Broadway musical.
4. Chicks should be hot and diverse, so there's something for everyone.
5. Must be in Manhattan (we are NOT going to Long Island City or New Jersey, and in spite of the fact that if it weren't for the Bronx this rap shit probably never would be goin' on, we're not going to Hunts Point either).
Also, I already know about Scores, so don't e-mail me and say, "Howard Stern always goes there." Scores is already on the short list of places to go, but I would appreciate some personal perspective, like a positive review ("I went to Scores and the stripper bought me drinks and then blew me") or a negative review ("Scores is like the Hard Rock Cafe of strip clubs, overcharges the shit out of you, and tries to sell you stupid t-shirts.") This, incidentally, is the short list of places I've identified as quality establishments with lots of girls, booze, and possibly a private room to accomodate our group of rowdy lesbians and/or alcoholics:
HeadQuarters
Larry Flynt's Hustler Club
New York Dolls
Penthouse Executive Club
Privilege
Pussycat Lounge
Scores
Anyway, if you have reviews or other suggestions, holler at your girl and help a bridesmaid out.
Being that I'm poor, I haven't had a chance to go to many of the financial black holes that are Manhattan's many strip clubs. In fact, I've only been to the Penthouse Executive Club, and (on account of the massive amounts of scotch and other substances I'd imbibed, snorted, and inhaled that night prior to hitting the strip club) all I remember is that all the chicks there had really fake-looking tits. The girl who gave me a lap dance had such serious capsular contraction going on with her implants that it looked like she had two Bocce balls on her chest where her breasts were supposed to be.
Anyway, all of you who live in New York or who have visited New York and spent time stuffing money into stripper g-strings, send me your suggestions, either as a comment or by e-mailing me at razzy@razzy.org. These are the standards:
1. Must serve alcohol. I cannot emphasize this enough.
2. As much nudity as possible. The objective is to have cooch being shoved in the bride-to-be's face (she used to be a lesbian, and we all like our women bomb-ass naked).
3. NO CHIPPENDALES OR OTHER MALE STRIPPERS. If I want to see some musclebound gay dude waggling his package around I'll go see a Broadway musical.
4. Chicks should be hot and diverse, so there's something for everyone.
5. Must be in Manhattan (we are NOT going to Long Island City or New Jersey, and in spite of the fact that if it weren't for the Bronx this rap shit probably never would be goin' on, we're not going to Hunts Point either).
Also, I already know about Scores, so don't e-mail me and say, "Howard Stern always goes there." Scores is already on the short list of places to go, but I would appreciate some personal perspective, like a positive review ("I went to Scores and the stripper bought me drinks and then blew me") or a negative review ("Scores is like the Hard Rock Cafe of strip clubs, overcharges the shit out of you, and tries to sell you stupid t-shirts.") This, incidentally, is the short list of places I've identified as quality establishments with lots of girls, booze, and possibly a private room to accomodate our group of rowdy lesbians and/or alcoholics:
HeadQuarters
Larry Flynt's Hustler Club
New York Dolls
Penthouse Executive Club
Privilege
Pussycat Lounge
Scores
Anyway, if you have reviews or other suggestions, holler at your girl and help a bridesmaid out.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Q: What's grosser than gross?
A: Chingy!
Chingy! has done some pretty disgusting things in the past. I've previously detailed his nastiness (along with his disrespectful attitude, scorn for authority, indolence, and misogyny), but in case you're new to RAZZY.org, let me briefly summarize:
-Horrible breath
-Stank schmegma accumulating in his face wrinkles
-Copious production of vision-obstructing eye mucus
-Habitually fellates himself
-Frequently displays his lipstick (slimy and disgusting dog penis)
-Room-clearing silent dog farts that smell like hell itself
-Ejaculates in common spaces (although fortunately that's subsided post-neutering)
-A starkly exposed asshole reminiscent of this:
(That's the Eye of Sauron atop the dread Tower of Barad-Dur in the fell land of Mordor where the shadows lie, for those of you who don't get your rocks off watching Lord of the Rings movies over and over and over again).
Anyway, you get the idea. Chingy!, despite being so ugly that he's impossibly cute and deftly wielding his heart-melting affection like a samurai sword, is one revolting little puglet. He's pulled some heinous stunts in the past that made me cringe. I've come home to find him chewing on a dirty gym sock like it was a Tootsie Roll. Another time he was sitting on Katie Scarlett's lap while she petted him. When he jumped off her lap, she looked down and suddenly got a strange look on her face. When I inquired about the cause of her facial expression, she informed me that Chingy! had just left a "starfish" stamp on her white pants. On another occasion, he got a used tampon out of the bathroom garbage and devoured it. I discovered this because he vomited the intact used tampon onto the floor in front of me.
Recently his sickening habits have gone from bad to considerably worse. A couple months ago, we were at the park, and he disappeared behind a tree. I investigated, and found him chewing on something. I grabbed his lower jaw and fished out the item, and discovered that it was the rotting leg of a decomposing squirrel corpse he had unearthed. I silently thanked myself for keeping up to date on his rabies shots and other immunizations.
A few weeks later, I saw him chewing on something in the park, and, bracing myself for another decaying organ from a dead feral rodent, realized it was even more heinous. It was a turd. And not just a dog turd...Chingy! has no interest in those. It was human. I'm no shit connoisseur, but I worked in a facility where they kept dogs for medical research and I've had dogs all my life. Dog shit has a distinct dog shit smell, and THIS piece of shit did not smell like that. It smelled like a full honey bucket that had been sweltering in direct summer sun all day. I was horrified, and spent the rest of the day wondering if dogs can get hepatitis.
I was puzzled, as Chingy! had never previously indicated that he was a cacophage. I resolved to keep a closer eye on him when letting him ramble around the wilds of St. Nicholas Park off-leash. It's hard to do that, though, because when we go to the park, I'm predominantly occupied by Caesar's insatiable desire to chase sticks. Since Caesar is a big dog, and needs to run around, I have to throw an adequate number of sticks to get him good and tired. As Chingy! doesn't do well in the summer heat, he is the rate-limiting factor on our walks, so I have to ensure that Caesar gets the most exercise/stick-chasing while Chingy! is still upright. Therefore, sometimes Chingy! wanders off in his quest for new weeds to piss on.
This morning, I saw that Chingy! was spending an awful lot of time at the base of this tree. This particular tree is a favorite of the homeless people that like to sleep in the park. Once I was running around with the dogs as usual, and this vagrant just dropped out of the tree right behind me, startling me. He didn't pay any attention to me whatsoever. He just yawned and stretched, then ambled off, probably to dig breakfast out of the garbage cans near the playground, where people barbecue every night during the summer. Anyway, Chingy! was lingering by the tree favored by the Indigent Family Robinson, so I went to see what was going on, and now I deeply regret that I did.
I stumbled upon what is verifiably the grossest, most repulsive thing I've EVER seen Chingy!--or any dog, for that matter--doing. There was a puddle of homeless guy diarrhea at the base of the tree, and Chingy! was lapping it up like it was molten chocolate, wagging his question mark gleefully as if this was the greatest thing he'd ever done.
"CHIN CHIN!" I shouted, using his given name to indicate that he was REALLY in trouble and grabbing his collar to pull him away. "NO! Bad dog! BAD!" I wagged my finger in his face and scowled at him. He looked up at me with an expression that plainly said, "Chongay CHONG?!", which is Ching!ese for "What's your fucking problem?" Then he gave me one of his characteristic indignant sneezes and trotted arrogantly away. I ran after him and leashed him, then proceeded to continue my "BAD DOG! BAD TO EAT SHIT! BAD!" lecture, which he naturally ignored and tried to LICK ME. I leaped away from him like he was a spider, not wanting to get even a trace of liquid bum shit on me. I then leashed Caesar (who gave me an exasperated look like, "Is that fat little motherfucker stick-blocking me again?") and we went home, where I threw Chingy! into the bathtub and washed his muzzle vigorously, which he HATED. "That's what happens when you drink diarrhea!" I scolded him. He just looked at me pathetically and, I'm certain, did not learn his lesson.
If I ever get to meet Cesar Millan, host of the "Dog Whisperer" show on the National Geographic channel, I'm going to ask him what to do about a dog who goes out of his way to consume disgusting and biohazardous material, because I've never seen that covered on his show. In the meantime, if I am stricken with some rare bloodborne disease common only among the homeless, you all know who to blame. Chongay motherfucking chong.
-Horrible breath
-Stank schmegma accumulating in his face wrinkles
-Copious production of vision-obstructing eye mucus
-Habitually fellates himself
-Frequently displays his lipstick (slimy and disgusting dog penis)
-Room-clearing silent dog farts that smell like hell itself
-Ejaculates in common spaces (although fortunately that's subsided post-neutering)
-A starkly exposed asshole reminiscent of this:
(That's the Eye of Sauron atop the dread Tower of Barad-Dur in the fell land of Mordor where the shadows lie, for those of you who don't get your rocks off watching Lord of the Rings movies over and over and over again).
Anyway, you get the idea. Chingy!, despite being so ugly that he's impossibly cute and deftly wielding his heart-melting affection like a samurai sword, is one revolting little puglet. He's pulled some heinous stunts in the past that made me cringe. I've come home to find him chewing on a dirty gym sock like it was a Tootsie Roll. Another time he was sitting on Katie Scarlett's lap while she petted him. When he jumped off her lap, she looked down and suddenly got a strange look on her face. When I inquired about the cause of her facial expression, she informed me that Chingy! had just left a "starfish" stamp on her white pants. On another occasion, he got a used tampon out of the bathroom garbage and devoured it. I discovered this because he vomited the intact used tampon onto the floor in front of me.
Recently his sickening habits have gone from bad to considerably worse. A couple months ago, we were at the park, and he disappeared behind a tree. I investigated, and found him chewing on something. I grabbed his lower jaw and fished out the item, and discovered that it was the rotting leg of a decomposing squirrel corpse he had unearthed. I silently thanked myself for keeping up to date on his rabies shots and other immunizations.
A few weeks later, I saw him chewing on something in the park, and, bracing myself for another decaying organ from a dead feral rodent, realized it was even more heinous. It was a turd. And not just a dog turd...Chingy! has no interest in those. It was human. I'm no shit connoisseur, but I worked in a facility where they kept dogs for medical research and I've had dogs all my life. Dog shit has a distinct dog shit smell, and THIS piece of shit did not smell like that. It smelled like a full honey bucket that had been sweltering in direct summer sun all day. I was horrified, and spent the rest of the day wondering if dogs can get hepatitis.
I was puzzled, as Chingy! had never previously indicated that he was a cacophage. I resolved to keep a closer eye on him when letting him ramble around the wilds of St. Nicholas Park off-leash. It's hard to do that, though, because when we go to the park, I'm predominantly occupied by Caesar's insatiable desire to chase sticks. Since Caesar is a big dog, and needs to run around, I have to throw an adequate number of sticks to get him good and tired. As Chingy! doesn't do well in the summer heat, he is the rate-limiting factor on our walks, so I have to ensure that Caesar gets the most exercise/stick-chasing while Chingy! is still upright. Therefore, sometimes Chingy! wanders off in his quest for new weeds to piss on.
This morning, I saw that Chingy! was spending an awful lot of time at the base of this tree. This particular tree is a favorite of the homeless people that like to sleep in the park. Once I was running around with the dogs as usual, and this vagrant just dropped out of the tree right behind me, startling me. He didn't pay any attention to me whatsoever. He just yawned and stretched, then ambled off, probably to dig breakfast out of the garbage cans near the playground, where people barbecue every night during the summer. Anyway, Chingy! was lingering by the tree favored by the Indigent Family Robinson, so I went to see what was going on, and now I deeply regret that I did.
I stumbled upon what is verifiably the grossest, most repulsive thing I've EVER seen Chingy!--or any dog, for that matter--doing. There was a puddle of homeless guy diarrhea at the base of the tree, and Chingy! was lapping it up like it was molten chocolate, wagging his question mark gleefully as if this was the greatest thing he'd ever done.
"CHIN CHIN!" I shouted, using his given name to indicate that he was REALLY in trouble and grabbing his collar to pull him away. "NO! Bad dog! BAD!" I wagged my finger in his face and scowled at him. He looked up at me with an expression that plainly said, "Chongay CHONG?!", which is Ching!ese for "What's your fucking problem?" Then he gave me one of his characteristic indignant sneezes and trotted arrogantly away. I ran after him and leashed him, then proceeded to continue my "BAD DOG! BAD TO EAT SHIT! BAD!" lecture, which he naturally ignored and tried to LICK ME. I leaped away from him like he was a spider, not wanting to get even a trace of liquid bum shit on me. I then leashed Caesar (who gave me an exasperated look like, "Is that fat little motherfucker stick-blocking me again?") and we went home, where I threw Chingy! into the bathtub and washed his muzzle vigorously, which he HATED. "That's what happens when you drink diarrhea!" I scolded him. He just looked at me pathetically and, I'm certain, did not learn his lesson.
If I ever get to meet Cesar Millan, host of the "Dog Whisperer" show on the National Geographic channel, I'm going to ask him what to do about a dog who goes out of his way to consume disgusting and biohazardous material, because I've never seen that covered on his show. In the meantime, if I am stricken with some rare bloodborne disease common only among the homeless, you all know who to blame. Chongay motherfucking chong.
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, gross
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Catching a predator
Sometimes I click on random people's profiles under the "Cool New People" heading on MySpace. I'm generally looking for people to make fun of, because most of the time these people are anything but cool, and often are FUPA-rocking trailer park moms, guys who are WAY too into NASCAR, and other assorted fucktards and ne'er-do-wells. Today I stumbled across this guy Tim, and rapidly became very disturbed.
I have discussed this many times before, but I LOVE Dateline NBC's "To Catch a Predator" series. This is where the fat, middle-aged moms at Perverted Justice go into online chat rooms and pretend to be horny underage kids and lure would be child molesters to a house, where Dateline reporter Chris Hanson (who you just KNOW is the most smug, self-righteous asshole on the planet next to Jamie Foxx) leaps out with a camera crew and confronts the predators, who are both certifiably creepy and exceptionally stupid.
Surprisingly, these guys never seem to zip their flies back up and run like hell. More often than not, they decide to apply the power of persuasion and explain themselves. Bad move. These guys start off saying stupid shit like, "I was here to just, you know, hang out."
Then Chris Hanson goes, "You're a grown man. Why are you 'hanging out' with a 12-year-old girl?"
The guy will then usually say something like, "I was going to mentor her" or "I was going to give her guidance."
Chris Hanson will point out that they have brought alcohol and/or marijuana too, and wants to know if that is part of their "mentoring."
The guy will usually then say something REALLY UNBELIEVABLY stupid, like, "Oh, that. That was just a joke."
Chris Hanson then starts to play hardball. He'll say, "So you weren't coming over here to have sex with a minor?"
The guy will say, "NO! Of course not! Whatever gave you that idea?!"
"Hmmm...oh, maybe THIS?!" Chris Hanson will then whip out the chat transcript, which is typically along the lines of:
hard_guy_4_u: so r u a virgin?
lolitagirl13: omg lol no
hard_guy_4_u: do u like 2 do it?
lolitagirl13: lol ya sometimes
lolitagirl13: y do u want to do it?
hard_guy_4_u: maybe
hard_guy_4_u: do u give head?
lolitagirl13: lol lol ya totaly
lolitagirl13: if u bring over some wine coolers
hard_guy_4_u: that sounds great im relly hard 4 u
lolitagirl13: lol lol roflmao
hard_guy_4_u: ur not lying about age? ur really 14?
lolitagirl13: lol noyb ;)
lolitagirl13: jk i'm totaly 13
hard_guy_4_u: m nifoc ur so hot
hard_guy_4_u: where r ur parents?
lolitagirl13: never home
lolitagirl13 they don't care about me
hard_guy_4_u: great, be there in 10 minutes
hard_guy_4_u: u shld be naked when i get there
hard_guy_4_u: m gonna fuck ur prepubescent brains out
lolitagirl13: lol kewl! :p
Anyway, you get the picture. Then the guy gives some really lame excuse for the content along the lines of "That was all a joke!" and Chris Hanson castigates him for a few more minutes, then sends him outside where SOMETIMES (depending on what state they're in) he'll get his ass tackled by 15 cops and hauled off to jail.
Next time "To Catch a Predator" is on, I'm going to keep an eye out for Tim, since he's openly declared his fondness for underage boys on his fucking MySpace profile:
His friend space is comprised entirely of 14 and 15-year-old boys, and I actually cropped it out of the above screen capture photo because I didn't want to make fun of what I presume are victims of sexual abuse. Seriously, if anyone from Perverted Justice is reading this, get on MySpace and entrap this motherfucker immediately!
I have discussed this many times before, but I LOVE Dateline NBC's "To Catch a Predator" series. This is where the fat, middle-aged moms at Perverted Justice go into online chat rooms and pretend to be horny underage kids and lure would be child molesters to a house, where Dateline reporter Chris Hanson (who you just KNOW is the most smug, self-righteous asshole on the planet next to Jamie Foxx) leaps out with a camera crew and confronts the predators, who are both certifiably creepy and exceptionally stupid.
Surprisingly, these guys never seem to zip their flies back up and run like hell. More often than not, they decide to apply the power of persuasion and explain themselves. Bad move. These guys start off saying stupid shit like, "I was here to just, you know, hang out."
Then Chris Hanson goes, "You're a grown man. Why are you 'hanging out' with a 12-year-old girl?"
The guy will then usually say something like, "I was going to mentor her" or "I was going to give her guidance."
Chris Hanson will point out that they have brought alcohol and/or marijuana too, and wants to know if that is part of their "mentoring."
The guy will usually then say something REALLY UNBELIEVABLY stupid, like, "Oh, that. That was just a joke."
Chris Hanson then starts to play hardball. He'll say, "So you weren't coming over here to have sex with a minor?"
The guy will say, "NO! Of course not! Whatever gave you that idea?!"
"Hmmm...oh, maybe THIS?!" Chris Hanson will then whip out the chat transcript, which is typically along the lines of:
hard_guy_4_u: so r u a virgin?
lolitagirl13: omg lol no
hard_guy_4_u: do u like 2 do it?
lolitagirl13: lol ya sometimes
lolitagirl13: y do u want to do it?
hard_guy_4_u: maybe
hard_guy_4_u: do u give head?
lolitagirl13: lol lol ya totaly
lolitagirl13: if u bring over some wine coolers
hard_guy_4_u: that sounds great im relly hard 4 u
lolitagirl13: lol lol roflmao
hard_guy_4_u: ur not lying about age? ur really 14?
lolitagirl13: lol noyb ;)
lolitagirl13: jk i'm totaly 13
hard_guy_4_u: m nifoc ur so hot
hard_guy_4_u: where r ur parents?
lolitagirl13: never home
lolitagirl13 they don't care about me
hard_guy_4_u: great, be there in 10 minutes
hard_guy_4_u: u shld be naked when i get there
hard_guy_4_u: m gonna fuck ur prepubescent brains out
lolitagirl13: lol kewl! :p
Anyway, you get the picture. Then the guy gives some really lame excuse for the content along the lines of "That was all a joke!" and Chris Hanson castigates him for a few more minutes, then sends him outside where SOMETIMES (depending on what state they're in) he'll get his ass tackled by 15 cops and hauled off to jail.
Next time "To Catch a Predator" is on, I'm going to keep an eye out for Tim, since he's openly declared his fondness for underage boys on his fucking MySpace profile:
His friend space is comprised entirely of 14 and 15-year-old boys, and I actually cropped it out of the above screen capture photo because I didn't want to make fun of what I presume are victims of sexual abuse. Seriously, if anyone from Perverted Justice is reading this, get on MySpace and entrap this motherfucker immediately!
Labels: crime and punishment, kewlness, MySpace, perversion
Kevin Federlame sucks
Everyone has probably seen this by now, but I just had to put it up here because it is SO FUCKING LAME it almost defies belief. This is Kevin Federline's debut live performance at Sunday's Teen Choice Awards. Note a couple things:
1. Does Britney Spears EVER stop chewing gum? It's almost like she's trying to be a living caricature of herself. Who would have thought that the hottest piece of ass on the planet three years ago would now be less appealing than tweeker prostitutes in the trailer park down the street from my parents' house in Puyallup? She should have just embraced her resemblance to a character from Pink Flamingos and strolled out on stage eating Sonic chicken fingers and belched into the microphone to introduce her man.
2. All of Kevin's lyrics are gibberish about how he's into "rich livin' and fast cars." Correct me if I'm wrong, but shouldn't you NOT brag about how much money you have when the entire world is of the opinion that you got said wealth by repeatedly impregnating the human equivalent of a greased sow? I mean, when Young Jeezy talks about chopping the top off his Lamborghini everybody rolls their eyes since he's probably worth 500 grand, tops, but at least he can attribute it to getting his grind on and earning it with some good old-fashioned elbow grease in the trap.
Anyway, without further ado:
1. Does Britney Spears EVER stop chewing gum? It's almost like she's trying to be a living caricature of herself. Who would have thought that the hottest piece of ass on the planet three years ago would now be less appealing than tweeker prostitutes in the trailer park down the street from my parents' house in Puyallup? She should have just embraced her resemblance to a character from Pink Flamingos and strolled out on stage eating Sonic chicken fingers and belched into the microphone to introduce her man.
2. All of Kevin's lyrics are gibberish about how he's into "rich livin' and fast cars." Correct me if I'm wrong, but shouldn't you NOT brag about how much money you have when the entire world is of the opinion that you got said wealth by repeatedly impregnating the human equivalent of a greased sow? I mean, when Young Jeezy talks about chopping the top off his Lamborghini everybody rolls their eyes since he's probably worth 500 grand, tops, but at least he can attribute it to getting his grind on and earning it with some good old-fashioned elbow grease in the trap.
Anyway, without further ado:
Labels: assholes, Britney Spears, celebrities, Kevin Federline, PWT, rap
Monday, August 21, 2006
Best NY Post cover ever
I love the fucking NY Post. Their news coverage is sensationalist and ridiculous (it's owned by Rupert Murdoch, and when the Iraq war started, they put a picture of Sean Penn and Susan Sarandon on the cover with the caption "DON'T AID THESE SADDAM LOVERS"), and they make NO attempt to report the news objectively. What isn't "news" reported in such a way that every sentence is an exclamation is some of the best gossip (at least in print and not on the internet) to be had in all of New York. The only part of the Post I can't stomach is the sports section, as it reads like the deluded, antagonistic rantings of a drunken Yankees fan (translation: the sportswriters are bad losers, and even WORSE winners), which always makes me want to punch the paper with rage and frustration.
A particularly awesome feature of the Post is that they always devote the cover to the top news story of the day, and think up a catchy and usually hilarious headline to put on it in 72-point font. For example:
"FREY HIM!" (The day after Scott Peterson was convicted of murdering his wife and unborn child)
"KISS YOUR ASTEROID GOODBYE" (A meteor missed colliding with Earth)
"ROID AWAKENING" (Regarding Major League Baseball's steroid policy)
"CLOSE BUT NO CIGAR" (Senate fails to convict President Clinton)
"WOK THIS WAY" (President Bush directs Chinese President Hu Jintao to his seat at a diplomatic function)
"AXLE OF WEASEL" (In response to Lance Armstrong supporting Paris over New York's bid for the 2012 Olympics)
"SERBS HER RIGHT" (When tennis player Monica Seles was stabbed by a crazed Serbian fan)
"I'M OUT" (New Jersey Governor Jim McGreevey resigns in the wake of gay sex scandal)
"AAARGH!" (Following Howard Dean's infamous speech)
"HEADLESS BODY IN TOPLESS BAR" (That's pretty self-explanatory)
Anyway, the Post is so brilliant at coming up with obnoxious, punny headlines, I will eagerly plunk down $0.25 to pick up a copy. Today while picking up my lunch at the Shangri-La deli, I noticed today's headline was especially timely. The cover featured a picture of alleged JonBenet Ramsay murderer John Karr looking skeezy in his business class seat on his Thai Airways Bangkok to LAX flight (and incidentally, why does he get to fly business class? Talk about unfair! I'm curing the damn common cold and I have to slum it in coach, but he rapes and kill a six-year-old beauty queen on Christmas and gets the red carpet treatment? WHAT THE FUCK?!). John Karr is so creepy looking that I imagine if you looked up "pederast child murderer" in the dictionary, his picture would be next to it. Apparently the Post agrees with my assessment:
I've had enough of these motherfuckin' child killers on this motherfuckin' plane! Hell to the yeah, NY Post!
A particularly awesome feature of the Post is that they always devote the cover to the top news story of the day, and think up a catchy and usually hilarious headline to put on it in 72-point font. For example:
"FREY HIM!" (The day after Scott Peterson was convicted of murdering his wife and unborn child)
"KISS YOUR ASTEROID GOODBYE" (A meteor missed colliding with Earth)
"ROID AWAKENING" (Regarding Major League Baseball's steroid policy)
"CLOSE BUT NO CIGAR" (Senate fails to convict President Clinton)
"WOK THIS WAY" (President Bush directs Chinese President Hu Jintao to his seat at a diplomatic function)
"AXLE OF WEASEL" (In response to Lance Armstrong supporting Paris over New York's bid for the 2012 Olympics)
"SERBS HER RIGHT" (When tennis player Monica Seles was stabbed by a crazed Serbian fan)
"I'M OUT" (New Jersey Governor Jim McGreevey resigns in the wake of gay sex scandal)
"AAARGH!" (Following Howard Dean's infamous speech)
"HEADLESS BODY IN TOPLESS BAR" (That's pretty self-explanatory)
Anyway, the Post is so brilliant at coming up with obnoxious, punny headlines, I will eagerly plunk down $0.25 to pick up a copy. Today while picking up my lunch at the Shangri-La deli, I noticed today's headline was especially timely. The cover featured a picture of alleged JonBenet Ramsay murderer John Karr looking skeezy in his business class seat on his Thai Airways Bangkok to LAX flight (and incidentally, why does he get to fly business class? Talk about unfair! I'm curing the damn common cold and I have to slum it in coach, but he rapes and kill a six-year-old beauty queen on Christmas and gets the red carpet treatment? WHAT THE FUCK?!). John Karr is so creepy looking that I imagine if you looked up "pederast child murderer" in the dictionary, his picture would be next to it. Apparently the Post agrees with my assessment:
Labels: crime and punishment, large exclamatory font, NYC, perversion
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Razzy: Modern Artiste
A while ago, KatieScarlett, Bienvenido-a-Miami, and Miss Corbutt dragged me to the Museum of Modern Art, or, as it's generally called, the MoMA. KatieScarlett and Miss Corbutt are both professional artists, so I was pleased that they were willing to bring me along despite my shocking ignorance of all things artsy. I never took a single art class in college, and the last art class I did take (high school ceramics) was a disaster. I actually had to steal someone else's bowl to pass the part of the class where we threw things on the wheel because I was so fucking incapable that I couldn't make so much as an ashtray. Needless to say, I was glad that my artistic inadequacy wouldn't exclude me from quality time with my artist friends as they did artsy stuff. Besides, despite my general contempt for the art world, I love museums, and I had never been to the MoMA. We met in my favorite Columbus Circle meeting spot (beneath the monument to the valiant seamen of WWII), then picnicked in Central Park, watched some street performers, and finally went to the MoMA. Miss Corbutt, with her many artfag connections, got us a group members pass, thus securing free entry to the museum, which ruled.
The girls all wanted to go see the Dada exhibit that was there. If you aren't familiar with the Dada movement, it was this art movement started by a bunch of anti-World War I peaceniks in Europe who wanted to give the finger to art snobs by basically taking a bunch of garbage and crap, drawing irreverant shit on it (like taking a print of the Mona Lisa and putting a mustache on her) and exhibiting it as art. One of the most famous examples of Dadaist art is this upside-down urinal that Dada pioneer Marcel Duchamp found in a trash heap, signed a fake name to, and started exhibiting in galleries all over the place:
Anyway, that's Dada. So we went to the Dada floor of the museum and looked at all the various crap that was there. KatieScarlett predicted that, because it was a bunch of assholes saying "fuck you" to intellectual posers, I would love it. I didn't mind it, and I especially liked the weird paintings of orgies involving fat German businessmen, hookers, and soldiers of the Weimar republic. Other than that, I wandered from room to room in the exhibit, saying "Where's the fucking famous toilet? I want to see that urinal! Find me the urinal!" Finally, on our way out, we got to see the Duchamp urinal in all its glory, and I was appeased.
Then we wandered around the museum for a while, and I did my best to be a complete asshole, ensuring that our art appreciation was lively and fun. Earlier in the day, Miss Corbutt had been ranting about how much she hates Monet, so when we walked past a giant Monet water lilies mural, I scoffed loudly and announced, "This guy sucks. What a talentless fraud." Several other people who were appreciating the subtleties of the impressionist master gasped and glared at me through their boxy glasses, overtly scandalized. When we found the Egon Schiele paintings, I nudged Miss Corbutt and said, "Hey, is this the Miss Corbutt section? That looks like your work!" This was a joke which originated when Miss Corbutt and I were roommates in Tacoma, and this unemployed artist-type I was sleeping with made the same comparison regarding her painting style. Miss Corbutt liked neither him nor the comparison. "No, it doesn't..." Miss Corbutt said, then got the joke, and said scornfully, "Fuck (guy that I was banging)! He was an asshole." Then we found all the Salvador Dali paintings and discussed our suspicions that Dali had both mommy issues and a raging ether huffing habit. I behaved respectfully, however, when we saw some paintings by Miss Corbutt's idol Frida Kahlo, and when we looked at pictures by some of KatieScarlett's favorite photographers.
Eventually, we wandered through a room full of Mondrian line paintings (Miss Corbutt pronounced him a "one-trick pony"), which led to a gallery full of paintings that I think represent the worst qualities of modern "art." These are the paintings where some dipshit just stamps a green square onto a blank canvas, names it something that makes absolutely no sense, like "ebullience" or "solitude," and is subsequently lauded for artistic brilliance. I was so annoyed, I said, "I could do this. Anyone can be a fucking artist so long as they can draw a square. Why is this art?" The only thing KatieScarlett or Miss Corbutt could come up with was along the lines of "because there are pretentious fucks who will say anything's genius so long as it's marketed to them right." I raved about this while we satiated Bienvenido-a-Miami's desire to walk through the modern furniture gallery, and still hadn't gotten it out of my system when we left the museum and ordered a bottle of wine at a nearby outdoor cafe.
"You know, Razzy," said KatieScarlett. "You COULD be a modern artist. You just have to come up with some kind of gimmick. With your ability to influence people via the internet, you could easily be hot shit in the art world."
"Really?" I said, my interest piqued. "Hot shit" sounds to me like "money," and I love me a good get-rich-quick scheme.
"Yeah, you can just draw shit on stuff you find...they call that 'ready-made art' or 'found art', like we saw today. The Dadaists loved that sort of thing."
"So, I could just draw, for example, dicks on stuff I find and act pretentious about it, and people would want to buy it? I'd have the same artfag credibility as you guys, even without a fancy art degree?"
"Probably," affirmed Miss Corbutt.
"You could tell everyone you're 'self-taught', it will be that much more impressive." KatieScarlett added.
"Well, shit, does anyone have a pen? I'm going to start now."
Bienvenido-a-Miami produced a pen, and we all rummaged through our purses for paper detritus that could be reused as a canvas for my new career as an artist. I decided that my real name didn't sound artsy enough, so made up a new one to sign all my art with: Greta von Wienerdickstische. I figured that my original inspiration was a good enough gimmick, so I planned to just draw cocks all over stuff. In about 5 minutes, I cranked out several modern art masterpieces.
This is from a schedule from Miss Corbutt's yoga studio. I call this piece "Cockasana":
And this is from a H&M receipt I pulled out crumpled from the depths of my purse. I call it "Cockpitalism":
These three are from a brochure about organ donation that KatieScarlett picked up when she was in Pennsylvania renewing her driver's license. I call it "Cockdonation Triptych":
This was from a free ticket to the MoMA that some guy outside the museum gave me, but I didn't need on account of Miss Corbutt's museum admission hookup. I call this piece "Ticket to Cock":
This was my juror's badge from when I had jury duty several months before (good thing I never clean out my handbag). This installation is called "Fair and Impartial Cock":
And this was a piece of propaganda distributed by a crazy preacher in a subway station. I call it, "Eternal Cock":
It's not such a bad start for someone like me so artistically retarded that drawing a simple stick figure strains my abilities. Furthermore, if there's actually some money to be made, I'll start drawing dicks on every spare scrap of paper I can get my hands on. Not only am I broke, but as ride-pimper and deodorant salesman X to tha Z Xzibit says, "Call it what you wanna call it, I'm a fuckin' alcoholic." Booze costs money, and I always need more of both, so if I have to become an artfag, then so be it. Greta von Wienerdickstische originals are selling at the low, low price of $5000 per work, so I would advise all connoisseurs and collectors of modern art to get in on the ground floor and pick one of these up now, before I really get famous. You'll be sorry you let these masterpieces slip away once they're going for a couple million a pop at Sotheby's! E-mail razzy@razzy.org for more information. Serious inquiries only.
The girls all wanted to go see the Dada exhibit that was there. If you aren't familiar with the Dada movement, it was this art movement started by a bunch of anti-World War I peaceniks in Europe who wanted to give the finger to art snobs by basically taking a bunch of garbage and crap, drawing irreverant shit on it (like taking a print of the Mona Lisa and putting a mustache on her) and exhibiting it as art. One of the most famous examples of Dadaist art is this upside-down urinal that Dada pioneer Marcel Duchamp found in a trash heap, signed a fake name to, and started exhibiting in galleries all over the place:
Anyway, that's Dada. So we went to the Dada floor of the museum and looked at all the various crap that was there. KatieScarlett predicted that, because it was a bunch of assholes saying "fuck you" to intellectual posers, I would love it. I didn't mind it, and I especially liked the weird paintings of orgies involving fat German businessmen, hookers, and soldiers of the Weimar republic. Other than that, I wandered from room to room in the exhibit, saying "Where's the fucking famous toilet? I want to see that urinal! Find me the urinal!" Finally, on our way out, we got to see the Duchamp urinal in all its glory, and I was appeased.
Then we wandered around the museum for a while, and I did my best to be a complete asshole, ensuring that our art appreciation was lively and fun. Earlier in the day, Miss Corbutt had been ranting about how much she hates Monet, so when we walked past a giant Monet water lilies mural, I scoffed loudly and announced, "This guy sucks. What a talentless fraud." Several other people who were appreciating the subtleties of the impressionist master gasped and glared at me through their boxy glasses, overtly scandalized. When we found the Egon Schiele paintings, I nudged Miss Corbutt and said, "Hey, is this the Miss Corbutt section? That looks like your work!" This was a joke which originated when Miss Corbutt and I were roommates in Tacoma, and this unemployed artist-type I was sleeping with made the same comparison regarding her painting style. Miss Corbutt liked neither him nor the comparison. "No, it doesn't..." Miss Corbutt said, then got the joke, and said scornfully, "Fuck (guy that I was banging)! He was an asshole." Then we found all the Salvador Dali paintings and discussed our suspicions that Dali had both mommy issues and a raging ether huffing habit. I behaved respectfully, however, when we saw some paintings by Miss Corbutt's idol Frida Kahlo, and when we looked at pictures by some of KatieScarlett's favorite photographers.
Eventually, we wandered through a room full of Mondrian line paintings (Miss Corbutt pronounced him a "one-trick pony"), which led to a gallery full of paintings that I think represent the worst qualities of modern "art." These are the paintings where some dipshit just stamps a green square onto a blank canvas, names it something that makes absolutely no sense, like "ebullience" or "solitude," and is subsequently lauded for artistic brilliance. I was so annoyed, I said, "I could do this. Anyone can be a fucking artist so long as they can draw a square. Why is this art?" The only thing KatieScarlett or Miss Corbutt could come up with was along the lines of "because there are pretentious fucks who will say anything's genius so long as it's marketed to them right." I raved about this while we satiated Bienvenido-a-Miami's desire to walk through the modern furniture gallery, and still hadn't gotten it out of my system when we left the museum and ordered a bottle of wine at a nearby outdoor cafe.
"You know, Razzy," said KatieScarlett. "You COULD be a modern artist. You just have to come up with some kind of gimmick. With your ability to influence people via the internet, you could easily be hot shit in the art world."
"Really?" I said, my interest piqued. "Hot shit" sounds to me like "money," and I love me a good get-rich-quick scheme.
"Yeah, you can just draw shit on stuff you find...they call that 'ready-made art' or 'found art', like we saw today. The Dadaists loved that sort of thing."
"So, I could just draw, for example, dicks on stuff I find and act pretentious about it, and people would want to buy it? I'd have the same artfag credibility as you guys, even without a fancy art degree?"
"Probably," affirmed Miss Corbutt.
"You could tell everyone you're 'self-taught', it will be that much more impressive." KatieScarlett added.
"Well, shit, does anyone have a pen? I'm going to start now."
Bienvenido-a-Miami produced a pen, and we all rummaged through our purses for paper detritus that could be reused as a canvas for my new career as an artist. I decided that my real name didn't sound artsy enough, so made up a new one to sign all my art with: Greta von Wienerdickstische. I figured that my original inspiration was a good enough gimmick, so I planned to just draw cocks all over stuff. In about 5 minutes, I cranked out several modern art masterpieces.
This is from a schedule from Miss Corbutt's yoga studio. I call this piece "Cockasana":
And this is from a H&M receipt I pulled out crumpled from the depths of my purse. I call it "Cockpitalism":
These three are from a brochure about organ donation that KatieScarlett picked up when she was in Pennsylvania renewing her driver's license. I call it "Cockdonation Triptych":
This was from a free ticket to the MoMA that some guy outside the museum gave me, but I didn't need on account of Miss Corbutt's museum admission hookup. I call this piece "Ticket to Cock":
This was my juror's badge from when I had jury duty several months before (good thing I never clean out my handbag). This installation is called "Fair and Impartial Cock":
And this was a piece of propaganda distributed by a crazy preacher in a subway station. I call it, "Eternal Cock":
It's not such a bad start for someone like me so artistically retarded that drawing a simple stick figure strains my abilities. Furthermore, if there's actually some money to be made, I'll start drawing dicks on every spare scrap of paper I can get my hands on. Not only am I broke, but as ride-pimper and deodorant salesman X to tha Z Xzibit says, "Call it what you wanna call it, I'm a fuckin' alcoholic." Booze costs money, and I always need more of both, so if I have to become an artfag, then so be it. Greta von Wienerdickstische originals are selling at the low, low price of $5000 per work, so I would advise all connoisseurs and collectors of modern art to get in on the ground floor and pick one of these up now, before I really get famous. You'll be sorry you let these masterpieces slip away once they're going for a couple million a pop at Sotheby's! E-mail razzy@razzy.org for more information. Serious inquiries only.
Labels: artfaggotry, Bienvenido-a-Miami, KatieScarlett, Miss Corbutt, NYC
Scientific scopation
Today I finished up another exciting Sunday afternoon in lab and got on the elevator. Usually on weekends, I'm used to having an elevator to myself, as nobody is around except the odd fellow suffering grad student. I like having the elevator to myself, as I just zoom up to lab, zoom up to the mouse house, or zoom back downstairs without making a bunch of stops in between. Today as I was leaving, however, the elevator stopped on the tenth floor. I groaned, and hoped this would be the only extra stop delaying my escape from lab.
Much to my surprise, instead of a grad student getting on, the person who summoned the elevator to the tenth floor was a P.I. (which means "principal investigator," which is geekspeak for "faculty member with his/her own lab"). Also, it was the last P.I. I expected would work on weekends. This particular faculty member won the Nobel prize last year, and has accordingly garnered big shot status: he gets lots of grants, patented a technique that has made the university hundreds of millions of dollars, has a huge lab, and his award spurred Columbia to further their nefarious schemes to manipulate eminent domain laws, evict everybody in a twelve square block area of Manhattanville, and build a new campus dedicated to neuroscience research. He was a big shot even before his trip to Stockholm, because he does neuroscience, and, much like Owen Wilson's character Hansel from Zoolander, neuroscience is SO HOT right now.
This P.I. is one of those whose look screams "egghead." He's quite tall, but rail-thin. He is not just skinny, but skeletal to the point that he's reminiscent of Nicole Richie. Despite his towering at least a foot above me, I think I could probably take him in a fistfight. Also, he's a big fan of the professorial ugly sport coat, although I've noticed that he favors navy rather than the classic tweed that collegiate faculty are known for. The final accessory cementing his overall dorkification is his bow tie. I've never understood why men wear bow ties. The only time a dude should wear a bow tie is when he's wearing a fucking tuxedo, and THAT'S IT. Bow ties have no business being included in a man's everyday work wardrobe. He also chain-chews Nicorette gum, so he always looks like he's dipping, because you can see a lump protruding from beneath his lower lip. Overall, he's not an attractive man, but whatever. They don't give Nobel prizes for being sexy or good-looking (although that would change if I ever get a say in the matter).
Anyway, he got onto the elevator, clad in his usual getup, and I smiled at him politely. I always try to be respectful of faculty members, and (believe it or not) pleasant and friendly at work. He looked away. I'm sure this wasn't personal, as he doesn't know me on account of the fact that he is a big shot, without time to spend consorting with lowly grad students not in his department. Egos in science are HUGE, because most scientists are nerds who've been recognized for very little in their lives save their intellectual accomplishments, and winning the Nobel prize is like getting an Oscar. It vaults you to the scientific A-list, and gives people celebrity-esque delusions of grandeur. Because I don't know this P.I. personally, I can't be certain that applies to him, but I've postulated that it does. I assumed that his failure to acknowledge my friendly smile was more likely due to the poor social skills consequential to a lifetime of breeding fruit flies and the overwhelming sense of self-importance consistent with Nobel laureate status. To prevent him from being uncomfortable, I followed his social cues and looked away, staring at the elevator buttons instead. However, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that once I looked away, he started looking at me.
I was wearing this $5 H&M t-shirt that I bought because it reminded me of the V-neck undershirts my Grandpa Art used to wear. His shirts were always really soft and transparent in places where the cotton had thinned, because they'd been laundered so many times. When I saw the shirt, I had to have it, because it was so evocative of my late grandfather who I loved dearly, and because it was see-through and V-necked, two qualities I value highly in clothing. Of course, I was wearing a bra underneath it, but it was still sexy, albeit in a slovenly sort of way. When I noticed that he was looking at me, I stopped staring at the elevator buttons and took a quick direct glance at him. He was TOTALLY staring at my chest, and when he saw me observe this, he looked away very quickly and flushed slightly.
When I got off the elevator and walked outside, I took a quick look down at myself and realized that it wasn't just the fact that my shirt was see-through and V-necked. Because my tits are premenstrually swollen and/or because my bra is ill-fitting and cheap, my left breast had shifted up slightly in the cup, and my nipple was plainly visible through the shirt. No WONDER he was scoping me. A Nobel laureate checked out my tits...how many of you can say THAT about what happened to you this weekend?
Much to my surprise, instead of a grad student getting on, the person who summoned the elevator to the tenth floor was a P.I. (which means "principal investigator," which is geekspeak for "faculty member with his/her own lab"). Also, it was the last P.I. I expected would work on weekends. This particular faculty member won the Nobel prize last year, and has accordingly garnered big shot status: he gets lots of grants, patented a technique that has made the university hundreds of millions of dollars, has a huge lab, and his award spurred Columbia to further their nefarious schemes to manipulate eminent domain laws, evict everybody in a twelve square block area of Manhattanville, and build a new campus dedicated to neuroscience research. He was a big shot even before his trip to Stockholm, because he does neuroscience, and, much like Owen Wilson's character Hansel from Zoolander, neuroscience is SO HOT right now.
This P.I. is one of those whose look screams "egghead." He's quite tall, but rail-thin. He is not just skinny, but skeletal to the point that he's reminiscent of Nicole Richie. Despite his towering at least a foot above me, I think I could probably take him in a fistfight. Also, he's a big fan of the professorial ugly sport coat, although I've noticed that he favors navy rather than the classic tweed that collegiate faculty are known for. The final accessory cementing his overall dorkification is his bow tie. I've never understood why men wear bow ties. The only time a dude should wear a bow tie is when he's wearing a fucking tuxedo, and THAT'S IT. Bow ties have no business being included in a man's everyday work wardrobe. He also chain-chews Nicorette gum, so he always looks like he's dipping, because you can see a lump protruding from beneath his lower lip. Overall, he's not an attractive man, but whatever. They don't give Nobel prizes for being sexy or good-looking (although that would change if I ever get a say in the matter).
Anyway, he got onto the elevator, clad in his usual getup, and I smiled at him politely. I always try to be respectful of faculty members, and (believe it or not) pleasant and friendly at work. He looked away. I'm sure this wasn't personal, as he doesn't know me on account of the fact that he is a big shot, without time to spend consorting with lowly grad students not in his department. Egos in science are HUGE, because most scientists are nerds who've been recognized for very little in their lives save their intellectual accomplishments, and winning the Nobel prize is like getting an Oscar. It vaults you to the scientific A-list, and gives people celebrity-esque delusions of grandeur. Because I don't know this P.I. personally, I can't be certain that applies to him, but I've postulated that it does. I assumed that his failure to acknowledge my friendly smile was more likely due to the poor social skills consequential to a lifetime of breeding fruit flies and the overwhelming sense of self-importance consistent with Nobel laureate status. To prevent him from being uncomfortable, I followed his social cues and looked away, staring at the elevator buttons instead. However, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that once I looked away, he started looking at me.
I was wearing this $5 H&M t-shirt that I bought because it reminded me of the V-neck undershirts my Grandpa Art used to wear. His shirts were always really soft and transparent in places where the cotton had thinned, because they'd been laundered so many times. When I saw the shirt, I had to have it, because it was so evocative of my late grandfather who I loved dearly, and because it was see-through and V-necked, two qualities I value highly in clothing. Of course, I was wearing a bra underneath it, but it was still sexy, albeit in a slovenly sort of way. When I noticed that he was looking at me, I stopped staring at the elevator buttons and took a quick direct glance at him. He was TOTALLY staring at my chest, and when he saw me observe this, he looked away very quickly and flushed slightly.
When I got off the elevator and walked outside, I took a quick look down at myself and realized that it wasn't just the fact that my shirt was see-through and V-necked. Because my tits are premenstrually swollen and/or because my bra is ill-fitting and cheap, my left breast had shifted up slightly in the cup, and my nipple was plainly visible through the shirt. No WONDER he was scoping me. A Nobel laureate checked out my tits...how many of you can say THAT about what happened to you this weekend?
Labels: grad school bullshit, perversion, science, sex
Friday, August 18, 2006
Ssssssssssshut the fuck up!
I went to see Snakes on a Plane last night. This is the first time since Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets that I showed up to see a highly anticipated movie on the night it opened. Well, this was actually the day before the movie officially opened, as it was billed as a "special advance screening" showing on like 6 screens between 10 and midnight. Although I don't think Snakes on a Plane boasts the same sized legion of eager fans as Harry Potter, there were nonetheless numerous groups of people equally devoted to doing stupid shit at the movie theater.
You know the people I'm talking about. These are the people that camp outside movie theaters for 5 months ahead of time in Imperial Storm Trooper outfits everytime George Lucas drops a new Star Wars turd. They are the people who put Starfleet Academy bumper stickers on their cars, who can tell you what their wand is made of (ie: "9 inches, elm, dragon heartstring core") and which Hogwarts house they were sorted into (ie:"I'm a Hufflepuff"...of course you are), or who can recite the entire sorrowful tale of Luthien Tinuviel in high elvish and/or read dwarven runes. To a certain degree, I am one of these people, or at least one of their apathetic distant family members. I am a staunch devotee of both HP and LOTR, and also greatly enjoy Star Wars Episodes IV-VI, and I'll grudgingly confess that I've voluntarily watched enough episodes of "Battlestar Galactica" that I am too embarrassed to even enumerate them here. However, as much as I like my guilty nerd pleasures, I draw the line at enthusiastically devoting any significant amount of time to projects involving them save on Halloween. By "projects" I mean anything involving dressing in costumes, assuming the identity of fictional characters, creating customized clothing (ie: t-shirts, hats), purchasing/crafting props, joining internet-based clubs for online discussion and/or role playing, and generally committing an unhealthy amount of energy to a book/movie/TV show/etc. Unfortunately, there were a lot of people who don't follow my line of thinking, and showed up raring to go for Snakes on a fucking Plane.
We showed up an hour before the movie started, because it was sold out and we wanted to get tolerable seats. We had to wait in line outside the theater for a while, which sucked because the theater was in Times Square. I hate Times Square. It's not the junkies, prostitutes, and peep shows that 1980s-era accounts of New York City promise. Times Square P.G. (post-Giuliani) is fucking Disneyland: excessively bright, crowded, overpriced, and infested with tourists wandering like a herd of lost sheep, blocking pedestrian traffic and gaping up at all the big buildings and flashing lights. Tourists take pictures of everything ("I've never seen such a huge Olive Garden, take a picture of it!", "Look, it's the ESPN Zone, take a picture of it!", "Whoa, that's the biggest Kodak ad I've ever seen in my life, take a picture of it!") and more often than not, they try to capture their ugly kids in the photo as well, requiring them to back up ten feet in order to get both the fucking Panasonic ad on top of a building and their pudgy, "I heart NY" shirt-clad brood in the shot, further contributing to sidewalk congestion. On top of that, there's aggressive pamphleteers every five feet trying to get you to get on a sightseeing bus or attend a comedy show to further annoy me, and street meat from the kabob/hot dog carts costs twice as much as anywhere else in the city. Neo and I struggled through crowds of this and took Chinese cuts in front of J-Sexy, El Polaco, and the rest of the crew while waiting to get in. People all around us were buzzing about how great Snakes on a Plane was going to be and how excited they were about it. J-Sexy and I exchanged looks like, "Are you that fucking excited about this? Me neither."
Once we finally were herded into the theater, we took our seats and quickly bored of the ads pathetically disguised as an intellectual challenge ("Coca Cola Verizon movie puzzle: Unscramble this actor's name? ENB FFLECKA. Coca Cola Verizon movie trivia answer: BEN AFFLECK Drink Coke! Can you hear me now?"). We had nothing to do for the next 45 minutes, but were quickly distracted by the crew of dumbasses sitting in front of us.
These people, led by this loud bitch who looked like Veronica Mars's homely older sister, were EXTREMELY excited about seeing Snakes on a Plane. They drew our ire when they agreed to an interview with some frighteningly perky reporter for some streaming video website, and the camera crew began shining lights in our faces and blocking our view of the movie trivia we weren't paying attention to. They had Snakes on a Plane t-shirts, which their queen nerd explained they designed themselves. They also had a bag of plastic snakes that they were swinging around and fake-striking at each other. Then, when the camera crew left, they started taking pictures of each other because this was such a monumental fucking occasion. Fortunately, El Polaco's boyfriend had his camera with him, and began recording video of me hugging J-Sexy violently and saying, "Take a picture, dude, take a picture! This is a moment we're going to remember for the rest of our lives...it's the first time we're going to see SNAKES ON A PLANE, for God's sake! We're going to be talking about this at our weddings! We're going to tell our grandchildren about this day!" (unfortunately the video didn't turn out, since we didn't have the internet crew's spotlight). The queen nerd turned around and glared viciously, and I shrugged and smirked at her, as if to say, "Well, I'm an asshole and you're a fucking loser with too much time on your hands...this is nature's way, what do you expect?!" I know nerds, and I especially know nerdy girls, so I was confident that a plain female geek distributing the contents of a duffel bag full of custom Snakes on a Plane fan paraphernalia among a group of 110-lb. 30-year-old men was likely too frightened of public confrontation to make any trouble with our group, all cackling rudely like a pack of hyenas ripping apart a decomposing zebra carcass, and I was right.
Making fun of those people, as well as rotating a flask around for discreet nips of Jack Daniels, helped pass the time until the previews started. They passed without event for the most part (except the crowd went crazy when Samuel L. Jackson appeared in the trailer for Black Snake Moan), until the stupid little film cartoon came on to remind the audience to turn off their cell phones and quiet down. Instead of heeding the cartoon's advice, most of the people in the audience, particularly the people in front of us, started applauding wildly. Worse, they all started waving their snakes around, taking pictures, and HISSING at the top of their lungs.
I leaned over to J-Sexy and made an irritated quip about how I hate people who cheer in movie theaters. A movie isn't like a play or a concert, where the performers can hear the audience's reaction, so what's the fucking point. Even when something in a movie excites me somehow, I have never lost control and felt the need to yell, or clap, or whistle. I hoped that the audience would get the desire to produce unnecessary audible responses to Snakes on a Plane (such as applause) out of their system before the credits were over. Wishful thinking.
Every time there was a lull in the dialogue in the movie (and there were a LOT of those, particularly when Samuel L. Jackson wasn't onscreen saying this and motherfuckin' that), the audience would starting hissing loudly at the screen. After ten minutes of near nonstop hissing, I was getting cranky. After the movie was half over, I was hissing obscenities every time the audience started up: "Sssssshut the fuck up! Ssssssssstop fucking hissing!" Since the people in front of us already hated us, this made them hiss louder and salute the screen so fucking often that it looked like they were Heil-ing Hitler with snakes in their hands.
When Samuel L. Jackson finally delivered the "motherfuckin' snakes on a motherfuckin' plane" line that created all the pre-release buzz for this movie in the first place, the crowd erupted in cheers and hissing, and the people in front of us literally LEAPED OUT OF THEIR CHAIRS, throwing up their arms and snakes in triumph. The queen nerd of the group was so excited I thought she was going to rip off her Snakes on a Plane shirt like Brandi Chastain at the World Cup. I was mystified, and leaned over to J-Sexy and whispered, "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, DUDE?!"
The movie ended shortly thereafter, causing everyone to clap approvingly, wolf whistle, and hiss delightedly. I don't understand why all these people were so goddamn excited to hear Samuel L. Jackson say Samuel L. Jackson-y stuff. I can think of 4 movies where he says stuff like this off the top of my head:
"Jesus?! Do I look fuckin' Puerto Rican to you? He said 'Hey, Zeus!' My name is ZEUS. You know, Mount Olympus, father of Apollo, don't-fuck-with-me-or-I'll-shove-a-lightning-bolt-up-yo-ass? ZEUS!" -Die Hard With a Vengeance.
"The last time I got blown, candy bars cost a nickel." -The Long Kiss Goodnight
"AK-47, when you absolutely gotta kill every last motherfucker in the room."-Jackie Brown
"Normally your ass would be dead as fuckin fried chicken right now, but you happened to pull this shit while I'm in a transitional period."-Pulp Fiction
Samuel L. Jackson always says this type of shit. Granted, this is the first time he's done so in frustration from dealing with a planeful of poisonous snakes, but it's not that fucking big of a deal. It's certainly not worth a shirt, and it's certainly not worth being obnoxiously participatory in a movie theater. So ssssssssssshut your fucking cakeholes, assholes!
You know the people I'm talking about. These are the people that camp outside movie theaters for 5 months ahead of time in Imperial Storm Trooper outfits everytime George Lucas drops a new Star Wars turd. They are the people who put Starfleet Academy bumper stickers on their cars, who can tell you what their wand is made of (ie: "9 inches, elm, dragon heartstring core") and which Hogwarts house they were sorted into (ie:"I'm a Hufflepuff"...of course you are), or who can recite the entire sorrowful tale of Luthien Tinuviel in high elvish and/or read dwarven runes. To a certain degree, I am one of these people, or at least one of their apathetic distant family members. I am a staunch devotee of both HP and LOTR, and also greatly enjoy Star Wars Episodes IV-VI, and I'll grudgingly confess that I've voluntarily watched enough episodes of "Battlestar Galactica" that I am too embarrassed to even enumerate them here. However, as much as I like my guilty nerd pleasures, I draw the line at enthusiastically devoting any significant amount of time to projects involving them save on Halloween. By "projects" I mean anything involving dressing in costumes, assuming the identity of fictional characters, creating customized clothing (ie: t-shirts, hats), purchasing/crafting props, joining internet-based clubs for online discussion and/or role playing, and generally committing an unhealthy amount of energy to a book/movie/TV show/etc. Unfortunately, there were a lot of people who don't follow my line of thinking, and showed up raring to go for Snakes on a fucking Plane.
We showed up an hour before the movie started, because it was sold out and we wanted to get tolerable seats. We had to wait in line outside the theater for a while, which sucked because the theater was in Times Square. I hate Times Square. It's not the junkies, prostitutes, and peep shows that 1980s-era accounts of New York City promise. Times Square P.G. (post-Giuliani) is fucking Disneyland: excessively bright, crowded, overpriced, and infested with tourists wandering like a herd of lost sheep, blocking pedestrian traffic and gaping up at all the big buildings and flashing lights. Tourists take pictures of everything ("I've never seen such a huge Olive Garden, take a picture of it!", "Look, it's the ESPN Zone, take a picture of it!", "Whoa, that's the biggest Kodak ad I've ever seen in my life, take a picture of it!") and more often than not, they try to capture their ugly kids in the photo as well, requiring them to back up ten feet in order to get both the fucking Panasonic ad on top of a building and their pudgy, "I heart NY" shirt-clad brood in the shot, further contributing to sidewalk congestion. On top of that, there's aggressive pamphleteers every five feet trying to get you to get on a sightseeing bus or attend a comedy show to further annoy me, and street meat from the kabob/hot dog carts costs twice as much as anywhere else in the city. Neo and I struggled through crowds of this and took Chinese cuts in front of J-Sexy, El Polaco, and the rest of the crew while waiting to get in. People all around us were buzzing about how great Snakes on a Plane was going to be and how excited they were about it. J-Sexy and I exchanged looks like, "Are you that fucking excited about this? Me neither."
Once we finally were herded into the theater, we took our seats and quickly bored of the ads pathetically disguised as an intellectual challenge ("Coca Cola Verizon movie puzzle: Unscramble this actor's name? ENB FFLECKA. Coca Cola Verizon movie trivia answer: BEN AFFLECK Drink Coke! Can you hear me now?"). We had nothing to do for the next 45 minutes, but were quickly distracted by the crew of dumbasses sitting in front of us.
These people, led by this loud bitch who looked like Veronica Mars's homely older sister, were EXTREMELY excited about seeing Snakes on a Plane. They drew our ire when they agreed to an interview with some frighteningly perky reporter for some streaming video website, and the camera crew began shining lights in our faces and blocking our view of the movie trivia we weren't paying attention to. They had Snakes on a Plane t-shirts, which their queen nerd explained they designed themselves. They also had a bag of plastic snakes that they were swinging around and fake-striking at each other. Then, when the camera crew left, they started taking pictures of each other because this was such a monumental fucking occasion. Fortunately, El Polaco's boyfriend had his camera with him, and began recording video of me hugging J-Sexy violently and saying, "Take a picture, dude, take a picture! This is a moment we're going to remember for the rest of our lives...it's the first time we're going to see SNAKES ON A PLANE, for God's sake! We're going to be talking about this at our weddings! We're going to tell our grandchildren about this day!" (unfortunately the video didn't turn out, since we didn't have the internet crew's spotlight). The queen nerd turned around and glared viciously, and I shrugged and smirked at her, as if to say, "Well, I'm an asshole and you're a fucking loser with too much time on your hands...this is nature's way, what do you expect?!" I know nerds, and I especially know nerdy girls, so I was confident that a plain female geek distributing the contents of a duffel bag full of custom Snakes on a Plane fan paraphernalia among a group of 110-lb. 30-year-old men was likely too frightened of public confrontation to make any trouble with our group, all cackling rudely like a pack of hyenas ripping apart a decomposing zebra carcass, and I was right.
Making fun of those people, as well as rotating a flask around for discreet nips of Jack Daniels, helped pass the time until the previews started. They passed without event for the most part (except the crowd went crazy when Samuel L. Jackson appeared in the trailer for Black Snake Moan), until the stupid little film cartoon came on to remind the audience to turn off their cell phones and quiet down. Instead of heeding the cartoon's advice, most of the people in the audience, particularly the people in front of us, started applauding wildly. Worse, they all started waving their snakes around, taking pictures, and HISSING at the top of their lungs.
I leaned over to J-Sexy and made an irritated quip about how I hate people who cheer in movie theaters. A movie isn't like a play or a concert, where the performers can hear the audience's reaction, so what's the fucking point. Even when something in a movie excites me somehow, I have never lost control and felt the need to yell, or clap, or whistle. I hoped that the audience would get the desire to produce unnecessary audible responses to Snakes on a Plane (such as applause) out of their system before the credits were over. Wishful thinking.
Every time there was a lull in the dialogue in the movie (and there were a LOT of those, particularly when Samuel L. Jackson wasn't onscreen saying this and motherfuckin' that), the audience would starting hissing loudly at the screen. After ten minutes of near nonstop hissing, I was getting cranky. After the movie was half over, I was hissing obscenities every time the audience started up: "Sssssshut the fuck up! Ssssssssstop fucking hissing!" Since the people in front of us already hated us, this made them hiss louder and salute the screen so fucking often that it looked like they were Heil-ing Hitler with snakes in their hands.
When Samuel L. Jackson finally delivered the "motherfuckin' snakes on a motherfuckin' plane" line that created all the pre-release buzz for this movie in the first place, the crowd erupted in cheers and hissing, and the people in front of us literally LEAPED OUT OF THEIR CHAIRS, throwing up their arms and snakes in triumph. The queen nerd of the group was so excited I thought she was going to rip off her Snakes on a Plane shirt like Brandi Chastain at the World Cup. I was mystified, and leaned over to J-Sexy and whispered, "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, DUDE?!"
The movie ended shortly thereafter, causing everyone to clap approvingly, wolf whistle, and hiss delightedly. I don't understand why all these people were so goddamn excited to hear Samuel L. Jackson say Samuel L. Jackson-y stuff. I can think of 4 movies where he says stuff like this off the top of my head:
"Jesus?! Do I look fuckin' Puerto Rican to you? He said 'Hey, Zeus!' My name is ZEUS. You know, Mount Olympus, father of Apollo, don't-fuck-with-me-or-I'll-shove-a-lightning-bolt-up-yo-ass? ZEUS!" -Die Hard With a Vengeance.
"The last time I got blown, candy bars cost a nickel." -The Long Kiss Goodnight
"AK-47, when you absolutely gotta kill every last motherfucker in the room."-Jackie Brown
"Normally your ass would be dead as fuckin fried chicken right now, but you happened to pull this shit while I'm in a transitional period."-Pulp Fiction
Samuel L. Jackson always says this type of shit. Granted, this is the first time he's done so in frustration from dealing with a planeful of poisonous snakes, but it's not that fucking big of a deal. It's certainly not worth a shirt, and it's certainly not worth being obnoxiously participatory in a movie theater. So ssssssssssshut your fucking cakeholes, assholes!
Labels: assholes, celebrities, movies, retard rage
Razzy Bailey's ass is MINE
I was catching this guy's blog that I check out from time to time, and read a post about how he got laid because some hot chick in Michigan Googled his name, "Rory," looking for some actor (probably Macaulay Culkin's brother and fellow Michael Jackson molestee). Instead of finding information about Rory Culkin, she found him, he flew to Michigan, presumably banged her, and their epic love story was picked up by the Swiss press. Thus inspired by his tale of unexpected internet-derived action, I decided to Google "razzy" to see whether the Ultimate Source for Useless Bullshit is the Ultimate Google result. While I was initially pleased to see that I've overtaken the online cell phone accessory store that jacked the domain name I hoped to get (thus forcing me to get a .org name, which is for the best as it accurately reflects my non-profit status), my glee at kicking razzy.com's ass in Google importance was short-lived. I was dismayed to see that RAZZY.org is number 2, behind some douchebag named Razzy Bailey:
Razzy Bailey is a failed country singer who lives in Nashville, TN with his wife, his very small bowtie-rocking pussy, and his extremely righteous combover/mullet.
The fact that Razzy Bailey doesn't have a hairstyle named after him on mulletsgalore.com is unfathomable and an inexcusable oversight. Seriously, he resembles what I imagine the bastard child of Santa Claus and Phil Collins would look like if he cut his hair with a Flowbee and for styling employed the oscillating fans that Fabio uses to give him that "blowing in the breeze" look on romance novel covers.
I decided to listen to some of Razzy Bailey's music samples, to see if he was anything like my favorite country singer (Toby Keith, because he's obviously a total asshole). Unfortunately, I couldn't find anything as singularly awesome as "I Love This Bar", "If I Was Jesus," or "Courtesy of the Red, White, and Blue." It seems Razzy Bailey doesn't have Toby Keith's lyrical skills, either, as he doesn't have any songs about 9/11 (described as "a mighty sucker punch"), the subsequent conflict in Afghanistan ("we lit up your world like the Fourth of July"), bloodcurdling threats to the terrorist powers that be ("we'll put a boot in your ass, it's the American way"), espouse the benefits of being a self-sacrificing deity ("I'd be the guy at the party, turnin' water into wine...then I'd heal me a blind man, and get myself crucified...and I'd walk on some water, just to mess with your head"), or properly ordering his priorities ("I like my truck, I like my girlfriend...but I LOVE this bar.") Razzy Bailey also doesn't have Toby Keith's 50 Cent-esque skills for beef-related publicity stunts involving a certain trio of porky, Bush-bashing bitches who sing about murdering their friends' abusive husbands. My God, Toby Keith rules so hard I could fill up a Bible-sized book about it, and I'm talking the King James (Catholic) version, with all the extra chapters favored by us Papist mackerel snappers. Anyway, let's see where Razzy Bailey falls on the Country Music Awesomeness Alert Scale. This is like the terror alert levels that Homeland Security uses, except it's more accurate and useful, as instead of giving us cryptic information about the likelihood of a terror attack, it tells us the likelihood that a given country music singer and/or military campaign kicks ass:
I would place Razzy Bailey squarely in the neighborhood of Puyallup Fair Regular, Freedom-Hating Traitor, and Latent Homosexual. Therefore he's at the opposite end of the spectrum from Toby Keith and unnecessary war as things that will IMMINENTLY kick ass.
I listened to this song called "Scratch My Back," which mentally paints some frightening images of how Razzy Bailey rolls in the bedroom (I got to some lyric about how his "body loses control" and had heard enough). Also, Razzy Bailey sounds sort of like R&B/soul singer Aaron Neville, and with this black-tie-except-minus-the-tie look he's sporting and his matching pussy, he even LOOKS like he uses Aaron Neville's stylist. I expect him to participate in a duet with Linda Ronstadt any minute now.
It's only a matter of time before the Ultimate Source for Useless Bullshit supersedes
Razzy Bailey's website (or as he calls it, his "House of [what can disputably be called] Hits" in terms of Google PageRank. Watch out, Razzy Bailey, because you are squarely in the midst of my crosshairs. You're in my spot on the internet, and I am going to BRING YOUR ASS DOWN! As 50 Cent once said, "Until I bust a clip in your face, pussy, this beef ain't over," except by "bust a clip" I mean "making fun of you on my blog." Cower, bitch! Cower before the future #1 Razzy!
Razzy Bailey is a failed country singer who lives in Nashville, TN with his wife, his very small bowtie-rocking pussy, and his extremely righteous combover/mullet.
The fact that Razzy Bailey doesn't have a hairstyle named after him on mulletsgalore.com is unfathomable and an inexcusable oversight. Seriously, he resembles what I imagine the bastard child of Santa Claus and Phil Collins would look like if he cut his hair with a Flowbee and for styling employed the oscillating fans that Fabio uses to give him that "blowing in the breeze" look on romance novel covers.
I decided to listen to some of Razzy Bailey's music samples, to see if he was anything like my favorite country singer (Toby Keith, because he's obviously a total asshole). Unfortunately, I couldn't find anything as singularly awesome as "I Love This Bar", "If I Was Jesus," or "Courtesy of the Red, White, and Blue." It seems Razzy Bailey doesn't have Toby Keith's lyrical skills, either, as he doesn't have any songs about 9/11 (described as "a mighty sucker punch"), the subsequent conflict in Afghanistan ("we lit up your world like the Fourth of July"), bloodcurdling threats to the terrorist powers that be ("we'll put a boot in your ass, it's the American way"), espouse the benefits of being a self-sacrificing deity ("I'd be the guy at the party, turnin' water into wine...then I'd heal me a blind man, and get myself crucified...and I'd walk on some water, just to mess with your head"), or properly ordering his priorities ("I like my truck, I like my girlfriend...but I LOVE this bar.") Razzy Bailey also doesn't have Toby Keith's 50 Cent-esque skills for beef-related publicity stunts involving a certain trio of porky, Bush-bashing bitches who sing about murdering their friends' abusive husbands. My God, Toby Keith rules so hard I could fill up a Bible-sized book about it, and I'm talking the King James (Catholic) version, with all the extra chapters favored by us Papist mackerel snappers. Anyway, let's see where Razzy Bailey falls on the Country Music Awesomeness Alert Scale. This is like the terror alert levels that Homeland Security uses, except it's more accurate and useful, as instead of giving us cryptic information about the likelihood of a terror attack, it tells us the likelihood that a given country music singer and/or military campaign kicks ass:
I listened to this song called "Scratch My Back," which mentally paints some frightening images of how Razzy Bailey rolls in the bedroom (I got to some lyric about how his "body loses control" and had heard enough). Also, Razzy Bailey sounds sort of like R&B/soul singer Aaron Neville, and with this black-tie-except-minus-the-tie look he's sporting and his matching pussy, he even LOOKS like he uses Aaron Neville's stylist. I expect him to participate in a duet with Linda Ronstadt any minute now.
It's only a matter of time before the Ultimate Source for Useless Bullshit supersedes
Razzy Bailey's website (or as he calls it, his "House of [what can disputably be called] Hits" in terms of Google PageRank. Watch out, Razzy Bailey, because you are squarely in the midst of my crosshairs. You're in my spot on the internet, and I am going to BRING YOUR ASS DOWN! As 50 Cent once said, "Until I bust a clip in your face, pussy, this beef ain't over," except by "bust a clip" I mean "making fun of you on my blog." Cower, bitch! Cower before the future #1 Razzy!
Labels: down with OPB (other people's blogs), internet domination, Razzy Haters
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Tribute bands=LOSERS
One thing about MySpace that annoys the shit out of me is that I always get these event invitations for parties and concerts I will NEVER attend. Today I got a MySpace event invitation for this band, which is playing a show in Worcester, Assachusetts:
Of course dudes in Worcester (and that's pronounced "Woostah" if you've never had the pleasure of spending time in western Ass) are flocking to see a fucking Pantera tribute band. What a waste of time. Granted, I like a little Pantera once in a while, but when I'm in a thrash metal kind of mood, I will listen to the damn Cowboys from Hell CD, not follow some pathetic Pantera imitators all over New England to some shithole off the Ass Pike, full of Pats Starter jacket-wearing slack-jawed chowderheads headbanging to these fucktards' piss-poor covers of "Mouth For War" or "Planet Caravan." I don't believe Trendkill's mission statement claiming that when it comes to imitating Pantera, because they have spent 4 years perfecting their "brutal" formula:
The latest "more brutal than ever" iteration of Trendkill is allegedly so believable that I would mistake them for "the real deal" the moment they take the stage. The real deal? I don't think so:
Dimebag Darrell Abbott is likely rolling over in his grave that a fruitcake like the guitarist above is playing the riffs on such masterpieces as "Yesterday Don't Mean Shit" and "Fucking Hostile." For reference, below is what "the real deal" Pantera looks like. These asskicking Texans don't look too happy that a bunch of sissy-boy Massholes like the ones above are representing them:
Tribute bands are stupid in principle. I understand that people might miss the experience of seeing Pantera live, but tough shit! If Pantera wanted their songs to continue being performed live, they wouldn't have broken up. And if you want to hear "the real deal" live, you can buy 101 Proof, Pantera's live album. The idea that Pantera fans are so desperate to see Pantera live that they'd gladly show up in some shitty club in Putnam, Connecticut to see a bunch of candy-ass bitches PRETEND to be Pantera is stupid.
Furthermore, if you have enough musical talent (such as the ability to sing, play an instrument, or in Trendkill's case, scream/make loud feedbacky guitar noises in a Pantera-like manner) to warrant joining a band, why don't you start your own fucking band and make your own fucking music? My friend DocDrizzle likes Tori Amos and that sort of introspective chick stuff, but does SHE spend her time covering "Crucify"? NO! She writes her own music and comes up with her own lyrics because Tori Amos CDs are already accessible to anyone with the ability to type "Amazon.com." Why would anyone listen to DocDrizzle pretending to be Tori Amos when they can just listen to the original? And why would DocDrizzle sing someone else's introspective chick music when she can write and sing her own?! I'm sure that she's inspired by Tori Amos and all those other sensitive, processing bitches she likes, but obviously recognizes that Tori Amos can already sing Tori Amos songs just fine. The guys in Trendkill should come up with their own fucking death metal and quit biting beats from Vulgar Display of Power, because they are bitches, and they only make Pantera look bad.
Dimebag Darrell Abbott is likely rolling over in his grave that a fruitcake like the guitarist above is playing the riffs on such masterpieces as "Yesterday Don't Mean Shit" and "Fucking Hostile." For reference, below is what "the real deal" Pantera looks like. These asskicking Texans don't look too happy that a bunch of sissy-boy Massholes like the ones above are representing them:
Tribute bands are stupid in principle. I understand that people might miss the experience of seeing Pantera live, but tough shit! If Pantera wanted their songs to continue being performed live, they wouldn't have broken up. And if you want to hear "the real deal" live, you can buy 101 Proof, Pantera's live album. The idea that Pantera fans are so desperate to see Pantera live that they'd gladly show up in some shitty club in Putnam, Connecticut to see a bunch of candy-ass bitches PRETEND to be Pantera is stupid.
Furthermore, if you have enough musical talent (such as the ability to sing, play an instrument, or in Trendkill's case, scream/make loud feedbacky guitar noises in a Pantera-like manner) to warrant joining a band, why don't you start your own fucking band and make your own fucking music? My friend DocDrizzle likes Tori Amos and that sort of introspective chick stuff, but does SHE spend her time covering "Crucify"? NO! She writes her own music and comes up with her own lyrics because Tori Amos CDs are already accessible to anyone with the ability to type "Amazon.com." Why would anyone listen to DocDrizzle pretending to be Tori Amos when they can just listen to the original? And why would DocDrizzle sing someone else's introspective chick music when she can write and sing her own?! I'm sure that she's inspired by Tori Amos and all those other sensitive, processing bitches she likes, but obviously recognizes that Tori Amos can already sing Tori Amos songs just fine. The guys in Trendkill should come up with their own fucking death metal and quit biting beats from Vulgar Display of Power, because they are bitches, and they only make Pantera look bad.
Labels: Assachusetts, buttrock, MySpace, PWT, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Razzy Haters' Ball
My traffic has increased dramatically as of late, and with the new readers have come new haters. Since the haters have been out in force on my blog comment pages, calling me every name under the sun from "loose tubby cunt" to "neo-con dickhead boar" (not sure that person knows what either a "neo-con" or a "boar" actually is) to the always classic "fat skank," I thought I'd take a moment to discuss my views on this.
Many people have wondered why I don't simply delete these vitriolic opinions. Yesterday, J-Sexy marvelled that I put up with this maltreatment, since I generally don't take shit from anyone. Being the site administrator, it would certainly be easy for me to click the little trash can icon underneath anything I disagreed with and send it permanently into online oblivion. However, I feel that it would be cowardly to remove unflattering comments. Furthermore, if I'm going to mock and belittle people publicly, I certainly owe those taking the time to read this the same courtesy, even if they are mocking and belittling me. I'm entitled to my not-so-very-nice opinions, and so are those who actually take the time to read what I'm writing, complimentary or otherwise. My goal when starting this website was to fund my alcoholism. In order to earn revenue from an online venture such as this, you have to have traffic. Therefore, an increase in the number of insults indicates that more people are not only visiting RAZZY.org, but also reading it and forming an opinion about it, thus bringing me closer to my goal. I confess that the first few times I received a personally insulting e-mail or comment, my ego was mildly wounded. However, after receiving them in droves for six months or so, they aren't even an annoyance anymore. If you're looking to grow a thick skin, start a fucking website and promote the hell out of it, because if you write anything remotely worth reading, people WILL find cause to personally attack you (and proposition you in way that will make your skin crawl, but that's another rant). In my case, these attacks are usually a variation of one of three inane and tedious themes:
1. I'm fat and/or ugly
2. I'm a slut
3. When I get old, I will be sad, lonely, and unloved
This brings me to another reason why I don't delete comments. Usually, they are so banal (and often rife with spelling and grammatical errors) that they do more to disparage the author than me. Occasionally someone surprises me with something catchy (like my current favorite, "always the cum dumpster, never the bride"), but typically they strike me as the work of insecure, unhappy, and/or self-loathing people who latch onto some aspect of my online persona that they resent, and take it out on me in the only way they can given their pitiful command of the English language: anonymous name-calling. I often amuse myself trying to imagine what the story is behind these people. Here are some of the ideas I've come up with:
*Pimple-faced internet junkie with prodigious gut reminiscent of the guy who runs the comic book store on "The Simpsons" finds my website through a Google search for "Andrea Lowell fucking," reads my blog and/or the Rejects page, is angered because he hasn't gotten laid in...well, ever. He calls me a slut, feels empowered, and then whacks off to reruns of "Stargate: Atlantis."
*Some dickhead who I've called out on this blog for his woeful skills in the bedroom gets pissed at me for insulting their manhood or lack thereof (for example, misogynistic Ja-fake-ans with anger management issues who don't eat pussy or trim their fingernails and lack the ability to cope with rejection), then calls me a slut to restore his sense of manhood.
*A woman scorned by some jerk who cheated on her finds my website while drowning her sorrows in a quart of Chunky Monkey, is enraged by my flippancy regarding my participation in adulterous trysts, and calls me a slut to mitigate her own self-hatred.
*A pseudo-intellectual reads my blog and stumbles across a word he/she doesn't know and feels stupid. He/she pulls out his/her trusty copy of Roget's, then calls me a slut and includes a word like "parlance" or "demagoguery" to make him/her sound smarter.
*A woman with weight problems and/or abysmal self-esteem takes a break from writing Hallmark Card-esque poetry and wallowing in her own miserable self-pity, reads my blog and envies my cocksure arrogance, then calls me a slut to make her feel better by attempting to make me feel as lousy about myself as she does about herself.
*A single mother who would rather blame me than take responsibility for neglecting her own children and their internet habits calls me a slut to compensate for her inability to silence me through threats of legal action and online petitions.
Sometimes, insulting me is not enough, and a hater will go after one of my friends who read and comment on this blog, presumably to denigrate me further my stripping away the integrity of people who find my useless bullshit amusing. For example:
"Morrissey'shair is a metrosexual pussy who needs to wash the sand out of his vag before it gets infected."
Clever. I'm sure Morrissey'sHair is stung to the core that this anonymous commenter busted on him by ripping off Eric Cartman's "sand in the vagina" schtick. Then that commenter called me a "straight up chicken-head" and "skanky and fat," insults that sent me reeling.
"You friend [Mullah AntoniHo], however, does appear rather thick, as he has difficulty comprehending basic text or recognize overt irony."
Well, at least Mullah AntoniHo can TYPE basic fucking text, such as adding the necessary "-ing" after a verb.
Occasionally, someone finds that the comment page is inadequate for their Razzy hating needs, so they decide to send me e-mails that are nothing short of literary masterpieces. Sometimes I respond to these, because fucking with idiots is fun. Here is an example I received while on vacation a couple of weeks ago:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: Ryan Benser (ryan3whs@msn.com)
Subject: [No Subject]
Your not hot! I am hot you are not. Why is your picture so far away from your face and in white background? Maybe so you can elude your viewers away from your real face characteristics and pasty white skin. Too bad you cant put me on your loser list huh friendster finding loser ass bitch. Maybe I am just trying to make you talk about me on your website, call me BENZ, I would sure love that. No wait this really was just to tell you that you are IN FACT not hot. I would never have sex with you or send you shit. You see the guys that are on your loser list? Those are the type of guys in your league because guess what they think your in their league because guess why?????? LOOKS
This guy was the first to assert that somehow the lab coat picture of me on the RAZZY.org main page is altered somehow to make me appear more attractive than I really am. Apart from his mastery of the run-on sentence, it was obvious to me that this dude has been humiliated by rejection one too many times in this sort of scenario:
Ryan Benser walks into a bar with his white baseball cap-wearing community college classmates and approaches hot girl.
Ryan Benser: "You're hot. Can I buy you a drink?"
Hot girl: "No thanks."
Ryan Benser: "Well, you're a stupid, ugly, loser-ass bitch and I didn't want to buy you a drink anyway! I only wanted you to think I wanted to buy you a drink, because you're so ugly! Loser-ass bitch!"
Ryan Benser goes home amid the guffaws of his fellow substandard Neanderthals and masturbates bitterly.
I figured that since it seemed Ryan wanted for some reason to be featured on the Rejects page himself (as he even went to the trouble of coming up with his own nickname), I could at least do him that favor. So I wrote back:
To: Ryan Benser (ryan3whs@msn.com)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: RE:
Well, send me your picture if you want to be mentioned on my site so badly. I'm always on the lookout for new rejects, Benz, and you seem to desperately want the job. Besides, I'd really like to see the Adonis who is so unbelievably sexy and attractive that he can remind me repeatedly what a hideous troll I am.
Ryan naturally was too much of a pussy to send me his picture, and decided to change tactics and insult my intelligence:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: Ryan Benser (ryan3whs@msn.com)
Subject: RE: RE:
Well when you shit on so many other people for the way they look I thought it only appropriate. I see your real face then I see that picture that says "tell me how hot I am" and the person in the picture looks very different. You are crazy if you think your are really going to get a picture of me. Do you think I am as stupid as I think you are for asking that question?
I had to answer that in the affirmative:
To: Ryan Benser (ryan3whs@msn.com)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: RE:
In a word, yes. You are monumentally stupid, at least if your grammar and punctuation
are any indication. "Your" is possessive. "You're" means "you are." Go back to the
second grade and learn the fucking difference before you start cluttering up my inbox
with your idiotic "I am hot your not" comments.
Morrissey'sHair was kind enough to locate Ryan Benser's profile on MySpace for me, and he is every bit the tool I imagined him to be, or as Morrissey'sHair described him "a no account thumbdick with lots of time spent in the dorm (or his room at home) gorging on mini-mart fare and soft-core porn selections." Note that he has no friends (well, except Tom, but that doesn't count), and the only thing he wants the world to know about him is that he subsists on Ramen and Gatorade. Oh, and he doesn't want kids. No worries, there, Ryan, because I can't imagine that any woman would want to sleep with a social parasite like you. You're DEFINITELY hotter than me, Benz. Way hotter:
The moral of this whole story is that if you intend to leave some hostile shit via e-mail or blog commentary, PLEASE come up with something more interesting than the same old overused fat/slut/ugly remarks I usually get. Sticks and stones may break my bones, motherfucker, but those names will only bore the shit out of me.
Many people have wondered why I don't simply delete these vitriolic opinions. Yesterday, J-Sexy marvelled that I put up with this maltreatment, since I generally don't take shit from anyone. Being the site administrator, it would certainly be easy for me to click the little trash can icon underneath anything I disagreed with and send it permanently into online oblivion. However, I feel that it would be cowardly to remove unflattering comments. Furthermore, if I'm going to mock and belittle people publicly, I certainly owe those taking the time to read this the same courtesy, even if they are mocking and belittling me. I'm entitled to my not-so-very-nice opinions, and so are those who actually take the time to read what I'm writing, complimentary or otherwise. My goal when starting this website was to fund my alcoholism. In order to earn revenue from an online venture such as this, you have to have traffic. Therefore, an increase in the number of insults indicates that more people are not only visiting RAZZY.org, but also reading it and forming an opinion about it, thus bringing me closer to my goal. I confess that the first few times I received a personally insulting e-mail or comment, my ego was mildly wounded. However, after receiving them in droves for six months or so, they aren't even an annoyance anymore. If you're looking to grow a thick skin, start a fucking website and promote the hell out of it, because if you write anything remotely worth reading, people WILL find cause to personally attack you (and proposition you in way that will make your skin crawl, but that's another rant). In my case, these attacks are usually a variation of one of three inane and tedious themes:
1. I'm fat and/or ugly
2. I'm a slut
3. When I get old, I will be sad, lonely, and unloved
This brings me to another reason why I don't delete comments. Usually, they are so banal (and often rife with spelling and grammatical errors) that they do more to disparage the author than me. Occasionally someone surprises me with something catchy (like my current favorite, "always the cum dumpster, never the bride"), but typically they strike me as the work of insecure, unhappy, and/or self-loathing people who latch onto some aspect of my online persona that they resent, and take it out on me in the only way they can given their pitiful command of the English language: anonymous name-calling. I often amuse myself trying to imagine what the story is behind these people. Here are some of the ideas I've come up with:
*Pimple-faced internet junkie with prodigious gut reminiscent of the guy who runs the comic book store on "The Simpsons" finds my website through a Google search for "Andrea Lowell fucking," reads my blog and/or the Rejects page, is angered because he hasn't gotten laid in...well, ever. He calls me a slut, feels empowered, and then whacks off to reruns of "Stargate: Atlantis."
*Some dickhead who I've called out on this blog for his woeful skills in the bedroom gets pissed at me for insulting their manhood or lack thereof (for example, misogynistic Ja-fake-ans with anger management issues who don't eat pussy or trim their fingernails and lack the ability to cope with rejection), then calls me a slut to restore his sense of manhood.
*A woman scorned by some jerk who cheated on her finds my website while drowning her sorrows in a quart of Chunky Monkey, is enraged by my flippancy regarding my participation in adulterous trysts, and calls me a slut to mitigate her own self-hatred.
*A pseudo-intellectual reads my blog and stumbles across a word he/she doesn't know and feels stupid. He/she pulls out his/her trusty copy of Roget's, then calls me a slut and includes a word like "parlance" or "demagoguery" to make him/her sound smarter.
*A woman with weight problems and/or abysmal self-esteem takes a break from writing Hallmark Card-esque poetry and wallowing in her own miserable self-pity, reads my blog and envies my cocksure arrogance, then calls me a slut to make her feel better by attempting to make me feel as lousy about myself as she does about herself.
*A single mother who would rather blame me than take responsibility for neglecting her own children and their internet habits calls me a slut to compensate for her inability to silence me through threats of legal action and online petitions.
Sometimes, insulting me is not enough, and a hater will go after one of my friends who read and comment on this blog, presumably to denigrate me further my stripping away the integrity of people who find my useless bullshit amusing. For example:
"Morrissey'shair is a metrosexual pussy who needs to wash the sand out of his vag before it gets infected."
Clever. I'm sure Morrissey'sHair is stung to the core that this anonymous commenter busted on him by ripping off Eric Cartman's "sand in the vagina" schtick. Then that commenter called me a "straight up chicken-head" and "skanky and fat," insults that sent me reeling.
"You friend [Mullah AntoniHo], however, does appear rather thick, as he has difficulty comprehending basic text or recognize overt irony."
Well, at least Mullah AntoniHo can TYPE basic fucking text, such as adding the necessary "-ing" after a verb.
Occasionally, someone finds that the comment page is inadequate for their Razzy hating needs, so they decide to send me e-mails that are nothing short of literary masterpieces. Sometimes I respond to these, because fucking with idiots is fun. Here is an example I received while on vacation a couple of weeks ago:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: Ryan Benser (ryan3whs@msn.com)
Subject: [No Subject]
Your not hot! I am hot you are not. Why is your picture so far away from your face and in white background? Maybe so you can elude your viewers away from your real face characteristics and pasty white skin. Too bad you cant put me on your loser list huh friendster finding loser ass bitch. Maybe I am just trying to make you talk about me on your website, call me BENZ, I would sure love that. No wait this really was just to tell you that you are IN FACT not hot. I would never have sex with you or send you shit. You see the guys that are on your loser list? Those are the type of guys in your league because guess what they think your in their league because guess why?????? LOOKS
This guy was the first to assert that somehow the lab coat picture of me on the RAZZY.org main page is altered somehow to make me appear more attractive than I really am. Apart from his mastery of the run-on sentence, it was obvious to me that this dude has been humiliated by rejection one too many times in this sort of scenario:
Ryan Benser walks into a bar with his white baseball cap-wearing community college classmates and approaches hot girl.
Ryan Benser: "You're hot. Can I buy you a drink?"
Hot girl: "No thanks."
Ryan Benser: "Well, you're a stupid, ugly, loser-ass bitch and I didn't want to buy you a drink anyway! I only wanted you to think I wanted to buy you a drink, because you're so ugly! Loser-ass bitch!"
Ryan Benser goes home amid the guffaws of his fellow substandard Neanderthals and masturbates bitterly.
I figured that since it seemed Ryan wanted for some reason to be featured on the Rejects page himself (as he even went to the trouble of coming up with his own nickname), I could at least do him that favor. So I wrote back:
To: Ryan Benser (ryan3whs@msn.com)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: RE:
Well, send me your picture if you want to be mentioned on my site so badly. I'm always on the lookout for new rejects, Benz, and you seem to desperately want the job. Besides, I'd really like to see the Adonis who is so unbelievably sexy and attractive that he can remind me repeatedly what a hideous troll I am.
Ryan naturally was too much of a pussy to send me his picture, and decided to change tactics and insult my intelligence:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: Ryan Benser (ryan3whs@msn.com)
Subject: RE: RE:
Well when you shit on so many other people for the way they look I thought it only appropriate. I see your real face then I see that picture that says "tell me how hot I am" and the person in the picture looks very different. You are crazy if you think your are really going to get a picture of me. Do you think I am as stupid as I think you are for asking that question?
I had to answer that in the affirmative:
To: Ryan Benser (ryan3whs@msn.com)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: RE:
In a word, yes. You are monumentally stupid, at least if your grammar and punctuation
are any indication. "Your" is possessive. "You're" means "you are." Go back to the
second grade and learn the fucking difference before you start cluttering up my inbox
with your idiotic "I am hot your not" comments.
Morrissey'sHair was kind enough to locate Ryan Benser's profile on MySpace for me, and he is every bit the tool I imagined him to be, or as Morrissey'sHair described him "a no account thumbdick with lots of time spent in the dorm (or his room at home) gorging on mini-mart fare and soft-core porn selections." Note that he has no friends (well, except Tom, but that doesn't count), and the only thing he wants the world to know about him is that he subsists on Ramen and Gatorade. Oh, and he doesn't want kids. No worries, there, Ryan, because I can't imagine that any woman would want to sleep with a social parasite like you. You're DEFINITELY hotter than me, Benz. Way hotter:
The moral of this whole story is that if you intend to leave some hostile shit via e-mail or blog commentary, PLEASE come up with something more interesting than the same old overused fat/slut/ugly remarks I usually get. Sticks and stones may break my bones, motherfucker, but those names will only bore the shit out of me.
Labels: correspondence, defiance, free fucking speech, grammar gestapo, Morrissey'sHair, Mullah AntoniHo, ranting, Razzy Haters, retard rage
Monday, August 14, 2006
Some things never change
I love books about history, particularly concerning seafaring, immigrants, the infectious scourges of yesteryear, and wars. Right now, I'm reading a book about the American Revolution, and it includes this timeless quote from patriot Colonel Henry Knox (retriever of the guns at Ticonderoga) about the fine city I live in:
"The people--why the people are magnificent: in their carriages, which are numerous, in their house furniture, which is fine, in their pride and conceit, which are inimitable, in their profaneness, which is intolerable, in the want of principle, which is prevalent, in their Toryism, which is insufferable."
This is as true today as it was 230 years ago, excepting the "carriages" which have been largely replaced (except for the sake of tourism in Central Park) by taxis and gypsy cabs, and the "Toryism," which pretty much died down after we kicked some Redcoat ass.
Also, on another topic, I have a suggestion for all the people leaving comments or sending me e-mails characterizing me as fat, skanky, slutty, ugly, etc. As I've said before, these don't particularly bother me, as they are my karmic reward for mocking virtually everything and everybody. However, I wouldn't mind reading some new terms to negatively describe my promiscuity and general wretchedness. Another quote in this book attributed to Colonel Loammi Baldwin describes the prostitutes spreading "the fatal disorder" (ie: syphilis) all over lower Manhattan in 1776: "the whores, the trulls, these bitchfoxly jades, hags, strums...their employ which is...hell's work." It would spice things up a little if you were to call me a "bitchfoxly trull" or something like that. The terms "harlot," "strumpet," "tramp," "floozy," "trollop," or "tart" are also encouraged. Not only would these come across as more learned than the common and boring "slut" or "skank," but it would keep the insults fresh and interesting. Just a suggestion.
"The people--why the people are magnificent: in their carriages, which are numerous, in their house furniture, which is fine, in their pride and conceit, which are inimitable, in their profaneness, which is intolerable, in the want of principle, which is prevalent, in their Toryism, which is insufferable."
This is as true today as it was 230 years ago, excepting the "carriages" which have been largely replaced (except for the sake of tourism in Central Park) by taxis and gypsy cabs, and the "Toryism," which pretty much died down after we kicked some Redcoat ass.
Also, on another topic, I have a suggestion for all the people leaving comments or sending me e-mails characterizing me as fat, skanky, slutty, ugly, etc. As I've said before, these don't particularly bother me, as they are my karmic reward for mocking virtually everything and everybody. However, I wouldn't mind reading some new terms to negatively describe my promiscuity and general wretchedness. Another quote in this book attributed to Colonel Loammi Baldwin describes the prostitutes spreading "the fatal disorder" (ie: syphilis) all over lower Manhattan in 1776: "the whores, the trulls, these bitchfoxly jades, hags, strums...their employ which is...hell's work." It would spice things up a little if you were to call me a "bitchfoxly trull" or something like that. The terms "harlot," "strumpet," "tramp," "floozy," "trollop," or "tart" are also encouraged. Not only would these come across as more learned than the common and boring "slut" or "skank," but it would keep the insults fresh and interesting. Just a suggestion.
Labels: epic geekery, librophilia, NYC, Razzy Haters
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Don't blame Canada. BOMB Canada.
With unnecessary war being as in vogue as it is these days, I have a suggestion for President Bush and our chief "diplomat" Condoleeza Rice. As long as we're invading countries just for the fuck of it, and high-fiving our allies who are doing the same by hooking them up with some kickass ordnance, we might as well beat the fuck out of another country that seems peaceful (now), but is really a nefarious land of evildoers and is in our own backyard. That's right, fools...I'm talking about Canada.
Canada sucks. I'm sick of them just sitting up there, speaking fucking French and getting pissed because America is cooler. Now, all you simpering pacifist pussies out there might wonder what Canada has done to deserve total obliteration. After all, Canada is pretty chill, and they grow killer weed up there. However, the idea that Canada hasn't provoked us is erroneous. I am about to explain precisely how Canada has hit us with numerous megaton payloads of complete and total shit, inflicting damage and suffering on millions of American taxpayers. Since a lot of people will roll their eyes and defend Canada as a nation of unwashed hippie peaceniks and gruff yet friendly outdoorsy types, consider the following veritable acts of aggression and WAR:
Hockey
I am pretty sure that hockey was invented to help passive-aggressive, bitchy Franco-Canadiens vent their anger and insecurity about American superiority by hitting red-blooded American boys in the nuts with their sticks. Below is one of many examples of a Canadien preparing to slap an American opponent in the family jewels under the guise of "playing hockey":
Hockey is the crappiest sport ever to exist. Leave it to the Canucks to think that playing a sport on ICE SKATES makes you a real man. On top of that, hockey is basically soccer on ice, and there's nothing American about that. Furthermore, hockey season lasts longer than ANY OTHER SPORT. Every time I turn on SportsCenter, there's more fucking hockey highlights I don't care about. I always rejoice when I see that some dipshit team FINALLY wins the Stanley Cup, because I think it means no more hockey for a while. However, it seems like not even a month goes by, and there's Stuart Scott talking about the fucking NHL preseason, causing me to become dangerously hypertensive. Hockey is like a cancer eating away at the fabric of America.
Avril Lavigne
If there's one thing I can't stand, it's people who become famous by being tremendous posers. Avril Lavigne showed up on the radio a few years ago to torment everyone with her interpretation of "punk," and validated her "punk rocker" status by dressing like an idiot. There's no better way to say "fuck the man" than to show up on MTV (a Viacom subsidiary) and sell your record (produced and distributed by Sony BMG) in a designer sailor costume while wearing an armful of jewelry from the Hot Topic accessories department:
I HATE THIS BITCH. On top of having singularly horrendous personal style and looking like she's certifiably the biggest brat on the planet, her music makes you want to cut off your ears and gladly embrace deafness. Avril Lavigne's voice is reminiscent of a cat in heat being tortured to death by anal electrocution. Her lyrics are so trite and uninspired that she makes Britney Spears look like William Shakespeare in comparison. One of Avril's first big hits was a song called "Sk8tr boi," in which she used the anecdotal tale of her junior high crush on a skateboarder to stick it to those patriarchal assholes who insist on spelling words correctly. Nothing says "antiestablishment" like replacing phonics with numbers! Canada should have eliminated Avril from their gene pool, but instead they chose to unleash her on us, resulting in an entire generation of Americans thinking that punk rock is about yearning for dumbasses wearing Vans and junior high relationship problems. I can only hope that Avril decides to take punk posing to the next level and develop a raging heroin addiction culminating in some sort of Sid and Nancy-type scenario with her new (equally retarded Canadian) husband, Deryck Whibley of Sum41.
Canadian bacon
Some people like to eat this stuff, including my mother. I, however, can't stand it and think that America could do without it.
You might think, hey, I like Canadian bacon! It's good on pizza. Well, Persephone liked pomegranate seeds, too, and look where that got her: miserable and kicking it with Hades on the shore of the river Styx! Canadian bacon is contributing to our doom as a society, as it is Canada's way of contributing to the obesity epidemic raging through America. Canada is laughing at us while our arteries harden from consuming their ham of the damned. It's time to get this off American dinner tables!
Pamela Anderson
Most guys reading this will say, "Hey, what's wrong with Pam? She's hot!" That may be, and while we all have one health issue or another, most of us don't require regular interferon therapy. Behold, typhoid Pam:
She may be hot if you're into freakishly large fake tits (and the Mariana Trench-esque stretch marks and keloid scars which naturally result from multiple D cup plus breast augmentation surgeries), but Pamela Anderson Lee Ritchie is a wolf in skank's clothing. She is Canada's attempt to destroy us via biological warfare, as she is slowly and insidiously spreading hepatitis C throughout the American musician community. On top of acting as a covert dirty bomb spreading an incurable disease for which there is no vaccine, she also preaches the PETA gospel, making her a double threat. She's against animal research, which means that she's actively trying to thwart efforts to study and cure the disease she is killing our rock stars with.
Anne of Green Gables
Every young girl is tortured with the seemingly endless saga of this homely bitch and her boring adventures on Prince Edward Island:
Anne of Green Gables is the story of an old widowed dude and his spinster sister, who buy an orphan to work on their farm. Unfortunately, due to a mixup at the orphan brokerage house, they accidentally get this scrawny, obnoxious bitch named Anne instead of a strapping boy suited for hard labor. Apparently the orphanage has a no-returns policy, so they're stuck with Anne, who stirs up all kinds of trouble on account of her wild imagination and propensity for fighting. Eventually, however, they grow to love her and Anne leads a charmed life for another seven books. While this might not seem terribly interesting or insidious, EVERY LITTLE GIRL is forced to read these books at some time or another in her childhood. A lot of girls like these books, as they really appeal to the Little Women crowd, and after reading them, harbor inexplicable desires to move to Prince Edward Island and develop unrealistic expectations about life in general. Anne of Green Gables is damaging America, one little girl at a time.
Nickelback
In the running against Creed and Incubus for the title of "Least Credible Hard Rock Band Ever", I give you Nickelback:
Like Smash Mouth before them, Nickelback decided to piss me off by associating unbearably shitty music with a term from the coolest sport ever, football. Apart from buying their jeans pre-faded (I can just tell, those bitches didn't earn the rips in their Levis) and wearing stupid shirts, Nickelback has produced some of the worst songs ever to grace radio airwaves. For example:
"I like your pants around your feet,
And I like the dirt that's on your knees...
I like the white stains on your dress"
Ewww, gross! There's a woman out there who is actually willing to drop trou, assume a kneeling position, and get the Monica Lewinsky treatment from one of the guys in Nickelback? She must either be blind or have abysmally low self-esteem to engage in such a revolting activity. You know when an exotic species is introduced to a virgin environment and proceeds to decimate native species because they haven't evolved to cope with the newcomer, like the zebra mussel or the Asian longhorned beetle? That's what Nickelback, and by extension, Canada, is doing to American rock music.
Cheap prescription drugs
While people might think this is good by making healthcare more affordable, it as actually slowly killing us by helping the elderly live longer. This is part of Canada's plan to destroy us, as eventually all the sick but still alive old people will deplete resources at an exponential rate, thus sending our country into a terrible recession. I'm pretty sure that if there wasn't a chapter about this in Freakonomics, the authors meant to put it in.
Lilith Fair
A femmetastic vagina fest started by Canadian singer/songwriter/emotional wreck Sarah MacLachlan, Lilith Fair terrorized the summer music festival scene a few years ago by whipping uppity lesbians and unattractive women's studies majors everywhere into a frenzy of unchecked processing. Apart from advocating jeans with horrendous, pleated waistlines and popularizing a whole new assortment of butt-ugly, semi-androgynous hairstyles at Smith College, Lilith Fair gave Sarah MacLachlan the idea that she was the best thing to happen to popular music since Elvis. Furthermore, it triggered an explosion of faux social consciousness and women thinking that it's okay to start talking about their stupid feelings whenever they please. Thanks a lot, Lilith Fair. The last thing I need is to go into a bar and have some dumb bitch start preaching to me about the World Bank or debt in Africa or some other broad-reaching topic she knows jack shit about while using big words (ie: "paradigm") to sound smart...I already got my fill of that at Smith. Fortunately Lilith Fair is no more, and has ceased spreading its estrogenic gospel of hideous fashion and imitation social consciousness, but it did plenty of damage while it was around. If Lilith Fair isn't terrorism, I don't know what is.
Snow
Apparently in Jamaica they were lamenting the fact that there aren't enough skinny white Canucks performing in the dancehalls, so Snow dropped in the early '90s to fill the void:
J-Sexy told me that in his day, Snow was actually wholeheartedly embraced by Jamaicans as a king of the dancehall, and that in addition to his ridiculous U.S. hit "Informer," he did some song with Beenie Man that was huge in Kingston. However, here in the States, Snow was like the Canadian equivalent of Vanilla Ice, except worse. Snow totally screwed with international diplomacy. While we all knew that Rob "Vanilla Ice" Van Winkle was a poor imitation of a rapper with authentic street credibility, we didn't know what to make of Snow. Was he Jamaican? What was he talking about when he said "licky boom-boom down" with regard to "informing" (J-Sexy told me that in patois this means he beat up a police informant). Consequently, it was another decade before American radio embraced any Jamaican music besides Bob Marley, and most Americans though Jamaica was only about reggae, bobsledding, and saying "hey, mon." Snow thus singlehandedly screwed up any opportunity for cultural understanding between us and Jamrock for over a decade...way to go, you Canuck asshole!
Cirque du Soleil
In my opinion, a circus isn't a circus without some abused and maltreated animals being paraded around to the delight of the crowd. However, Cirque du Soleil spit on this important tradition of carny life, and instead performs numerous "circus" shows consisting mostly of a bunch of Canadians bouncing around on trampolines in leotards painted like mimes. LAME. On top of that, Cirque du Soleil tickets are like $100, so they are actively engaged in what "20/20"'s John Stossel calls "the fleecing of America." Annihilate them!
Holier-than-thou attitude about political correctness
Canadians are always trying to act like America is this big bully, while they have the market cornered on being progressive liberal bleeding hearts. However, as they spread their insidious lies about how great they are, they are hoping we don't find out that THIS is what they are actually up to in Newfoundland:
I certainly am not a fan of George Bush, but I'm also not a fan of fucking hypocrites, and that's exactly what the Canadians are in this respect. They will go on and on about how great the Grits (liberal) party is, and how fucking progressive and enlightened they are, what with their socialized medicine and outward appearance of being tree-hugging pacifists. If they are so enlightened, then they need to explain WHY they are clubbing and skinning over one million baby Harp seals alive! Allegedly, these seals are harming commercial fishing by feeding themselves, and this warrants clubbing baby seals to death. I hate animals (except dogs) and this is appalling even to me. The Canadians are engaging in a smear campaign against America, making it seem like we are these boorish dicks destroying the environment, when they are JUST AS BAD, IF NOT WORSE! I say we send some National Guardsmen up there to bludgeon their smug asses, because it's the only appropriate comeuppance for making us look bad.
The Barenaked Ladies
Don't let their name fool you. Though their masculinity is indeed a matter of debate, the Barenaked Ladies have never actually appeared barenaked, which saves us all from being irreparably traumatized. However, they have tortured millions of people with both their impossibly irritating pop rock and their hamhanded attempts at comic pop culture commentary on "I Love the 80s Strikes Back"-type Vh1 shows. Most people find their music and general presence so annoying, that if a person listens to a Barenaked Ladies song and subsequently commits cold-blooded murder, they could use Barenaked Lady-induced temporary insanity as a viable defense. I once saw the Barenaked Ladies in concert (I was in college, and a friend dragged me along AND got me a free ticket, so don't think that this was my idea of a fun night out), and I can verify that in person they are just as fat and/or ugly as they appear in pictures. If the Barenaked Ladies' infiltration of American radio isn't some sort of a non-aggression pact violation, I don't know what is.
As I said before, Canada sucks and is currently fucking with America in every aspect of our culture. If we don't take action now, by the time we wise up to their scheme to absorb the goold old U.S. of A. and turn it into "Southern Canada" it will be too late. Are you listening, President Bush? Let's give those hosers the same treatment Israel is giving Hezbollah and bomb their pasty asses into oblivion! USA! USA! USA!
P.S.-Extra credit to Morrissey'sHair for helping me round out my list of reasons to get my anti-Canadian warmongering on.
Canada sucks. I'm sick of them just sitting up there, speaking fucking French and getting pissed because America is cooler. Now, all you simpering pacifist pussies out there might wonder what Canada has done to deserve total obliteration. After all, Canada is pretty chill, and they grow killer weed up there. However, the idea that Canada hasn't provoked us is erroneous. I am about to explain precisely how Canada has hit us with numerous megaton payloads of complete and total shit, inflicting damage and suffering on millions of American taxpayers. Since a lot of people will roll their eyes and defend Canada as a nation of unwashed hippie peaceniks and gruff yet friendly outdoorsy types, consider the following veritable acts of aggression and WAR:
Hockey
I am pretty sure that hockey was invented to help passive-aggressive, bitchy Franco-Canadiens vent their anger and insecurity about American superiority by hitting red-blooded American boys in the nuts with their sticks. Below is one of many examples of a Canadien preparing to slap an American opponent in the family jewels under the guise of "playing hockey":
Hockey is the crappiest sport ever to exist. Leave it to the Canucks to think that playing a sport on ICE SKATES makes you a real man. On top of that, hockey is basically soccer on ice, and there's nothing American about that. Furthermore, hockey season lasts longer than ANY OTHER SPORT. Every time I turn on SportsCenter, there's more fucking hockey highlights I don't care about. I always rejoice when I see that some dipshit team FINALLY wins the Stanley Cup, because I think it means no more hockey for a while. However, it seems like not even a month goes by, and there's Stuart Scott talking about the fucking NHL preseason, causing me to become dangerously hypertensive. Hockey is like a cancer eating away at the fabric of America.
Avril Lavigne
If there's one thing I can't stand, it's people who become famous by being tremendous posers. Avril Lavigne showed up on the radio a few years ago to torment everyone with her interpretation of "punk," and validated her "punk rocker" status by dressing like an idiot. There's no better way to say "fuck the man" than to show up on MTV (a Viacom subsidiary) and sell your record (produced and distributed by Sony BMG) in a designer sailor costume while wearing an armful of jewelry from the Hot Topic accessories department:
I HATE THIS BITCH. On top of having singularly horrendous personal style and looking like she's certifiably the biggest brat on the planet, her music makes you want to cut off your ears and gladly embrace deafness. Avril Lavigne's voice is reminiscent of a cat in heat being tortured to death by anal electrocution. Her lyrics are so trite and uninspired that she makes Britney Spears look like William Shakespeare in comparison. One of Avril's first big hits was a song called "Sk8tr boi," in which she used the anecdotal tale of her junior high crush on a skateboarder to stick it to those patriarchal assholes who insist on spelling words correctly. Nothing says "antiestablishment" like replacing phonics with numbers! Canada should have eliminated Avril from their gene pool, but instead they chose to unleash her on us, resulting in an entire generation of Americans thinking that punk rock is about yearning for dumbasses wearing Vans and junior high relationship problems. I can only hope that Avril decides to take punk posing to the next level and develop a raging heroin addiction culminating in some sort of Sid and Nancy-type scenario with her new (equally retarded Canadian) husband, Deryck Whibley of Sum41.
Canadian bacon
Some people like to eat this stuff, including my mother. I, however, can't stand it and think that America could do without it.
You might think, hey, I like Canadian bacon! It's good on pizza. Well, Persephone liked pomegranate seeds, too, and look where that got her: miserable and kicking it with Hades on the shore of the river Styx! Canadian bacon is contributing to our doom as a society, as it is Canada's way of contributing to the obesity epidemic raging through America. Canada is laughing at us while our arteries harden from consuming their ham of the damned. It's time to get this off American dinner tables!
Pamela Anderson
Most guys reading this will say, "Hey, what's wrong with Pam? She's hot!" That may be, and while we all have one health issue or another, most of us don't require regular interferon therapy. Behold, typhoid Pam:
She may be hot if you're into freakishly large fake tits (and the Mariana Trench-esque stretch marks and keloid scars which naturally result from multiple D cup plus breast augmentation surgeries), but Pamela Anderson Lee Ritchie is a wolf in skank's clothing. She is Canada's attempt to destroy us via biological warfare, as she is slowly and insidiously spreading hepatitis C throughout the American musician community. On top of acting as a covert dirty bomb spreading an incurable disease for which there is no vaccine, she also preaches the PETA gospel, making her a double threat. She's against animal research, which means that she's actively trying to thwart efforts to study and cure the disease she is killing our rock stars with.
Anne of Green Gables
Every young girl is tortured with the seemingly endless saga of this homely bitch and her boring adventures on Prince Edward Island:
Anne of Green Gables is the story of an old widowed dude and his spinster sister, who buy an orphan to work on their farm. Unfortunately, due to a mixup at the orphan brokerage house, they accidentally get this scrawny, obnoxious bitch named Anne instead of a strapping boy suited for hard labor. Apparently the orphanage has a no-returns policy, so they're stuck with Anne, who stirs up all kinds of trouble on account of her wild imagination and propensity for fighting. Eventually, however, they grow to love her and Anne leads a charmed life for another seven books. While this might not seem terribly interesting or insidious, EVERY LITTLE GIRL is forced to read these books at some time or another in her childhood. A lot of girls like these books, as they really appeal to the Little Women crowd, and after reading them, harbor inexplicable desires to move to Prince Edward Island and develop unrealistic expectations about life in general. Anne of Green Gables is damaging America, one little girl at a time.
Nickelback
In the running against Creed and Incubus for the title of "Least Credible Hard Rock Band Ever", I give you Nickelback:
Like Smash Mouth before them, Nickelback decided to piss me off by associating unbearably shitty music with a term from the coolest sport ever, football. Apart from buying their jeans pre-faded (I can just tell, those bitches didn't earn the rips in their Levis) and wearing stupid shirts, Nickelback has produced some of the worst songs ever to grace radio airwaves. For example:
"I like your pants around your feet,
And I like the dirt that's on your knees...
I like the white stains on your dress"
Ewww, gross! There's a woman out there who is actually willing to drop trou, assume a kneeling position, and get the Monica Lewinsky treatment from one of the guys in Nickelback? She must either be blind or have abysmally low self-esteem to engage in such a revolting activity. You know when an exotic species is introduced to a virgin environment and proceeds to decimate native species because they haven't evolved to cope with the newcomer, like the zebra mussel or the Asian longhorned beetle? That's what Nickelback, and by extension, Canada, is doing to American rock music.
Cheap prescription drugs
While people might think this is good by making healthcare more affordable, it as actually slowly killing us by helping the elderly live longer. This is part of Canada's plan to destroy us, as eventually all the sick but still alive old people will deplete resources at an exponential rate, thus sending our country into a terrible recession. I'm pretty sure that if there wasn't a chapter about this in Freakonomics, the authors meant to put it in.
Lilith Fair
A femmetastic vagina fest started by Canadian singer/songwriter/emotional wreck Sarah MacLachlan, Lilith Fair terrorized the summer music festival scene a few years ago by whipping uppity lesbians and unattractive women's studies majors everywhere into a frenzy of unchecked processing. Apart from advocating jeans with horrendous, pleated waistlines and popularizing a whole new assortment of butt-ugly, semi-androgynous hairstyles at Smith College, Lilith Fair gave Sarah MacLachlan the idea that she was the best thing to happen to popular music since Elvis. Furthermore, it triggered an explosion of faux social consciousness and women thinking that it's okay to start talking about their stupid feelings whenever they please. Thanks a lot, Lilith Fair. The last thing I need is to go into a bar and have some dumb bitch start preaching to me about the World Bank or debt in Africa or some other broad-reaching topic she knows jack shit about while using big words (ie: "paradigm") to sound smart...I already got my fill of that at Smith. Fortunately Lilith Fair is no more, and has ceased spreading its estrogenic gospel of hideous fashion and imitation social consciousness, but it did plenty of damage while it was around. If Lilith Fair isn't terrorism, I don't know what is.
Snow
Apparently in Jamaica they were lamenting the fact that there aren't enough skinny white Canucks performing in the dancehalls, so Snow dropped in the early '90s to fill the void:
J-Sexy told me that in his day, Snow was actually wholeheartedly embraced by Jamaicans as a king of the dancehall, and that in addition to his ridiculous U.S. hit "Informer," he did some song with Beenie Man that was huge in Kingston. However, here in the States, Snow was like the Canadian equivalent of Vanilla Ice, except worse. Snow totally screwed with international diplomacy. While we all knew that Rob "Vanilla Ice" Van Winkle was a poor imitation of a rapper with authentic street credibility, we didn't know what to make of Snow. Was he Jamaican? What was he talking about when he said "licky boom-boom down" with regard to "informing" (J-Sexy told me that in patois this means he beat up a police informant). Consequently, it was another decade before American radio embraced any Jamaican music besides Bob Marley, and most Americans though Jamaica was only about reggae, bobsledding, and saying "hey, mon." Snow thus singlehandedly screwed up any opportunity for cultural understanding between us and Jamrock for over a decade...way to go, you Canuck asshole!
Cirque du Soleil
In my opinion, a circus isn't a circus without some abused and maltreated animals being paraded around to the delight of the crowd. However, Cirque du Soleil spit on this important tradition of carny life, and instead performs numerous "circus" shows consisting mostly of a bunch of Canadians bouncing around on trampolines in leotards painted like mimes. LAME. On top of that, Cirque du Soleil tickets are like $100, so they are actively engaged in what "20/20"'s John Stossel calls "the fleecing of America." Annihilate them!
Holier-than-thou attitude about political correctness
Canadians are always trying to act like America is this big bully, while they have the market cornered on being progressive liberal bleeding hearts. However, as they spread their insidious lies about how great they are, they are hoping we don't find out that THIS is what they are actually up to in Newfoundland:
I certainly am not a fan of George Bush, but I'm also not a fan of fucking hypocrites, and that's exactly what the Canadians are in this respect. They will go on and on about how great the Grits (liberal) party is, and how fucking progressive and enlightened they are, what with their socialized medicine and outward appearance of being tree-hugging pacifists. If they are so enlightened, then they need to explain WHY they are clubbing and skinning over one million baby Harp seals alive! Allegedly, these seals are harming commercial fishing by feeding themselves, and this warrants clubbing baby seals to death. I hate animals (except dogs) and this is appalling even to me. The Canadians are engaging in a smear campaign against America, making it seem like we are these boorish dicks destroying the environment, when they are JUST AS BAD, IF NOT WORSE! I say we send some National Guardsmen up there to bludgeon their smug asses, because it's the only appropriate comeuppance for making us look bad.
The Barenaked Ladies
Don't let their name fool you. Though their masculinity is indeed a matter of debate, the Barenaked Ladies have never actually appeared barenaked, which saves us all from being irreparably traumatized. However, they have tortured millions of people with both their impossibly irritating pop rock and their hamhanded attempts at comic pop culture commentary on "I Love the 80s Strikes Back"-type Vh1 shows. Most people find their music and general presence so annoying, that if a person listens to a Barenaked Ladies song and subsequently commits cold-blooded murder, they could use Barenaked Lady-induced temporary insanity as a viable defense. I once saw the Barenaked Ladies in concert (I was in college, and a friend dragged me along AND got me a free ticket, so don't think that this was my idea of a fun night out), and I can verify that in person they are just as fat and/or ugly as they appear in pictures. If the Barenaked Ladies' infiltration of American radio isn't some sort of a non-aggression pact violation, I don't know what is.
As I said before, Canada sucks and is currently fucking with America in every aspect of our culture. If we don't take action now, by the time we wise up to their scheme to absorb the goold old U.S. of A. and turn it into "Southern Canada" it will be too late. Are you listening, President Bush? Let's give those hosers the same treatment Israel is giving Hezbollah and bomb their pasty asses into oblivion! USA! USA! USA!
P.S.-Extra credit to Morrissey'sHair for helping me round out my list of reasons to get my anti-Canadian warmongering on.
Labels: Canucks, international intrigue, ranting, retard rage, tyrannical rulers
Thursday, August 10, 2006
The smallest member of the wedding party
My dear friend LL Cool Jew is marrying BigBagel next spring, and thankfully, they're not going to do it on some post-Katrina reconstruction casino barge in the Dirrty Dirrty. In fact, I was excited to hear that they are doing it here on the very island I live on, so I can just hop the A-train in what will undoubtedly be a tastefully slutty bridesmaid outfit. However, that's a few months away. Right now, like all brides-to-be, she is busy planning the many details of the event (aside from the whole stepping on the glass and shouting "mazel tov" thing, which pretty much plans itself). One of these details concerns the tiniest member of the bridal party: Dulcinea, LL's long-haired chihuahua.
Trusting my judgment, LL Cool Jew made a request ("weigh in, sister") for my opinion regarding the outfit the D will be rocking as she alternately tiptoes, shivers with fright, and pisses herself while heading down the aisle.
Should it be the simple bride costume? A drawback of this is that yellow liquids will easily show up on and stain white sparkly chiffon.
Or should she wear a more involved bride outfit, complete with what my friend Neo called "fake fucking Cabbage Patch Kid hands" and a veil? I anticipate that the veil might quickly become a chew toy, or as Dulcinea likes to call them, a "grossie."
Or the more streamlined ring bearer costume, complete with authentic sombrero in tribute to Dulcinea's Mexican heritage? Taco, taco!
I voted for anything, so long as it includes the sombrero. Regardless of what the D is sporting, one thing is for certain: it's going to be REALLY REALLY ridiculously adorable.
What do you guys think???
Trusting my judgment, LL Cool Jew made a request ("weigh in, sister") for my opinion regarding the outfit the D will be rocking as she alternately tiptoes, shivers with fright, and pisses herself while heading down the aisle.
Should it be the simple bride costume? A drawback of this is that yellow liquids will easily show up on and stain white sparkly chiffon.
Or should she wear a more involved bride outfit, complete with what my friend Neo called "fake fucking Cabbage Patch Kid hands" and a veil? I anticipate that the veil might quickly become a chew toy, or as Dulcinea likes to call them, a "grossie."
Or the more streamlined ring bearer costume, complete with authentic sombrero in tribute to Dulcinea's Mexican heritage? Taco, taco!
I voted for anything, so long as it includes the sombrero. Regardless of what the D is sporting, one thing is for certain: it's going to be REALLY REALLY ridiculously adorable.
What do you guys think???
Labels: Dirrty Dirrty, doggity style, holy fucking matrimony, LL Cool Jew, the D
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Digital cable channel guide descriptions are patently false
I worked quite late tonight trying to catch up on all the lab action I missed while enjoying twelve days of blissfully grad school-free beer drinking, sleeping late, getting a killer tan, and generally lazing about. So when I got home and finished walking the dogs a few minutes ago, I decided to catch up on a little crappy TV watching.
I realized while flipping through the channel guide that is supposedly one of the perks to a digital cable subscription that this thing is fucking worthless. For example, this is what the channel guide had to say about tonight's episode of "Sex and the City" on TBS:
Episode: One. Carrie has a rendezvous in the exotic world of art; Charlotte receives some surprise news; Miranda and Steve celebrate Brady's first birthday; Samantha tries to preserve her youth.
This is the worst description of this "Sex and the City" episode ever. I've seen most of the "Sex and the City" episodes at one time or another, and I happen to know that in this episode something entirely different happens. If I were a channel guide episode description writer, I would come up with something a little more accurate, like this:
Episode: One. Carrie goes to a pretentious performance art exhibition and meets a famous and righteously old Russian artist played by former ballerina Mikhail Baryshnikov who then force-feeds her aspic like a foie gras goose; Charlotte has a miscarriage, after which she spirals into a deep depression curable only by watching Elizabeth Taylor's E! True Hollywood Story; Miranda and Steve ditch both of their disproportionately hot significant others after they hook up in the laundry room over their bastard spawn's birthday cake; Samantha discovers a gray pubic hair and accidentally dyes her short-and-curlies bozo clown red in her desperation to make her pussy look younger.
Okay, I realize that it's not quite as pithy as the channel guide version, but it certainly is more compelling and honest. Furthermore, with the convenient "page down" feature available on most common digital cable remote controls, there is no need to be limited by length. The channel guide needs to get its act together.
Here is another example. This is what the channel guide says about tonight's episode of "Criss Angel: Mindfreak" on A&E:
Episode: Building Walk. Criss attempts to walk down the side of a building.
Although this is relatively straightforward, it is a poor and almost misleading description of what actually awaits the television viewer who flips to "Criss Angel: Mindfreak." This is a more accurate summary:
Episode: Building Walk. Criss "Christoper Sarantakos" Angel spends twenty-five minutes trying desperately to out-David Blaine David Blaine: tousles his Robert Smith meets Edward Scissorhands hairstyle, puts on eyeliner, polishes his edgy body jewelry, cranks up his Disturbed CD, speaks in nonsensical riddles to enhance his master of mystery routine, makes at least five "don't try this at home, I am the only professional tool qualified to do them" liability disclaimers, and sells pull-a-quarter-out-from-behind-your-ear snake oil magic tricks to elicit cries of awe frome a bunch of obese tourists buying stupid t-shirts at whatever casino employs his bitch-ass. Then in the last ninety seconds and while the credits roll he attempts to walk down the side of a building.
It couldn't hurt to put a thumbnail photo of Criss Angel on the channel guide, so that people know EXACTLY what an obnoxious prick he is. Would you watch this show if you knew it meant watching this asshole do THIS for 30 minutes?
I would DEFINITELY know to steer clear of "Criss Angel: Mindfreak" if the channel guide were kind enough to indicate that it involves 30 minutes watching the bastard child of John Rambo and the manager of the Sea-Tac Mall Hot Topic preen himself. I wouldn't even look at this shit long enough to notice that the motherfucker is wearing a BROWN belt with BLACK jeans and combining that with what looks like 50 Cent's training bling. Once again, the channel guide is woefully inadequate for my shitty TV informational needs.
Another inaccurate guide entry is the information for "Celebrity Wedding Secrets" on Vh1. The channel guide tells me that this show is as follows:
Celebrity Weddings. Details from the year's celebrity nuptials.
Looking at this, you might think this show documents the tedious minutiae of some famous person's expensive wedding, like talking about the centerpieces or the cake. This, however, is a more apt record of "Celebrity Wedding Secrets:"
Celebrity Weddings. Q-list comedians, self-important bloggers, ex-supporting cast members from sitcoms of yesteryear, desperate-for-free-marketing wedding planners/starfucking sycophants, and former Vh1 reality stars (ie: Wendy the Snapple Lady) bitterly opine about Sir Elton John's life partner ceremony, then attempt to compensate for their shamelessly exposed jealousy issues by guffawing at their own lame jokes.
Now THAT is something I would watch, if only to mock Vh1's heavy-handed pop culture punditry. The channel guide really needs to get its act together. If anyone at Time Warner Cable is reading this, would you kindly pass my suggestion on to the channel guide department that including snappy language in their episode summaries would ultimately prove a boon for the digital cable industry? People would feel more confident relying on the channel guide, and consequently would watch more cable television. Furthermore, people would likely upgrade to channel guide-having digital cable if they knew that there was an entertaining yet informative consumer tool like a Razzified channel guide included in the package. Better channel guide descriptions would benefit everyone. I expect it's only a matter of time before the higher ups at Time Warner are blowing up my cell phone trying to hire me.
I realized while flipping through the channel guide that is supposedly one of the perks to a digital cable subscription that this thing is fucking worthless. For example, this is what the channel guide had to say about tonight's episode of "Sex and the City" on TBS:
Episode: One. Carrie has a rendezvous in the exotic world of art; Charlotte receives some surprise news; Miranda and Steve celebrate Brady's first birthday; Samantha tries to preserve her youth.
This is the worst description of this "Sex and the City" episode ever. I've seen most of the "Sex and the City" episodes at one time or another, and I happen to know that in this episode something entirely different happens. If I were a channel guide episode description writer, I would come up with something a little more accurate, like this:
Episode: One. Carrie goes to a pretentious performance art exhibition and meets a famous and righteously old Russian artist played by former ballerina Mikhail Baryshnikov who then force-feeds her aspic like a foie gras goose; Charlotte has a miscarriage, after which she spirals into a deep depression curable only by watching Elizabeth Taylor's E! True Hollywood Story; Miranda and Steve ditch both of their disproportionately hot significant others after they hook up in the laundry room over their bastard spawn's birthday cake; Samantha discovers a gray pubic hair and accidentally dyes her short-and-curlies bozo clown red in her desperation to make her pussy look younger.
Okay, I realize that it's not quite as pithy as the channel guide version, but it certainly is more compelling and honest. Furthermore, with the convenient "page down" feature available on most common digital cable remote controls, there is no need to be limited by length. The channel guide needs to get its act together.
Here is another example. This is what the channel guide says about tonight's episode of "Criss Angel: Mindfreak" on A&E:
Episode: Building Walk. Criss attempts to walk down the side of a building.
Although this is relatively straightforward, it is a poor and almost misleading description of what actually awaits the television viewer who flips to "Criss Angel: Mindfreak." This is a more accurate summary:
Episode: Building Walk. Criss "Christoper Sarantakos" Angel spends twenty-five minutes trying desperately to out-David Blaine David Blaine: tousles his Robert Smith meets Edward Scissorhands hairstyle, puts on eyeliner, polishes his edgy body jewelry, cranks up his Disturbed CD, speaks in nonsensical riddles to enhance his master of mystery routine, makes at least five "don't try this at home, I am the only professional tool qualified to do them" liability disclaimers, and sells pull-a-quarter-out-from-behind-your-ear snake oil magic tricks to elicit cries of awe frome a bunch of obese tourists buying stupid t-shirts at whatever casino employs his bitch-ass. Then in the last ninety seconds and while the credits roll he attempts to walk down the side of a building.
It couldn't hurt to put a thumbnail photo of Criss Angel on the channel guide, so that people know EXACTLY what an obnoxious prick he is. Would you watch this show if you knew it meant watching this asshole do THIS for 30 minutes?
I would DEFINITELY know to steer clear of "Criss Angel: Mindfreak" if the channel guide were kind enough to indicate that it involves 30 minutes watching the bastard child of John Rambo and the manager of the Sea-Tac Mall Hot Topic preen himself. I wouldn't even look at this shit long enough to notice that the motherfucker is wearing a BROWN belt with BLACK jeans and combining that with what looks like 50 Cent's training bling. Once again, the channel guide is woefully inadequate for my shitty TV informational needs.
Another inaccurate guide entry is the information for "Celebrity Wedding Secrets" on Vh1. The channel guide tells me that this show is as follows:
Celebrity Weddings. Details from the year's celebrity nuptials.
Looking at this, you might think this show documents the tedious minutiae of some famous person's expensive wedding, like talking about the centerpieces or the cake. This, however, is a more apt record of "Celebrity Wedding Secrets:"
Celebrity Weddings. Q-list comedians, self-important bloggers, ex-supporting cast members from sitcoms of yesteryear, desperate-for-free-marketing wedding planners/starfucking sycophants, and former Vh1 reality stars (ie: Wendy the Snapple Lady) bitterly opine about Sir Elton John's life partner ceremony, then attempt to compensate for their shamelessly exposed jealousy issues by guffawing at their own lame jokes.
Now THAT is something I would watch, if only to mock Vh1's heavy-handed pop culture punditry. The channel guide really needs to get its act together. If anyone at Time Warner Cable is reading this, would you kindly pass my suggestion on to the channel guide department that including snappy language in their episode summaries would ultimately prove a boon for the digital cable industry? People would feel more confident relying on the channel guide, and consequently would watch more cable television. Furthermore, people would likely upgrade to channel guide-having digital cable if they knew that there was an entertaining yet informative consumer tool like a Razzified channel guide included in the package. Better channel guide descriptions would benefit everyone. I expect it's only a matter of time before the higher ups at Time Warner are blowing up my cell phone trying to hire me.
Labels: celebrities, Criss Angel, Sex and the City, TV, Vh1
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
America's Next Topless Model: The Short Film
A few months back, my buddies KatieScarlett and BloodyTosser, AKA Kate and Camilla, hired me to model naked for this pretentious nudey website called Uberbelle.com. The guy from Uberbelle never put up my pictures on his site. I may not have been Uberbelle material, being that I am not a sour-faced, emaciated Czechoslovakian teenager, which describes the majority of naked bitches on that site. Also, I think that my irreverent and cheeky replies on my Uberbelle biography questionnaire may have turned off the pompous, self-congratulatory fucktard who penned this welcome message:
"Welcome to Uberbelle.com. Not your father's Erotica. Dedicated to the photography of sexy women. And the innate beauty in the nude form. Uberbelle.com pushes fashion photography into the world of art. Or is it the other way around?"
Whoa, Mr. Uberbelle, you sure turned the tables on your audience! They won't know whether they're looking at pornography or art, and they'll just be confused as to whether they should jerk off or feel patronized. That's an excellent way to sell $9.95 per month memberships. I suppose added incentive is the "Uberlists" section that the Uberbelle website describes as "a nutritious side of pop culture." In these Uberlists, the Uberbelle editorial staff tell everyone what to like, because they're certainly in a position to speak with authority, as they have *impeccable* taste. For example, a man who describes himself as a writer in Kentucky working on a novel about his "self-built family car lot's legacy falling into Faulknerian decline" gives us a scintillating review of a Toad the Wet Sprocket concert. Another idiot who describes himself as a "self-styled pop culture provocateur" begins a review of Green Day's Dookie album with this topic sentence straight out of a junior high book report: "It would be easy to write an essay considering Green Day’s breakthrough record, Dookie, as a pivotal moment in the evolution of modern rock music. The angles are limitless for such an analysis." Not only are these assholes supercilious, inflated peacocks who probably wear boxy glasses and read Sartre to look smart, but I don't need to pay $10 a month to have some prick grace me with a numbingly dull rundown about a CD that everyone in my high school sophomore class had, and then have the audacity to imply that it's an incentive.
Anyway, I don't give a shit if Uberbelle ever puts me up or not, because every time I flip to it, it buries the needle on my moron detector and I still got paid. Plus, it's Uberbelle's loss not putting me up there, because my Alexa ranking is considerably lower than theirs, which means that I get more traffic. As of today, RAZZY.org's Alexa ranking is 193,289. That means I'm the 193,289th most visited site on the internet. It's not that impressive, but Uberbelle's Alexa ranking is 235,136. That means I'm owning Uberbelle traffic-wise to the tune of 41,847 websites. So kiss my ass, Uberbitches!
I still had a lot of fun doing the photo shoot with Kate and Camilla, though, because Kate is one of my best friends and Camilla is extremely cool, and we all got drunk. During the shoot, we got to talking about (one of the best shows in the history of reality television) "America's Next Top Model," and how that dumbass Jade couldn't get her shit together to film a decent commercial for Cover Girl TruBlend powder foundation. Somehow, this ended up in them breaking out the video camera and filming me drunkenly hamming it up, including bongo drumming on my beer belly, can-canning with my tits, and staggering around with a bottle of Heineken acting like an asshole. Apparently this was funny, because they turned it into an entry on their video blog. Behold, Razzy in her native state (topless and intoxicated):
"Welcome to Uberbelle.com. Not your father's Erotica. Dedicated to the photography of sexy women. And the innate beauty in the nude form. Uberbelle.com pushes fashion photography into the world of art. Or is it the other way around?"
Whoa, Mr. Uberbelle, you sure turned the tables on your audience! They won't know whether they're looking at pornography or art, and they'll just be confused as to whether they should jerk off or feel patronized. That's an excellent way to sell $9.95 per month memberships. I suppose added incentive is the "Uberlists" section that the Uberbelle website describes as "a nutritious side of pop culture." In these Uberlists, the Uberbelle editorial staff tell everyone what to like, because they're certainly in a position to speak with authority, as they have *impeccable* taste. For example, a man who describes himself as a writer in Kentucky working on a novel about his "self-built family car lot's legacy falling into Faulknerian decline" gives us a scintillating review of a Toad the Wet Sprocket concert. Another idiot who describes himself as a "self-styled pop culture provocateur" begins a review of Green Day's Dookie album with this topic sentence straight out of a junior high book report: "It would be easy to write an essay considering Green Day’s breakthrough record, Dookie, as a pivotal moment in the evolution of modern rock music. The angles are limitless for such an analysis." Not only are these assholes supercilious, inflated peacocks who probably wear boxy glasses and read Sartre to look smart, but I don't need to pay $10 a month to have some prick grace me with a numbingly dull rundown about a CD that everyone in my high school sophomore class had, and then have the audacity to imply that it's an incentive.
Anyway, I don't give a shit if Uberbelle ever puts me up or not, because every time I flip to it, it buries the needle on my moron detector and I still got paid. Plus, it's Uberbelle's loss not putting me up there, because my Alexa ranking is considerably lower than theirs, which means that I get more traffic. As of today, RAZZY.org's Alexa ranking is 193,289. That means I'm the 193,289th most visited site on the internet. It's not that impressive, but Uberbelle's Alexa ranking is 235,136. That means I'm owning Uberbelle traffic-wise to the tune of 41,847 websites. So kiss my ass, Uberbitches!
I still had a lot of fun doing the photo shoot with Kate and Camilla, though, because Kate is one of my best friends and Camilla is extremely cool, and we all got drunk. During the shoot, we got to talking about (one of the best shows in the history of reality television) "America's Next Top Model," and how that dumbass Jade couldn't get her shit together to film a decent commercial for Cover Girl TruBlend powder foundation. Somehow, this ended up in them breaking out the video camera and filming me drunkenly hamming it up, including bongo drumming on my beer belly, can-canning with my tits, and staggering around with a bottle of Heineken acting like an asshole. Apparently this was funny, because they turned it into an entry on their video blog. Behold, Razzy in her native state (topless and intoxicated):
Labels: alcoholism, America's Next Top Model, BloodyTosser, creative projects, KatieScarlett, nudity, Razzification
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Pug bowling
MillerTime pointed out this video to me the other day. I'm going to have to try this with Chingy! when I get home, although the pug shown here is considerably more energetic and svelte:
Pugs are hilarious, particularly when filmed doing stupid, stilly shit to the tune of a Spanglish rendering of "Hotel California." Pugs are just funny fucking dogs. I can't wait to get back to Harlem and see that fat, stanky little luau pig of a dog. Chongay chong!
Pugs are hilarious, particularly when filmed doing stupid, stilly shit to the tune of a Spanglish rendering of "Hotel California." Pugs are just funny fucking dogs. I can't wait to get back to Harlem and see that fat, stanky little luau pig of a dog. Chongay chong!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, hilarious shit, ridiculous absurdity
Friday, August 04, 2006
Must be the money
You may be unaware that Deion Sanders attempted to have a music career in the early '90s, complete with an extremely coiffed fade and a troupe of rather clumsy dancers dressed like that woman from C+C Music Factory (who later got busted for lip syncing). Anyway, I strongly recommend checking out his video for "Must Be the Money", which the R-uh was kind enough to dig out of the internet trash heap for me.
It's funny, because anyone who ever saw Deion commentating on CBS and obviously battling with Michael Irvin over the most ridiculous camel hair-and-purple suit to wear on national television will know that Deion's personal style hasn't changed all that much. Sure, he's updated the accessories a bit, but the basics are still there. Fuschia suit? Check. Unnecessary bling? Check. Gators on his feet? You fucking know it.
It's funny, because anyone who ever saw Deion commentating on CBS and obviously battling with Michael Irvin over the most ridiculous camel hair-and-purple suit to wear on national television will know that Deion's personal style hasn't changed all that much. Sure, he's updated the accessories a bit, but the basics are still there. Fuschia suit? Check. Unnecessary bling? Check. Gators on his feet? You fucking know it.
Labels: celebrities, hilarious shit, NFL football, Prime Time, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Thursday, August 03, 2006
The official snack of hip-hop
Last night, I was having beers with my old high school buddies Mullah AntoniHo, Morrissey'sHair, and Sexxica at some bar in Seattle. Upon realizing that this particular bar was cash only, Morrissey'sHair ran across the street to hit the ATM at what appeared to be a snotty Seattle convenience store (ie: Mullah AntoniHo told me they have a ridiculous wine selection). He took a long time, and the rest of us were wondering what was keeping him. When he returned, he had a couple bags of chips with him. However, he was quick to point out that these weren't just ANY chips...they were certifiably the most pimpinest chips I've ever seen. I give you RAP SNACKS:
Morrissey'sHair gave me the YoungBloodZ Southern Crunk Barbeque flavor so that I might "get crunk," while he took the allegedly "extra hot" Murphy Lee Red Hot Ripletts flavor, presumably to enhance his "pimp education." He explained that he'd chosen these flavors over the other Rap Snacks offerings, including Lil' Romeo Bar-B-Qin Wit My Honey flavor and Master P Platinum Bar-B-Q. I assume that the store didn't have the line of Chopper (as in that hideously unattractive guy from MTV's "Making the Band 2" who was always pissing off Puff Daddy with his argumentative attitude and indolent work ethic) pork rinds that the Rap Snacks website also sells. I suppose that Ham-'n-Cheese or Hot Sauce flavored pork rinds don't suit the average soy latte drinking Seattlite's palate. Although the Rap Snacks line appears to depend exclusively on its consumers' ability to discriminate between different shades of barbecue, it has apparently been around since 1994 promoting a rotating cast of rappers and flavors (which explains now-retired flavors such as Warren G Cheezie Nacho, Mack 10 Red Hot Cheddar Cheese, and Big Tymers Sour Cream and Dill.) We could find very little difference in the subtleties of the barbecue flavors between the YoungBloodZ and Murphy Lizzle, except that the former was slightly more vinegary, and the latter slightly more spicy and ridged.
We were reading the biographies of the YoungBloodZ and Murphy Lizzle on the back of our Rap Snacks bags, and I found approximately 15 spelling and punctuation errors. At the Rap Snacks website today, I learned that the mission of the Rap Snacks brand is to encourage consumers in urban markets to pursue education and literacy. Certainly this a noble and positive message, but I would advise the Rap Snacks marketing department to HIT FUCKING F7 AND SPELL CHECK THAT SHIT before they decide to sell them nationally.
Unfortunately, the Rap Snacks were kind of gross, and we didn't particularly want to devour an entire bag of them, so we left them outside for some homeless people to enjoy next to the decorative tile of parasitic fungi that seem to decorate every street corner on Eastlake Ave. But next time you're cruising by your local bodega, I highly recommend checking the snack aisle for some Rap Snacks, just because they're an awesome concept, and because as they say, they are "the official snack of hip hop." Get crunk!
Morrissey'sHair gave me the YoungBloodZ Southern Crunk Barbeque flavor so that I might "get crunk," while he took the allegedly "extra hot" Murphy Lee Red Hot Ripletts flavor, presumably to enhance his "pimp education." He explained that he'd chosen these flavors over the other Rap Snacks offerings, including Lil' Romeo Bar-B-Qin Wit My Honey flavor and Master P Platinum Bar-B-Q. I assume that the store didn't have the line of Chopper (as in that hideously unattractive guy from MTV's "Making the Band 2" who was always pissing off Puff Daddy with his argumentative attitude and indolent work ethic) pork rinds that the Rap Snacks website also sells. I suppose that Ham-'n-Cheese or Hot Sauce flavored pork rinds don't suit the average soy latte drinking Seattlite's palate. Although the Rap Snacks line appears to depend exclusively on its consumers' ability to discriminate between different shades of barbecue, it has apparently been around since 1994 promoting a rotating cast of rappers and flavors (which explains now-retired flavors such as Warren G Cheezie Nacho, Mack 10 Red Hot Cheddar Cheese, and Big Tymers Sour Cream and Dill.) We could find very little difference in the subtleties of the barbecue flavors between the YoungBloodZ and Murphy Lizzle, except that the former was slightly more vinegary, and the latter slightly more spicy and ridged.
We were reading the biographies of the YoungBloodZ and Murphy Lizzle on the back of our Rap Snacks bags, and I found approximately 15 spelling and punctuation errors. At the Rap Snacks website today, I learned that the mission of the Rap Snacks brand is to encourage consumers in urban markets to pursue education and literacy. Certainly this a noble and positive message, but I would advise the Rap Snacks marketing department to HIT FUCKING F7 AND SPELL CHECK THAT SHIT before they decide to sell them nationally.
Unfortunately, the Rap Snacks were kind of gross, and we didn't particularly want to devour an entire bag of them, so we left them outside for some homeless people to enjoy next to the decorative tile of parasitic fungi that seem to decorate every street corner on Eastlake Ave. But next time you're cruising by your local bodega, I highly recommend checking the snack aisle for some Rap Snacks, just because they're an awesome concept, and because as they say, they are "the official snack of hip hop." Get crunk!
Labels: Dirrty Dirrty, gluttony, Morrissey'sHair, Mullah AntoniHo, P-N-Dub, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Holy fucking matrimony
The impetus for my present jaunt to the P-N-Dub was the wedding of my dear old friend M-Boner. The wedding turned out to be a blast. For one thing, the potential for vicious bitchery between myself and my ex J's new wife was never realized (she actually turned out to be so extremely nice there was no way I could hate her, and we had a thirty-minute conversation about Stairmasters, the South, and shoes). Also, the wedding and reception were a festival combining many of my favorite things: Catholicism, drinking, catching up with old friends, hot cleavage, drinking, Southern ass rap, public speaking, gambling, drinking, embarrassing my parents, showing off, and drinking. Here is the rundown, complete with supporting photography.
As usual, MillerTime was my date, as she usually is for most date-requiring affairs. For one thing, MillerTime's boyfriend isn't really an enthusiastic wedding guest, and as one commenter on my last post pointed out, I'm "always the cum dumpster, never the bride," so she and I are a solid team at these functions. We can always be counted on for company (since there is NEVER a guarantee of single hot guys at weddings to occupy one's time), and we are loyal partners in open bar alcoholism. I thought the wedding might get off to a bad start, as my mother and I had a bit of a tiff based on my chosen dress (which I felt was very conservative) before MillerTime even picked me up. "Razzy, is THAT what you're wearing to CHURCH?" she asked, frowning. "Your boobs are hanging out, and it's SEE THROUGH!" My mother and I rarely do battle, but when we do it's often over my choice of clothing and/or the hours I keep when socializing, and I frankly get annoyed when she implies that my outfit is too slutty. I'm a fucking single girl, and I'm always looking for some action, so like I'm going to wear something frumpy and high-necked. I told my mom that I didn't appreciate her characterizing me as "the whore of Babylon" before heading off to M-Boner's wedding, and that I was already getting quite enough snide remarks with regard to my ability to pray publicly on the altar. When I got to the wedding, however, I was totally vindicated since many of the Irish ladies were rocking dresses more low-cut than mine, and my mother saw this too and later told me I looked "stylish."
At the actual wedding, which was quite beautiful despite being a lengthy full-on Catholic mass, I was conscripted into reading one of the prayers of the faithful. Despite the concerns of several friends, God fortunately did not decide to smote my heathen ass in ruin upon the altar at this affair for having the audacity to invoke his name on behalf of the bride and groom's dead relatives (yes, I got the prayer for the sick and the dead). I was told later that I read the prayer in a very solemn and respectful manner, so score one for me for NOT behaving like a classless and inappropriate asshole in the house of the Lord. Besides, there was plenty of time for that at the reception.
When we got to the reception, after some standoffish repartee with the hostile and possibly meth-addled bartender, MillerTime and I got right down to business imbibing plenty of chardonnay and Bud Light, respectively. After lots of chatting and catching up with some of our high school classmates and their husbands and babies, we sat down to dinner. MillerTime and I were clearly assigned to the "singles and gays" table, so fortunately we did not have to listen to a bunch of older married people hassling us about when WE were going to be having our weddings. Instead, half our table were Irish friends of the groom's, and they made a point to begin teaching us about Irish wedding customs. For example, in Ireland it is customary for each table to place bets on how long the many speeches will take. MillerTime, who diligently documented the entire event, recorded me reporting on this custom:
Unfortunately, MillerTime and I lost the pool by two minutes, as we overestimated precisely how long M-Boner's mother would be allowed to aimlessly ramble before she was cut off. Our loss of the $50 or so in the speech-length pool was quickly remedied, however, by the unending river of champagne served concurrent with toasting. Several glasses of champers later, and I was in capital shape.
After the speeches, they had the bouquet toss, and MillerTime, G-Boner, and I were shoved immediately onto the dance floor. I stood as far back as possible, and shouted to the bride, "M-Boner! I'm in the back to your left, so aim for the opposite of that! DON'T THROW IT TO ME, I DON'T WANT IT!", then pushed a bunch of little girls into the path of the oncoming bouquet to ensure that I wouldn't so much as even touch it. Once the bouquet toss was over, it was time for dancing.
I'm not a fan of dancing, because I always feel ridiculous when I'm doing it and I'd rather sit around drinking and socializing than sweating my tits off in high heels. The only way I can do it and look only marginally like I have Huntington's disease is if I really get my slut on and dance like a stripper in a rap video, with lots of back-popping, dropping it like it's hot, and ass-jiggling. This gets me into trouble by attracting unwanted grinders at clubs, and because it's inappropriate to basically pretend like I'm having sex while standing up at a wedding. I especially hate wedding dancing, because they always do stupid, gimmicky dances like the macarena and the electric slide, or my least favorite, the conga line. While I managed to avoid being dragged into the macarena fray, I was not so lucky with the conga line. G-Boner and M-Boner's uncle goes, "Hey, Rotten Mouth, get in here!" (This is what he calls me because he prank called us in high school once, and I viciously cussed him out, not realizing that it was him. Since then, he always greets me with "How the fuck are ya, R.M.?") "I hate the conga line!" I told him. "It's fucking stupid, and I don't dance."
"Quit bitching and get your fucking ass in that conga line, R.M.!" he shouted. Refusal was clearly not an option, so I allowed him to haul me into the line between him and his wife, but refused to do the stupid conga or whatever, so I just tried to physically act as idiotic as I felt:
After the conga line mercifully ended, the DJ started playing what he referred to as music "for the kids." This apparently meant "Shake it Like a Salt Shaker" by the Ying Yang Twins. I said to MillerTime, "I wonder how he can characterize any song that has lyrics like 'skeet so much they call him Billy Ocean' and 'she leakin', she soakin' wet' as appropriate for children." I then explained to MillerTime and several other non-rap aficionados what the term "skeet" is referring to (it's not the sporting hobby of shooting at clay discs flying through the air, that's for sure), and everyone was scandalized. I was drunk at this point and excited by the Southern ass rap, so I voluntarily started dancing and singing along to the unedited lyrics of the next song on the "kids music" playlist, "Get Low" by Lil' Jon and the Eastside Boyz. I thus garnered a number of dirty looks from some of the older people when I got to the "to the sweat drips off my balls, to all these bitches crawl, to all skeet skeet motherfuckas, to all skeet skeet, uh goddamn" part of the song.
It hardly seemed as though any time had gone by when the bar closed, thus necessitating a trip across the street to a new Tacoma bar called Doyle's. It was an Irish pub, so all the Irish folks were in great spirits. One very nice guy (albeit with horrible dental work) decided to get everyone involved in some Irish shot-doing customs. MillerTime particularly excelled at this, being that she's a total Celtophile and gave it her best alcoholic shot:
As usual, MillerTime was my date, as she usually is for most date-requiring affairs. For one thing, MillerTime's boyfriend isn't really an enthusiastic wedding guest, and as one commenter on my last post pointed out, I'm "always the cum dumpster, never the bride," so she and I are a solid team at these functions. We can always be counted on for company (since there is NEVER a guarantee of single hot guys at weddings to occupy one's time), and we are loyal partners in open bar alcoholism. I thought the wedding might get off to a bad start, as my mother and I had a bit of a tiff based on my chosen dress (which I felt was very conservative) before MillerTime even picked me up. "Razzy, is THAT what you're wearing to CHURCH?" she asked, frowning. "Your boobs are hanging out, and it's SEE THROUGH!" My mother and I rarely do battle, but when we do it's often over my choice of clothing and/or the hours I keep when socializing, and I frankly get annoyed when she implies that my outfit is too slutty. I'm a fucking single girl, and I'm always looking for some action, so like I'm going to wear something frumpy and high-necked. I told my mom that I didn't appreciate her characterizing me as "the whore of Babylon" before heading off to M-Boner's wedding, and that I was already getting quite enough snide remarks with regard to my ability to pray publicly on the altar. When I got to the wedding, however, I was totally vindicated since many of the Irish ladies were rocking dresses more low-cut than mine, and my mother saw this too and later told me I looked "stylish."
At the actual wedding, which was quite beautiful despite being a lengthy full-on Catholic mass, I was conscripted into reading one of the prayers of the faithful. Despite the concerns of several friends, God fortunately did not decide to smote my heathen ass in ruin upon the altar at this affair for having the audacity to invoke his name on behalf of the bride and groom's dead relatives (yes, I got the prayer for the sick and the dead). I was told later that I read the prayer in a very solemn and respectful manner, so score one for me for NOT behaving like a classless and inappropriate asshole in the house of the Lord. Besides, there was plenty of time for that at the reception.
When we got to the reception, after some standoffish repartee with the hostile and possibly meth-addled bartender, MillerTime and I got right down to business imbibing plenty of chardonnay and Bud Light, respectively. After lots of chatting and catching up with some of our high school classmates and their husbands and babies, we sat down to dinner. MillerTime and I were clearly assigned to the "singles and gays" table, so fortunately we did not have to listen to a bunch of older married people hassling us about when WE were going to be having our weddings. Instead, half our table were Irish friends of the groom's, and they made a point to begin teaching us about Irish wedding customs. For example, in Ireland it is customary for each table to place bets on how long the many speeches will take. MillerTime, who diligently documented the entire event, recorded me reporting on this custom:
Unfortunately, MillerTime and I lost the pool by two minutes, as we overestimated precisely how long M-Boner's mother would be allowed to aimlessly ramble before she was cut off. Our loss of the $50 or so in the speech-length pool was quickly remedied, however, by the unending river of champagne served concurrent with toasting. Several glasses of champers later, and I was in capital shape.
I'm not a fan of dancing, because I always feel ridiculous when I'm doing it and I'd rather sit around drinking and socializing than sweating my tits off in high heels. The only way I can do it and look only marginally like I have Huntington's disease is if I really get my slut on and dance like a stripper in a rap video, with lots of back-popping, dropping it like it's hot, and ass-jiggling. This gets me into trouble by attracting unwanted grinders at clubs, and because it's inappropriate to basically pretend like I'm having sex while standing up at a wedding. I especially hate wedding dancing, because they always do stupid, gimmicky dances like the macarena and the electric slide, or my least favorite, the conga line. While I managed to avoid being dragged into the macarena fray, I was not so lucky with the conga line. G-Boner and M-Boner's uncle goes, "Hey, Rotten Mouth, get in here!" (This is what he calls me because he prank called us in high school once, and I viciously cussed him out, not realizing that it was him. Since then, he always greets me with "How the fuck are ya, R.M.?") "I hate the conga line!" I told him. "It's fucking stupid, and I don't dance."
"Quit bitching and get your fucking ass in that conga line, R.M.!" he shouted. Refusal was clearly not an option, so I allowed him to haul me into the line between him and his wife, but refused to do the stupid conga or whatever, so I just tried to physically act as idiotic as I felt:
It hardly seemed as though any time had gone by when the bar closed, thus necessitating a trip across the street to a new Tacoma bar called Doyle's. It was an Irish pub, so all the Irish folks were in great spirits. One very nice guy (albeit with horrible dental work) decided to get everyone involved in some Irish shot-doing customs. MillerTime particularly excelled at this, being that she's a total Celtophile and gave it her best alcoholic shot:
The bride and groom were so determined to be good hosts that they refused to retire to the honeymoon suite until the bar closed, and were keeping up with their guests in terms of alcohol consumption. M-Boner was a lovely bride, made even lovelier given her double-fisting light beer and water all night long:
All this beverage consumption meant that M-Boner had to use the john at Doyle's, which is an act of bravery when you're wearing an thousands-of-dollar bridal gown in a Tacoma bar at 1:15 in the morning. In fact, it was a feat of engineering that required a team of several girls. MillerTime, G-Boner, and I were like a NASCAR pit crew, except instead of changing belts and hoses or loosening lugnuts, we were trying to prevent Budweiser-imbued urine from tainting M-Boner's multiple layers of virginal white taffeta:
By the end of the night, MillerTime, G-Boner, and I were doing the classic drunken girl act of taking joyous, hugging self-portraits that not only turned out surprisingly well, but also showcased the hot cleavage my mother rebuked me for sporting earlier. Unfortunately, my face looks a little frightening, but that's to be expected, since at this point in the night I'd probably consumed approximately 10 quarts of Anheuser-Busch lagers and Pilsner Urquell.
Anyway, after the party, we hit the after party at G-Boner's brother's house, where I destroyed a plate of imported cheese (don't give a drunk Viking a wedge of Jarlsberg and expect it not to be set upon like a pack of dingos on a baby) and passed out around 5 a.m. The next morning, MillerTime and I were both SEVERELY hung over as we drove back to Puyallup, but it was clearly worth it. You know it's a good party when you start the night looking like this:
And arrive home the next afternoon looking like this:
SO HOT, right? The day after trampiness was a small price to pay for a great party, and probably one of the most fun weddings I've been to. I wouldn't be so decidedly anti-marriage if most weddings were this great of a party. It was certainly worth the airfare, even if I hadn't been able to take time off for a long simultaneous vacation. Happy marriage and lots of love to M-Boner and Mr. M-Boner...I hope you two have a really happy fucking life together!!!
Labels: alcoholism, Catholicism, G-Boner, holy fucking matrimony, I hate dancing, M-Boner, MillerTime, P-N-Dub
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Razzy and Razzy's ass attempt to be mature, then fail miserably
Last night I went out for drinks with my old friend and former lover the R-uh. I met him back when I worked in Seattle. He worked for another biotech company in the same building as ours, and he was impossible for me to ignore. He is a 6'5" tall and smoking hot, and for a year I referred to him as "that hot black guy who works upstairs." Finally, he hit on one of my co-workers at the Starbucks down the street from our office, and she invited him to drinks one night when I would be there so she could bail easily if he turned out to be weird. He did not turn out to be weird, but he didn't turn out to be her type either. However, he and I immediately hit it off. First we started talking about football. Then, we exchanged a flurry of e-mails that started off about Raiders owner Al Davis and covered every topic imaginable, from Hunter S. Thompson to Catholic school to his penis size to how I had the hottest ass in our office building. Then we went on a couple of casual coffee and lunch dates. Then, one night, we decided to meet for drinks in Tacoma, so he drove down, we had a couple, and totally went back to my crib and stayed up all night doing it and doing it and doing it WELL.
I was smitten, but the R-uh isn't one to be tied down. He was more elusive yet tittilating than a heavily war-painted woman in a Duran Duran video. He always had a zillion reasons not to go to his place, it took 6 months for him to give me a non-work number where I could reach him, he would always call me from his friends' phones at weird hours, one day he'd take me on what could be construed as a "date" and the next he wouldn't return my calls, etc. I suspected that he had a girlfriend, although he swears this wasn't the case. In any event, we never established an official BF/GF-type relationship. However, we did establish a hot sex-based relationship that lasted pretty much until I left for New York. In fact, our sexcapades became famous with our respective groups of co-worker friends. There was a vacant office building attached to the building we worked in, and we would sneak over there during work and bang in this private office on the fifth floor. It became so routine and familiar that all we had to do when we felt like getting some mid-workday action was send a quick e-mail saying "5th floor? 5 minutes?" and it was on. As the R-uh pointed out, it was like something out of a ridiculous (and by ridiculous, I mean awesome) porn: this towering black dude pounding a petite blonde bent over a desk with their business attire strewn all over the empty bookshelves. Like I said, I was sort of smitten.
When I moved to New York, I intended to wash my hands of the R-uh, since I was sick of dealing with the issues involved in communicating with him, and I'm not really into phone sex (and since he never answered his phone anyway, this wasn't even an option). However, he then sent me a card informing me that he loved me, which served to shock the living shit out of me. After several e-mails processing precisely what he meant by that, I decided that I would continue to call him when I'd take trips to the P-N-Dub.
During my trip home the Christmas before last, the R-uh confessed to me that he did have a girlfriend. Of course, we ended up screwing anyway, because we can't keep our hands off each other, and I didn't know his girlfriend. As I have stated before, I don't really have a problem fucking guys with girlfriends, because as far as I am concerned, their relationships are their business unless the girlfriend in question is a friend of mine. By this logic, I would find it morally reprehensible to fuck (for example) MillerTime or Miss Corbutt's boyfriends, but not problematic to fuck the R-uh. I didn't think much of R-uh's girlfriend situation until he sent me an e-mail 6 or 7 months later in which he mentioned that said girlfriend was pregnant with his kid. Then, a few more months later, he sent me pictures of his son, who even as a tiny infant had the same mischievious sparkle in his eyes as his old man. I can only imagine what kind of smooth-talking game-spitter that little rascal is going to grow up to be.
I went out for drinks with the R-uh last Christmas during my trip home, and we just talked. In addition to being a hot lay (one of the hottest, in my not-so-limited experience), the R-uh is smart, witty, well-read, and interesting, yet another reason I like him so much. We kissed a little, but managed to restrain ourselves. However, then we started sending each other progressively more sexual text messages, along the lines of "Raz, when can we get together so I can worship that ass?" and made plans to get back to our old tricks. I agreed, but then backed out on the night in question, as I got a case of guiltiness about his baby mama and kid. I told him that I couldn't interfere with his family, and that this was different than just some random chick he was dating, and that we couldn't do it. He understood. A six month radio silence ensued.
Shortly before the P-N-Dub trip that I'm currently on, he called me out of the blue to chat. I thought, hell, we can be mature enough to get together for drinks. After all, it's established that whatever our sexual status, we do care about each other, and enjoy each other's company. So I called him and made plans to meet up last night in the sprawling metropolis of Renton, where he lives, in spite of our misgivings about our respective abilities to behave ourselves. This was our conversation, verbatim:
The R-uh: "Raz, I don't know if we can do this, because the second I see you I'm going to want to just hit that hot pussy."
Razzy: "Shit, I know. That would fucking rule. BUT, DAMMIT, WE CAN'T."
The R-uh: "No, we can't."
:::silence:::
Razzy: "Well, we're both adults. We can be mature enough to handle a couple drinks in a public place."
The R-uh: "I know, we'll keep things platonic. We can definitely be mature about this. We'll be okay."
I planned to wear the relatively unflattering wife beater-flood pant-flip flop combo I'd been rocking all day to be extra non-sexual, but at the last minute thought better of it. I dislike the idea of showing up to meet one of the hottest lays of my life looking like an unkempt Smith girl, so I threw on a very short, very tight halter dress, a pair of four-inch heels, and did my eye makeup. I'm still exuding "non-sexual" by forgoing the cocksucker red lipgloss...right?
Anyway, I showed up in Renton and discovered that the bar scene there is LAME. The main attraction in Renton is--I shit you not--the IKEA that is there. There is literally a sign on the freeway to Renton that identifies IKEA as a "tourist activity." Because Renton has such a piss-poor showing for its nightlife, we ended up at Freddie's Club, this shitty casino. We started off talking about football, George Bush, the decline and fall of our former employers, my career ideas post-grad school, R. Kelly's genius despite his pederast tendencies, and a host of other interesting but relatively platonic topics. However, I was hitting the Johnnie Walker, and he was drinking Maker's Mark, and even though we eventually switched to beer, the alcohol quickly steered things down a not-so-platonic path. I drove him back to his car, and we were making out, and after I established there was no way in hell I was going to exchange oral in the backseat of my mom's car, we talked ourselves into getting a shitty motel room.
Somehow we ended up at this place called the Renton Inn, which is NOT a particularly upscale establishment. The ancient Vietnamese desk clerk kept saying, "King size room vellllly expensive, queen size ten dollar cheaper." The R-uh jokingly pretended to think it over, much to my amusement, while the desk clerk was eyeing my dress suspiciously and surmising (I'm pretty sure) that I was a prostitute. I was tempted to ask the clerk if the hotel had hourly rates, but decided to at least make him think I was an escort, which seems a little classier than your average street hooker. Then the R-uh announced roguishly that he was feeling spendy and would shell out for the king. The clerk gave us a room key and a booklet of more Renton tourist attractions, which we leafed through in the elevator on the way to the room. Of course, IKEA was mentioned, as were Renton's many car dealerships and half of the shitty restaurants on the strip outside of the Sea-Tac airport. My next vacation is DEFINITELY going to be spent in Renton.
Five minutes later, we were disrobed, talking dirty, and making sure that we got the R-uh's extra $10 worth by utilizing every last square inch of that king sized bed. After the R-uh did the job for me a couple times, he made a request. He wanted to go anal. Now, I'm not squeamish about anal sex. I've done it a number of times, but to be honest it's not my favorite thing. For one thing, it doesn't really do much for me other than make me feel like a giving, generous person for satisfying my partner. For another, it's often somewhat painful, especially with a well-endowed man like the R-uh (he's Magnum material). I said, "I don't know, dude, we don't have any lube, and I wasn't really planning on it."
Another reason I'm not the world's biggest fan of anal sex is that the reality of this act is, frankly, pretty fucking disgusting. At the risk of seeming even less feminine and classy than I already do, when I'm anticipating giving a guy some backdoor action, I usually like to take a shit beforehand just to minimize the grossout factor. Girls (myself included) are usually embarrassed when they fart in front of guys or do something to indicate that they have a functioning colon. I don't know why girls are like this, because everyone has an asshole, but it's just instinct for us to be a little shy about those particular aspects of our physiology. That is what I meant when I said "I wasn't really planning on it." The R-uh got my meaning, and said that he didn't care, and wasn't going to give it to me to the hilt anyway. Finally, he wore me down and I obliged.
It's been a while since I've had anal sex, and especially a while since I've had it with someone packing a dick like the R-uh's. I felt like someone had shoved the pole of a parking meter up my ass. Like a good soldier, however, I just bit my lip and tried not to be sarcastic when the R-uh asked if I liked it. "Yeah...it's great," I said, wincing. "Hurry up," I urged. Normally I encourage guys to take their time, but in this case, I didn't think he could blow his load fast enough.
When it was over, I didn't even bother to light up a postcoital cigarette. I could tell that this was one of those particularly gross anal sex situations, so I grabbed him and dragged him off to the shower, mortified at what can only be described as a literally shitty situation. "Whoa, Raz," he said. "What's the deal?"
"I'm not into scat play," I responded semi-jokingly, while vigorously soaping the two of us down. "Not that I can really be too coquettish about this, but I'd hate to ruin your image of me as a demure flower of a lady."
"Is she okay?" he asked, gesturing to my nether regions.
"She's fine," I said, indicating my vagina. "Her dirtier counterpart is...well, let's just say I'm going to be sitting pretty gingerly for the next day or so."
Not to say that the sex was horrible; in fact, quite the contrary. As usual, the pre-anal action was borderline phenomenal, and even though the backdoor stuff was slightly painful and gross, the R-uh is just extremely proficient at pushing my buttons. As I drove home around 3 a.m., I thought about how my ass gets me into trouble in SO many ways. In this case, it has thwarted my attempts to be either mature or dignified. My ass is my best friend and my worst enemy. Damn that ass!
I was smitten, but the R-uh isn't one to be tied down. He was more elusive yet tittilating than a heavily war-painted woman in a Duran Duran video. He always had a zillion reasons not to go to his place, it took 6 months for him to give me a non-work number where I could reach him, he would always call me from his friends' phones at weird hours, one day he'd take me on what could be construed as a "date" and the next he wouldn't return my calls, etc. I suspected that he had a girlfriend, although he swears this wasn't the case. In any event, we never established an official BF/GF-type relationship. However, we did establish a hot sex-based relationship that lasted pretty much until I left for New York. In fact, our sexcapades became famous with our respective groups of co-worker friends. There was a vacant office building attached to the building we worked in, and we would sneak over there during work and bang in this private office on the fifth floor. It became so routine and familiar that all we had to do when we felt like getting some mid-workday action was send a quick e-mail saying "5th floor? 5 minutes?" and it was on. As the R-uh pointed out, it was like something out of a ridiculous (and by ridiculous, I mean awesome) porn: this towering black dude pounding a petite blonde bent over a desk with their business attire strewn all over the empty bookshelves. Like I said, I was sort of smitten.
When I moved to New York, I intended to wash my hands of the R-uh, since I was sick of dealing with the issues involved in communicating with him, and I'm not really into phone sex (and since he never answered his phone anyway, this wasn't even an option). However, he then sent me a card informing me that he loved me, which served to shock the living shit out of me. After several e-mails processing precisely what he meant by that, I decided that I would continue to call him when I'd take trips to the P-N-Dub.
During my trip home the Christmas before last, the R-uh confessed to me that he did have a girlfriend. Of course, we ended up screwing anyway, because we can't keep our hands off each other, and I didn't know his girlfriend. As I have stated before, I don't really have a problem fucking guys with girlfriends, because as far as I am concerned, their relationships are their business unless the girlfriend in question is a friend of mine. By this logic, I would find it morally reprehensible to fuck (for example) MillerTime or Miss Corbutt's boyfriends, but not problematic to fuck the R-uh. I didn't think much of R-uh's girlfriend situation until he sent me an e-mail 6 or 7 months later in which he mentioned that said girlfriend was pregnant with his kid. Then, a few more months later, he sent me pictures of his son, who even as a tiny infant had the same mischievious sparkle in his eyes as his old man. I can only imagine what kind of smooth-talking game-spitter that little rascal is going to grow up to be.
I went out for drinks with the R-uh last Christmas during my trip home, and we just talked. In addition to being a hot lay (one of the hottest, in my not-so-limited experience), the R-uh is smart, witty, well-read, and interesting, yet another reason I like him so much. We kissed a little, but managed to restrain ourselves. However, then we started sending each other progressively more sexual text messages, along the lines of "Raz, when can we get together so I can worship that ass?" and made plans to get back to our old tricks. I agreed, but then backed out on the night in question, as I got a case of guiltiness about his baby mama and kid. I told him that I couldn't interfere with his family, and that this was different than just some random chick he was dating, and that we couldn't do it. He understood. A six month radio silence ensued.
Shortly before the P-N-Dub trip that I'm currently on, he called me out of the blue to chat. I thought, hell, we can be mature enough to get together for drinks. After all, it's established that whatever our sexual status, we do care about each other, and enjoy each other's company. So I called him and made plans to meet up last night in the sprawling metropolis of Renton, where he lives, in spite of our misgivings about our respective abilities to behave ourselves. This was our conversation, verbatim:
The R-uh: "Raz, I don't know if we can do this, because the second I see you I'm going to want to just hit that hot pussy."
Razzy: "Shit, I know. That would fucking rule. BUT, DAMMIT, WE CAN'T."
The R-uh: "No, we can't."
:::silence:::
Razzy: "Well, we're both adults. We can be mature enough to handle a couple drinks in a public place."
The R-uh: "I know, we'll keep things platonic. We can definitely be mature about this. We'll be okay."
I planned to wear the relatively unflattering wife beater-flood pant-flip flop combo I'd been rocking all day to be extra non-sexual, but at the last minute thought better of it. I dislike the idea of showing up to meet one of the hottest lays of my life looking like an unkempt Smith girl, so I threw on a very short, very tight halter dress, a pair of four-inch heels, and did my eye makeup. I'm still exuding "non-sexual" by forgoing the cocksucker red lipgloss...right?
Anyway, I showed up in Renton and discovered that the bar scene there is LAME. The main attraction in Renton is--I shit you not--the IKEA that is there. There is literally a sign on the freeway to Renton that identifies IKEA as a "tourist activity." Because Renton has such a piss-poor showing for its nightlife, we ended up at Freddie's Club, this shitty casino. We started off talking about football, George Bush, the decline and fall of our former employers, my career ideas post-grad school, R. Kelly's genius despite his pederast tendencies, and a host of other interesting but relatively platonic topics. However, I was hitting the Johnnie Walker, and he was drinking Maker's Mark, and even though we eventually switched to beer, the alcohol quickly steered things down a not-so-platonic path. I drove him back to his car, and we were making out, and after I established there was no way in hell I was going to exchange oral in the backseat of my mom's car, we talked ourselves into getting a shitty motel room.
Somehow we ended up at this place called the Renton Inn, which is NOT a particularly upscale establishment. The ancient Vietnamese desk clerk kept saying, "King size room vellllly expensive, queen size ten dollar cheaper." The R-uh jokingly pretended to think it over, much to my amusement, while the desk clerk was eyeing my dress suspiciously and surmising (I'm pretty sure) that I was a prostitute. I was tempted to ask the clerk if the hotel had hourly rates, but decided to at least make him think I was an escort, which seems a little classier than your average street hooker. Then the R-uh announced roguishly that he was feeling spendy and would shell out for the king. The clerk gave us a room key and a booklet of more Renton tourist attractions, which we leafed through in the elevator on the way to the room. Of course, IKEA was mentioned, as were Renton's many car dealerships and half of the shitty restaurants on the strip outside of the Sea-Tac airport. My next vacation is DEFINITELY going to be spent in Renton.
Five minutes later, we were disrobed, talking dirty, and making sure that we got the R-uh's extra $10 worth by utilizing every last square inch of that king sized bed. After the R-uh did the job for me a couple times, he made a request. He wanted to go anal. Now, I'm not squeamish about anal sex. I've done it a number of times, but to be honest it's not my favorite thing. For one thing, it doesn't really do much for me other than make me feel like a giving, generous person for satisfying my partner. For another, it's often somewhat painful, especially with a well-endowed man like the R-uh (he's Magnum material). I said, "I don't know, dude, we don't have any lube, and I wasn't really planning on it."
Another reason I'm not the world's biggest fan of anal sex is that the reality of this act is, frankly, pretty fucking disgusting. At the risk of seeming even less feminine and classy than I already do, when I'm anticipating giving a guy some backdoor action, I usually like to take a shit beforehand just to minimize the grossout factor. Girls (myself included) are usually embarrassed when they fart in front of guys or do something to indicate that they have a functioning colon. I don't know why girls are like this, because everyone has an asshole, but it's just instinct for us to be a little shy about those particular aspects of our physiology. That is what I meant when I said "I wasn't really planning on it." The R-uh got my meaning, and said that he didn't care, and wasn't going to give it to me to the hilt anyway. Finally, he wore me down and I obliged.
It's been a while since I've had anal sex, and especially a while since I've had it with someone packing a dick like the R-uh's. I felt like someone had shoved the pole of a parking meter up my ass. Like a good soldier, however, I just bit my lip and tried not to be sarcastic when the R-uh asked if I liked it. "Yeah...it's great," I said, wincing. "Hurry up," I urged. Normally I encourage guys to take their time, but in this case, I didn't think he could blow his load fast enough.
When it was over, I didn't even bother to light up a postcoital cigarette. I could tell that this was one of those particularly gross anal sex situations, so I grabbed him and dragged him off to the shower, mortified at what can only be described as a literally shitty situation. "Whoa, Raz," he said. "What's the deal?"
"I'm not into scat play," I responded semi-jokingly, while vigorously soaping the two of us down. "Not that I can really be too coquettish about this, but I'd hate to ruin your image of me as a demure flower of a lady."
"Is she okay?" he asked, gesturing to my nether regions.
"She's fine," I said, indicating my vagina. "Her dirtier counterpart is...well, let's just say I'm going to be sitting pretty gingerly for the next day or so."
Not to say that the sex was horrible; in fact, quite the contrary. As usual, the pre-anal action was borderline phenomenal, and even though the backdoor stuff was slightly painful and gross, the R-uh is just extremely proficient at pushing my buttons. As I drove home around 3 a.m., I thought about how my ass gets me into trouble in SO many ways. In this case, it has thwarted my attempts to be either mature or dignified. My ass is my best friend and my worst enemy. Damn that ass!
Labels: gross, P-N-Dub, perversion, sex, the R-uh
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
An awkward conversation
I just answered the phone at my parents' house, and unfortunately, it was my Aunt Jesus. Needless to say, it was a very stiff, awkward, and unpleasant conversation.
Aunt Jesus: "Razzy? You're home?"
Razzy: "Yes."
:::silence:::
Aunt Jesus: "Where's your mom?"
Razzy: "Work."
:::silence:::
Razzy (not aloud): fuck you, you crazy bitch
Aunt Jesus: "Where's your dad?"
Razzy: "Out."
Aunt Jesus: "Oh. Will you have him call me?"
Razzy: "Yes. Goodbye." Click.
She wanted me to tell my dad that my great uncle is in town and wants to see him. This great uncle is a charming man who once treated me to a delightful tirade on how the "japs" are conspiring to take over the world via fuel-efficient cars and home electronics, presumably due to a desire for vengeance after we "bombed the daylights" out of them in WWII. My argument that they're just capitalists engaging in good old-fashioned, American free trade fell on deaf ears.
I really can't think of a better way to spend the weekend than with Aunt Jesus AND my racist uncle. That sounds like a super fun AWESOME party.
Aunt Jesus: "Razzy? You're home?"
Razzy: "Yes."
:::silence:::
Aunt Jesus: "Where's your mom?"
Razzy: "Work."
:::silence:::
Razzy (not aloud): fuck you, you crazy bitch
Aunt Jesus: "Where's your dad?"
Razzy: "Out."
Aunt Jesus: "Oh. Will you have him call me?"
Razzy: "Yes. Goodbye." Click.
She wanted me to tell my dad that my great uncle is in town and wants to see him. This great uncle is a charming man who once treated me to a delightful tirade on how the "japs" are conspiring to take over the world via fuel-efficient cars and home electronics, presumably due to a desire for vengeance after we "bombed the daylights" out of them in WWII. My argument that they're just capitalists engaging in good old-fashioned, American free trade fell on deaf ears.
I really can't think of a better way to spend the weekend than with Aunt Jesus AND my racist uncle. That sounds like a super fun AWESOME party.
Labels: Aunt Jesus, crazies, family matters, Razzy Haters
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