Saturday, September 30, 2006
Highlights from the fall TV season so far
When Karl Marx said that religion is the opiate of the masses, it was only because they hadn't invented television yet. TV fucking rules, especially if you're a perpetually impoverished graduate student pulling 12-hour-days. If I don't have any money to go out drinking, or any energy to do so after laying waste to a shelf's worth of inbred mice, I turn to TV for much-needed relaxation. Tonight, for example, may be Saturday, but since I laid waste to most of the Lower East Side's supply of Johnnie Walker Black last night, I'm staying in to nurse my hangover and flip back and forth between marathon reruns of "Project Runway" and "Flavor of Love." It occurred to me that I'm an expert on shitty TV, so I may as well opine about the audiovisual crack I'm consuming on the old idiot box.
Nip/Tuck
I have been addicted to this show about morally bereft plastic surgeons in Miami since it was introduced right before I moved to New York three years ago. The pilot episode of this show included lines being blown off hot model ass, Colombian drug lords adminstering penile Botox shots, a room full of people being splashed with liposuction fat, and a child molester's body being dumped in the Everglades weighted down with alligator-attracting hams. I was immediately hooked to the weekly drama surrounding Drs. McNamara and Troy.
Furthermore, I completely have the hots for my boyfriend Dr. Christian Troy, because he's so FUCKING fine and is one of the most unrepentant fictional assholes on television. In past seasons, Dr. Troy has traded his girlfriend for a Lamborghini, attended a Sexaholics Anonymous meeting where he promptly and literally blew his sponsor's celibate sobriety, fathered his partners' teenage son, and manage to transform the police investigation of his Carver attack and anal rape into a tawdry threesome.
So far, this season continues to achieve unprecedented levels of awesomeness. Some of the highlights:
America's Next Top Model
I LOVE this show. It is always awesome, because it is full of dumb, bitchy girls, ridiculous judges, and Tyra Banks being a snobby, self-righteous, FAKE idiot. From her horrible orange-toned weaves to her severely overdone diction, Tyra has to be one of the most outrageously insincere women I've ever seen. This season, Tyra has taken her monstrous egotism to the next level, and the entire house that this cycle's girls live in is PLASTERED with Tyra. Everywhere you look, there's a picture of Tyra wearing a scarf, Tyra wearing giant sunglasses, Tyra wearing a sexy dress, Tyra in a bathing suit, Tyra wearing too much makeup, Tyra doing one of her "signature poses," etc. Furthermore, Tyra has placed all these pictures there as a fictional spread for Tyra magazine, right down to a mural in the house featuring a "letter from Tyra" out of the magazine exhorting the prospective Top Models to read the magazine for vital information and tips on Top Modeling. Also, all the "Tyra Mail" this season arrives as a magazine subscription card, rather than the old pastel notecards of cycles past. Clearly this magazine thing is part of her transformation into full-blown Oprah wannabe, and you just know that if the fans like it, Tyra will be yet another unreadable piece of crap taking space away from superior publications like Us Weekly and Star at supermarket checkouts everywhere.
Tyra is attempting to emulate Oprah in one other way as well. Clearly she has not been following the model starvation diet she advocates. She needs to start taking some of the criticism/advice she dispenses every time she opens her mouth and PAY ATTENTION TO HER FUCKING BODY. Bitch has blown up like a balloon this season, and she has a low threshold for hiding extra pounds. She is one of those women who gains weight in her face first, so the second she cheats on her diet, she grows a new chin and gets a serious case of the bloat. On her atrocious talk show, Tyra once put on a fat suit and walked around Los Angeles, then bawled to two actual morbidly obese women about her experience (and the look on their faces was PRICELESS during her "It was soooo horrible, you guys!" tearfest). If Tyra doesn't quit stuffing her face at the craft service table backstage and get her ass on a treadmill, it will be only a matter of time before her fat suit becomes a reality.
Lost
I watch "Lost" primarily because I think that Sayid the Iraqi is really hot in spite of his greasy jhericurl and somewhat pudgy countenance. Besides, it doesn't get more "bad boy" than working as a torturer for Saddam Hussein's Repulican Guard. In addition to Sayid's sexual appeal, I also have seen a lot of the first two seasons, so I was all excited when I thought this Wednesday was going to be the big season premiere. Unfortunately, what the channel guide described as a "new" episode was actually a recut reel of somewhat important scenes to remind people major things that have gone on the past two seasons. While this was somewhat useful to me, as I forgot all the complicated ins and outs regarding the mystery of the island over the summer, I was really annoyed to not find out whether or not failing to enter the numbers at the hatch's Apple IIc caused the cataclysmic destruction of mankind, which is what I expected when the channel guide said this episode was "new." I was pissed.
Last season, "Lost" kind of dragged for awhile. There were way too many boring scenes exploring whether Kate will eventually fuck Jack or Sawyer or both, and Kate's personal baggage, and Jack's issues with his dad and his wife, and Sawyer's vacillating between doing right and being an asshole, and not NEARLY enough Sayid torturing creepy-looking Others or porking moderately attractive petite blondes. However, the last episode was one hell of a money shot as far as revealing important stuff. For example, when the numbers didn't get entered, we know that some serious shit of a magnetic nature happens, and this is why Oceanic flight 815 crashed in the first place. We also find out more about the Others, and they have Jack, Sawyer, and Kate tied up, Michael sailed off with Walt, Sayid found the ruins of a giant Colossus-at-Rhodes type statue of a foot with only four toes, and found out more cryptic and relatively uninformative stuff about Dharma and the Hanso foundation. In spite of myself, I REALLY want to know what the outcome of all this is.
Since I won't be able to see whether the Others kill Jack, Kate, and Sawyer (I know this won't happen, but a girl can dream) until next week, I have some predictions about what's going to happen this season:
Project Runway
"Project Runway" is a reality competition hosted by supermodel Heidi Klum in which aspiring fashion designers compete in weekly design challenges for the chance to show a collection at Olympus Fashion Week in New York. The designers are all bitchy, and it's fun to watch them bicker while they design often shitty and ridiculous clothing. The eliminated designer every week gets informed by Klum that "they're out" and air-kisses them off with a fond "auf wiedersehn."
The designers have now been winnowed down to four people who will be showing their collections at Fashion Week.
First there is Laura, the architect/baby factory who only makes beaded cocktail dresses for flatchested people. For an example of "classic Laura," check out the portrait of the artist herself:
Then there is Jeffrey, the hipster idiot who looks like a hellish cross between my cokehead ex-boyfriend Tod-With-One-D and Travis Barker, erstwhile Blink 182 drummer and current Paris Hilton fuckbuddy. Jeffrey is so annoying, because he is not only a complete prick, but he has the worst weak chin ever. His jawline looks like an undesirable ass, a combination of too much cleft and flat, amorphous proportions:
Also in the mix is Uli, the German who designs beach mumus for women in Miami and specializes in seizure-inducing patterned fabrics with lots of chunky braid:
Finally, there is my personal favorite. Michael Knight, this Hotlanta-born fashion thug, both shares his name with David Hasselhoff's character in "Knight Rider" and manages to design some hot urban casual wear. Also, he always will follow ghetto sensibility like "I'm not tryin' to play Captain Save-a-Ho, as we say in the hood" with lengthy complaints about the difficulties of pattern cutting , the temperamental nature of bobbin threads, and the technical trickery of hand-ruching:
As much as I get into the designers' drama and hope that Michael lays waste to Jeffrey's "deconstructed" bullshit and Uli's jungle wear, the real reason to watch this show is this:
The judges, "top American fashion designer" Michael Kors and Elle magazine fashion director Nina Garcia, are fabulously bitchy. Kors will always sneer distastefully at outfits he hates, and then makes some obnoxious yet usually accurate succinct description such as "she looks like a paper brioche" and "it looks like a grade school Thanksgiving pageant exploded all over her ass." It's fucking awesome when some designer sends an ambitious yet stank outfit down the runway, and Michael Kors glowers with righteous revulsion for a moment before declaring in his nasal tenor that "it looks like Comme des Garcons goes to the Amish country." Usually, then Nina will chime in to inform the designer that it's either tired, blatantly copied from some established edgy designer, and/or made with a terrible choice of fabric. Although Heidi Klum has her moments of bitchiness (like the time she said, "Would I rather look old or like a fat Minnie Mouse?"), Michael Kors and Nina Garcia have mastered the art of concise brutality in reality show judging.
Survivor
I don't even know why I watch "Survivor" except that I have for 11 seasons now, and it's almost like I only watch it out of habit. "Survivor" is always kind of boring, and Jeff Probst is an overdimpled, badly styled douche, but I always watch it anyway. I love some of the gimmicks that they incorporate to keep the show fresh. This season, they not only have hidden an immunity idol on the Exile Island, but they've organized the tribes down racial lines. I've been either busy or working the late the past few weeks on Thursdays, so I only saw the end of last week's episode to see how "Survivor" segregation was coming along. During the few minutes I did see, some Asian guy found the hidden immunity idol using geometry, and the Latinos threw a challenge so they could turn on the fat, slow, lazy, snoring guy and vote his ass out. This week, the "great social experiment" of racially segregating the "Survivor" tribes ended, and they mixed up and merged all the teams into two integrated tribes (with, of course, new hideous buffs for each tribe member to wear as tube top, bandeau, skirt, turban, arm garter, or scrunchie). I guess segregation, despite the producers' expectations, did not result in reality drama or high ratings.
Supernatural
Okay, I don't know how I've ended KIND OF watching "Supernatural," but I've seen a few episodes, mainly because I despise "CSI" and nothing else is on Thursdays at 9, and I flip back and forth between it and the equally shiteous "Grey's Anatomy" (see below). Bravo is a shitshow in this time slot, by the way. Last Thursday, they had "Cirque Du Soleil: Corteo", described by the channel guide as "a festive parade imagined by a clown," followed by "Cirque Du Soleil: Varekai", which is an "acrobatic tribute to the spirit of the nomadic soul." Watching these shows would inspire me to stick my head in the oven if it wasn't already occupied by a Lean Cuisine French bread pizza.
Anyway, "Supernatural" is a stupid show starring Jared Padalecki, late of "Gilmore Girls", and some guy who was on some other crappy WB show about teenagers. They are demon-hunting brothers who drive around the midwest in a late sixties model Impala listening to classic rock and killing demons flagrantly plagiarized from recent semi-popular horror movies and old "Buffy" episodes (ie: girl crawls out of mirror looking all Japanese ghosty, painting comes to life and kills people, scarecrow comes out of hibernation every twenty-third spring to eat nubile young couples, etc). Every episode involves Jared and the other guy pulling up to some town in buttfuck Indiana while rocking out to Bad Company. Once there, they realize that some supernatural shit is afoot and investigate, which typically involves impersonating everything from FBI agents to archaeologists to coroners to dead people's relatives. This investigation will result in them identifying their paranormal foe, and disclose that a hot girl is next to be eaten/absorbed/murdered/vaporized/damned eternally/etc. The brothers will probably also bicker, have flashbacks to their childhood, and have drama with their errant demon-hunting father. They will subsequently whip out either their BlackBerries (which they have tricked out, despite both of them being presumably unemployed save for unsolicited and unpaid psychic detective work) or their silver bullets or whatever, save the hot girl in the nick of time, and take turns making out with her. They'll make up from the fight they had earlier, crank the Foghat, and cruise off high-fiving and making overdone references to popular culture.
Like I said before, it's better than "CSI."
Grey's Anatomy
This show sucks, and I watch it primarily to give my unchecked rage a harmless outlet. This show is all about a bunch of surgeons and the drama that has resulted from them all having sex with each other. Complicating matters is the fact that they all live in Seattle, which makes them a bunch of snivelling, whiny crybabies. Consistent with their Seattle-dwelling status, the guys are all such a bunch of unscrubbed, emotionally processive tools that Patrick Dempsey and Chris O'Donnell are dueling for the title of resident hunks. That's exactly why I moved away from the Seattle area. Who wants to choose between fucking the index Ebola case from Outbreak and the latently homosexual Robin in one of the later Batman movies? Another thing I like about the show is that Sandra Oh's character was SMITH COLLEGE CLASS OF 2000! That means that when her character was in college and came out of her room to grouchily inform me and my drunken friends that it was "quiet hours" and could we please turn down the Dr. Dre and go smoke in our rooms because she has a test in her women's studies class the next day, I blew a bong hit in her face and told her to go boobmash with her roommate.
That is where any attempt at realism in "Grey's Anatomy," ends, however. There are a lot of things about "Grey's Anatomy" that make you audibly say "what the fuck?" First off, I'd like to point out that there are at least three black people in the cast, which anyone from Seattle can tell you comprises Seattle's ENTIRE African-American population excluding professional athletes. Second, all the doctors on this show are too busy having sex to actually perform any surgeries. They have sex with each other, sex with the nurses, sex with their roommates, sex with patients, etc. The sex scenes are always lame (usually consisting of Katherine Heigl in a fugly Playtex Cross Your Heart bra with either a dying person or that doctor whose name I can never remember) and seem to occur everywhere in the hospital: in the locker room, in the nurses' station, on random out-of-the-way gurneys, in the break room, in patient beds, etc. While normally I'd be a fan of a show with so much sex happening, most of it is implied except scenes involving the aforementioned breasts of Katherine Heigl, Patrick Dempsey's suspiciously trannish wife, or the skeletal and horribly aged Meredith Grey who is the title character. You can probably see why, in this time slot, I usually opt for "Supernatural."
Flavor of Love
Why any woman would want to bone Flavor Flav is beyond me. He's like a hobbit from the hood, and despite his charming, funny mannerisms, there is no way in hell I'd let his little weiner get anywhere near me. However, there are apparently a lot of women who wouldn't mind, and they are some nasty bitches all stuck together in the house. The final three (Deelishis, Krazy, and New York) are three of the most ridiculous women ever. Krazy is obviously trying to get her music career off the ground (watch out, Flav, you don't want a repeat of what Hoopz did to you), Deelishis looks like a man despite having an ass that defies physics, and New York, resurrected from last season, is a complete and total lunatic. I was rooting for Bootz, but Flav canned her last episode because she said she wasn't going to put out until she got married, despite giving a very slutty booty dance to Lloyd Banks, Young Buck, and the guys from Three 6 Mafia. However, now that it's down to the three, I'm going to have say I'm putting my money on Deelishis. Despite her somewhat gender bending facial bone structure and hideously disfiguring scars on her back, she isn't seemingly an attention whore, and appears slightly more stable mentally than New York. Go Deelishis!
Now I can't write anymore, as I have to watch some more TV.
Nip/Tuck
I have been addicted to this show about morally bereft plastic surgeons in Miami since it was introduced right before I moved to New York three years ago. The pilot episode of this show included lines being blown off hot model ass, Colombian drug lords adminstering penile Botox shots, a room full of people being splashed with liposuction fat, and a child molester's body being dumped in the Everglades weighted down with alligator-attracting hams. I was immediately hooked to the weekly drama surrounding Drs. McNamara and Troy.
Furthermore, I completely have the hots for my boyfriend Dr. Christian Troy, because he's so FUCKING fine and is one of the most unrepentant fictional assholes on television. In past seasons, Dr. Troy has traded his girlfriend for a Lamborghini, attended a Sexaholics Anonymous meeting where he promptly and literally blew his sponsor's celibate sobriety, fathered his partners' teenage son, and manage to transform the police investigation of his Carver attack and anal rape into a tawdry threesome.
So far, this season continues to achieve unprecedented levels of awesomeness. Some of the highlights:
- Christian is questioning his heterosexuality, and has engaged in several portentous flirting sessions with...A.C. SLATER FROM "SAVED BY THE BELL"?! Yep, that's right. Mario Lopez is guest-starring as another latently faggoty plastic surgeon and they already had an ass-admiring session in the gym showers where they discussed protein shakes and whether liposuction is necessary for more defined "cum gutters" (abdominal muscles). I can't wait until the episode when he and Christian exchange head in Mario Lopez's Ferrari.
- Sean and Julia's new baby has some condition called "ectrodactyly", more commonly known as LOBSTER CLAW HANDS. They're acting like assholes all the time adjusting to the kid's disability, and they just hired a male midget as a nanny, and it's any episode now before Julia hooks up with him.
- After being overpowered by the music of Oasis, Sean banged the ugly nanny, then gave her a gratis nose job so she'd keep it quiet. However, she's probably not going to, because she's obviously insane. I predict that she'll be stalking him frantically within two episodes.
- Christian bones a mother and daughter at the same time, then gets into a fight with them over who is more morally bankrupt.
- Kathleen Turner guest stars as a phone sex operator who needs a larynx shaving to stay sexy-sounding even though she now looks like a bloated old toad.
- Christian was clandestinely recorded making a sex video and it "went viral" after showing up on YouTube.
- Matt, having already achieved new levels of dumbassery by acting like a wuss when he got caught having a threesome, not being wise to Famke Janssen's actually being a man (although to be fair she was the most convincing post-op M2F tranny EVER), beating up transgendered people, and becoming a Nazi, has now decided that Scientology is his calling. Granted, it's not entirely his fault that he's so fucked up, as Julia lied to him and everybody else for 16 years that Sean was his father when Christian really was, but seriously. Is Matt ever going to stop being an effeminate douche with the worst teenage coping skills ever, or what?
- Liz the lesbo anesthesiologist gets slipped a roofie at some lesbian bar and winds up short a kidney.
- Sean eats hash brownies and has visions of Escobar Gallardo.
- A patient who I later realized was the aged child star who played Laura on "Little House on the Prairie" gets her nipple bitten off while fucking her pit bull mix.
- Sean and Christian sold the practice after medical business mogul and prostate cancer survivor Larry Hagman and his hot ex-lesbian hooker wife Sanaa Lathan (late of Alien vs. Predator) liked the testicular implants the doctors gave him. Sanaa Lathan's management style, which includes providing payoffs and breast access to her former madam, attempting to fire Liz for sexual harassment, and stocking the office with expensive espresso machines, is wreaking havoc with Sean and Christian's respective control issues. Christian responds by using his knowledge of her sordid past as a prostitute to extort sex from her.
America's Next Top Model
I LOVE this show. It is always awesome, because it is full of dumb, bitchy girls, ridiculous judges, and Tyra Banks being a snobby, self-righteous, FAKE idiot. From her horrible orange-toned weaves to her severely overdone diction, Tyra has to be one of the most outrageously insincere women I've ever seen. This season, Tyra has taken her monstrous egotism to the next level, and the entire house that this cycle's girls live in is PLASTERED with Tyra. Everywhere you look, there's a picture of Tyra wearing a scarf, Tyra wearing giant sunglasses, Tyra wearing a sexy dress, Tyra in a bathing suit, Tyra wearing too much makeup, Tyra doing one of her "signature poses," etc. Furthermore, Tyra has placed all these pictures there as a fictional spread for Tyra magazine, right down to a mural in the house featuring a "letter from Tyra" out of the magazine exhorting the prospective Top Models to read the magazine for vital information and tips on Top Modeling. Also, all the "Tyra Mail" this season arrives as a magazine subscription card, rather than the old pastel notecards of cycles past. Clearly this magazine thing is part of her transformation into full-blown Oprah wannabe, and you just know that if the fans like it, Tyra will be yet another unreadable piece of crap taking space away from superior publications like Us Weekly and Star at supermarket checkouts everywhere.
Tyra is attempting to emulate Oprah in one other way as well. Clearly she has not been following the model starvation diet she advocates. She needs to start taking some of the criticism/advice she dispenses every time she opens her mouth and PAY ATTENTION TO HER FUCKING BODY. Bitch has blown up like a balloon this season, and she has a low threshold for hiding extra pounds. She is one of those women who gains weight in her face first, so the second she cheats on her diet, she grows a new chin and gets a serious case of the bloat. On her atrocious talk show, Tyra once put on a fat suit and walked around Los Angeles, then bawled to two actual morbidly obese women about her experience (and the look on their faces was PRICELESS during her "It was soooo horrible, you guys!" tearfest). If Tyra doesn't quit stuffing her face at the craft service table backstage and get her ass on a treadmill, it will be only a matter of time before her fat suit becomes a reality.
Lost
I watch "Lost" primarily because I think that Sayid the Iraqi is really hot in spite of his greasy jhericurl and somewhat pudgy countenance. Besides, it doesn't get more "bad boy" than working as a torturer for Saddam Hussein's Repulican Guard. In addition to Sayid's sexual appeal, I also have seen a lot of the first two seasons, so I was all excited when I thought this Wednesday was going to be the big season premiere. Unfortunately, what the channel guide described as a "new" episode was actually a recut reel of somewhat important scenes to remind people major things that have gone on the past two seasons. While this was somewhat useful to me, as I forgot all the complicated ins and outs regarding the mystery of the island over the summer, I was really annoyed to not find out whether or not failing to enter the numbers at the hatch's Apple IIc caused the cataclysmic destruction of mankind, which is what I expected when the channel guide said this episode was "new." I was pissed.
Last season, "Lost" kind of dragged for awhile. There were way too many boring scenes exploring whether Kate will eventually fuck Jack or Sawyer or both, and Kate's personal baggage, and Jack's issues with his dad and his wife, and Sawyer's vacillating between doing right and being an asshole, and not NEARLY enough Sayid torturing creepy-looking Others or porking moderately attractive petite blondes. However, the last episode was one hell of a money shot as far as revealing important stuff. For example, when the numbers didn't get entered, we know that some serious shit of a magnetic nature happens, and this is why Oceanic flight 815 crashed in the first place. We also find out more about the Others, and they have Jack, Sawyer, and Kate tied up, Michael sailed off with Walt, Sayid found the ruins of a giant Colossus-at-Rhodes type statue of a foot with only four toes, and found out more cryptic and relatively uninformative stuff about Dharma and the Hanso foundation. In spite of myself, I REALLY want to know what the outcome of all this is.
Since I won't be able to see whether the Others kill Jack, Kate, and Sawyer (I know this won't happen, but a girl can dream) until next week, I have some predictions about what's going to happen this season:
- Michael and Walt will totally not get rescued. Instead, they will foolishly follow the Others' navigational advice and end up either back on the island or somewhere worse. Because the "Lost" writers love to prove how useful their fucking liberal arts degrees are by throwing in lots of heavy-handed intellectual references, I predict they'll encounter some obviously Odyssean peril, like a witch who look like Michael's dead heartless bitch of an international lawyer who turns overcompensating deadbeat dads with anger management issues into pigs, or a cannibal cyclops.
- Jack, Kate, and Sawyer are interrogated and subjected to totally unnecessary, poorly executed and nonsensical medical tests conducted by the Others. When the Other leader they knew as Henry Gale questions them, Kate just shuts up and glares mournfully, Jack gets all square-jawed and reminds everyone several times that he's a doctor, and Sawyer delivers inappropriate quips in his "Dukes of Hazzard"-inspired cracker accent. Then they stage an insurgency and manage to escape, but spend the rest of the season suspecting that the Others implanted them all with anal probes, just to make their lives suck even more. That's what I would do, if I was an Other.
- Charlie, ersatz junkie/Driveshaft bassist, will go back on the smack when not helping Mr. Eko do his dirty self-redemption work. Claire will yell at him, imply that he's being a bad stepfather to her baby, or otherwise upset him, and he'll be breaking open virgin mary statues like they're eggs and he's making a giant heroin omelette.
- Mr. Eko will die. Adewale Super Nigerian Last Name-hyphenated-Super Nigerian Last Name, the actor who plays Mr. Eko, had a tangle with the Honolulu police. Although the charge was dropped, "Lost" producers get really nervous when they have cast members getting into skirmishes with the Hawaii 5-0. Michelle Rodriguez and that busted blonde chick both got DUIs and their characters were promptly shot to death. Therefore, Mr. Eko will be killed in a sudden way to avoid the mere appearance of impropriety regarding the integrity of the "Lost" cast ensemble.
- Sayid, without any eligible slutty blondes around to impress with his dark mystique, will let himself go, become BFFs with Charlie the Junkie Hobbit, and start doing gay shit like this:
- The failure to enter the numbers on time which caused the counter thingy to go all hieroglyphic and cranked up the supposedly apocalypse-causing magnet results in another plane crash. A whole new crowd of plane crash survivors start mingling with the gang from Oceanic 815. This cast of characters includes a world-ending magnetologist, a brooding and reserved loner type named Thomas Hobbes who argues with Locke about property rights, social structure, and the nature of man, and a plastic surgeon who both threatens Jack's masculinity and gives Hurley the gynecomastia man tit-removal surgery he so desperately needs.
- In the course of being tortured/experimented upon by the Others, Kate wastes an entire episode reflecting on her past as the most boring international fugitive in the history of criminal vigilante justice, her love for horses, her dysfunctional trailer park family problems, and feelings for Jack AND Sawyer. The Others, like the television viewing audience, are so sick of her that they destroy her ovaries to ensure that she'll never pass her woeful genes on to any possible offspring that might result from the inevitable Jack-Sawyer train she'll be running.
- The four-toed foot turns out to be a relic of an ancient civilization that worshipped "The Simpsons," and were going to cover the island with gargantuan statues of every Matt Groening caricature ever drawn, until the magnet or whatever went off. It turns out the magnet was put there as a trap by the people from Easter Island, who were looking to dominate the south Pacific inexplicable stone idol market.
- Sun will have her baby, which will turn out to be half-black, which will make Jin go all half-cocked, break out his battering skills from his days as a Korean Soprano, and fuck up Michael, Mr. Eko, or any other person with high levels of melanin in their skin to cross his path.
Project Runway
"Project Runway" is a reality competition hosted by supermodel Heidi Klum in which aspiring fashion designers compete in weekly design challenges for the chance to show a collection at Olympus Fashion Week in New York. The designers are all bitchy, and it's fun to watch them bicker while they design often shitty and ridiculous clothing. The eliminated designer every week gets informed by Klum that "they're out" and air-kisses them off with a fond "auf wiedersehn."
The designers have now been winnowed down to four people who will be showing their collections at Fashion Week.
First there is Laura, the architect/baby factory who only makes beaded cocktail dresses for flatchested people. For an example of "classic Laura," check out the portrait of the artist herself:
Then there is Jeffrey, the hipster idiot who looks like a hellish cross between my cokehead ex-boyfriend Tod-With-One-D and Travis Barker, erstwhile Blink 182 drummer and current Paris Hilton fuckbuddy. Jeffrey is so annoying, because he is not only a complete prick, but he has the worst weak chin ever. His jawline looks like an undesirable ass, a combination of too much cleft and flat, amorphous proportions:
Also in the mix is Uli, the German who designs beach mumus for women in Miami and specializes in seizure-inducing patterned fabrics with lots of chunky braid:
Finally, there is my personal favorite. Michael Knight, this Hotlanta-born fashion thug, both shares his name with David Hasselhoff's character in "Knight Rider" and manages to design some hot urban casual wear. Also, he always will follow ghetto sensibility like "I'm not tryin' to play Captain Save-a-Ho, as we say in the hood" with lengthy complaints about the difficulties of pattern cutting , the temperamental nature of bobbin threads, and the technical trickery of hand-ruching:
As much as I get into the designers' drama and hope that Michael lays waste to Jeffrey's "deconstructed" bullshit and Uli's jungle wear, the real reason to watch this show is this:
The judges, "top American fashion designer" Michael Kors and Elle magazine fashion director Nina Garcia, are fabulously bitchy. Kors will always sneer distastefully at outfits he hates, and then makes some obnoxious yet usually accurate succinct description such as "she looks like a paper brioche" and "it looks like a grade school Thanksgiving pageant exploded all over her ass." It's fucking awesome when some designer sends an ambitious yet stank outfit down the runway, and Michael Kors glowers with righteous revulsion for a moment before declaring in his nasal tenor that "it looks like Comme des Garcons goes to the Amish country." Usually, then Nina will chime in to inform the designer that it's either tired, blatantly copied from some established edgy designer, and/or made with a terrible choice of fabric. Although Heidi Klum has her moments of bitchiness (like the time she said, "Would I rather look old or like a fat Minnie Mouse?"), Michael Kors and Nina Garcia have mastered the art of concise brutality in reality show judging.
Survivor
I don't even know why I watch "Survivor" except that I have for 11 seasons now, and it's almost like I only watch it out of habit. "Survivor" is always kind of boring, and Jeff Probst is an overdimpled, badly styled douche, but I always watch it anyway. I love some of the gimmicks that they incorporate to keep the show fresh. This season, they not only have hidden an immunity idol on the Exile Island, but they've organized the tribes down racial lines. I've been either busy or working the late the past few weeks on Thursdays, so I only saw the end of last week's episode to see how "Survivor" segregation was coming along. During the few minutes I did see, some Asian guy found the hidden immunity idol using geometry, and the Latinos threw a challenge so they could turn on the fat, slow, lazy, snoring guy and vote his ass out. This week, the "great social experiment" of racially segregating the "Survivor" tribes ended, and they mixed up and merged all the teams into two integrated tribes (with, of course, new hideous buffs for each tribe member to wear as tube top, bandeau, skirt, turban, arm garter, or scrunchie). I guess segregation, despite the producers' expectations, did not result in reality drama or high ratings.
Supernatural
Okay, I don't know how I've ended KIND OF watching "Supernatural," but I've seen a few episodes, mainly because I despise "CSI" and nothing else is on Thursdays at 9, and I flip back and forth between it and the equally shiteous "Grey's Anatomy" (see below). Bravo is a shitshow in this time slot, by the way. Last Thursday, they had "Cirque Du Soleil: Corteo", described by the channel guide as "a festive parade imagined by a clown," followed by "Cirque Du Soleil: Varekai", which is an "acrobatic tribute to the spirit of the nomadic soul." Watching these shows would inspire me to stick my head in the oven if it wasn't already occupied by a Lean Cuisine French bread pizza.
Anyway, "Supernatural" is a stupid show starring Jared Padalecki, late of "Gilmore Girls", and some guy who was on some other crappy WB show about teenagers. They are demon-hunting brothers who drive around the midwest in a late sixties model Impala listening to classic rock and killing demons flagrantly plagiarized from recent semi-popular horror movies and old "Buffy" episodes (ie: girl crawls out of mirror looking all Japanese ghosty, painting comes to life and kills people, scarecrow comes out of hibernation every twenty-third spring to eat nubile young couples, etc). Every episode involves Jared and the other guy pulling up to some town in buttfuck Indiana while rocking out to Bad Company. Once there, they realize that some supernatural shit is afoot and investigate, which typically involves impersonating everything from FBI agents to archaeologists to coroners to dead people's relatives. This investigation will result in them identifying their paranormal foe, and disclose that a hot girl is next to be eaten/absorbed/murdered/vaporized/damned eternally/etc. The brothers will probably also bicker, have flashbacks to their childhood, and have drama with their errant demon-hunting father. They will subsequently whip out either their BlackBerries (which they have tricked out, despite both of them being presumably unemployed save for unsolicited and unpaid psychic detective work) or their silver bullets or whatever, save the hot girl in the nick of time, and take turns making out with her. They'll make up from the fight they had earlier, crank the Foghat, and cruise off high-fiving and making overdone references to popular culture.
Like I said before, it's better than "CSI."
Grey's Anatomy
This show sucks, and I watch it primarily to give my unchecked rage a harmless outlet. This show is all about a bunch of surgeons and the drama that has resulted from them all having sex with each other. Complicating matters is the fact that they all live in Seattle, which makes them a bunch of snivelling, whiny crybabies. Consistent with their Seattle-dwelling status, the guys are all such a bunch of unscrubbed, emotionally processive tools that Patrick Dempsey and Chris O'Donnell are dueling for the title of resident hunks. That's exactly why I moved away from the Seattle area. Who wants to choose between fucking the index Ebola case from Outbreak and the latently homosexual Robin in one of the later Batman movies? Another thing I like about the show is that Sandra Oh's character was SMITH COLLEGE CLASS OF 2000! That means that when her character was in college and came out of her room to grouchily inform me and my drunken friends that it was "quiet hours" and could we please turn down the Dr. Dre and go smoke in our rooms because she has a test in her women's studies class the next day, I blew a bong hit in her face and told her to go boobmash with her roommate.
That is where any attempt at realism in "Grey's Anatomy," ends, however. There are a lot of things about "Grey's Anatomy" that make you audibly say "what the fuck?" First off, I'd like to point out that there are at least three black people in the cast, which anyone from Seattle can tell you comprises Seattle's ENTIRE African-American population excluding professional athletes. Second, all the doctors on this show are too busy having sex to actually perform any surgeries. They have sex with each other, sex with the nurses, sex with their roommates, sex with patients, etc. The sex scenes are always lame (usually consisting of Katherine Heigl in a fugly Playtex Cross Your Heart bra with either a dying person or that doctor whose name I can never remember) and seem to occur everywhere in the hospital: in the locker room, in the nurses' station, on random out-of-the-way gurneys, in the break room, in patient beds, etc. While normally I'd be a fan of a show with so much sex happening, most of it is implied except scenes involving the aforementioned breasts of Katherine Heigl, Patrick Dempsey's suspiciously trannish wife, or the skeletal and horribly aged Meredith Grey who is the title character. You can probably see why, in this time slot, I usually opt for "Supernatural."
Flavor of Love
Why any woman would want to bone Flavor Flav is beyond me. He's like a hobbit from the hood, and despite his charming, funny mannerisms, there is no way in hell I'd let his little weiner get anywhere near me. However, there are apparently a lot of women who wouldn't mind, and they are some nasty bitches all stuck together in the house. The final three (Deelishis, Krazy, and New York) are three of the most ridiculous women ever. Krazy is obviously trying to get her music career off the ground (watch out, Flav, you don't want a repeat of what Hoopz did to you), Deelishis looks like a man despite having an ass that defies physics, and New York, resurrected from last season, is a complete and total lunatic. I was rooting for Bootz, but Flav canned her last episode because she said she wasn't going to put out until she got married, despite giving a very slutty booty dance to Lloyd Banks, Young Buck, and the guys from Three 6 Mafia. However, now that it's down to the three, I'm going to have say I'm putting my money on Deelishis. Despite her somewhat gender bending facial bone structure and hideously disfiguring scars on her back, she isn't seemingly an attention whore, and appears slightly more stable mentally than New York. Go Deelishis!
Now I can't write anymore, as I have to watch some more TV.
Labels: America's Next Top Model, Flavor of Love, Grey's Anatomy, I LOVE IT, Lost, Nip/Tuck, Project Runway, Supernatural, Survivor, TV
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
The Retard Next Door
I find the E! show "The Girls Next Door" somewhat disturbing, and I'm not entirely sure why. At first I thought it was because it was chafing my usually dormant inner pain-in-the-ass feminist that Hugh Hefner is something like an oversexed fundamentalist Mormon with an almost clonal trio of Barbie-esque Stepford wives. Then I realized that I don't give a fuck how many broads any given dude is banging, so I realized that I couldn't attribute this particular aspect of his lifestyle to my sense of revulsion concerning this show. So I thought that maybe I find "The Girls Next Door" so off-putting because the image of an 80-year-old man fucking a barely legal woman horrifies me, even if it IS Hef. I know he said on his E! True Hollywood Story that "Picasso had his blue period, and I have my platinum blonde period," but regardless of whether his stable of augmented hoes is an artistic statement, he's getting to the age where many of his contemporaries are dealing with problems like incontinence and various bowel maladies, and there's nothing remotely sexually appealing about that. Nonetheless, there are a lot of sexual practices I find gross or distasteful (ie: feltching, salad tossing, and anything scat), but I don't really care if other people get their rocks off doing that. I'm not going to sit on Hugh Hefner's wrinkly old weiner, but it's not my problem if somebody else wants to, so that's not what bothers me so much about it, either. Maybe I don't like the show because "The Girls Next Door" are straight-up whores, no matter how many times they insist they are in love with Hef and shamelessly kiss his sagging old ass. Hef's trademark satin pajamas/smoking jacket combos now make him more reminiscent of someone's grandfather in a live-in care facility than a hot sexual icon, and I really don't believe that these chicks are screwing him for any other reason than that it's dope to live in the Playboy Mansion. However, although gold digging isn't my thing (obviously I wouldn't be suffering through the interminable hell of graduate school if it were), I don't really give a fuck if other women do it. I don't have a lot of respect for it, but I'm not trying to date a guy who likes trophy women (nor are those types of guys trying to date me). It's not like I'm in competition with these hookers, so that also can't be the basis for my dislike of the show.
Yesterday, as I was scanning my usual celebrity gossip blogs, it dawned on me what the problem is. The Superficial had a link to Girl Next Door #3's barely intelligible website, and as I navigated through the ditzy morass of her rambling compositions I realized why I hate "The Girls Next Door": I hate idiots, which is exactly what Girl Next Door #3, Kendra, is.
Okay, she might be hot, and I'm sure her "Look, I made a vulva!" routine is perceived as cute or sexy by some people, but Baby Boo here is without a fucking doubt one of the dumbest people on the planet. On an evolutionary scale, I'd place her somewhere between sea urchin and jawless fish in terms of brain power. If you multiplied a box of rocks by the least sharp tool in the shed to the power of every other cliche about stupidity you can think of, you'd be able to calculate exactly how dumb this skank is. Watching her show doesn't raise my blood pressure because it offends some lofty feminist ideal, or induces shuddering repulsion, or inspires principled jealousy, but because watching it involves tolerating the moronic hijinks of Kendra, a truly, genuinely, MONUMENTALLY stupid human being. Joining Hef's harem is probably the smartest move this bitch ever made in her life. If you don't believe me about just how low her intelligence quotient must be, just check out her site.
After getting over my surprise that this entire welcome message/mission statement wasn't written entirely in glitter font, I felt glad that Kendra is planning for the inevitable Hefless future (when he dies or she hits the wizened old age of 24, whichever comes first), but she might consider attending a school where instead of teaching her how to give happy endings and rub-and-tugs, they actually teach her how to spell, punctuate, and generally communicate in a coherent dialect of English. I'm sure that she'll be "aight" with all her sporting hobbies even if Hef kicks the bucket before she finishes massage or personal training school, as before she met him she was working as a dental assistant. There's always a market for a hot bimbo who knows her way around a roll of floss.
I love Kendra's autobiography because it rules reading things that make absolutely no sense at all. It goes from talking about how she's blogging for the Philadelphia Eagles (and although I couldn't get to the blog from the Eagles site without registering, I'm assuming that this is just a photoblog featuring Kendra wearing her tight McNabb jersey and smiling with the inner peace of the mentally handicapped) to "It proved to be a fateful decision. Soon after her operation blah blah etc." I'm pretty sure that agreeing to type "Go Eagles! Yayyy!" doesn't require surgery (unless they agreed to pay for a clearly unsuccessful lobotomy reversal), so presumably there was supposed to be a sentence in there that read, "Kendra got 500 ccs of saline stuffed into each of her tits." Again, before she tries to realize her dream of usurping the Suzy Kolbers of the sports journalism world, she might attend some classes that teach her how to communicate with actual people as opposed to feces-throwing non-human primates.
The writing on her website reads like Dostoevsky, however, compared to an email she sent to Media Takeout after Eminem threw water on her behind the scenes at a music video shoot:
Well, I'm glad Kendra's not letting fame go to her head, because there's nothing worse that dealing with someone who is "conceided." I'm sure that Akon, David Banner, and Lil' Zane were much more concerned about Kendra's ego than the ass she was allegedly literally dancing off.
Where was TMZ.com when you need them to catch this on film? Can you imagine a belligerent, "drung"-ged up Eminem reducing Kendra to tears by pouring water on her, then hiding from her subsequent attempts at physical retaliation behind his bodyguard? Fucking priceless!
Undoubtedly the humiliation Kendra suffered will galvanize millions of teenage boys to boycott purchasing any more Eminem albums. I have no doubt that when she stars in a Too $hort video, she'll be treated much better, because he is a rapper who is definitely known for treating women with dignity and respect. Since it appears she's easily placated with "pimpjuice," she'll particularly enjoy that aspect of shooting a Too $hort video, assuming that she avoids the fate of the unfortunate Betty and doesn't choke on it.
Why? As Kendra begins her soliloquy of tragic "why"s reminiscent of Nancy Kerrigan immediately post hit-knee-crushing, I'd direct her attention to EVERYTHING EMINEM HAS EVER DONE. This is a man who includes a lyric about killing his wife in every song, makes fun of everyone (I think he permanently damaged Moby), and tried to beat up Triumph the Insult Comic Dog at the VMAs a couple years ago. Why the fuck not?! Eminem doesn't need a reason to act like an asshole, because he is one. Furthermore, Kendra isn't doing "woders" for her cause of garnering sympathy from the masses by following her calls for a boycott and her feelings of sadness with "haha!!"
Kendra is exceptionally lucky that she's hot, because most people with her skills otherwise usually make a living either by panhandling on the subway, collecting disability, or mopping the floor at McDonald's. Only the select few with the premiere looks manage to make a go out of modeling/hooking, and it's really the cream of the crop that hit the jackpot by prostituting themselves to geriatric publishing magnates and converting that opportunity into a lucrative career as a model, television personality, athlete, dental assistant, masseuse, and aspiring sportscaster. She is a Renaissance halfwit. Therefore, I suppose I should praise rather than criticize her, as given her apparent intellectual ability, she has dramatically overachieved in the game of life. She's at a Kevin Federline level of accomplishment despite overwhelming lack of talent or aptitude. At least Kendra took the mental lemons that life handed her and made Spanish fly with it. Way to go, dumbass.
Yesterday, as I was scanning my usual celebrity gossip blogs, it dawned on me what the problem is. The Superficial had a link to Girl Next Door #3's barely intelligible website, and as I navigated through the ditzy morass of her rambling compositions I realized why I hate "The Girls Next Door": I hate idiots, which is exactly what Girl Next Door #3, Kendra, is.
Okay, she might be hot, and I'm sure her "Look, I made a vulva!" routine is perceived as cute or sexy by some people, but Baby Boo here is without a fucking doubt one of the dumbest people on the planet. On an evolutionary scale, I'd place her somewhere between sea urchin and jawless fish in terms of brain power. If you multiplied a box of rocks by the least sharp tool in the shed to the power of every other cliche about stupidity you can think of, you'd be able to calculate exactly how dumb this skank is. Watching her show doesn't raise my blood pressure because it offends some lofty feminist ideal, or induces shuddering repulsion, or inspires principled jealousy, but because watching it involves tolerating the moronic hijinks of Kendra, a truly, genuinely, MONUMENTALLY stupid human being. Joining Hef's harem is probably the smartest move this bitch ever made in her life. If you don't believe me about just how low her intelligence quotient must be, just check out her site.
After getting over my surprise that this entire welcome message/mission statement wasn't written entirely in glitter font, I felt glad that Kendra is planning for the inevitable Hefless future (when he dies or she hits the wizened old age of 24, whichever comes first), but she might consider attending a school where instead of teaching her how to give happy endings and rub-and-tugs, they actually teach her how to spell, punctuate, and generally communicate in a coherent dialect of English. I'm sure that she'll be "aight" with all her sporting hobbies even if Hef kicks the bucket before she finishes massage or personal training school, as before she met him she was working as a dental assistant. There's always a market for a hot bimbo who knows her way around a roll of floss.
I love Kendra's autobiography because it rules reading things that make absolutely no sense at all. It goes from talking about how she's blogging for the Philadelphia Eagles (and although I couldn't get to the blog from the Eagles site without registering, I'm assuming that this is just a photoblog featuring Kendra wearing her tight McNabb jersey and smiling with the inner peace of the mentally handicapped) to "It proved to be a fateful decision. Soon after her operation blah blah etc." I'm pretty sure that agreeing to type "Go Eagles! Yayyy!" doesn't require surgery (unless they agreed to pay for a clearly unsuccessful lobotomy reversal), so presumably there was supposed to be a sentence in there that read, "Kendra got 500 ccs of saline stuffed into each of her tits." Again, before she tries to realize her dream of usurping the Suzy Kolbers of the sports journalism world, she might attend some classes that teach her how to communicate with actual people as opposed to feces-throwing non-human primates.
The writing on her website reads like Dostoevsky, however, compared to an email she sent to Media Takeout after Eminem threw water on her behind the scenes at a music video shoot:
Well, I'm glad Kendra's not letting fame go to her head, because there's nothing worse that dealing with someone who is "conceided." I'm sure that Akon, David Banner, and Lil' Zane were much more concerned about Kendra's ego than the ass she was allegedly literally dancing off.
Where was TMZ.com when you need them to catch this on film? Can you imagine a belligerent, "drung"-ged up Eminem reducing Kendra to tears by pouring water on her, then hiding from her subsequent attempts at physical retaliation behind his bodyguard? Fucking priceless!
Undoubtedly the humiliation Kendra suffered will galvanize millions of teenage boys to boycott purchasing any more Eminem albums. I have no doubt that when she stars in a Too $hort video, she'll be treated much better, because he is a rapper who is definitely known for treating women with dignity and respect. Since it appears she's easily placated with "pimpjuice," she'll particularly enjoy that aspect of shooting a Too $hort video, assuming that she avoids the fate of the unfortunate Betty and doesn't choke on it.
Why? As Kendra begins her soliloquy of tragic "why"s reminiscent of Nancy Kerrigan immediately post hit-knee-crushing, I'd direct her attention to EVERYTHING EMINEM HAS EVER DONE. This is a man who includes a lyric about killing his wife in every song, makes fun of everyone (I think he permanently damaged Moby), and tried to beat up Triumph the Insult Comic Dog at the VMAs a couple years ago. Why the fuck not?! Eminem doesn't need a reason to act like an asshole, because he is one. Furthermore, Kendra isn't doing "woders" for her cause of garnering sympathy from the masses by following her calls for a boycott and her feelings of sadness with "haha!!"
Kendra is exceptionally lucky that she's hot, because most people with her skills otherwise usually make a living either by panhandling on the subway, collecting disability, or mopping the floor at McDonald's. Only the select few with the premiere looks manage to make a go out of modeling/hooking, and it's really the cream of the crop that hit the jackpot by prostituting themselves to geriatric publishing magnates and converting that opportunity into a lucrative career as a model, television personality, athlete, dental assistant, masseuse, and aspiring sportscaster. She is a Renaissance halfwit. Therefore, I suppose I should praise rather than criticize her, as given her apparent intellectual ability, she has dramatically overachieved in the game of life. She's at a Kevin Federline level of accomplishment despite overwhelming lack of talent or aptitude. At least Kendra took the mental lemons that life handed her and made Spanish fly with it. Way to go, dumbass.
Labels: celebrities, perversion, retard rage, TV
Monday, September 25, 2006
OMG, shoes, betch!
KatieScarlett has a gift for finding really weird videos on YouTube. This one is fucking bizarre, but nonetheless funny:
I'm just curious why Kelly's family has a picture of Tom Skerritt hanging on their wall, along with portraits of George W. Bush and Jesus. Also, from now on, I'm going to start calling EVERYBODY "betch."
I'm just curious why Kelly's family has a picture of Tom Skerritt hanging on their wall, along with portraits of George W. Bush and Jesus. Also, from now on, I'm going to start calling EVERYBODY "betch."
Labels: down with OPB (other people's blogs), hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, KatieScarlett, ridiculous absurdity
It's a small world, after all
Last night I was happily stuffing myself with ribs and Coors Light with the Js and Ps, Dick(Unicorn), and Tight Ends while watching the Seahawks lay waste to the Giants at Brother Jimmy's BBQ on the Upper West Side. While we were talking about some of the other teams in our Fantasy league, Dick(Unicorn) wanted to know if the team called The Forced Facial had something to do with my story about Facial Boy.
"No, dude," I said. "At least, I don't think so. That's my friend from high school Morrissey'sHair's team, and he is not the guy in that story."
"I didn't think so," said Dick(Unicorn). "That guy in that story, his name is Arial, right?"
"No, his name was Eytan," I said, but suddenly had a flashback to two years ago. Wmania was visiting me in New York, and we were at this bar called 1020 that's close to Columbia's main campus. I was pounding scotches and she was drinking vodka sodas like they were going out of style. We were approached by a swarthy, relatively attractive guy, who proceeded to buy us a round of drinks and sit with us. He was a second year law student at Columbia, and was Israeli. He started talking about his exploits in the Israeli military, and how he was some sort of super commando. He said that he was part of an elite unit similar to the Navy SEALs, and he'd stealthily assassinated all sorts of people. He bragged that he could kill a man with one quick jab to the throat.
"Yeah, but your name is Arial? Like The Little Mermaid?" I scoffed at him. "That's a fitting name for a big, bad military assassin."
He focused most of his energies on Wmania after that, and I thought he was full of shit. I mean, after you're done killing terrorists with your special throat-punches, do you eat gunpowder and shit dynamite, you overcompensating tool? The recently single Wmania made out with him in the ladies room for a little bit, but we bailed when he tried to talk us into having a threesome with him. I was unimpressed by his "I kill people with my bare hands" dick-swinging routine, and Wmania is not the type who fucks random guys in bars or has threesomes, so he just walked us outside while we hailed a cab.
At some point in the course of the evening, I gave him my phone number. My willingness to give out my phone number when drunk has netted me a lot of send-immediately-to-voicemail incoming calls, and this was no exception when he called me the next week. I didn't call him back. He called several more times. I still didn't answer the phone or call him back. Finally, he left me an irate message saying that he was deeply wounded by my refusal to answer the phone that went something like this: "Razzy, this is Arial. I don't know why you'd give me your phone number if you didn't want to talk to me, but apparently you don't. I don't know why you're treating me like this. It really hurts to be treated like nothing, like dirt. I don't deserve this, and I hope that nobody ever puts you through this pain." I'm not kidding, he was that dramatic about being blown off to voicemail by a drunk chick in a bar.
I called up Wmania, who was safely away from this insane fuck in DC, and said, "Dude, the Little Mermaid is pissed at me and leaving me crazy messages." She said he'd left her something similar, and, after establishing that he probably wasn't upset enough to track us down and kill us with his bare hands for our callous phone etiquette, we had a laugh at his expense. I forgot about him, until Dick(Unicorn) asked me if someone named Arial was Facial Boy.
"Holy shit!" I exclaimed to Dick(Unicorn). "I think I know that guy! He goes to Columbia law school, right? And he always talks about how he can kill people? I think my friend made out with him."
"Yeah, that sounds like him. Did you meet him at the West End?"
"No," I said.
"1020?"
"Yes!" I said. "It's got to be the same guy. How many law student Arials bragging about their Israeli military service could be running around the Columbia Morningside bar circuit? How do you know him?"
"He's notorious," said Dick(Unicorn). "And that whole facial story of yours seems like exactly the kind of thing he'd do."
"No shit," I said. "Thank God I didn't hook up with his sorry ass."
Unbelievable. Even in a huge fucking city like New York, not only have I already randomly run into Facial Boy in a Dunkin Donuts, but he's being confused with OTHER guys that I've also randomly met in bars (but mercifully did not hook up with). In addition to being a world of laughter and a world of tears, it's also apparently a world of former Israeli military expats trying incompetently to break off a piece of Razzy. A small fucking world, indeed.
"No, dude," I said. "At least, I don't think so. That's my friend from high school Morrissey'sHair's team, and he is not the guy in that story."
"I didn't think so," said Dick(Unicorn). "That guy in that story, his name is Arial, right?"
"No, his name was Eytan," I said, but suddenly had a flashback to two years ago. Wmania was visiting me in New York, and we were at this bar called 1020 that's close to Columbia's main campus. I was pounding scotches and she was drinking vodka sodas like they were going out of style. We were approached by a swarthy, relatively attractive guy, who proceeded to buy us a round of drinks and sit with us. He was a second year law student at Columbia, and was Israeli. He started talking about his exploits in the Israeli military, and how he was some sort of super commando. He said that he was part of an elite unit similar to the Navy SEALs, and he'd stealthily assassinated all sorts of people. He bragged that he could kill a man with one quick jab to the throat.
"Yeah, but your name is Arial? Like The Little Mermaid?" I scoffed at him. "That's a fitting name for a big, bad military assassin."
He focused most of his energies on Wmania after that, and I thought he was full of shit. I mean, after you're done killing terrorists with your special throat-punches, do you eat gunpowder and shit dynamite, you overcompensating tool? The recently single Wmania made out with him in the ladies room for a little bit, but we bailed when he tried to talk us into having a threesome with him. I was unimpressed by his "I kill people with my bare hands" dick-swinging routine, and Wmania is not the type who fucks random guys in bars or has threesomes, so he just walked us outside while we hailed a cab.
At some point in the course of the evening, I gave him my phone number. My willingness to give out my phone number when drunk has netted me a lot of send-immediately-to-voicemail incoming calls, and this was no exception when he called me the next week. I didn't call him back. He called several more times. I still didn't answer the phone or call him back. Finally, he left me an irate message saying that he was deeply wounded by my refusal to answer the phone that went something like this: "Razzy, this is Arial. I don't know why you'd give me your phone number if you didn't want to talk to me, but apparently you don't. I don't know why you're treating me like this. It really hurts to be treated like nothing, like dirt. I don't deserve this, and I hope that nobody ever puts you through this pain." I'm not kidding, he was that dramatic about being blown off to voicemail by a drunk chick in a bar.
I called up Wmania, who was safely away from this insane fuck in DC, and said, "Dude, the Little Mermaid is pissed at me and leaving me crazy messages." She said he'd left her something similar, and, after establishing that he probably wasn't upset enough to track us down and kill us with his bare hands for our callous phone etiquette, we had a laugh at his expense. I forgot about him, until Dick(Unicorn) asked me if someone named Arial was Facial Boy.
"Holy shit!" I exclaimed to Dick(Unicorn). "I think I know that guy! He goes to Columbia law school, right? And he always talks about how he can kill people? I think my friend made out with him."
"Yeah, that sounds like him. Did you meet him at the West End?"
"No," I said.
"1020?"
"Yes!" I said. "It's got to be the same guy. How many law student Arials bragging about their Israeli military service could be running around the Columbia Morningside bar circuit? How do you know him?"
"He's notorious," said Dick(Unicorn). "And that whole facial story of yours seems like exactly the kind of thing he'd do."
"No shit," I said. "Thank God I didn't hook up with his sorry ass."
Unbelievable. Even in a huge fucking city like New York, not only have I already randomly run into Facial Boy in a Dunkin Donuts, but he's being confused with OTHER guys that I've also randomly met in bars (but mercifully did not hook up with). In addition to being a world of laughter and a world of tears, it's also apparently a world of former Israeli military expats trying incompetently to break off a piece of Razzy. A small fucking world, indeed.
Labels: grad school bullshit, NFL football, perversion, real-life rejects, small penises
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Dodgy Jammer does Masturbate Theater
Apparently BloodyTosser was off bicycling around Pennsylvania, or lost her fake beard, or something. Therefore KatieScarlett took over Masturbate Theater duties this week, reading poems allegedly published in The New Yorker, as Dodgy Jammer:
KatieScarlett's accent is brilliant, particularly when she says things like "quim" and "dislodged an errant twat hair."
KatieScarlett's accent is brilliant, particularly when she says things like "quim" and "dislodged an errant twat hair."
Labels: BloodyTosser, creative projects, down with OPB (other people's blogs), hilarious shit, KatieScarlett, perversion
Friday, September 22, 2006
And the U.N. General Assembly award for Best Hilarious Fiery Rhetoric goes to...
I'm not a fan of Venezuelan dictator Hugo Chavez. I am not a fan of anyone who rules by decree, suppresses the will of the people with flagrant human rights violations, sucks off Fidel Castro on the regular, and makes extremely questionable style choices:
He looks like a cross between a Guardian Angel and Rose from "The Golden Girls" in that stank beret/puffy jogging suit combo. However, I thought that when he took the stage a couple days ago at the United Nations and made some choice quips about (fellow autocratic demagogue) President George W. Bush, it was comedy gold. "The devil came here yesterday," he said upon mounting the podium. "And it smells of sulfur still today."
Had I been sitting in the audience, I would have wolf-whistled and given him a standing ovation for having the stones to say that before the entire assembled U.N. Furthermore, I think it's only fair if President Bush gets to call him "evil" and a "tyrant" whenever he pleases. Free speech, right? Even though it's not exactly embraced in Chavez's Venezuela, the last time I checked it was still allowed here in the States, so good for Chavez for exercising his rights here on American soil.
However, a couple prominent Democrats have decided to make this an issue. Presumably this is a way for them to make Bush-loving Red Staters say, "Hey, maybe those Democrats aren't such freedom haters...I mean, they hate this asshole, too" several months before a key election. One of these Democrats was Rep. Charles Rangel (D-NY), who said, "You don't come into my country; you don't come into my congressional district and you don't condemn my president." Your president, Rep. Rangel? Didn't you once call the Iraq War "the biggest fraud ever committed on the people of this country," and then compare it to the Holocaust? Didn't you once say that Bush "shatters the myth of white supremacy once and for all?" And didn't you once say that Bush "has alienated every friend we've ever made for the last 200 years?" Since when has Bush been YOUR president? Rep. Rangel has opposed Bush ever since he was (not) elected in 2000, and as he's called Bush a racist, likened him to Hitler, and accused him of ruining our foreign relations, he ought to keep his big piehole firmly shut. This is why Democrats don't get elected: no matter what they say, they just come across as overtly insincere assholes.
Just to show them that he cares as much about their impotent grousing as Karl Rove does, Chavez marched right into Rangel's congressional district (which is also my hood, Harlem), and continued with some more awesome name-calling:
The New York tabloids are already desperate to do some damage control and remind everyone that Chavez is an asshole (as well as promote their dueling scratch ticket jackpots):
Also, the Rev. Jesse Jackson apparently met with Chavez to ask him to tone down his criticisms, telling NY1 that the name-calling has "a whole lot of heat, but not much light." I'm sure the Rev. Al Sharpton would have met with him, except he was probably too busy lauding Chavez along with the rest of Harlem, and he probably would have told Chavez to pull an Emeril and kick it up a notch.
It's true that there are still plenty of pissed-off people here in NYC. New Yorkers are just like all other Americans. MANY of them don't pay close attention to the international news, and could just as easily think Hugo Chavez is a minor-league prospect for the Mets as the president of Venezuela. Therefore, they're going to get a little pissed when this random Sudamericano starts delivering English-as-a-second-language insults about our president, even though most New Yorkers loathe Bush. This is true throughout the country. Last night, in between telling me about the "ri-dunk-ulous" customized Chevies on the Southern Miss campus and her fiance BigBagel's addiction to the historical role-playing computer game I recommended (Civilization IV), LL Cool Jew told me that the residents of the Mississippi Gulf Coast are incensed about Chavez's comments as well. While there are plenty of conservative good ol' boys around, there are still enough FEMA trailers and fully Katrinafied buildings around to remind many of the locals how much they hate Bush. However, I guarantee that if Chavez showed up and they caught the whole "cheaper oil prices" part of his speech, they'd be ready to party with him.
That's why the Daily News is a little off when it says that New York "lashes back" at Chavez. Most Americans get bristly when some dickhead foreigner shows up and starts trashing our country. However, Chavez hasn't really said anything about Bush that hasn't been fodder for "Saturday Night Live" skits for the last six fucking years, and, as evidenced by my neighbors, when he throws in a concession like low-cost heat for poor people, he goes from being a "Caracas crackpot" to a populist hero.
I still think Chavez is an asshole, but I have to laud his balls when it comes to international diplomacy. Not only did it make the U.N. General Assembly, which is typically about as exciting as my late grandmother's bridge games, totally interesting, it made me laugh. If the whole tyrannical dictatorship thing doesn't work out for him (and I suspect it's only a matter of time before some coup ousts his ass), Chavez could always consider a career in hilarious political commentary. Can you just imagine what "Hardball" with Hugo Chavez would be like? I can. Totally awesome.
He looks like a cross between a Guardian Angel and Rose from "The Golden Girls" in that stank beret/puffy jogging suit combo. However, I thought that when he took the stage a couple days ago at the United Nations and made some choice quips about (fellow autocratic demagogue) President George W. Bush, it was comedy gold. "The devil came here yesterday," he said upon mounting the podium. "And it smells of sulfur still today."
Had I been sitting in the audience, I would have wolf-whistled and given him a standing ovation for having the stones to say that before the entire assembled U.N. Furthermore, I think it's only fair if President Bush gets to call him "evil" and a "tyrant" whenever he pleases. Free speech, right? Even though it's not exactly embraced in Chavez's Venezuela, the last time I checked it was still allowed here in the States, so good for Chavez for exercising his rights here on American soil.
However, a couple prominent Democrats have decided to make this an issue. Presumably this is a way for them to make Bush-loving Red Staters say, "Hey, maybe those Democrats aren't such freedom haters...I mean, they hate this asshole, too" several months before a key election. One of these Democrats was Rep. Charles Rangel (D-NY), who said, "You don't come into my country; you don't come into my congressional district and you don't condemn my president." Your president, Rep. Rangel? Didn't you once call the Iraq War "the biggest fraud ever committed on the people of this country," and then compare it to the Holocaust? Didn't you once say that Bush "shatters the myth of white supremacy once and for all?" And didn't you once say that Bush "has alienated every friend we've ever made for the last 200 years?" Since when has Bush been YOUR president? Rep. Rangel has opposed Bush ever since he was (not) elected in 2000, and as he's called Bush a racist, likened him to Hitler, and accused him of ruining our foreign relations, he ought to keep his big piehole firmly shut. This is why Democrats don't get elected: no matter what they say, they just come across as overtly insincere assholes.
Just to show them that he cares as much about their impotent grousing as Karl Rove does, Chavez marched right into Rangel's congressional district (which is also my hood, Harlem), and continued with some more awesome name-calling:
"He walks like this cowboy John Wayne. He doesn't have the slightest idea of politics. He got where he is because he is the son of his father. He was an alcoholic...he is a sick man, full of complexes, but very dangerous now because he has a lot of power."In between calling Bush "a menace," "a dictator," and "a threat to life on the planet," Chavez promised low-cost heating oil to the people of Harlem, eliciting cheers. I can just imagine the people at that rally (99.99999% of whom HATE Bush) saying to each other, "This Venezuelan guy is alright." Not only are his dissing skills on par with 50 Cent's, but he just said the magic words: "Cheap fuel for poor people."
The New York tabloids are already desperate to do some damage control and remind everyone that Chavez is an asshole (as well as promote their dueling scratch ticket jackpots):
Also, the Rev. Jesse Jackson apparently met with Chavez to ask him to tone down his criticisms, telling NY1 that the name-calling has "a whole lot of heat, but not much light." I'm sure the Rev. Al Sharpton would have met with him, except he was probably too busy lauding Chavez along with the rest of Harlem, and he probably would have told Chavez to pull an Emeril and kick it up a notch.
It's true that there are still plenty of pissed-off people here in NYC. New Yorkers are just like all other Americans. MANY of them don't pay close attention to the international news, and could just as easily think Hugo Chavez is a minor-league prospect for the Mets as the president of Venezuela. Therefore, they're going to get a little pissed when this random Sudamericano starts delivering English-as-a-second-language insults about our president, even though most New Yorkers loathe Bush. This is true throughout the country. Last night, in between telling me about the "ri-dunk-ulous" customized Chevies on the Southern Miss campus and her fiance BigBagel's addiction to the historical role-playing computer game I recommended (Civilization IV), LL Cool Jew told me that the residents of the Mississippi Gulf Coast are incensed about Chavez's comments as well. While there are plenty of conservative good ol' boys around, there are still enough FEMA trailers and fully Katrinafied buildings around to remind many of the locals how much they hate Bush. However, I guarantee that if Chavez showed up and they caught the whole "cheaper oil prices" part of his speech, they'd be ready to party with him.
That's why the Daily News is a little off when it says that New York "lashes back" at Chavez. Most Americans get bristly when some dickhead foreigner shows up and starts trashing our country. However, Chavez hasn't really said anything about Bush that hasn't been fodder for "Saturday Night Live" skits for the last six fucking years, and, as evidenced by my neighbors, when he throws in a concession like low-cost heat for poor people, he goes from being a "Caracas crackpot" to a populist hero.
I still think Chavez is an asshole, but I have to laud his balls when it comes to international diplomacy. Not only did it make the U.N. General Assembly, which is typically about as exciting as my late grandmother's bridge games, totally interesting, it made me laugh. If the whole tyrannical dictatorship thing doesn't work out for him (and I suspect it's only a matter of time before some coup ousts his ass), Chavez could always consider a career in hilarious political commentary. Can you just imagine what "Hardball" with Hugo Chavez would be like? I can. Totally awesome.
Labels: assholes, hilarious shit, international intrigue, large exclamatory font, politics, tyrannical rulers
Thursday, September 21, 2006
G-g-g-g-gay unit?
Yesterday while I was busy chopping up mouse fetuses in the tissue culture room, I heard the quote of the day on the Ed Lover show on Power105. Apparently there were rumors going around that Mya was dating my boyfriend 50 Cent. Fitty fucks around on me a lot, so I was more angry with him about being stupid enough to drive his Lambo recklessly around Madison Square Garden with no plates or tags, registration, insurance, or valid driver's license a couple weeks ago.
"You know how much this ticket is going to cost?!" I shouted at him, ignoring his pleas about how he's gotten rich and, by the grace of God, didn't die trying. "It's this kind of reckless disregard for wealth that cost Foxy Brown her fortune! One minute you're beating up nail salon technicians for doing a shoddy job on your tips, and the next you're recently recovered from mystery deafness and defaulting on settlements in court because your ass is dead broke!"
Anyway, I was too heated up about that to worry about a busted skank like Mya, so Fitty hasn't weighed in on the truth about the rumors that he was boning her:
However, according to Ed Lover, Mya had some choice words to say about 50. And I quote:
"50 and I never dated...despite what he chooses to believe in his own mind. I don't know how he would get Lloyd Banks confused with me."
SNAP! Damn, Mya! The bitch is not pulling any punches! Not only is her love, body, ass, and sex like whoa, I guess her ability to dispel rumors by outing people is as well. Presumably she either doesn't know or doesn't care about Fitty's fondness for diss tracks. I predict that she's about to get the same musical treatment as Vivica A. Fox and Kelis next time a G-Unit album drops.
And on another note, I'm going to have some face time with Fitty about all these gay rumors that keep going around about him. First it's his sentimental romanticism about George W. Bush, and now this. Even though he has photographic proof that this is what goes on when he and Lloyd get together for "poker night," I'm beginning to have my suspicions:
Sure, it LOOKS like it's all money counting, cigar smoking, Courvoisier drinking, and gun displaying, but I don't see any playing cards or poker chips or, for that matter, any hoed-out bitches around anywhere. Like, where is (fag hag) Olivia, guys? And that shotgun IS pretty phallic. It makes me wonder...
"You know how much this ticket is going to cost?!" I shouted at him, ignoring his pleas about how he's gotten rich and, by the grace of God, didn't die trying. "It's this kind of reckless disregard for wealth that cost Foxy Brown her fortune! One minute you're beating up nail salon technicians for doing a shoddy job on your tips, and the next you're recently recovered from mystery deafness and defaulting on settlements in court because your ass is dead broke!"
Anyway, I was too heated up about that to worry about a busted skank like Mya, so Fitty hasn't weighed in on the truth about the rumors that he was boning her:
However, according to Ed Lover, Mya had some choice words to say about 50. And I quote:
"50 and I never dated...despite what he chooses to believe in his own mind. I don't know how he would get Lloyd Banks confused with me."
SNAP! Damn, Mya! The bitch is not pulling any punches! Not only is her love, body, ass, and sex like whoa, I guess her ability to dispel rumors by outing people is as well. Presumably she either doesn't know or doesn't care about Fitty's fondness for diss tracks. I predict that she's about to get the same musical treatment as Vivica A. Fox and Kelis next time a G-Unit album drops.
And on another note, I'm going to have some face time with Fitty about all these gay rumors that keep going around about him. First it's his sentimental romanticism about George W. Bush, and now this. Even though he has photographic proof that this is what goes on when he and Lloyd get together for "poker night," I'm beginning to have my suspicions:
Labels: 50 cent, boyfriends, celebrities, hilarious shit, rap, scathing indictments, vulgar display of faggotry
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Best e-mail I've gotten in awhile
CorporateCard, knowing my fondness for the sublime and incomparable masterpiece of reality television known as "America's Next Top Model," sent me this EXTREMELY awesome piece of correspondence to get me psyched for tonight's PREMIERE EPISODE:
From: CorporateCard (ccard@giantmultinationalmediaconglomerate.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: Keep it Fierce!
When I clicked on the link, Tyra informed me over my computer speakers that I'm "not too busted" and that CorporateCard "told her" that I "might be the next undiscovered supermodel." I guess CorporateCard neglected to tell Tyra that I'm only 5'3". Given my short stature, I'll have to shelve my lifelong ambition of achieving supermodel status and go to plan B: microbiology, where all failed supermodels go to nurture their wounded dreams.
And while I'm glad to be "not too busted," I don't think anyone can say the same for Tyra's weave. Bitch, you are rich! Quit going to whatever cheap ass hairdresser is leaving that inch of stubble on your forehead and shell out for a decent stylist and some extensions that don't look like they come with a combustibility warning.
"ANTM" Cycle 7 starts tonight at 8! Holla indeed.
From: CorporateCard (ccard@giantmultinationalmediaconglomerate.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: Keep it Fierce!
When I clicked on the link, Tyra informed me over my computer speakers that I'm "not too busted" and that CorporateCard "told her" that I "might be the next undiscovered supermodel." I guess CorporateCard neglected to tell Tyra that I'm only 5'3". Given my short stature, I'll have to shelve my lifelong ambition of achieving supermodel status and go to plan B: microbiology, where all failed supermodels go to nurture their wounded dreams.
And while I'm glad to be "not too busted," I don't think anyone can say the same for Tyra's weave. Bitch, you are rich! Quit going to whatever cheap ass hairdresser is leaving that inch of stubble on your forehead and shell out for a decent stylist and some extensions that don't look like they come with a combustibility warning.
"ANTM" Cycle 7 starts tonight at 8! Holla indeed.
Labels: America's Next Top Model, CorporateCard, correspondence, TV
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Memo to Benedixteen: Crusade-era rhetoric isn't cool anymore
Man, I miss Pope John Paul II. JP Dos would NEVER have worn Prada loafers or picked on Harry Potter, and he certainly wouldn't have pulled this latest bullshit faux pas committed by His Holiness Benedict XVI. Somehow, in the course of trying to make the point that religion should not inspire violence, Benedixteen decided that he would hammer his argument home by quoting 14th century Byzantine emperor Manuel II Palaiologus. Emperor Manuel spent most of his reign trying (mostly unsuccessfully) to kick some Ottoman ass, and wrote about it. Specifically he wrote that the problem with Islam is that they try to resolve conflicts with violence, and presumably Benedixteen thought that this would be a terrific way to share a message of peace with the world:
Regardless, the last time I checked, it's been awhile since a pro-Crusade stance was considered a reasonable and enlightened position, so Benedixteen should know better. Even if Manuel II chose slightly less pejorative terms to characterize Islam than his western predecessor Urban II, the Pontiff is clearly lacking good judgment for thinking that quoting a medieval passage calling the teachings of Muhammad "evil and inhuman" is a good way to promote world peace. Even worse has been his response to all the controversy that has erupted since, which is basically the Britney Spears defense:
The Vatican's official response expresses regret that once again, Benedixteen was misunderstood to the tune of angry Turks burning effigies of him in downtown Ankara. The Pope's P.R. machine spells this out in a document called "Nostra Aetate" (meaning "In our Time"):
Yes, I just called the Pope an idiot, and guess what? Benedixteen may have forgotten that the Middle Ages are over, but I haven't, and as that's the case, the motherfucking dumbass CAN'T EXCOMMUNICATE ME FOR SAYING IT! Ha! In your face, Holy Apostolic Father! And yes, I just called him a motherfucking dumbass, too...it's not like I'm not already going to hell anyway.
"Show me just what Muhammad brought that was new and there you will find things only bad and inhuman, such as his command to spread by the sword the faith he preached."Those truly are inspiring words originally penned by a dude who spent most of his career trying to convince the rulers of Europe to send their armies to join in the Turk-killing fun. I guess Benedixteen decided to gloss over Manuel II's "Save Constantinople from the Infidels" military campaign, as well as the Roman church's pre- and post-Great Schism crusading tendencies. I suppose he could have made it worse by quoting similar sentiments by Pope Urban II, who gave everyone the whole "let's reclaim the Holy Land" idea in the first place. At the Council of Clermont in the year of our Lord 1095, which was basically the pre-First Crusade pep rally, Urban II said that anyone dying for the Muslim-killing cause would be guaranteed a spot in one of God's many mansions. Specifically, he said,
"All who die by the way, whether by land or by sea, or in battle against the pagans, shall have immediate remission of sins. This I grant them through the power of God with which I am invested. O what a disgrace if such a despised and base race, which worships demons, should conquer a people which has the faith of omnipotent God and is made glorious with the name of Christ!"I can see why, in comparison to that statement, Manuel II's opinion of Islam is almost flattering. At least he didn't call them "pagans", "despised and base", or say they "worship demons," nor did he stray from the topic at hand by complaining about antipopes, excommunicating various members of the French royal family, granting extraordinary preogatives to minor European nobility, and justifying Vatican coffer-friendly practices like the selling of tithes and indulgences, nepotism, simony, and lay investiture with choice bits of scripture.
Regardless, the last time I checked, it's been awhile since a pro-Crusade stance was considered a reasonable and enlightened position, so Benedixteen should know better. Even if Manuel II chose slightly less pejorative terms to characterize Islam than his western predecessor Urban II, the Pontiff is clearly lacking good judgment for thinking that quoting a medieval passage calling the teachings of Muhammad "evil and inhuman" is a good way to promote world peace. Even worse has been his response to all the controversy that has erupted since, which is basically the Britney Spears defense:
The Vatican's official response expresses regret that once again, Benedixteen was misunderstood to the tune of angry Turks burning effigies of him in downtown Ankara. The Pope's P.R. machine spells this out in a document called "Nostra Aetate" (meaning "In our Time"):
"As for the opinion of the Byzantine emperor Manuel II Paleologus which he quoted during his Regensburg talk, the Holy Father did not mean, nor does he mean, to make that opinion his own in any way. He simply used it as a means to undertake - in an academic context, and as is evident from a complete and attentive reading of the text - certain reflections on the theme of the relationship between religion and violence in general, and to conclude with a clear and radical rejection of the religious motivation for violence, from whatever side it may come."This press release should have been called "Mea Culpa," which is Latin for "my bad," because that's what the Pope needed to say. Instead of saying a much needed, "I'm sorry," he just says that the Church loves Muslims, and he was just quoting it to be "academic," and implies that you would know that if you spent time giving a "complete and attentive reading" of both a 14th century religious/military leader and a boring speech by creepy old Benedixteen the Grouch. Because most people worldwide enjoy thoroughly reading those types of documents so as to put anti-Islam sentiments into an "academic" context. Benedixteen clearly skipped JP Dos's diplomacy lessons when it comes to building bridges between people of different religious and cultural traditions, and apparently missed the whole part of the Catholic church's opinion about asking forgiveness when you fuck up. I don't believe that it's possible to get elected to Head Bitch in Charge of the Holy See without knowing about the sacrament of reconciliation, so I'm thinking that the Pope must just be an idiot.
Yes, I just called the Pope an idiot, and guess what? Benedixteen may have forgotten that the Middle Ages are over, but I haven't, and as that's the case, the motherfucking dumbass CAN'T EXCOMMUNICATE ME FOR SAYING IT! Ha! In your face, Holy Apostolic Father! And yes, I just called him a motherfucking dumbass, too...it's not like I'm not already going to hell anyway.
Labels: Catholicism, international intrigue, media whores, Pope Benedixteen, retard rage
Free speech has returned
The super racist Razzy hater appears to have crawled back to Hayden Lake, Idaho and hasn't attempted to post any more comments signed with my name. Even Harvard Jarhead hasn't graced us with more of his rambling argumentative prose since Morrissey'sHair handed his ass to him (and his trusty copy of Roget's) on the comment page. Perhaps he either felt that he was outwitted, or his unit finally got deployed. Regardless, a time of peace and non-prosperity has returned to RAZZY.org. Therefore, comment moderation is back off. Holler about whatever you will.
Labels: defiance, internet domination, Razzy Haters, vengeance is sweet
Monday, September 18, 2006
Fuck the Pittsburgh Stealers
You know what I hate more than getting my ass handed to me in my Fantasy league two weeks in a row?
Getting this in the mail:
I received this because I bought a pair of Steelers panties on sale from NFLshop.com several years ago. Despite having bought a Seahawks jersey since then, for some reason the NFL thinks that my $7 underwear are a more accurate reflection of my fan status than the $90 official home Trufant jersey, and sent me this absolutely maddening catalog of Steelers Super Bowl XL Championship memorabilia. Seeing this montage of triumphing Steeler images wreathing a shining depiction of the Lombardi trophy makes my blood boil.
I used to like the Steelers. I liked the Bus and his goofy grin, I liked Bill Cowher and his perma-scowl, and I liked Hines Ward's friendly, cheerful smile. I liked the Terrible Towels, I liked the Steelers' blue collar logo and I liked Pittsburgh's working class hero mystique. I was even rooting for the Steelers to go to the Super Bowl during the playoffs last year. Be careful what you wish for.
I'm not the only one who liked the Steelers. Seemingly, so did the NFL referees officiating Super Bowl XL, because they GAVE THEM THE FUCKING SUPER BOWL!
Like, for example, this call, where Ben Roethlisberger allegedly scored a touchdown on a 1 yard quarterback sneak
The NFL rule book states that a touchdown occurs "When any part of the ball, legally in possession of a player inbounds, breaks the plane of the opponent’s goal line, provided it is not a touchback." Since Big Ben DID NOT CROSS THE PLANE, this is not a touchdown. However, that's not what the officials said. The ref ran over to spot the ball just short of the goal line, Roethlisberger moved the ball across despite being COMPLETELY down and, while halfway there, the ref changed his mind about spotting it and threw up his hands, declaring it a touchdown. Thank God we have instant replay to straighten this out! Oh wait...they still called this a touchdown despite indisputable footage that says it wasn't, which furthers my theory that when the head referee sticks his head into that video thing, they actually just watch either porn or reruns of "Coach" rather than footage of the play under review.
Making this worse was the fact that the officials invented a holding penalty against the Seahawks, thus negating a Matt Hasselbeck completion which would have put the 'Hawks squarely in the Red Zone at 1st and Goal. This happened not once, but twice. In the fourth quarter, Hasselbeck completed a pass to Jerramy Stevens which would have placed the ball at the Steelers' one yard line, except the NFL officials again stole it from us with a phantom holding call.
This didn't just happen on plays that would have put the Seahawks in a position to score TDs. This also happened on a touchdown play itself, when the officials called another highly questionable offensive pass interference penalty on Darrell Jackson in the end zone. The game commentators were astounded, since it was obvious that calling him for pushing off was a real stretch. I see more blatant examples of pushing off not called every Sunday. So the NFL officials robbed us of two scoring opportunities as well as a touchdown outright.
I've heard a lot of people say things like, "Well, if the Seahawks played better, it wouldn't have mattered." I'll grant that the 'Hawks did make a few mistakes in the game, most notably allowing Willie Parker to make that 70+ yard touchdown run. However, it DID matter, because every time Seattle's offense showed the slightest sign of momentum, the officials stripped that away with their bullshit fictional penalties.
People might wonder why the NFL would want the Steelers to win. That's simple. Everyone loved the story about Jerome Bettis retiring after playing the Super Bowl in his hometown, and Bill Cowher's longtime thirst for a Super Bowl victory, and the Steelers' legacy in general. I think the NFL simply decided that a Steelers victory would be much more profitable for the team and the league than would a Seahawks victory. More people would buy commemorative videos, and Bettis jerseys, and crappy shit like Steelers imitation Tiffany lamps:
This is why the Steelers were allowed to walk away with the Lombardi trophy without earning it through fairness and superior football play. They stole it with the help of their official accomplices. From now on, I'm calling them the Pittsburgh Stealers, and I've downgraded my Pittsburgh panties to period underwear status: only worth wearing if the possibility exists that I might menstruate all over them.
I hate the Stealers and I hope that Jacksonville destroys them. I wish Roethlisberger had another appendix to rupture. I wish that Willie Parker would suffer a knee blowout or some other season and/or career-ending injury. I wish that someone would sneak up on Troy Polamalu and cut off his hair, thus robbing him of his power. I wish that something would happen to Hines Ward that is so bad he never wants to smile charmingly again. Fuck the Stealers. Maybe I'm being childish about this, but you know what? This child has the right idea:
This was originally written for and posted to my Fantasy Football blog, but I just had to share
Getting this in the mail:
I received this because I bought a pair of Steelers panties on sale from NFLshop.com several years ago. Despite having bought a Seahawks jersey since then, for some reason the NFL thinks that my $7 underwear are a more accurate reflection of my fan status than the $90 official home Trufant jersey, and sent me this absolutely maddening catalog of Steelers Super Bowl XL Championship memorabilia. Seeing this montage of triumphing Steeler images wreathing a shining depiction of the Lombardi trophy makes my blood boil.
I used to like the Steelers. I liked the Bus and his goofy grin, I liked Bill Cowher and his perma-scowl, and I liked Hines Ward's friendly, cheerful smile. I liked the Terrible Towels, I liked the Steelers' blue collar logo and I liked Pittsburgh's working class hero mystique. I was even rooting for the Steelers to go to the Super Bowl during the playoffs last year. Be careful what you wish for.
I'm not the only one who liked the Steelers. Seemingly, so did the NFL referees officiating Super Bowl XL, because they GAVE THEM THE FUCKING SUPER BOWL!
Like, for example, this call, where Ben Roethlisberger allegedly scored a touchdown on a 1 yard quarterback sneak
The NFL rule book states that a touchdown occurs "When any part of the ball, legally in possession of a player inbounds, breaks the plane of the opponent’s goal line, provided it is not a touchback." Since Big Ben DID NOT CROSS THE PLANE, this is not a touchdown. However, that's not what the officials said. The ref ran over to spot the ball just short of the goal line, Roethlisberger moved the ball across despite being COMPLETELY down and, while halfway there, the ref changed his mind about spotting it and threw up his hands, declaring it a touchdown. Thank God we have instant replay to straighten this out! Oh wait...they still called this a touchdown despite indisputable footage that says it wasn't, which furthers my theory that when the head referee sticks his head into that video thing, they actually just watch either porn or reruns of "Coach" rather than footage of the play under review.
Making this worse was the fact that the officials invented a holding penalty against the Seahawks, thus negating a Matt Hasselbeck completion which would have put the 'Hawks squarely in the Red Zone at 1st and Goal. This happened not once, but twice. In the fourth quarter, Hasselbeck completed a pass to Jerramy Stevens which would have placed the ball at the Steelers' one yard line, except the NFL officials again stole it from us with a phantom holding call.
This didn't just happen on plays that would have put the Seahawks in a position to score TDs. This also happened on a touchdown play itself, when the officials called another highly questionable offensive pass interference penalty on Darrell Jackson in the end zone. The game commentators were astounded, since it was obvious that calling him for pushing off was a real stretch. I see more blatant examples of pushing off not called every Sunday. So the NFL officials robbed us of two scoring opportunities as well as a touchdown outright.
I've heard a lot of people say things like, "Well, if the Seahawks played better, it wouldn't have mattered." I'll grant that the 'Hawks did make a few mistakes in the game, most notably allowing Willie Parker to make that 70+ yard touchdown run. However, it DID matter, because every time Seattle's offense showed the slightest sign of momentum, the officials stripped that away with their bullshit fictional penalties.
People might wonder why the NFL would want the Steelers to win. That's simple. Everyone loved the story about Jerome Bettis retiring after playing the Super Bowl in his hometown, and Bill Cowher's longtime thirst for a Super Bowl victory, and the Steelers' legacy in general. I think the NFL simply decided that a Steelers victory would be much more profitable for the team and the league than would a Seahawks victory. More people would buy commemorative videos, and Bettis jerseys, and crappy shit like Steelers imitation Tiffany lamps:
This is why the Steelers were allowed to walk away with the Lombardi trophy without earning it through fairness and superior football play. They stole it with the help of their official accomplices. From now on, I'm calling them the Pittsburgh Stealers, and I've downgraded my Pittsburgh panties to period underwear status: only worth wearing if the possibility exists that I might menstruate all over them.
I hate the Stealers and I hope that Jacksonville destroys them. I wish Roethlisberger had another appendix to rupture. I wish that Willie Parker would suffer a knee blowout or some other season and/or career-ending injury. I wish that someone would sneak up on Troy Polamalu and cut off his hair, thus robbing him of his power. I wish that something would happen to Hines Ward that is so bad he never wants to smile charmingly again. Fuck the Stealers. Maybe I'm being childish about this, but you know what? This child has the right idea:
This was originally written for and posted to my Fantasy Football blog, but I just had to share
Labels: NFL football, ranting, Seahawks, Stealers suck
Friday, September 15, 2006
Best news I've heard all day
According to a recent study published in the riveting publication the Journal of Labor Research, people who like to get their drink on "earn 10 to 14% more than teetotalers."
The study authors claim that because boozehounds are more social, they are better at networking, which leads to better job opportunities, and ultimately higher pay.
"Social drinking builds social capital," says one study author, a professor at San Jose State and co-author of the study. "Social drinkers are out networking, building relationships, and adding contacts to their BlackBerries that result in bigger paychecks."
Man, I wish I had a BlackBerry, because if there's anything I'm GREAT at, it's social drinking! Little did I realize that what will make my liver fatty will do the same thing to my bank account. With the amount of boozing I do, it's only a matter of time before I have built wealth that would make Scrooge McDuck greener than all my money with envy. You know, SO much money that I will not only be able to dive in and backstroke through all my coin, but I'll be able to sail a yacht around on it.
Time to get started on my fortune acquiring...it's happy hour, and it's Friday!
The study authors claim that because boozehounds are more social, they are better at networking, which leads to better job opportunities, and ultimately higher pay.
"Social drinking builds social capital," says one study author, a professor at San Jose State and co-author of the study. "Social drinkers are out networking, building relationships, and adding contacts to their BlackBerries that result in bigger paychecks."
Man, I wish I had a BlackBerry, because if there's anything I'm GREAT at, it's social drinking! Little did I realize that what will make my liver fatty will do the same thing to my bank account. With the amount of boozing I do, it's only a matter of time before I have built wealth that would make Scrooge McDuck greener than all my money with envy. You know, SO much money that I will not only be able to dive in and backstroke through all my coin, but I'll be able to sail a yacht around on it.
Time to get started on my fortune acquiring...it's happy hour, and it's Friday!
Labels: alcoholism, capitalism
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Educating people about the P-N-Dub, one Oregon Trail player at a time
Apparently the whole world doesn't read my website, and so I am often greeted by blank looks when I say, "I was back in the P-N-Dub," or "The last time I was in the P-N-Dub, I ________." (The blank is typically filled with "drank lots of beer," "ate salmon," or "fucked someone from high school.")
For the last time, THIS is the P-N-Dub:
P=Pacific
N=North
Dub=Abbreviated W, meaning West
P-N-Dub=Pacific Northwest. I am from the "Puget Sound" area indicated on this map in the fine state of WA, and though I live in NYC, I am always reppin' the 253 (my old area code in Puyallup/Tacoma).
Sometimes, people include Idaho, parts of southern Alaska, northern California, and western Montana in the P-N-Dub, but the true heart of it is basically what was covered by the game "Oregon Trail" that everyone in their late twenties played in elementary school.
Remember this game? It was typically on a 5 1/4" floppy disk and played using an Apple IIe with the green monochrome screen (although the screen shots used on Wikipedia have fancy color screens). You started out leading a wagon train from Independence, Missouri, where you had to stock up on supplies. The key to success was to buy medicine, extra clothes, wagon repair equipment, and lots of bullets, because if you ran out of jerky, you could always hunt. Hunting involved pressing the space bar at exactly the right time, then watching your cloud of grapeshot meander slowly up the screen, and hopefully hit the ambling buffalo or deer you were trying to kill.
Once you hit your mark, you would always waste most of your kill, as you could only carry 100 pounds of meat back to your wagon. Besides starvation, you would regularly have to contend with tribes of Indians along the way to the Oregon territory to start your new life as a blacksmith or farmer or cooper or whatever. Sometimes they'd hook you up with fresh food and supplies, and sometimes they'd scalp your entire party, at the whim of the computer. Another danger complicating "Oregon Trail" play was disease. You'd be almost to the Columbia River, when all of a sudden, half your children would die of dysentery or fever 'n' ague. 
If you survived the natives and epidemic disease, managed to keep your wagon in one piece, and, hopefully, still had one extant relative with you, you would face the final trial: fording the Columbia River on a shitty raft. This part of the game always kicked my ass. One wrong move with the semi-colon key and your wagon would be flotsam headed out to sea. However, if you made it that far, your character would set up a homestead, receive a congratulatory letter from President James K. Polk, and flourish, ultimately producing a great legacy. After years of success in the timber business, your great-grandchildren would move to Tacoma, hook up with a first-generation Norwegian, and produce loudmouthed daughters who write useless bullshit on the internet.
Okay, so that last sentence wasn't so much part of the game as my family tree, but you get the idea. "Oregon Trail" was about those intrepid American pioneers who migrated out to my neck of the woods and prepared it for annexation and eventual statehood by the United States. "Oregon Trail" is about the struggles and strife people went through to reach the Shangri-La that is the P-N-Dub. P-N-Dub=Oregon Territory=Pacific Northwest. Love it! And spread the word, so people will know what I am talking about in the future when I say, "On my next trip to the P-N-Dub, I plan to __________." (Blank filled in with "get drunk at the Roadhouse Tavern," "make fun of rednecks," "abuse borrowing my parents' car privileges," or "take it up the butt.")
For the last time, THIS is the P-N-Dub:
P=Pacific
N=North
Dub=Abbreviated W, meaning West
P-N-Dub=Pacific Northwest. I am from the "Puget Sound" area indicated on this map in the fine state of WA, and though I live in NYC, I am always reppin' the 253 (my old area code in Puyallup/Tacoma).
Sometimes, people include Idaho, parts of southern Alaska, northern California, and western Montana in the P-N-Dub, but the true heart of it is basically what was covered by the game "Oregon Trail" that everyone in their late twenties played in elementary school.
Remember this game? It was typically on a 5 1/4" floppy disk and played using an Apple IIe with the green monochrome screen (although the screen shots used on Wikipedia have fancy color screens). You started out leading a wagon train from Independence, Missouri, where you had to stock up on supplies. The key to success was to buy medicine, extra clothes, wagon repair equipment, and lots of bullets, because if you ran out of jerky, you could always hunt. Hunting involved pressing the space bar at exactly the right time, then watching your cloud of grapeshot meander slowly up the screen, and hopefully hit the ambling buffalo or deer you were trying to kill.
Once you hit your mark, you would always waste most of your kill, as you could only carry 100 pounds of meat back to your wagon. Besides starvation, you would regularly have to contend with tribes of Indians along the way to the Oregon territory to start your new life as a blacksmith or farmer or cooper or whatever. Sometimes they'd hook you up with fresh food and supplies, and sometimes they'd scalp your entire party, at the whim of the computer. Another danger complicating "Oregon Trail" play was disease. You'd be almost to the Columbia River, when all of a sudden, half your children would die of dysentery or fever 'n' ague. 
If you survived the natives and epidemic disease, managed to keep your wagon in one piece, and, hopefully, still had one extant relative with you, you would face the final trial: fording the Columbia River on a shitty raft. This part of the game always kicked my ass. One wrong move with the semi-colon key and your wagon would be flotsam headed out to sea. However, if you made it that far, your character would set up a homestead, receive a congratulatory letter from President James K. Polk, and flourish, ultimately producing a great legacy. After years of success in the timber business, your great-grandchildren would move to Tacoma, hook up with a first-generation Norwegian, and produce loudmouthed daughters who write useless bullshit on the internet.Okay, so that last sentence wasn't so much part of the game as my family tree, but you get the idea. "Oregon Trail" was about those intrepid American pioneers who migrated out to my neck of the woods and prepared it for annexation and eventual statehood by the United States. "Oregon Trail" is about the struggles and strife people went through to reach the Shangri-La that is the P-N-Dub. P-N-Dub=Oregon Territory=Pacific Northwest. Love it! And spread the word, so people will know what I am talking about in the future when I say, "On my next trip to the P-N-Dub, I plan to __________." (Blank filled in with "get drunk at the Roadhouse Tavern," "make fun of rednecks," "abuse borrowing my parents' car privileges," or "take it up the butt.")
Labels: epic geekery, epidemic geekery, P-N-Dub
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Miami Sound Masheen
Bienvenido-a-Miami is apparently sick to death of sitting in her office cubicle working "with hell's minions" writing reviews about throw pillows and carpet samples, so she started a blog of her own. Being that she's of Cuban extraction, the name of said blog is an homage to her hometown hero Gloria Estefan's original band, Miami Sound Machine. While I have yet to read anything there involving an ode to such Gloria masterpieces as "Come on, shake your body, baby, do that conga, I know you can't control yourself any longa, feel the rhythm of the music getting stronga, etc.", I'm just relieved she chose to pay tribute to Gloria rather than some other Cuban cause, like bringbackeliangonzalez.com or something like that.
Anyway, she writes for a living, and she's good at it. Her shit is funny. Por ejemplo:
While gushing about her love for Liza Minnelli, she tells about her trip to see Liza at Coney Island earlier this summer:
"I expected to be pressed up against a thousand topless beefy gay men blowing kisses at her, but much to my surprise, I was wrangled in by what must have been every single geriatic ward in the five boroughs of New York City. I'd never seen so many wheelchairs in my life--and all the old people were wasted too!"
Regarding Christina Ricci's latest movie role:
"The movie, about a wealthy young woman born with a pig's snout for a nose, is played by Christina Ricci, who obviously gleaned inspiration for her role by simply looking in the mirror."
Then she rips on Chloe Sevigny, much to my delight:
"Speaking of untalented, vacuous, and overrated 'Indie-goddesses', PAPER magazine has recently deemed Chloe Sevigny as the 'Art World's Favorite Movie Star.' Yikes. What an insult to the art world."
Concerning Suri Cruise:
"The great thing about being a Scientologist is that once you reach level 10 of insanity, you're awarded special sperm powers, and that, my friends, is how Suri came to be."
Anyway, her material is great, and well worth your time. Besides, there's no way I could NOT give her a shout out when she sent me a mass e-mail alerting everyone to her presence on the internet that read "It's not as amazing as RAZZY.org, but it's a start." SOOOO flattering!
Check it out:
http://soundmasheen.blogspot.com
Anyway, she writes for a living, and she's good at it. Her shit is funny. Por ejemplo:
While gushing about her love for Liza Minnelli, she tells about her trip to see Liza at Coney Island earlier this summer:
"I expected to be pressed up against a thousand topless beefy gay men blowing kisses at her, but much to my surprise, I was wrangled in by what must have been every single geriatic ward in the five boroughs of New York City. I'd never seen so many wheelchairs in my life--and all the old people were wasted too!"
Regarding Christina Ricci's latest movie role:
"The movie, about a wealthy young woman born with a pig's snout for a nose, is played by Christina Ricci, who obviously gleaned inspiration for her role by simply looking in the mirror."
Then she rips on Chloe Sevigny, much to my delight:
"Speaking of untalented, vacuous, and overrated 'Indie-goddesses', PAPER magazine has recently deemed Chloe Sevigny as the 'Art World's Favorite Movie Star.' Yikes. What an insult to the art world."
Concerning Suri Cruise:
"The great thing about being a Scientologist is that once you reach level 10 of insanity, you're awarded special sperm powers, and that, my friends, is how Suri came to be."
Anyway, her material is great, and well worth your time. Besides, there's no way I could NOT give her a shout out when she sent me a mass e-mail alerting everyone to her presence on the internet that read "It's not as amazing as RAZZY.org, but it's a start." SOOOO flattering!
Check it out:
http://soundmasheen.blogspot.com
Labels: Bienvenido-a-Miami, down with OPB (other people's blogs), I LOVE IT
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Gays + Warren Steed Jeffs=Activist powerhouse?
Here is yet another quality e-mail exchange between myself and my friends. I've gotten a "talking to" about spending so much time blogging at work, but it's still okay to e-mail! I can see why...e-mail is MUCH more productive.
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org), Wmania (wmania@bighugecorporatePRfirm.com), FalloniousMonk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com)
Subject: brad pitt and angelina jolie, gay rights activists
!
"Angie and I will consider tying the knot when everyone else in the country who wants to be married is legally able."
-Brad Pitt, in the new issue of Esquire
LL Cool Jew, as usual, manages to view everything through the lens of someone deeply concerned about both gay rights and celebrity gossip (the above e-mail followed one where she sent a picture of Suri Cruise and asked "well? was katie holmes raped by a mongolian horseman in a former life or what?"). Wmania, however, was thinking a little differently:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org), LL Cool Jew, FalloniousMonk
From: Wmania
Subject: Re: brad pitt and angelina jolie, gay activists
dude, how do you know they aren't giving a shout to the polygamists?
That's an association I'm sure that gay marriage activists are going to LOVE.
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org), Wmania (wmania@bighugecorporatePRfirm.com), FalloniousMonk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com)
Subject: brad pitt and angelina jolie, gay rights activists
!
"Angie and I will consider tying the knot when everyone else in the country who wants to be married is legally able."
-Brad Pitt, in the new issue of Esquire
LL Cool Jew, as usual, manages to view everything through the lens of someone deeply concerned about both gay rights and celebrity gossip (the above e-mail followed one where she sent a picture of Suri Cruise and asked "well? was katie holmes raped by a mongolian horseman in a former life or what?"). Wmania, however, was thinking a little differently:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org), LL Cool Jew, FalloniousMonk
From: Wmania
Subject: Re: brad pitt and angelina jolie, gay activists
dude, how do you know they aren't giving a shout to the polygamists?
That's an association I'm sure that gay marriage activists are going to LOVE.
Labels: celebrities, correspondence, LL Cool Jew, perversion, vulgar display of faggotry
Comment moderation is on...temporarily
I do not like the idea of deleting comments. Nothing pisses me off more than being told that I need to shut the fuck up, and it would be unfair for me to pick and choose what comments get written based on whether I like them or agree with them. I think that, no matter how unflattering to me, people should be allowed to say whatever they please.
However, for the last week, some psychotic jerk with entirely too much time on his/her hands has read every page of my archives, and then used the information within about myself and my friends to craft these horrible, racist, antisemitic, pathologically cruel letters signed with my name. For examples, see the Chingy!: The Major Motion Picture post comment page. I don't think that anyone, save possibly the Harvard-educated jarhead who ALSO has too much time on his hands (see the above post for examples of his stunning prose as well), thinks that I actually wrote these. Anyone who knows me or has read my site knows that I would *NEVER* write something like that. Nonetheless, every time I see shit written "by me" proclaiming my sanguine love for Josef Mengele, rhapsodizing about the joy of killing my beloved life partner J-Sexy and flocks of her Jamaican countrymen, and utilizing every derogatory name for black people ever created, I am filled with a combination of sickness and rage, and finally concluded that for the sake of my sanity I have to violate my own cherished "I don't delete comments" policy when one of these hateful missives gets posted. Since I actually have to get some work done, I can't check my blog every minute of the day to see if this asshole has written more shiteous correspondence and signed it "Razzy," and anyway, if one of these letters goes up for even a second, it's been in the public domain too long.
There probably is a way to block someone at a specific IP address from coming to my site, but I'll be damned if I know how to do that (if anyone does know, holler at your girl and help me out, because I'd way rather just block the asshole writing these). Without knowing how to block specific visitors, I basically have two options. I can either require that everyone who comments signs into Blogger, which will mean that many people will stop commenting because most people are lazy and don't want to have to go through the hassle of registering and signing in to comment, or I can turn comment moderation back on, which means that anyone can comment, but I have to approve the comments before they go up. I've decided on the latter. I will continue to approve all comments (even yours, Harvard boy), except the above mentioned letters written in the guise of me. I believe very strongly in free speech, and I PROMISE all comments will go up with the aforementioned exception, even if they're the old "ur a fat ugly slut" variety (and in the wake of these letters, I actually feel almost fondly nostalgic for those).
I am so sorry to everyone that ONE stupid motherfucker has forced me to do this, and if anyone has any alternative suggestions for how to deal with this, I'm all ears. However, my own personal ineptitude at webmastering limits the means I can use to keep this asshole off my blog, and I've HAD IT, so at least until this fuckhead decides that he/she has better things to do than write multiparagraph letters about using statistical measures to assess the success of my various racial hygiene schemes, comment moderation is back on.
And to the author of those: get a fucking life. It is disturbing to me that you have gone to such lengths attempting to make me look bad, and I'm well aware that you spent literally AN ENTIRE DAY reading every one of the 150+ posts on this blog, presumably in order to better imitate me. Seriously, I looked at my logs and this asshole literally spent TEN HOURS reading my archives. I have no idea what pissed you off so much that you felt the need to put so much time and effort into this, but I do NOT like having a malevolent e-stalker, particularly such a diligent one. If I ever get some computer geek to track down your name using your IP address, then rest assured, I will post ALL your personal information here to put a name other than mine to the shit you've written.
To everyone else: sorry I've had to do this, but please bear with me. I appreciate every person who reads what I put a lot of time into writing, whether the reader likes me and agrees with me, or not. I hope that you will all continue to read, and comment, and deeply, deeply love the useless bullshit written here (or love to hate it).
However, for the last week, some psychotic jerk with entirely too much time on his/her hands has read every page of my archives, and then used the information within about myself and my friends to craft these horrible, racist, antisemitic, pathologically cruel letters signed with my name. For examples, see the Chingy!: The Major Motion Picture post comment page. I don't think that anyone, save possibly the Harvard-educated jarhead who ALSO has too much time on his hands (see the above post for examples of his stunning prose as well), thinks that I actually wrote these. Anyone who knows me or has read my site knows that I would *NEVER* write something like that. Nonetheless, every time I see shit written "by me" proclaiming my sanguine love for Josef Mengele, rhapsodizing about the joy of killing my beloved life partner J-Sexy and flocks of her Jamaican countrymen, and utilizing every derogatory name for black people ever created, I am filled with a combination of sickness and rage, and finally concluded that for the sake of my sanity I have to violate my own cherished "I don't delete comments" policy when one of these hateful missives gets posted. Since I actually have to get some work done, I can't check my blog every minute of the day to see if this asshole has written more shiteous correspondence and signed it "Razzy," and anyway, if one of these letters goes up for even a second, it's been in the public domain too long.
There probably is a way to block someone at a specific IP address from coming to my site, but I'll be damned if I know how to do that (if anyone does know, holler at your girl and help me out, because I'd way rather just block the asshole writing these). Without knowing how to block specific visitors, I basically have two options. I can either require that everyone who comments signs into Blogger, which will mean that many people will stop commenting because most people are lazy and don't want to have to go through the hassle of registering and signing in to comment, or I can turn comment moderation back on, which means that anyone can comment, but I have to approve the comments before they go up. I've decided on the latter. I will continue to approve all comments (even yours, Harvard boy), except the above mentioned letters written in the guise of me. I believe very strongly in free speech, and I PROMISE all comments will go up with the aforementioned exception, even if they're the old "ur a fat ugly slut" variety (and in the wake of these letters, I actually feel almost fondly nostalgic for those).
I am so sorry to everyone that ONE stupid motherfucker has forced me to do this, and if anyone has any alternative suggestions for how to deal with this, I'm all ears. However, my own personal ineptitude at webmastering limits the means I can use to keep this asshole off my blog, and I've HAD IT, so at least until this fuckhead decides that he/she has better things to do than write multiparagraph letters about using statistical measures to assess the success of my various racial hygiene schemes, comment moderation is back on.
And to the author of those: get a fucking life. It is disturbing to me that you have gone to such lengths attempting to make me look bad, and I'm well aware that you spent literally AN ENTIRE DAY reading every one of the 150+ posts on this blog, presumably in order to better imitate me. Seriously, I looked at my logs and this asshole literally spent TEN HOURS reading my archives. I have no idea what pissed you off so much that you felt the need to put so much time and effort into this, but I do NOT like having a malevolent e-stalker, particularly such a diligent one. If I ever get some computer geek to track down your name using your IP address, then rest assured, I will post ALL your personal information here to put a name other than mine to the shit you've written.
To everyone else: sorry I've had to do this, but please bear with me. I appreciate every person who reads what I put a lot of time into writing, whether the reader likes me and agrees with me, or not. I hope that you will all continue to read, and comment, and deeply, deeply love the useless bullshit written here (or love to hate it).
Labels: assholes, free fucking speech, Razzy Haters
Monday, September 11, 2006
Happy 9/11, Everybody!
Even though it's the first Monday Night Football of the season, a joyous occasion which warrants celebration, the halftime show of the Redskins-Vikings game has yet another damn 9/11 montage. I'm fucking SICK of the pictures of the planes flying into the tower followed by a voiceover of a radio announcer saying something "Reports are coming in that Flight 93 has crash landed near Shanksville, Pennsylvania." I know it's the fifth anniversary of 9/11, but COME ON! I've been seeing "9/11: Five Years Later" headlines all day. I woke up this morning to a delightful three hours worth of WTC victims' names being read, then saw CNN devote its entire home page to 9/11 memorial coverage. THAT SUCKS!
Like most Americans, I was appalled and upset by the events of September 11th, 2001. However, living in New York City, I hear about 9/11 ALL THE FUCKING TIME. Not a day goes by that it's not part of the news, whether it be rich people (Bloomberg vs. Silverstein, WTC lease holder) arguing about who is going to pay for the memorial/Freedom Tower being built at Ground Zero or a report on the myriad diseases that responders and residents of lower Manhattan are now suffering from breathing deadly asbestos-laden particulate Twin Tower dust. I see 9/11 memorial donation solicitation ads on the subway, and read the papers' constant speculation about when the next imminent terrorist attack on New York City will occur. For the past three months, I've seen nothing but shows analyzing 9/11 on everything from "Dateline" to the Discovery Channel. I get a daily dose of 9/11, and whether it's depressing news, scary predictions, or elected officials exploiting it for political leverage, I'm frankly sick of hearing it all the time.
I know that the five year anniversary seems like an important milestone, and I have no problem with reflecting in grief. I understand that our entire nation reeled from the shock, horror, and tragedy of that terrible day, and mourning is important for all Americans in terms of coping. However, there is just NO reason to see a bunch of NFL players giving their two cents about it. It's touching that Brad Johnson and Antwaan Randle El were profoundly affected, but that's not what all my rowdy friends here on Monday night want to hear about. I never thought I'd fondly reminisce about the interview with Jamie Foxx about whether or not Tom Cruise was crazy and how great he was in Any Given Sunday conducted by eager sycophant Joe Theismann during the second quarter. Monday Night Football is about the crazy costumes that Clinton Portis wears to press conferences, funny beer commercials, and Hank Williams, Jr., NOT 9/11. There is no place for overly sentimental and sad 9/11 clips on ESPN during Monday Night fucking Football. ESPN is for sports, not memorials that were already done with a much higher budget by virtually every other network trying to capitalize on the prevalent "Let's remember 9/11" theme in the media. The Cartoon Network understands this. They know that people watch their channel to catch "X-Men" reruns and Adult Swim, not hear about anything that's not a cartoon. ESPN needs to take a lesson from the Cartoon Network and get back to uninformative Michelle Tafoya sideline interviews.
That aside, Santana Moss needs to catch at least one touchdown in the second half if I can even vaguely hope that I might beat my fantasy opponent this week. Even if Moss tears it up a little, I still need LaMont Jordan to have an impossibly monster performance in the Chargers-Raiders game after this. Since the Chargers have one of the best rushing defenses in the NFL, I'm concerned that Jordan is not going to get the 150 yards and three TDs I need in order to make up a 45-point deficit in this week's game versus the Tight Ends. Fuck. He needs to have the best 9/11 of his life.
This entry was originally written for my fantasy football blog
Like most Americans, I was appalled and upset by the events of September 11th, 2001. However, living in New York City, I hear about 9/11 ALL THE FUCKING TIME. Not a day goes by that it's not part of the news, whether it be rich people (Bloomberg vs. Silverstein, WTC lease holder) arguing about who is going to pay for the memorial/Freedom Tower being built at Ground Zero or a report on the myriad diseases that responders and residents of lower Manhattan are now suffering from breathing deadly asbestos-laden particulate Twin Tower dust. I see 9/11 memorial donation solicitation ads on the subway, and read the papers' constant speculation about when the next imminent terrorist attack on New York City will occur. For the past three months, I've seen nothing but shows analyzing 9/11 on everything from "Dateline" to the Discovery Channel. I get a daily dose of 9/11, and whether it's depressing news, scary predictions, or elected officials exploiting it for political leverage, I'm frankly sick of hearing it all the time.
I know that the five year anniversary seems like an important milestone, and I have no problem with reflecting in grief. I understand that our entire nation reeled from the shock, horror, and tragedy of that terrible day, and mourning is important for all Americans in terms of coping. However, there is just NO reason to see a bunch of NFL players giving their two cents about it. It's touching that Brad Johnson and Antwaan Randle El were profoundly affected, but that's not what all my rowdy friends here on Monday night want to hear about. I never thought I'd fondly reminisce about the interview with Jamie Foxx about whether or not Tom Cruise was crazy and how great he was in Any Given Sunday conducted by eager sycophant Joe Theismann during the second quarter. Monday Night Football is about the crazy costumes that Clinton Portis wears to press conferences, funny beer commercials, and Hank Williams, Jr., NOT 9/11. There is no place for overly sentimental and sad 9/11 clips on ESPN during Monday Night fucking Football. ESPN is for sports, not memorials that were already done with a much higher budget by virtually every other network trying to capitalize on the prevalent "Let's remember 9/11" theme in the media. The Cartoon Network understands this. They know that people watch their channel to catch "X-Men" reruns and Adult Swim, not hear about anything that's not a cartoon. ESPN needs to take a lesson from the Cartoon Network and get back to uninformative Michelle Tafoya sideline interviews.
That aside, Santana Moss needs to catch at least one touchdown in the second half if I can even vaguely hope that I might beat my fantasy opponent this week. Even if Moss tears it up a little, I still need LaMont Jordan to have an impossibly monster performance in the Chargers-Raiders game after this. Since the Chargers have one of the best rushing defenses in the NFL, I'm concerned that Jordan is not going to get the 150 yards and three TDs I need in order to make up a 45-point deficit in this week's game versus the Tight Ends. Fuck. He needs to have the best 9/11 of his life.
This entry was originally written for my fantasy football blog
Labels: for serious people, NFL football, NYC, politics
Jacqueline Mackie Paisley Passey: "High quality woman" no, fucking bitch yes
Somehow in my internet wanderings I stumbled upon a blog belonging to this bitch, Jacqueline Mackie Paisley Passey. Passey, who is apparently rebounding from a recent breakup with an ugly man, argues that she is a "high quality woman." And I have to say.that she's HORRIBLY FUCKING MISTAKEN!
In case you're curious and don't feel like clicking the link, THIS is the specimen touting her overwhelming quality:
That's a pretty good picture, so I can see why she used it as her featured, exemplary shot on her blog. Here's a more accurate action shot of her clowning around at "Norwescon," a conference for sci-fi/fantasy nerds in the great P-N-Dub:
Here's another picture of her at some sci-fi conference with her ugly ex-boyfriend. Her recently single status is what spurred her to brag about how she has "a *lot* of choices of men who want to date me" and point out that "I typically receive 50-100 (sometimes more) responses whenever I post personal ads. This is in addition to getting hit on almost every time I go out alone (and all that those men know about me is that they like the way I look, they don’t even know about all the other qualities I have that make me more appealing than most other women)." Yeah, I can totally see why:
In addition to the numerous photo galleries on her site of her traveling to various places, attending science fiction/fantasy conferences, and protesting who knows what, Jacqueline provides an itemized list defining precisely why she is a broad of such high caliber. Try not to laugh:
Yes, these heifers at hotornot.com provide concrete proof that the women there are "biased toward being more attractive than the average female population." I can see why Jacqueline is rated hotter than 86% of them, because she looks like Gisele next to the above obese Wal-Mart stretch pant aficionados, and that's in spite of her (literally and figuratively) freakishly huge head:
I love the part where she touts her genius-level IQ as a selling point. This puts her in the same league as such intellectual luminaries as Stephen Hawking, Albert Einstein, and Jessica Simpson. Unlike the latter, however, Jacqueline has **a bachelor's degree**, from Western Washington University, no less! I guess that I should take a lesson from her, and when on the prowl for a new Mr. Right Now, I should figure out a way to incorporate my diplomas and a copy of my curriculum vitae in my seduction routine. Because guys totally love it when you start listing all the letters you can put behind your name when they're trying to bang you, and I've got lots of letters. Besides, I'd better try to overcompensate with my master's degrees and my in progress player hater degree, since unlike Jacqueline, I do NOT have my financial shit together. It's a good day if I have > $50 in my checking account, so you bet your sweet ass my credit is not perfect. Good thing I'm under 30, and so educated that I'm STILL in school.
My favorite part of this list are the last two items, specifically her interest in sex ("my lover *never* has to beg") and other masculine pursuits, like blogging and politics. As a member of the fairer sex myself, I can verify that most of us delicate, feminine ladies spend the our time cooking, cleaning, plucking our eyebrows, baking cookies, shoe shopping, and caring for our many darling children rather than writing useless bullshit on the internet and discussing libertarianism, Texas Hold 'Em, and ballistics over cigars and brandy like the menfolk. A woman like Jacqueline is clearly a rare find. I'm also positive that Jacqueline is a terror in the sack, and I do mean terror. Her husband left her because he was "GAY GAY GAY," so I can understand why he wasn't begging for her to put out. Despite making a man switch teams with her masterful bedroom skills, I'm sure she gets laid whenever she likes, because any Trekkie worth his Spock ear prostheses probably creams his shorts just reading statements like, "We could fuck and watch Battlestar Galactica...", so undoubtedly she's got no shortage of suitors in her Dungeons and Dragons group, and plenty of guys reminiscent of the dude who runs the comic book store in "The Simpsons" masturbating furiously to her online musings in between vigorous games of online Warcraft.
Before I get a ton of comments lambasting me for having the audacity to rip on Jacqueline when I myself am (insert fat/slutty/ugly/undeserving of love modifier here), let me state clearly that I'm not saying that I am a high quality woman. On the contrary, I'm a very low quality woman, at least if moral fiber is a variable in the quality equation, which it should be. I'm a science geek, an out-of-control narcissist, a skank, a terrible housekeeper, a credit card-abusing lush, and a generally mean-spirited asshole. If my comments page are any indication, some people definitely think I'm unattractive, overweight, and, as indicated by some recent spewings, tolerant of horrible racist shit which severely tests my "I don't delete comments" policy. However, Jacqueline should be advised that if she is representative of a "high quality" woman, then quality standards have dropped precipitously.
In case you're curious and don't feel like clicking the link, THIS is the specimen touting her overwhelming quality:
That's a pretty good picture, so I can see why she used it as her featured, exemplary shot on her blog. Here's a more accurate action shot of her clowning around at "Norwescon," a conference for sci-fi/fantasy nerds in the great P-N-Dub:
Here's another picture of her at some sci-fi conference with her ugly ex-boyfriend. Her recently single status is what spurred her to brag about how she has "a *lot* of choices of men who want to date me" and point out that "I typically receive 50-100 (sometimes more) responses whenever I post personal ads. This is in addition to getting hit on almost every time I go out alone (and all that those men know about me is that they like the way I look, they don’t even know about all the other qualities I have that make me more appealing than most other women)." Yeah, I can totally see why:
In addition to the numerous photo galleries on her site of her traveling to various places, attending science fiction/fantasy conferences, and protesting who knows what, Jacqueline provides an itemized list defining precisely why she is a broad of such high caliber. Try not to laugh:"I am a very high-quality woman. I know that sounds arrogant, but let’s consider the facts:
- I’m slim (whereas 62% of American women age 20 to 74 are overweight)
- I’m attractive (my new picture has been rated more attractive than 86% of the women on Hot or Not -- and the women who upload their pictures are a self-selected sample that is probably already biased towards being more attractive than the general female population)
- I’m relatively young (whereas 82% of American adult women are over 30 years old)
- I’m intelligent (IQ tested at 145 when I was a child, which is 3 standard deviations above the mean -- higher than 99.85% of the population. Even if I’ve gotten dumber as I’ve aged I’m probably still at least a 130, which is higher than 97.5% of the population.)
- I’m educated (whereas 77% of American women do not have bachelor’s degrees)
- I have my financial shit together (no debt, perfect credit history, 6+ months living expenses saved, adequate insurance, self employed)
- I have a strong libido and love having sex (my lover *never* has to beg, unless it’s for me to let him get some sleep!)
- Most of my interests tend to be more popular with men than women: science fiction, libertarianism, blogging, politics, economics, guns, gambling, etc
Yes, these heifers at hotornot.com provide concrete proof that the women there are "biased toward being more attractive than the average female population." I can see why Jacqueline is rated hotter than 86% of them, because she looks like Gisele next to the above obese Wal-Mart stretch pant aficionados, and that's in spite of her (literally and figuratively) freakishly huge head:
I love the part where she touts her genius-level IQ as a selling point. This puts her in the same league as such intellectual luminaries as Stephen Hawking, Albert Einstein, and Jessica Simpson. Unlike the latter, however, Jacqueline has **a bachelor's degree**, from Western Washington University, no less! I guess that I should take a lesson from her, and when on the prowl for a new Mr. Right Now, I should figure out a way to incorporate my diplomas and a copy of my curriculum vitae in my seduction routine. Because guys totally love it when you start listing all the letters you can put behind your name when they're trying to bang you, and I've got lots of letters. Besides, I'd better try to overcompensate with my master's degrees and my in progress player hater degree, since unlike Jacqueline, I do NOT have my financial shit together. It's a good day if I have > $50 in my checking account, so you bet your sweet ass my credit is not perfect. Good thing I'm under 30, and so educated that I'm STILL in school.
My favorite part of this list are the last two items, specifically her interest in sex ("my lover *never* has to beg") and other masculine pursuits, like blogging and politics. As a member of the fairer sex myself, I can verify that most of us delicate, feminine ladies spend the our time cooking, cleaning, plucking our eyebrows, baking cookies, shoe shopping, and caring for our many darling children rather than writing useless bullshit on the internet and discussing libertarianism, Texas Hold 'Em, and ballistics over cigars and brandy like the menfolk. A woman like Jacqueline is clearly a rare find. I'm also positive that Jacqueline is a terror in the sack, and I do mean terror. Her husband left her because he was "GAY GAY GAY," so I can understand why he wasn't begging for her to put out. Despite making a man switch teams with her masterful bedroom skills, I'm sure she gets laid whenever she likes, because any Trekkie worth his Spock ear prostheses probably creams his shorts just reading statements like, "We could fuck and watch Battlestar Galactica...", so undoubtedly she's got no shortage of suitors in her Dungeons and Dragons group, and plenty of guys reminiscent of the dude who runs the comic book store in "The Simpsons" masturbating furiously to her online musings in between vigorous games of online Warcraft.
Before I get a ton of comments lambasting me for having the audacity to rip on Jacqueline when I myself am (insert fat/slutty/ugly/undeserving of love modifier here), let me state clearly that I'm not saying that I am a high quality woman. On the contrary, I'm a very low quality woman, at least if moral fiber is a variable in the quality equation, which it should be. I'm a science geek, an out-of-control narcissist, a skank, a terrible housekeeper, a credit card-abusing lush, and a generally mean-spirited asshole. If my comments page are any indication, some people definitely think I'm unattractive, overweight, and, as indicated by some recent spewings, tolerant of horrible racist shit which severely tests my "I don't delete comments" policy. However, Jacqueline should be advised that if she is representative of a "high quality" woman, then quality standards have dropped precipitously.
Labels: retard rage, you're ugly
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Chingy! The Major Motion Picture
KatieScarlett came over the other weekend for tuna casserole and beer and quality time with the d-o-double g's. She brought her video camera and captured our little family in its natural state (my EXTREMELY messy apartment, me spoiling them with treats, Chingy! licking a coaxial cable, Caesar attempting to hump Chingy! into submission, etc.) However, most of her cinematographic efforts were directed at Chingy!, who KatieScarlett is fairly obsessed with. I think that's because he's so weird, and weirdness attracts her like a moth to a bug light. She spent the entire night alternately gazing at him, filming him, and rhapsodizing about the time he left a "starfish" on her white pants two years ago. While most people would be permanently repulsed by receiving an anus-shaped poop print on their jeans, I think KatieScarlett considered it a badge of honor and a token of Chingy!'s affection.
Anyway, she made this video of him, and despite my suggestion that she utilize Too $hort's "Ain't Nothin' But a Dog" for the soundtrack, I have to say that her editing worked pretty well. So, behold...Chingy! in the role of a lifetime:
CHONGAY CHONG!
Anyway, she made this video of him, and despite my suggestion that she utilize Too $hort's "Ain't Nothin' But a Dog" for the soundtrack, I have to say that her editing worked pretty well. So, behold...Chingy! in the role of a lifetime:
CHONGAY CHONG!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, creative projects, doggity style, hilarious shit, KatieScarlett, ridiculous absurdity
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Empirical evidence that Harry Potter is NOT SATAN
My boy Harry Potter gets a lot of grief, and I don't think it's fair. He already has to deal with being orphaned, witnessing the deaths of two important father figures, fucked with repeatedly by the press, relationship drama with Cho Chang and Ginny Weasley, and being destined for an inevitable kill-or-be-killed (with humanity hanging in the balance) situation with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Lord Voldemort, but on top of that, millions of devout Christians seem to think he's in league with Satan himself and will talk shit about it to anyone who will listen.
For a long time, I thought these types of "Harry Potter practices witchcraft and should be sent to hell despite the fact that he's a fictional character in a fictional series of books" people were those likely to be found in my Aunt Jesus's creationist study circle. Unfortunately, it seems that Harry Potter bashing has been embraced by my peeps at the Vatican. In fact, the Pope's official exorcist placed the Boy Who Lived squarely in Satan's corner, telling the London Daily Mail that "behind Harry Potter hides the signature of the king of darkness, the devil." Apparently this was a follow-up to some shit-talking done last year by our Beloved Holiest and Most Apostolic Pontiff Benedict XVI, who called Harry Potter a "corrupting influence."
What the fuck?! According to Benedixteen, it's okay to rock Prada shoes and Gucci sunglasses, symbols of luxury and affluence while at the same time decrying the commercialization of the Christmas holiday and publishing encyclicals about charity and love. However, it's NOT okay to read a fucking book that claims outright to be a work of fiction? I realize that prior to becoming pope, Benedixteen (AKA John Ratzinger, not to be confused with John Ratzenberger, who played Cliff Claven on "Cheers") did hold the title of Chief of the Vatican Thought Police/Defender of the Doctrine. However, since when did Harry Potter threaten church doctrine? It's MADE UP, and if anything just underscores the general good vs. evil theme characteristic of many religions. For example, Harry only has the power to potentially defeat Lord Voldemort because of his ability to love others, and unless Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John have come back from the dead to revise their works, that's a pretty major theme of the fucking Gospels.
However, I take notice when the Vatican's chief "caster-out of demons" starts messing with HP for no apparent reason. The church hasn't been big on performing exorcisms lately, so I guess this guy has a lot of fucking time on his holy-ass hands, and only so much of that can be spent fondling altar boys. So I suppose he decided to create some work for himself by trashing HP, since over the past few years, I would imagine Harry Potter books sell as well if not better than the Bible. I still can't imagine how Harry Potter leads people to practice "witchcraft" or otherwise ignore God, but decided to put this to the scientific test.
If Harry Potter is a corrupting influence because it makes people believe in the power of magic over the power of JEE-saws Chrast, then presumably I should be able to harness that magical power for myself, albeit at the expense of my soul. If the magic in Harry Potter were just an imaginative trait as part of a fantasy story and not real, then it wouldn't be evil or otherwise competing with God's monopoly on miracles, right? Fortunately, I had the means to test this. First, I have my encyclopedic knowledge of the Harry Potter books, which I've read repeatedly (I won't say how many times because it's embarrassing). Second, I have this authentic Harry Potter wand:
Although it's constructed out of some type of plastic and electronics rather than holly and phoenix feather, the packaging says that it's officially licensed and "identical" to the wand Harry used in The Prisoner of Azkaban (and all other books/movies), so presumably it should be able to do anything Harry's wand could do. Unless of course I need to deflect Lord Voldemort's killing curse with "Expelliarmus", in which case I'm fucked, because you have to have the same phoenix feather in the wand to achieve the reverse spell effect which saved Harry's ass in The Goblet of Fire, but since I doubt I'll run into You Know Who during this experiment, whatever. Anyway, if the Vatican is to be believed, I should be able to use this wand to perform evil, Satanic magic straight from the nefarious pages of Harry Potter.
I decided to start simple. I obtained a pile of the crushed shards of my old glasses, which I've kept for some reason despite Chingy! chewing them to pieces several months ago. I pointed the wand at them and said forcefully, "Oculus reparo!" Nothing. Although the scientist should approach experiments without judgment, merely observing the data, I secretly hoped this would work, as it would at the very least save me lots of money at the optometrist.
Then I remembered that "oculus reparo" was a charm used by Hermione, not Harry. Maybe I would have to employ a spell that Harry had used in the books for the magic to work. So I decided to perform a summoning charm direct from HP:GoF. "Accio broom!" I shouted, pointing my wand at the Swiffer leaning against my kitchen wall. Rather than zooming through midair into my outstretched hand, the Swiffer stayed right where it was. "Accio Swiffer!" I tried again. Still no dice.
I thought then that since Harry Potter was supposedly evil, maybe I needed to use some evil spells. After all, the Dark Arts are really what this whole Vatican Muggles-vs. Harry Potter/Satan is about anyway. So I figured I'd try out the Unforgivable Curses, and use Chingy! as my guinea pig. First, I thought that putting him under the Imperius Curse would be really convenient. He'd never be able to disobey me, or pull on his leash, or destroy my personal belongings, or eat homeless guy shit ever again. I pointed the wand at him and said in the most menacing and evil tone I could muster, "Imperio!" Then in my mind I imagined Chingy! jumping off my bed, cooking me breakfast, doing my laundry, and cleaning my apartment.
Chingy! snored, and rolled over to achieve a more comfortable sleeping position. This angered me, so I decided to teach him a lesson. "Crucio!" I shouted, leaping at him and poking him with the wand. Rather than producing the Cruciatus Curse, which causes excruciating and torturous pain, Chingy! raised his head slightly and opened his eyes just a sliver to look irritably at the wand jabbing him in the ribs, then sneezed haughtily at me and went back to sleep. Despite my annoyance, I didn't want to try "avada kedavre", as I'd feel horrible if I somehow did manage to produce a killing curse on Chingy!, and even worse if it misfired and hit Caesar, who took notice of this experiment and decided that it would be fun to try and eat the wand I was pointing everywhere. I took that as a sign that pretending-to-be-Harry-Potter time was over, and I'd better get ready for work.
Anyway, the fucking exorcist Cardinals or whatever at the Vatican should be aware that I have put my own soul on the line to test the Satanic power of the magic in Harry Potter books, and came up magic free. I guess that either means I'm so damn holy and Christ-like that I'm incorruptible (don't laugh) or Harry Potter really is just a fictional character in a book and not the pawn of Lucifer. Since I am perpetually in doubt of my own sanctity, I'm going to go with the latter.
I know that the Vatican has a hard time changing its ways, but the Inquisition was over 500 years ago, and anyway, that attempt at suppressing perceived dissent pretty much blew up in our faces. There's a lot of other things the Church could worry about. How about AIDS or poverty? Hundreds of millions of people are suffering from those. Maybe they could take a lesson from their own history and tackle genocide and other egregious human rights violations. There are a number of countries to choose from where this is a problem, and any good deeds done by the Catholic church sure would go a long way toward wiping the egg off the Vatican's face about that whole Pius XII-looked-the-other-way-when-the-Nazis-deported-the-Jews-of-Rome-to-Auschwitz thing. Seriously, Holy See. You never saw JP Dos bitching about Harry Potter when he was Pope. He was busy doing much more important things, like watching breakdancers and fighting communism. Furthermore, you never saw Jesus himself worrying about this kind of banal stuff either. If the Pontiff saw Mel "I Hate Kikes" Gibson's Passion of the Caviezel, he would know that during the extended 90-minute cat o' nine tails torture scene, the last thing on Christ's mind was children's literature. Spend your time on real problems, Benedixteen, and leave Harry Potter alone.
For a long time, I thought these types of "Harry Potter practices witchcraft and should be sent to hell despite the fact that he's a fictional character in a fictional series of books" people were those likely to be found in my Aunt Jesus's creationist study circle. Unfortunately, it seems that Harry Potter bashing has been embraced by my peeps at the Vatican. In fact, the Pope's official exorcist placed the Boy Who Lived squarely in Satan's corner, telling the London Daily Mail that "behind Harry Potter hides the signature of the king of darkness, the devil." Apparently this was a follow-up to some shit-talking done last year by our Beloved Holiest and Most Apostolic Pontiff Benedict XVI, who called Harry Potter a "corrupting influence."
What the fuck?! According to Benedixteen, it's okay to rock Prada shoes and Gucci sunglasses, symbols of luxury and affluence while at the same time decrying the commercialization of the Christmas holiday and publishing encyclicals about charity and love. However, it's NOT okay to read a fucking book that claims outright to be a work of fiction? I realize that prior to becoming pope, Benedixteen (AKA John Ratzinger, not to be confused with John Ratzenberger, who played Cliff Claven on "Cheers") did hold the title of Chief of the Vatican Thought Police/Defender of the Doctrine. However, since when did Harry Potter threaten church doctrine? It's MADE UP, and if anything just underscores the general good vs. evil theme characteristic of many religions. For example, Harry only has the power to potentially defeat Lord Voldemort because of his ability to love others, and unless Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John have come back from the dead to revise their works, that's a pretty major theme of the fucking Gospels.
However, I take notice when the Vatican's chief "caster-out of demons" starts messing with HP for no apparent reason. The church hasn't been big on performing exorcisms lately, so I guess this guy has a lot of fucking time on his holy-ass hands, and only so much of that can be spent fondling altar boys. So I suppose he decided to create some work for himself by trashing HP, since over the past few years, I would imagine Harry Potter books sell as well if not better than the Bible. I still can't imagine how Harry Potter leads people to practice "witchcraft" or otherwise ignore God, but decided to put this to the scientific test.
If Harry Potter is a corrupting influence because it makes people believe in the power of magic over the power of JEE-saws Chrast, then presumably I should be able to harness that magical power for myself, albeit at the expense of my soul. If the magic in Harry Potter were just an imaginative trait as part of a fantasy story and not real, then it wouldn't be evil or otherwise competing with God's monopoly on miracles, right? Fortunately, I had the means to test this. First, I have my encyclopedic knowledge of the Harry Potter books, which I've read repeatedly (I won't say how many times because it's embarrassing). Second, I have this authentic Harry Potter wand:
I decided to start simple. I obtained a pile of the crushed shards of my old glasses, which I've kept for some reason despite Chingy! chewing them to pieces several months ago. I pointed the wand at them and said forcefully, "Oculus reparo!" Nothing. Although the scientist should approach experiments without judgment, merely observing the data, I secretly hoped this would work, as it would at the very least save me lots of money at the optometrist.
Then I remembered that "oculus reparo" was a charm used by Hermione, not Harry. Maybe I would have to employ a spell that Harry had used in the books for the magic to work. So I decided to perform a summoning charm direct from HP:GoF. "Accio broom!" I shouted, pointing my wand at the Swiffer leaning against my kitchen wall. Rather than zooming through midair into my outstretched hand, the Swiffer stayed right where it was. "Accio Swiffer!" I tried again. Still no dice.
I thought then that since Harry Potter was supposedly evil, maybe I needed to use some evil spells. After all, the Dark Arts are really what this whole Vatican Muggles-vs. Harry Potter/Satan is about anyway. So I figured I'd try out the Unforgivable Curses, and use Chingy! as my guinea pig. First, I thought that putting him under the Imperius Curse would be really convenient. He'd never be able to disobey me, or pull on his leash, or destroy my personal belongings, or eat homeless guy shit ever again. I pointed the wand at him and said in the most menacing and evil tone I could muster, "Imperio!" Then in my mind I imagined Chingy! jumping off my bed, cooking me breakfast, doing my laundry, and cleaning my apartment.
Chingy! snored, and rolled over to achieve a more comfortable sleeping position. This angered me, so I decided to teach him a lesson. "Crucio!" I shouted, leaping at him and poking him with the wand. Rather than producing the Cruciatus Curse, which causes excruciating and torturous pain, Chingy! raised his head slightly and opened his eyes just a sliver to look irritably at the wand jabbing him in the ribs, then sneezed haughtily at me and went back to sleep. Despite my annoyance, I didn't want to try "avada kedavre", as I'd feel horrible if I somehow did manage to produce a killing curse on Chingy!, and even worse if it misfired and hit Caesar, who took notice of this experiment and decided that it would be fun to try and eat the wand I was pointing everywhere. I took that as a sign that pretending-to-be-Harry-Potter time was over, and I'd better get ready for work.
Anyway, the fucking exorcist Cardinals or whatever at the Vatican should be aware that I have put my own soul on the line to test the Satanic power of the magic in Harry Potter books, and came up magic free. I guess that either means I'm so damn holy and Christ-like that I'm incorruptible (don't laugh) or Harry Potter really is just a fictional character in a book and not the pawn of Lucifer. Since I am perpetually in doubt of my own sanctity, I'm going to go with the latter.
I know that the Vatican has a hard time changing its ways, but the Inquisition was over 500 years ago, and anyway, that attempt at suppressing perceived dissent pretty much blew up in our faces. There's a lot of other things the Church could worry about. How about AIDS or poverty? Hundreds of millions of people are suffering from those. Maybe they could take a lesson from their own history and tackle genocide and other egregious human rights violations. There are a number of countries to choose from where this is a problem, and any good deeds done by the Catholic church sure would go a long way toward wiping the egg off the Vatican's face about that whole Pius XII-looked-the-other-way-when-the-Nazis-deported-the-Jews-of-Rome-to-Auschwitz thing. Seriously, Holy See. You never saw JP Dos bitching about Harry Potter when he was Pope. He was busy doing much more important things, like watching breakdancers and fighting communism. Furthermore, you never saw Jesus himself worrying about this kind of banal stuff either. If the Pontiff saw Mel "I Hate Kikes" Gibson's Passion of the Caviezel, he would know that during the extended 90-minute cat o' nine tails torture scene, the last thing on Christ's mind was children's literature. Spend your time on real problems, Benedixteen, and leave Harry Potter alone.
Labels: Harry Potter, science, vengeance is sweet
Monday, September 04, 2006
Crikey! I'm dead.
Oh, what a sad, sad holiday weekend. "Crocodile Hunter" Steve Irwin died over the weekend from...a wild animal attack. Was he eaten by some type of giant carnivorous reptile? Bitten by a poisonous snake? Devoured by a shark? Bludgeoned by his wife Terri for being a weird-looking, hyperactive-to-the-point-of-ADD eco-friendly obnoxious putz? No, his infamous life of deadly animal stunts has ended with him being stabbed through the heart by a normally harmless stingray.
How embarrassing. If I were internationally famous for wrassling with all manner of venomous, dangerous, and otherwise deadly creatures, I'd hate to be offed by an animal that every person who has ever snorkeled in a tropical location has petted, photographed, or stepped on. Apparently, he's only the third known stingray related death in Australia...ever. Somehow I suspect this may not have been an accident. He's been pissing off the aquatic fauna of the Great Barrier Reef for years, and I wonder if they hadn't just had enough and put their boy the stingray up to it. I mean, they could have sent a shark or something, but that's so been done already. Nobody suspects the stingray, although apparently now they should. I had no idea these bad boys were equipped with stabbing weapons up to 20 cm long. Obviously, I was aware that they had the ability to sting, but no snorkeling or scuba diving guide has EVER informed me that these bad boys are packing a bayonet!
The real loser in all this is Australia, though. Now they're stuck with Paul "Crocodile Dundee" Hogan as their sole cultural ambassador to the world (I know that Nicole Kidman, Heath Ledger, and other more famous people are all Aussies, but none of them live there, know how to speak in obscure Aboriginal dialects, or can put a water buffalo to sleep by making the hang loose hand sign, so they're totally a disgrace to their nation). Personally, I always considered him a model Australian and a great man after he almost fed that baby to his pet crocodile at the zoo. I'll join the grieving throngs in pouring out some Foster's as the Land Down Under mourns one of its greatest national figures. Rest in peace, Croc Hunter.
How embarrassing. If I were internationally famous for wrassling with all manner of venomous, dangerous, and otherwise deadly creatures, I'd hate to be offed by an animal that every person who has ever snorkeled in a tropical location has petted, photographed, or stepped on. Apparently, he's only the third known stingray related death in Australia...ever. Somehow I suspect this may not have been an accident. He's been pissing off the aquatic fauna of the Great Barrier Reef for years, and I wonder if they hadn't just had enough and put their boy the stingray up to it. I mean, they could have sent a shark or something, but that's so been done already. Nobody suspects the stingray, although apparently now they should. I had no idea these bad boys were equipped with stabbing weapons up to 20 cm long. Obviously, I was aware that they had the ability to sting, but no snorkeling or scuba diving guide has EVER informed me that these bad boys are packing a bayonet!
The real loser in all this is Australia, though. Now they're stuck with Paul "Crocodile Dundee" Hogan as their sole cultural ambassador to the world (I know that Nicole Kidman, Heath Ledger, and other more famous people are all Aussies, but none of them live there, know how to speak in obscure Aboriginal dialects, or can put a water buffalo to sleep by making the hang loose hand sign, so they're totally a disgrace to their nation). Personally, I always considered him a model Australian and a great man after he almost fed that baby to his pet crocodile at the zoo. I'll join the grieving throngs in pouring out some Foster's as the Land Down Under mourns one of its greatest national figures. Rest in peace, Croc Hunter.
Labels: celebrities, science, tragedy
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Razzy dethrones Razzy Bailey
Dear Razzyphiles/Haters/Rejects/Frightening and Disturbed Stalkers,
I know you all shared my deep concern about Razzy Bailey's website being the #1 result in a Google search for "razzy" and lost even more sleep over this than I did. I'm sure that's why you all started flooding Google with demands that this egregious travesty be rectified immediately. Well, I'm pleased to say that your exhaustive grassroots efforts have paid off:
Yes!!!! I've supplanted Razzy Bailey in terms of Google PageRank, thus winning the internet popularity contest in the "Razzy" category. So you can all do as my friend J-Sexy regularly instructs and "chillax." The world is now as it should be.
Skoal, bitches.
Razzy
I know you all shared my deep concern about Razzy Bailey's website being the #1 result in a Google search for "razzy" and lost even more sleep over this than I did. I'm sure that's why you all started flooding Google with demands that this egregious travesty be rectified immediately. Well, I'm pleased to say that your exhaustive grassroots efforts have paid off:
Yes!!!! I've supplanted Razzy Bailey in terms of Google PageRank, thus winning the internet popularity contest in the "Razzy" category. So you can all do as my friend J-Sexy regularly instructs and "chillax." The world is now as it should be.
Skoal, bitches.
Razzy
Labels: internet domination, Razzy Haters
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