Monday, October 30, 2006
Nothin' make a woman feel betta...
...than Berettas and amarettas, butter leathers and mad cheddars. So says Lil' Kim, anyway, and I must agree, even though I don't have any of those things. I suppose the next time I go to a bar I could order a DiSaronno on the rocks or something and at least have one out of the four.
Despite my lack of handguns, almond-flavored liquers, upscale wearable animal products, and stacks of cold, hard cash, I still managed to portray a convincing Lil' Kim at the Halloween party I attended Saturday night. In spite of my dismay at not being able to find an off-the-breast purple pantsuit at Ricky's on Saturday and having to do some extremely amateurish alterations on the "Ursa Minor" size 14 spacesuit outfit I ended up purchasing (mainly because it included a purple leotard), as well as make a customized purple pasty, I ended up pulling it off. Here I am with the Columbia virology bitches. Left to right: the lovely J-Sexy rocking a fro as Foxy Brown (Pam Grier Foxy Brown, not the deaf rapper who wouldn't be standing anywhere NEAR Lil' Kim), myself and my tit, J-Dater (graduate from my lab) dressed as a public health grad student, and my fellow Fantasy Footballer Multiple Scorgasms in her Snakes on a Plane costume.
Okay, so nobody would probably mistake me for Lil' Kim on the street, but I got the point across. I was at least fronting to be in the same league as, in the words of the Queen Bee, "Zsa Zsa Gabor, Demi Moore, Prince Diane and all them rich bitches."
Despite my lack of handguns, almond-flavored liquers, upscale wearable animal products, and stacks of cold, hard cash, I still managed to portray a convincing Lil' Kim at the Halloween party I attended Saturday night. In spite of my dismay at not being able to find an off-the-breast purple pantsuit at Ricky's on Saturday and having to do some extremely amateurish alterations on the "Ursa Minor" size 14 spacesuit outfit I ended up purchasing (mainly because it included a purple leotard), as well as make a customized purple pasty, I ended up pulling it off. Here I am with the Columbia virology bitches. Left to right: the lovely J-Sexy rocking a fro as Foxy Brown (Pam Grier Foxy Brown, not the deaf rapper who wouldn't be standing anywhere NEAR Lil' Kim), myself and my tit, J-Dater (graduate from my lab) dressed as a public health grad student, and my fellow Fantasy Footballer Multiple Scorgasms in her Snakes on a Plane costume.
Okay, so nobody would probably mistake me for Lil' Kim on the street, but I got the point across. I was at least fronting to be in the same league as, in the words of the Queen Bee, "Zsa Zsa Gabor, Demi Moore, Prince Diane and all them rich bitches."
Labels: grad school bullshit, Halloween, J-Sexy, Lil' Kim, nudity, rap, Razzification
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Stalking the Q-List
There is this blog called Gawker that has a section called "Gawker Stalker," where people lurking around Manhattan can report celebrity sightings along the lines of "Last night Chloe Sevigny was wearing some hideous outfit, sneering boredly, and blowing lines in the bathroom at Nobu, then she didn't tip the coat check girl" or "George Clooney took some whorish old bimbo to a benefit at Lincoln Center and shot his mouth off about politics" and other cut-rate gossip that isn't entertaining and frankly doesn't hold a candle to Perez Hilton.
I could never report anything to the Gawker Stalker, because I only ever see celebrities that nobody cares about in New York. Once I saw Stockard Channing having brunch at the table over at the Good World Bar and Grill. Another time LL Cool Jew and I saw Chris Matthews gasping into his cell phone after what must have been a vigorous jog, judging by his sweatiness and shortness of breath, at the 72nd street entrance to Central Park. Once I saw Gloria Steinem downtown, but that was no biggie since she was the number one alumnae whose pussy Smith College liked to regularly lick with various awards and trusteeships, and I'd always see her and her corduroy-collared jean jackets skulking around campus back in my college days. That same day, I caught a glimpse of Susan Sarandon and Billy Bob Thornton, but they were in a tent doing nothing remarkable. Probably the most exciting celebrity sighting was when LL Cool Jew, Rack, FalloniusMonk, Wmania, and myself bumped into Chris Noth, Mr. Big from "Sex and the City" and Detective Mike Logan from "Law and Order", randomly trying to get buzzed into some Upper East Side apartment. My New York celebrity sightings are nothing to blog about, because they are typically tame and uneventful.
Today's celebrity sighting was equally mundane, but I got all excited about it anyway. I had just finished the miserable experience of scouring various Ricky's stores for a costume that could be manipulated into a Lil' Kim outfit. Since everyone else in New York was also getting last-minute costumes, the process of locating a slutty purple leotard capable of being recut with minimal effort and an affordable purple wig in a large crowd of children and excitable teenagers to the aggravating tune of multiple Avril Lavigne and JoJo songs was about as close to hell as I can envision. When I finally left the store and got some Tasti-D-Lite to calm down, I was frazzled and trying to get back to the subway as quickly as possible.
Thus I didn't notice the man in the History Channel baseball cap standing on the corner of 72nd and Columbus Avenue, and bumped into him. As I looked up to say, "Excuse me," I stopped in shock. I was looking at none other than former NBC nightly news correspondent, sexpot journalist of the '91 Gulf War nicknamed the "Scud Stud", and current host of "History's Mysteries," ARTHUR KENT!
I managed to beg his forgiveness for running into him, but he kept giving me shifty looks. I think he thought I was weird, with my bag overflowing with fake purple hair and my dumbfounded stare as I shoveled butter pecan fudge Tasti-D-Lite with Oreos into my mouth. I felt awkward and I didn't want to seem like a stalker, so I hastened my clip and hustled into the subway station.
The whole way home, I kept thinking of shit I should have said to him when I had the chance. I should have said that I love "History's Mysteries" or that I thought he was hot when I was 11 and writing supportive letters to Operation Desert Storm servicemen in Mrs. Fjetland's 7th grade class. I should have at least asked him why in the name of God and Christ he was wearing a History Channel baseball cap, which in my view was a pretty effing nerdy fashion statement. As usual, I see a not-very-famous celebrity, and yet am still so awestruck by their presence that I fail to capitalize on the opportunity. Way to go, Razzy. At least I got my Lil' Kim costume.
I could never report anything to the Gawker Stalker, because I only ever see celebrities that nobody cares about in New York. Once I saw Stockard Channing having brunch at the table over at the Good World Bar and Grill. Another time LL Cool Jew and I saw Chris Matthews gasping into his cell phone after what must have been a vigorous jog, judging by his sweatiness and shortness of breath, at the 72nd street entrance to Central Park. Once I saw Gloria Steinem downtown, but that was no biggie since she was the number one alumnae whose pussy Smith College liked to regularly lick with various awards and trusteeships, and I'd always see her and her corduroy-collared jean jackets skulking around campus back in my college days. That same day, I caught a glimpse of Susan Sarandon and Billy Bob Thornton, but they were in a tent doing nothing remarkable. Probably the most exciting celebrity sighting was when LL Cool Jew, Rack, FalloniusMonk, Wmania, and myself bumped into Chris Noth, Mr. Big from "Sex and the City" and Detective Mike Logan from "Law and Order", randomly trying to get buzzed into some Upper East Side apartment. My New York celebrity sightings are nothing to blog about, because they are typically tame and uneventful.
Today's celebrity sighting was equally mundane, but I got all excited about it anyway. I had just finished the miserable experience of scouring various Ricky's stores for a costume that could be manipulated into a Lil' Kim outfit. Since everyone else in New York was also getting last-minute costumes, the process of locating a slutty purple leotard capable of being recut with minimal effort and an affordable purple wig in a large crowd of children and excitable teenagers to the aggravating tune of multiple Avril Lavigne and JoJo songs was about as close to hell as I can envision. When I finally left the store and got some Tasti-D-Lite to calm down, I was frazzled and trying to get back to the subway as quickly as possible.
Thus I didn't notice the man in the History Channel baseball cap standing on the corner of 72nd and Columbus Avenue, and bumped into him. As I looked up to say, "Excuse me," I stopped in shock. I was looking at none other than former NBC nightly news correspondent, sexpot journalist of the '91 Gulf War nicknamed the "Scud Stud", and current host of "History's Mysteries," ARTHUR KENT!
I managed to beg his forgiveness for running into him, but he kept giving me shifty looks. I think he thought I was weird, with my bag overflowing with fake purple hair and my dumbfounded stare as I shoveled butter pecan fudge Tasti-D-Lite with Oreos into my mouth. I felt awkward and I didn't want to seem like a stalker, so I hastened my clip and hustled into the subway station.
The whole way home, I kept thinking of shit I should have said to him when I had the chance. I should have said that I love "History's Mysteries" or that I thought he was hot when I was 11 and writing supportive letters to Operation Desert Storm servicemen in Mrs. Fjetland's 7th grade class. I should have at least asked him why in the name of God and Christ he was wearing a History Channel baseball cap, which in my view was a pretty effing nerdy fashion statement. As usual, I see a not-very-famous celebrity, and yet am still so awestruck by their presence that I fail to capitalize on the opportunity. Way to go, Razzy. At least I got my Lil' Kim costume.
Labels: celebrities, epic geekery, Halloween, History Channel
FYI regarding the MOST IMPORTANT EVENT OF THE YEAR
A monumental event is coming up. I have waited for YEARS for this event, and now the waiting is almost over. This is almost on par with the Seahawks going to the Super Bowl in terms of long-awaited hugeness. The BEST show ever is hitting the DVD shelves:
Yes! Yes! YES!!!! It's BEVERLY FUCKING HILLS, 90210! After years of anticipation, Bev Niner is finally going to take its appointed place in my DVD collection. Prepare yourself for the excitement of the pilot season, in which the Walsh family (uptight dad Jim, sympathetic mom Cindy, responsible boy twin Brandon, and tempestuous girl twin Brenda) moves from Minnesota to the now-infamous California zip code and experience all the highs and lows of life with their friends Kelly Taylor, Steve Sanders, Dylan McKay, Donna Martin, David Silver, and Andrea Zuckerman. During the first season, the gang tackles such issues as teenage alcoholism, coming of age, sex, pregnancy, gun control, the holocaust, hip hop, dyslexia, the lasting consequences of playing games like "skeletons in the closet", condoms, AIDS, shoplifting from Fred Segal, marital infidelity, the horror of maternal cocaine abuse at high school mother-daughter fashion shows, the phenomenon of karaoke, drunk driving, and date rape. Among the highlights:
Donna and David's burgeoning sexless relationship (lasting until David gets caught fucking Babyface's tour manager in a limo in season three, then rekindling and lasting again until David fucks Valerie, then rekindling and lasting again until David steals a check from Donna to pay rent for the Peach Pit After Dark, then rekindling again and resulting in their marriage)
The advent of Dylan and Kelly's sexually charged and extremely annoying relationship, which will go from casual screwing in empty cabanas at the Beverly Beach club to Dylan trying to trump Brandon's engagement ring with a trip around the world (Kelly eventually rejected both and chose self) to Dylan becoming a heroin addict in response to the mob hit death of his wife Antonia Marchette, AKA Rebecca Gayheart the Noxema fresh face girl. I think Kelly always liked him initially because he was a father figure, being the only 35-year-old student at West Beverly High.
The first rocky months of Brenda and Dylan's relationship, which was characterized by Brenda doing a lot of crying, yelling, running away, and shouting "Dylan, you're scaring me!" and Dylan angrily pacing, breaking flowerpots, sculptures, and various other handy ceramics, drinking airplane-sized bottles of bourbon out of various Bel Age Hotel minifridges, and boning Kelly on the side.
Andrea Zuckerman establishes herself as the official cast pain in the fucking ass. When not pining after Brandon, irritating everyone with her intellectual elitism and insufferable moral superiority, or ruining someone's life in the school paper, Andrea continues to piss everyone off by making constant "I told you so" faces and shopping for hideous scrunchies to both youth her up and tether down her mane rendered uncontrollable by decades of spiral perms and Nice 'n' Easy color treatments to cover up gray hairs.
The gang goes together like shoulder padded blazers, rayon floral scoopnecked peasant blouses, and high-waisted pleated jeans go with huge belts. Bev Niner is the best show ever!!!!
Oh, and by the way, my 28th birthday is just ten days after the Season One DVD drops (November 17th), and THIS
would make a *GREAT* present. So would THIS, which comes out the same day as the 9er DVDs. And so would lots and LOTS of money...
Yes! Yes! YES!!!! It's BEVERLY FUCKING HILLS, 90210! After years of anticipation, Bev Niner is finally going to take its appointed place in my DVD collection. Prepare yourself for the excitement of the pilot season, in which the Walsh family (uptight dad Jim, sympathetic mom Cindy, responsible boy twin Brandon, and tempestuous girl twin Brenda) moves from Minnesota to the now-infamous California zip code and experience all the highs and lows of life with their friends Kelly Taylor, Steve Sanders, Dylan McKay, Donna Martin, David Silver, and Andrea Zuckerman. During the first season, the gang tackles such issues as teenage alcoholism, coming of age, sex, pregnancy, gun control, the holocaust, hip hop, dyslexia, the lasting consequences of playing games like "skeletons in the closet", condoms, AIDS, shoplifting from Fred Segal, marital infidelity, the horror of maternal cocaine abuse at high school mother-daughter fashion shows, the phenomenon of karaoke, drunk driving, and date rape. Among the highlights:
Donna and David's burgeoning sexless relationship (lasting until David gets caught fucking Babyface's tour manager in a limo in season three, then rekindling and lasting again until David fucks Valerie, then rekindling and lasting again until David steals a check from Donna to pay rent for the Peach Pit After Dark, then rekindling again and resulting in their marriage)
The advent of Dylan and Kelly's sexually charged and extremely annoying relationship, which will go from casual screwing in empty cabanas at the Beverly Beach club to Dylan trying to trump Brandon's engagement ring with a trip around the world (Kelly eventually rejected both and chose self) to Dylan becoming a heroin addict in response to the mob hit death of his wife Antonia Marchette, AKA Rebecca Gayheart the Noxema fresh face girl. I think Kelly always liked him initially because he was a father figure, being the only 35-year-old student at West Beverly High.
The first rocky months of Brenda and Dylan's relationship, which was characterized by Brenda doing a lot of crying, yelling, running away, and shouting "Dylan, you're scaring me!" and Dylan angrily pacing, breaking flowerpots, sculptures, and various other handy ceramics, drinking airplane-sized bottles of bourbon out of various Bel Age Hotel minifridges, and boning Kelly on the side.
Andrea Zuckerman establishes herself as the official cast pain in the fucking ass. When not pining after Brandon, irritating everyone with her intellectual elitism and insufferable moral superiority, or ruining someone's life in the school paper, Andrea continues to piss everyone off by making constant "I told you so" faces and shopping for hideous scrunchies to both youth her up and tether down her mane rendered uncontrollable by decades of spiral perms and Nice 'n' Easy color treatments to cover up gray hairs.
The gang goes together like shoulder padded blazers, rayon floral scoopnecked peasant blouses, and high-waisted pleated jeans go with huge belts. Bev Niner is the best show ever!!!!
Oh, and by the way, my 28th birthday is just ten days after the Season One DVD drops (November 17th), and THIS
would make a *GREAT* present. So would THIS, which comes out the same day as the 9er DVDs. And so would lots and LOTS of money...Labels: aging, Bev Niner, I LOVE IT
Friday, October 27, 2006
Businese is the bee's knees
I started in on a rant about hookers and their umbrellas, but I don't want to make fun of anyone's mom.
Instead, it's back to old faithful: more Smeeberish. Today we take a fond look at my favorite of made-up shit, the art of business language.
For those of you fortunate enough to have protected your English by staying out of nine-to-fivin', you'll need to know that "business people" don't just make words up - they cushion each sentence with about six extra words, popping in adjectives, marring catch-phrases, and adding in impossibly irrelevant-but-commonly-accepted cliches in a failed attempt at plainspoken communication. That is: fluff, brought to you by the folks who charge an hourly rate. Take a peak, but steer clear of any conversation in which you hear these jewels. Wrecks your credibility to be within spitting distance...
A few smaple Werds:
Impactful, adj.
As in "We really need to come to the table with an impactful presentation." Offered up by the sacks of tits who don't understand that, say, POWERPOINT IS ALWAYS FUCKING BORING. And even if it weren't, one makes more of an impact with real words.
Pop v.
This little gem would be better seated on a Genuwine album than in the corporate slang. "How do we make it pop?" You and every high school boy in the country want to know, bud.
Onboard v.
To transfer information from one person or party to another, ie "We'll onboard her tomorrow during our 4 pm touchbase." So no, y'all, it does not mean to mount something stallion-style. Although that would give 'toucbase' a hole new shine...
Bandwidth n.
The capacity to accept new work in proportion to work already assigned, or in laymen's terms, "Can you handle this?" Par example, "Do you have the bandwidth to get me coffee, dance like a chicken, type up that report about Milwaukee chicken farms, and still polish my shoes in the next twenty minutes?"
synonym: how much do "you have on your plate."
Soft launch n.
Test run, control group, trial phase. NOT borrowed from NASA. NOT borrowed from the porn industry. A sober reality - it means checking the shit before going public.
Radar n.
Awareness of this or that bullshit thing, such as, "Is the reorg on your radar?" My apologies to the air traffic controllers of the wide, weird world.
Leverage v.
To steal or indulge in sloth. Call it plagiary, call it efficient, call it syner-fucking-gystic - a sin any way you spin it. It means taking shit you didn't do to pass the time.
And a few key Frases:
"At the end of the day..."
When the shit shakes out, or when all is said and done, or what matters most. More filler to keep the conch in the hands of the speaker. Usage: "At the end of the day, he's still a rat bastard psychotic even though he makes more money than I do."
"Out of pocket."
NOT "pay for yourself." NOT "expenses." NOT "cost of doing business." NOT "lost it while I was changing pants." It fucking means "ON VACATION." It fucking means "IN TRANSIT." As in, "Terrence, I'll be out pocket tomorrow having my balls waxed during the Debbie Does Dallas Web cast - I need a full report when I'm back in the office Monday."
"...from a _[insert noun here]_ perspective."
When it's not enough to say what you mean, that is "Does that cost more," or "Will this fuck up our schedule" - you have instead, "...from a cost perspective," or "...from a timing perspective." And my personal favorite, a recent highlight of a drab conference call: instead of "Will that be awesome?" one says, "...from a whizz-bang perspective." I'll admit it. I don't know if "whizz-bang" has two z's or not. I didn't learn English from DC Comics. Thanks be to the Almighty Whatsit that I didn't learn it in Midtown Manhattan.
The cure: curse more. From a talking perspective, expletives are far more fucking impactful and really make your shit pop when you move the needle to onboard some one to your goddamn point. And anyway, it secured me a huge fucking raise, not to mention a spot on this here blog-o-rific bitch-o-rama....
Instead, it's back to old faithful: more Smeeberish. Today we take a fond look at my favorite of made-up shit, the art of business language.
For those of you fortunate enough to have protected your English by staying out of nine-to-fivin', you'll need to know that "business people" don't just make words up - they cushion each sentence with about six extra words, popping in adjectives, marring catch-phrases, and adding in impossibly irrelevant-but-commonly-accepted cliches in a failed attempt at plainspoken communication. That is: fluff, brought to you by the folks who charge an hourly rate. Take a peak, but steer clear of any conversation in which you hear these jewels. Wrecks your credibility to be within spitting distance...
A few smaple Werds:
Impactful, adj.
As in "We really need to come to the table with an impactful presentation." Offered up by the sacks of tits who don't understand that, say, POWERPOINT IS ALWAYS FUCKING BORING. And even if it weren't, one makes more of an impact with real words.
Pop v.
This little gem would be better seated on a Genuwine album than in the corporate slang. "How do we make it pop?" You and every high school boy in the country want to know, bud.
Onboard v.
To transfer information from one person or party to another, ie "We'll onboard her tomorrow during our 4 pm touchbase." So no, y'all, it does not mean to mount something stallion-style. Although that would give 'toucbase' a hole new shine...
Bandwidth n.
The capacity to accept new work in proportion to work already assigned, or in laymen's terms, "Can you handle this?" Par example, "Do you have the bandwidth to get me coffee, dance like a chicken, type up that report about Milwaukee chicken farms, and still polish my shoes in the next twenty minutes?"
synonym: how much do "you have on your plate."
Soft launch n.
Test run, control group, trial phase. NOT borrowed from NASA. NOT borrowed from the porn industry. A sober reality - it means checking the shit before going public.
Radar n.
Awareness of this or that bullshit thing, such as, "Is the reorg on your radar?" My apologies to the air traffic controllers of the wide, weird world.
Leverage v.
To steal or indulge in sloth. Call it plagiary, call it efficient, call it syner-fucking-gystic - a sin any way you spin it. It means taking shit you didn't do to pass the time.
And a few key Frases:
"At the end of the day..."
When the shit shakes out, or when all is said and done, or what matters most. More filler to keep the conch in the hands of the speaker. Usage: "At the end of the day, he's still a rat bastard psychotic even though he makes more money than I do."
"Out of pocket."
NOT "pay for yourself." NOT "expenses." NOT "cost of doing business." NOT "lost it while I was changing pants." It fucking means "ON VACATION." It fucking means "IN TRANSIT." As in, "Terrence, I'll be out pocket tomorrow having my balls waxed during the Debbie Does Dallas Web cast - I need a full report when I'm back in the office Monday."
"...from a _[insert noun here]_ perspective."
When it's not enough to say what you mean, that is "Does that cost more," or "Will this fuck up our schedule" - you have instead, "...from a cost perspective," or "...from a timing perspective." And my personal favorite, a recent highlight of a drab conference call: instead of "Will that be awesome?" one says, "...from a whizz-bang perspective." I'll admit it. I don't know if "whizz-bang" has two z's or not. I didn't learn English from DC Comics. Thanks be to the Almighty Whatsit that I didn't learn it in Midtown Manhattan.
The cure: curse more. From a talking perspective, expletives are far more fucking impactful and really make your shit pop when you move the needle to onboard some one to your goddamn point. And anyway, it secured me a huge fucking raise, not to mention a spot on this here blog-o-rific bitch-o-rama....
Labels: grammar gestapo, ridiculous absurdity, Smeeberish
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Nature is the new Hustler
Today I was skimming the Table of Contents from the most recent edition of Nature, and came upon a news article about one of the perennial hot topics in science: NIH grant money, and how hard it is to get it. We have a white board outside our lab where we hang up articles of interest we find in the science journals, so that we can read them while we drink coffee safely in the hallway (not in the lab). There hasn't been a new article on the old white board in a while, so I thought I'd print this one out and hang it up. Too bad I failed to notice what was in the "snapshot" section of the PDF file next to the last three paragraphs of the NIH grant article:
There's no way I can hang this up, even though it's excerpted from a TOTALLY legitimate and top-tier science journal like Nature. I'm always getting in trouble for being the lab pervert. Apart from having very LOUD conversations with J-Sexy about our sex lives on the regular, several times my boss has walked into lab right when I've been looking at Kate and Camilla's Nerve.com blog, and chastised me for looking at "porn" in lab. Another time, when we were helping J-Sexy prep for her student seminar, I referred to one of her slides measuring expression of interferon-stimulated genes by real-time quantitative PCR as "the money shot" of her presentation. Again, my boss said, only half-joking, "Why does everything you say have something to do with porn?!" If I were to hang up this picture of "two male giraffes indulging in roadside sex" including "anal penetration and ejaculation" and "two male whales (Eubalaena australis) engaged in sexual games" my reputation as a lewd and lascivious lech would only get worse.
I really don't mean to be such a fucking perv! I was just minding my own business, keeping up with the professional literature, trying to read an article about the ins and outs of NIH grant funding statistics, and then next thing I know there's a picture of what I think are whale penises (and by the way, EW, gross!) and buttfucking giraffes. It would be a lot easier to avoid the temptation to bring illicit shit into lab, however, if Nature would quit sneaking gay animal porn into their "News" section.
There's no way I can hang this up, even though it's excerpted from a TOTALLY legitimate and top-tier science journal like Nature. I'm always getting in trouble for being the lab pervert. Apart from having very LOUD conversations with J-Sexy about our sex lives on the regular, several times my boss has walked into lab right when I've been looking at Kate and Camilla's Nerve.com blog, and chastised me for looking at "porn" in lab. Another time, when we were helping J-Sexy prep for her student seminar, I referred to one of her slides measuring expression of interferon-stimulated genes by real-time quantitative PCR as "the money shot" of her presentation. Again, my boss said, only half-joking, "Why does everything you say have something to do with porn?!" If I were to hang up this picture of "two male giraffes indulging in roadside sex" including "anal penetration and ejaculation" and "two male whales (Eubalaena australis) engaged in sexual games" my reputation as a lewd and lascivious lech would only get worse.
I really don't mean to be such a fucking perv! I was just minding my own business, keeping up with the professional literature, trying to read an article about the ins and outs of NIH grant funding statistics, and then next thing I know there's a picture of what I think are whale penises (and by the way, EW, gross!) and buttfucking giraffes. It would be a lot easier to avoid the temptation to bring illicit shit into lab, however, if Nature would quit sneaking gay animal porn into their "News" section.
Labels: grad school bullshit, perversion, porn, science, vulgar display of faggotry
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Who DOESN'T hate kids?
Kids suck. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. I hate kids. They demand everyone's attention. They get their way by being complete assholes until they're placated. They are messy, they smell, they think the world revolves around them, and they have no qualms about throwing temper tantrums whenever and wherever they feel. When adults act like this, they get in trouble. People think an adult acting this way needs therapy, elicits scorn, and deserves a serious chiding. When kids act this way, their demands are usually fulfilled and people talk about how cute the little monsters are. One time when I was at my parents' house, my little cousin came over, and my mom actually kicked my brother and I off the 42" flat screen IN THE MIDDLE OF A SEAHAWKS GAME because said cousin was screaming about watching his "Thomas the Tank Engine" DVD for the millionth time. When I protested, my mom just said, "PLEASE, Razzy, it's much easier this way."
This is why I hate kids. Why the fuck do THEY get to hold everyone hostage with the threat of a screaming bout? Adults who do this lose their jobs and get restraining orders taken out against them, but kids who do this? THEY GET WHAT THEY FUCKING WANT. It's not fair. I could understand if satiating their every quixotic whim means that they grow up into happy, healthy people who contribute lots of good to society. The reality is that they just grow up into bigger assholes. My Aunt Jesus's daughter was spoiled rotten and she grew up to raise two monstrously bratty kids of her own, both of whom are not only obese, but one of whom PUSHED me last year at our family Christmas party and, as I was wearing very tall high heels, almost knocked me onto my Nicole Miller-clad ass since she's roughly the size of a NFL linebacker at age 9. Another one of my cousins was so placated that she used to cry and scream if her mother didn't go to school with her and sit outside her classroom all day. She wound up knocked up at the age of 21, unemployed now at the age of 27, living with her parents, and driving a purple '89 Honda Prelude. One of my colleagues takes this approach to child rearing as well, and he told me that recently his 12-year-old son called him a "bitch" and a "retard." When I said that if I'd pulled that crap as a child, I'd be on "restriction" (my parents' term for grounding), and would have my phone and/or TV privileges revoked, he just shrugged, as if to say "kids will be kids."
Whatever happened to the good old days when kids were supposed to be seen and not heard? What happened to the days when a temper tantrum got a kid sent to their room, or grounded, or spanked? My parents had a real challenge with me, as I was a smartass, back-talking shithead during childhood (not that much has changed), but they never let me get away with the kind of bratty behavior that most parents these days laugh off with some bullshit excuse like, "Well, they're just kids..." or "Kids will be kids." Since when did "kid" translate to "narcissistic monster who will willfully and gleefully destroy any peace you might have if he/she doesn't get his/her way"?
I'm not the only one who feels this way. There are a lot of people nicer than me who concur. Here's the transcript from an instant messaging session between myself and MillerTime, who is a sweet girl, the type who coos over babies and knows how to talk to old people in a comforting manner. It's not that MillerTime loves babies or old people, but she just has good social skills that way. Although the main point of the virtual conversation below is running road races during the holidays in the P-N-Dub, it rapidly progresses to sharing our disdain for children.
Razzy: my mom is on the hunt for some kind of 5K race we could do around Xmas
MillerTime: Ooooo...I'm doing a 5K on Thanksgiving! Turket Trot in Brownspoint!
Razzy: Sweet!
MillerTime: I was trying to find one around xmas too and thats how I found the
turkey trot...
Razzy: I bet there's lots of hills
Razzy: browns pt is mad hilly
MillerTime: the only thing I found around Xmas was the Jingle Bell Run and thats
either a full or half marathon
MillerTime: NO THANKS!!
MillerTime: not nearly enough time to train
MillerTime: there was an elf dash for toddlers...I'd be down
Razzy: yeah, fuck the jingle bell run
MillerTime: I guess the only hill is the last mile...sweet.
Razzy: elf dash sounds good...how long is it? do they let adults in? it would
be even more fun because there would be lots of children to kick!
Razzy: AND we'd probably beat all of them...stupid toddlers
Razzy: we could wave our trophy around and shout, "In your FACE, toddlers!"
MillerTime: lol...i think it only like 50 yards...yeah...stupid toddlers
Razzy: oh, that sucks. why don't they make toddlers at least do 3K?!
Razzy: this is why childhood obesity is on the rise
MillerTime: Cuz their fat parents can't keep up
Razzy: HAHAHAHA
MillerTime: totally
Anyway, then we switched topics to New Year's Eve party plans, and just as before, it came back to how much kids suck.
Razzy: i'm going to be around from dec 19 or so through the new year this
holiday
Razzy: speaking of, what are your new year's eve plans?
MillerTime: SWEET!!! Finally! You never here for New years!
Razzy: i know,
MillerTime: Mostly likely our friends the Maugas. They always have a New Years
Party thats pretty fun. You're welcome to crash whatever party we attend!!
Razzy: and i never have fun in nyc on the new year
Razzy: too expensive and as far as times sq. is concerned...sha right
Razzy: like I'm going to freeze my ass off sober in the middle of disneyland
Razzy: do the Maugas have children?
Razzy: and will they or their friends be there
Razzy: ?
MillerTime: They do, but the send them to Grandma's...
Razzy: okay
MillerTime: Don't worry...I HATE partying around kids
Razzy: do they live in puyallup?
Razzy: I DON'T party around kids
Razzy: I hate doing ANYTHING around kids
MillerTime: Yeah, they live off of 144th
Razzy: Sweet, I could jog home drunk from the party to my parents' afterward
Razzy: alcoholic marathon training!
MillerTime: lol...lol
MillerTime: Hey...gotta run...
MillerTime: literally
Razzy: Okay cool
Razzy: have fun!!!
Razzy: sha right
MillerTime: SHA RIGHT!!!
I was thinking about this more, and I was like, "Who lets their friends party around their kids?" I'm sure most parents don't want their kids to see them rip-roaring drunk, much less have ill-behaved friends (like yours truly) drunk and setting many bad examples for them. I'm sure that people do condone this, if only because the kids throw a fit that prevents any type of fun partying going on while they are in the vicinity, so parents just let them hang out while they knock back one Rainier after another and pray that they'll be entertained. I can't imagine anything worse than trying to get drunk in the presence of a bunch of attention-seeking bratty kids. All I know is that there had BETTER not be any children to spoil my New Year's Eve drunkenness this year. I'd rather put up with the crowds, terror threats, bone-numbing cold, a strict no-open-container-enforcing NYPD, Satan's spawn Ryan Seacrest, and stroked-out Dick Clark in Times Square than deal with one family's demonic progeny at a house party in P-town.
I don't get why some people seem to LIKE kids (and even kids that aren't their own). Presumably this is because kids are debatably cute and sometimes funny. I guess it's a lot of work ignoring all the negatives about kids:
To which I might remind him/her, "I don't give a FLYING SIDEWAYS REVERSE COWGIRL FUCK ABOUT YOUR GODDAMNED KIDS!" and then mutter impotently that if they little bastards weren't already vaccinated against polio, I'd teach them a thing or two. Ha! Try seeing how easy it is to sass me from inside an iron lung, you little shits! Alas, infantile paralysis is no more (except for in Amish settlements) in the U.S. So I'll have to settle for pleading with the people responsible for bringing these tiny tyrants into the world: parents, if you have kids, PLEASE keep them away from adults and in day care where they belong. And prospective parents, JUST DON'T DO IT. The world is overpopulated anyway, and your NOT having children makes the world an entirely better place.
This is why I hate kids. Why the fuck do THEY get to hold everyone hostage with the threat of a screaming bout? Adults who do this lose their jobs and get restraining orders taken out against them, but kids who do this? THEY GET WHAT THEY FUCKING WANT. It's not fair. I could understand if satiating their every quixotic whim means that they grow up into happy, healthy people who contribute lots of good to society. The reality is that they just grow up into bigger assholes. My Aunt Jesus's daughter was spoiled rotten and she grew up to raise two monstrously bratty kids of her own, both of whom are not only obese, but one of whom PUSHED me last year at our family Christmas party and, as I was wearing very tall high heels, almost knocked me onto my Nicole Miller-clad ass since she's roughly the size of a NFL linebacker at age 9. Another one of my cousins was so placated that she used to cry and scream if her mother didn't go to school with her and sit outside her classroom all day. She wound up knocked up at the age of 21, unemployed now at the age of 27, living with her parents, and driving a purple '89 Honda Prelude. One of my colleagues takes this approach to child rearing as well, and he told me that recently his 12-year-old son called him a "bitch" and a "retard." When I said that if I'd pulled that crap as a child, I'd be on "restriction" (my parents' term for grounding), and would have my phone and/or TV privileges revoked, he just shrugged, as if to say "kids will be kids."
Whatever happened to the good old days when kids were supposed to be seen and not heard? What happened to the days when a temper tantrum got a kid sent to their room, or grounded, or spanked? My parents had a real challenge with me, as I was a smartass, back-talking shithead during childhood (not that much has changed), but they never let me get away with the kind of bratty behavior that most parents these days laugh off with some bullshit excuse like, "Well, they're just kids..." or "Kids will be kids." Since when did "kid" translate to "narcissistic monster who will willfully and gleefully destroy any peace you might have if he/she doesn't get his/her way"?
I'm not the only one who feels this way. There are a lot of people nicer than me who concur. Here's the transcript from an instant messaging session between myself and MillerTime, who is a sweet girl, the type who coos over babies and knows how to talk to old people in a comforting manner. It's not that MillerTime loves babies or old people, but she just has good social skills that way. Although the main point of the virtual conversation below is running road races during the holidays in the P-N-Dub, it rapidly progresses to sharing our disdain for children.
Razzy: my mom is on the hunt for some kind of 5K race we could do around Xmas
MillerTime: Ooooo...I'm doing a 5K on Thanksgiving! Turket Trot in Brownspoint!
Razzy: Sweet!
MillerTime: I was trying to find one around xmas too and thats how I found the
turkey trot...
Razzy: I bet there's lots of hills
Razzy: browns pt is mad hilly
MillerTime: the only thing I found around Xmas was the Jingle Bell Run and thats
either a full or half marathon
MillerTime: NO THANKS!!
MillerTime: not nearly enough time to train
MillerTime: there was an elf dash for toddlers...I'd be down
Razzy: yeah, fuck the jingle bell run
MillerTime: I guess the only hill is the last mile...sweet.
Razzy: elf dash sounds good...how long is it? do they let adults in? it would
be even more fun because there would be lots of children to kick!
Razzy: AND we'd probably beat all of them...stupid toddlers
Razzy: we could wave our trophy around and shout, "In your FACE, toddlers!"
MillerTime: lol...i think it only like 50 yards...yeah...stupid toddlers
Razzy: oh, that sucks. why don't they make toddlers at least do 3K?!
Razzy: this is why childhood obesity is on the rise
MillerTime: Cuz their fat parents can't keep up
Razzy: HAHAHAHA
MillerTime: totally
Anyway, then we switched topics to New Year's Eve party plans, and just as before, it came back to how much kids suck.
Razzy: i'm going to be around from dec 19 or so through the new year this
holiday
Razzy: speaking of, what are your new year's eve plans?
MillerTime: SWEET!!! Finally! You never here for New years!
Razzy: i know,
MillerTime: Mostly likely our friends the Maugas. They always have a New Years
Party thats pretty fun. You're welcome to crash whatever party we attend!!
Razzy: and i never have fun in nyc on the new year
Razzy: too expensive and as far as times sq. is concerned...sha right
Razzy: like I'm going to freeze my ass off sober in the middle of disneyland
Razzy: do the Maugas have children?
Razzy: and will they or their friends be there
Razzy: ?
MillerTime: They do, but the send them to Grandma's...
Razzy: okay
MillerTime: Don't worry...I HATE partying around kids
Razzy: do they live in puyallup?
Razzy: I DON'T party around kids
Razzy: I hate doing ANYTHING around kids
MillerTime: Yeah, they live off of 144th
Razzy: Sweet, I could jog home drunk from the party to my parents' afterward
Razzy: alcoholic marathon training!
MillerTime: lol...lol
MillerTime: Hey...gotta run...
MillerTime: literally
Razzy: Okay cool
Razzy: have fun!!!
Razzy: sha right
MillerTime: SHA RIGHT!!!
I was thinking about this more, and I was like, "Who lets their friends party around their kids?" I'm sure most parents don't want their kids to see them rip-roaring drunk, much less have ill-behaved friends (like yours truly) drunk and setting many bad examples for them. I'm sure that people do condone this, if only because the kids throw a fit that prevents any type of fun partying going on while they are in the vicinity, so parents just let them hang out while they knock back one Rainier after another and pray that they'll be entertained. I can't imagine anything worse than trying to get drunk in the presence of a bunch of attention-seeking bratty kids. All I know is that there had BETTER not be any children to spoil my New Year's Eve drunkenness this year. I'd rather put up with the crowds, terror threats, bone-numbing cold, a strict no-open-container-enforcing NYPD, Satan's spawn Ryan Seacrest, and stroked-out Dick Clark in Times Square than deal with one family's demonic progeny at a house party in P-town.
I don't get why some people seem to LIKE kids (and even kids that aren't their own). Presumably this is because kids are debatably cute and sometimes funny. I guess it's a lot of work ignoring all the negatives about kids:
- Babies have diapers, which require changing, and require regular exposure to bodily waste
- Babies belch and spit up constantly
- Kids scream, kick, and cry with minimal provocation
- Kids are all like Typhoid Mary from a microbiological perspective, from the dirt under their fingernails to the food they spill all over their clothes and face to the snot that fountains from their noses
- Kids break expensive shit
- Kids harass, poke, frighten, and try to ride dogs
- Kids wear stupid clothes
- Kids don't like the History Channel
- Kids try to eat inanimate objects and get saliva all over everything
- Kids eat disgusting food, and usually get it everywhere
- Kids stink. Literally, they smell bad due to subpar hygiene and a tendency to festoon themselves in disgusting shit
- Kids monopolize conversations and interrupt people
- Kids cost a fortune
- Having kids makes adults lame and boring, because all they want to talk about is THEIR FUCKING STUPID KIDS
To which I might remind him/her, "I don't give a FLYING SIDEWAYS REVERSE COWGIRL FUCK ABOUT YOUR GODDAMNED KIDS!" and then mutter impotently that if they little bastards weren't already vaccinated against polio, I'd teach them a thing or two. Ha! Try seeing how easy it is to sass me from inside an iron lung, you little shits! Alas, infantile paralysis is no more (except for in Amish settlements) in the U.S. So I'll have to settle for pleading with the people responsible for bringing these tiny tyrants into the world: parents, if you have kids, PLEASE keep them away from adults and in day care where they belong. And prospective parents, JUST DON'T DO IT. The world is overpopulated anyway, and your NOT having children makes the world an entirely better place.
Labels: assholes, destroy all children, ranting, scathing indictments
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Allow me introduce myself...
It's FalloniusMonk in the house, ham bones, here to bring the funk. For the noise, you gotta hunt me down.
First off - a what up and a thank you to the Good Doctor for having me here tonight. Nowhere else I'd rather kvetch.
Now let's start this up with an exploration of my favorite new and old form of communication, a staple of drunkards and dip-shits everywhere: Smeeberish.
Smeeberish, thus dubbed by my Cali-based broham Chris "the City of" Compton, is the art of almost-English. The art of better-luck-next-time speaking.
It requires a special mind to speak it and an even more special mind not to fucking notice when people look at you like an asshole. The world is supersized when it skips the filter between his mind and his mouth - if it a word has two syllables, he upgrades to three or four. Four syllables, inflation takes it to five - so on and on, until you hear it come at you like German, and alls you can say at the end of the sentence is, "Can you repeat the question?"
Today's Smeeberish award goes to a kid we'll call the Professor. To sir with love.
Quotes first:
"They have beefs with us."
"The challenge for me is very challenging."
"If you want good sausage, you have to put in good meat."
"I feel convicted about this."
"I'm in the process of jettissing."
And now for high quality Smeebish nuggets:
'Anomany' for anomaly' - ie "It's almost an anomany." Yes. Almost.
'Ancilliary' for ancillary - Next to correct, at least
'Uniformimity' for uniformity - uh....
'Explorate' for explore - A line of demarcation, indeed.
'Expectorate' for expect - Exactly.
And my favorite: Ec Cetera. Oh yes. So on and on....
Hope that elucidates - rather, eluciditates. As a great man once said, "You better believe it. Cuz it's fucking happening."
In our next episode, I find out the details of his SAT verbal breakdown.
First off - a what up and a thank you to the Good Doctor for having me here tonight. Nowhere else I'd rather kvetch.
Now let's start this up with an exploration of my favorite new and old form of communication, a staple of drunkards and dip-shits everywhere: Smeeberish.
Smeeberish, thus dubbed by my Cali-based broham Chris "the City of" Compton, is the art of almost-English. The art of better-luck-next-time speaking.
It requires a special mind to speak it and an even more special mind not to fucking notice when people look at you like an asshole. The world is supersized when it skips the filter between his mind and his mouth - if it a word has two syllables, he upgrades to three or four. Four syllables, inflation takes it to five - so on and on, until you hear it come at you like German, and alls you can say at the end of the sentence is, "Can you repeat the question?"
Today's Smeeberish award goes to a kid we'll call the Professor. To sir with love.
Quotes first:
"They have beefs with us."
"The challenge for me is very challenging."
"If you want good sausage, you have to put in good meat."
"I feel convicted about this."
"I'm in the process of jettissing."
And now for high quality Smeebish nuggets:
'Anomany' for anomaly' - ie "It's almost an anomany." Yes. Almost.
'Ancilliary' for ancillary - Next to correct, at least
'Uniformimity' for uniformity - uh....
'Explorate' for explore - A line of demarcation, indeed.
'Expectorate' for expect - Exactly.
And my favorite: Ec Cetera. Oh yes. So on and on....
Hope that elucidates - rather, eluciditates. As a great man once said, "You better believe it. Cuz it's fucking happening."
In our next episode, I find out the details of his SAT verbal breakdown.
Labels: grammar gestapo, Hunter S. Thompson fetish, Smeeberish
NOT especially heinous
On the street outside my apartment, there are a bunch of signs taped to the lampposts, signs, etc. informing me that a television production will be filmed there this evening. Upon closer inspection, I was delighted to see that it's going to be THIS SHOW:
I LOVE "Law and Order: Special Victims Unit" for a few reasons. First, Tamara "Medical Examiner Warner" Tunie, the woman on the right between Richard "Detective John Munch" Belzer and Ice "Detective Odafin Tutuola" T lives in my neighborhood, and often walks her French bulldog Spraga around St. Nicholas Park. Second, Mariska "Detective Olivia Benson" Hargitay is H-O-T. Third, it has Ice-T in it, for God's sake, and there's really nothing better than watch a porn producer/pretend cop killer/rapper with a silicone wife named CoCo lecture a fictional depraved perp about the sexual exploitation of women. I could watch these people work all day...
And this evening, maybe I'll get a chance to see them work their craft in person if I lurk around the production site. It is right outside my front door, so perhaps I'll join the usual crew of teenagers and drug addicts who like to skulk about on the stoop to catch a glimpse of the "SVU" crew in action.
In the criminal justice system, sexually based offenses are considered especially heinous. In New York City, the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit. These are their stories.
And this evening, maybe I'll get a chance to see them work their craft in person if I lurk around the production site. It is right outside my front door, so perhaps I'll join the usual crew of teenagers and drug addicts who like to skulk about on the stoop to catch a glimpse of the "SVU" crew in action.
Labels: celebrities, I LOVE IT, Ice-T, Law and Order
Monday, October 23, 2006
An introduction
So I've decided that since I get too busy to post regularly sometimes, I would invite some of my funny friends to also contribute to this blog. So now in addition to me, you can love or love to hate them as well. So let me introduce my Razzy Guest Writers so far:
Morrissey'sHair went to high school with me, and we wrote political point-counterpoint columns for the critically acclaimed Bellarmine Prep newspaper The Lion while there. Currently he resides in the P-N-Dub and provides legal representation to broke-ass motherfuckers. When not doing that or reading RAZZY.org (occupying approximately 99.9% of his time), he enjoys banging intellectual models, locating amusing news articles about popular rap stars, being sarcastic, fixing his hair, and listening to Morrissey.
FalloniousMonk went to Smith with me, but I didn't meet her until my two year reunion when she won my heart forever by carrying a toolbox filled with bottom shelf booze around all weekend. She is originally from South Carolina, but currently is a power player at a very important experiential marketing firm here in Manhattan. When not traveling the NASCAR circuit or blowing up Bank of America balloons, FalloniousMonk enjoys chain smoking, lauding the French, drinking beer, navigating the G train, and chatting up people in convenience stores.
So when they post, leave them a comment to welcome them, bitches!
Morrissey'sHair went to high school with me, and we wrote political point-counterpoint columns for the critically acclaimed Bellarmine Prep newspaper The Lion while there. Currently he resides in the P-N-Dub and provides legal representation to broke-ass motherfuckers. When not doing that or reading RAZZY.org (occupying approximately 99.9% of his time), he enjoys banging intellectual models, locating amusing news articles about popular rap stars, being sarcastic, fixing his hair, and listening to Morrissey.
FalloniousMonk went to Smith with me, but I didn't meet her until my two year reunion when she won my heart forever by carrying a toolbox filled with bottom shelf booze around all weekend. She is originally from South Carolina, but currently is a power player at a very important experiential marketing firm here in Manhattan. When not traveling the NASCAR circuit or blowing up Bank of America balloons, FalloniousMonk enjoys chain smoking, lauding the French, drinking beer, navigating the G train, and chatting up people in convenience stores.
So when they post, leave them a comment to welcome them, bitches!
Labels: FalloniusMonk, Morrissey'sHair
Aleksey Vaynar: Douchebag of the year
Today a lot of my beloved Razzyphiles have been sending me quality blog material. Right after Morrissey'sHair emailed me about Lil' Wayne's recent legal troubles, I received another gem in my inbox:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: The R-uh (r-uh@bigbiotechcompany.com)
Subject: One name...
"Aleksey Vaynar."
This Dud(e) had a personal video made and included a link to it on his CV to UBS Warburg. And you can trust me Raz, EVERY fucking investment banker on the planet is JUST LIKE THIS ASSHOLE!
I dare you to see if you can stomach all six minutes of the smug and most loathsome Mr. Vaynar preaching about his foolproof plan for success interspersed with shots of him lifting weights, ski jumping, playing tennis, ballroom dancing, and karate chopping a stack of bricks:
The one thing Aleksey doesn't talk about is his undoubtedly freakishly tiny penis. His overcompensatory bench pressing and his willingness to audaciously lecture people about success from the standpoint of an unemployed failed "professional" athlete translate to one thing: SMALL WEINER. This guy gives the women unfortunate enough to sleep with him migraines more often than he gives them orgasms. I've got him pegged as one of those guys whose dick looks like a bee-stung thumb: swollen and lumpy-looking, and neither practically nor aesthetically pleasing. I'd wager he has some erectile dysfunction issues, as well. If he ever gets a job, I predict that his first purchase will be a bright red sportscar.
It appears that the staff in the UBS Warburg human resources office thought Aleksey was a obnoxious, self-satisfied asshole even by investment banker standards, because not only did they not hire him to work there, but they leaked the video to YouTube. Once this shit went viral, Aleksey threatened to sue UBS Warburg over the "stress" that it has caused to his family, as reported by the always hilarious folks at Fox News:
I've got news for you, Aleksey: when you make a video portraying yourself as the most pompous fucktard on the planet, you have NOBODY TO BLAME BUT ALEKSEY VAYNAR! Don't blame UBS Warburg because they and the rest of the world took your advice to "cross (losers) out of your life" and did just that to you. Man up and take responsibility for being a stupid asshole, you penis-challenged tool.
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: The R-uh (r-uh@bigbiotechcompany.com)
Subject: One name...
"Aleksey Vaynar."
This Dud(e) had a personal video made and included a link to it on his CV to UBS Warburg. And you can trust me Raz, EVERY fucking investment banker on the planet is JUST LIKE THIS ASSHOLE!
I dare you to see if you can stomach all six minutes of the smug and most loathsome Mr. Vaynar preaching about his foolproof plan for success interspersed with shots of him lifting weights, ski jumping, playing tennis, ballroom dancing, and karate chopping a stack of bricks:
The one thing Aleksey doesn't talk about is his undoubtedly freakishly tiny penis. His overcompensatory bench pressing and his willingness to audaciously lecture people about success from the standpoint of an unemployed failed "professional" athlete translate to one thing: SMALL WEINER. This guy gives the women unfortunate enough to sleep with him migraines more often than he gives them orgasms. I've got him pegged as one of those guys whose dick looks like a bee-stung thumb: swollen and lumpy-looking, and neither practically nor aesthetically pleasing. I'd wager he has some erectile dysfunction issues, as well. If he ever gets a job, I predict that his first purchase will be a bright red sportscar.
It appears that the staff in the UBS Warburg human resources office thought Aleksey was a obnoxious, self-satisfied asshole even by investment banker standards, because not only did they not hire him to work there, but they leaked the video to YouTube. Once this shit went viral, Aleksey threatened to sue UBS Warburg over the "stress" that it has caused to his family, as reported by the always hilarious folks at Fox News:
I've got news for you, Aleksey: when you make a video portraying yourself as the most pompous fucktard on the planet, you have NOBODY TO BLAME BUT ALEKSEY VAYNAR! Don't blame UBS Warburg because they and the rest of the world took your advice to "cross (losers) out of your life" and did just that to you. Man up and take responsibility for being a stupid asshole, you penis-challenged tool.
Labels: assholes, Morrissey'sHair, retard rage, the R-uh
Mo Money, Mo Problems
Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter, like most other Southern rappers, is a hideously ugly man (although he has defied the typical Southern rap custom of also being morbidly obese). Now his heinous countenance looks even worse, as he is bummed out and sad that he may be facing criminal charges over an incident at Morgan State University in Baltimore:
Lil' Wayne, who also answers to the names "Weezy" and "Tha Carter", looks so gloomy because after some retards in his entourage threw money into a crowd of poor college students, said crowd turned on each other and some bitches got injured. I can see why the most exciting moment of the Lil' Wayne concert was throwing money around, because in addition to the fact that acquiring money rules, his new single "Stuntin' Like My Daddy" pales in comparison to his former friend, current rival, and perennial player from the 'Nolia Juvenile's latest record Reality Check (and in particular, the song "Loose Booty"). Since Lil' Wayne's greatest achievement to date (fucking Trina) has nothing to do with his music, he obviously needs to pay off his audience to keep their attention. Well, that strategy has apparently backfired, as the ensuing melee over what were probably a few stray Andrew Jacksons and Alexander Hamiltons (I don't believe that Lil' Wayne was tossing C-notes around) has led authorities to consider pressing charges against him. Good move, Weezy.
*Many thanks to my "most intrepid freelancer" Morrissey'sHair for the tip and the link to the fabulous above portrait of Tha Carter.
*Many thanks to my "most intrepid freelancer" Morrissey'sHair for the tip and the link to the fabulous above portrait of Tha Carter.
Labels: assholes, Dirrty Dirrty, Juvenile, Lil' Wayne, Morrissey'sHair, rap
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Meanwhile, back in the P-N-Dub...
HotLawyer, pay close attention. Here is a seemingly golden opportunity for you to provide vigorous defense counsel to a whole new category of potential criminals, now that Washington state's new anti-bestiality legislation is getting put to good use:
Man could be charged under cruelty law
Prosecutors say a man’s wife caught him having sex with their dog. He might be the first in the state charged under a new animal cruelty law.
KAREN HUCKS;
The News Tribune
Published: October 20th, 2006 01:00 AM
A Spanaway man is the first person in Pierce County – and possible the first in the state – charged under a new section of the state’s animal cruelty law that makes bestiality a felony. Pierce County prosecutors say Michael Patrick McPhail, 26, had sex with his family’s dog Wednesday.
Deputy prosecutor Karen Watson charged the father of two Thursday with one count of first-degree animal cruelty – a crime that could mean up to a year in jail if he’s convicted.
McPhail was arraigned Thursday afternoon in Pierce County Superior Court and a not-guilty plea was entered on his behalf.
Judge Katherine Stolz ordered him held in the Pierce County Jail in lieu of $20,000 bail.
Stolz set trial for Dec. 11.
According to a Pierce County Sheriff’s Department report, McPhail’s wife told investigators that she caught her husband on the back porch about 9:30 p.m. Wednesday having intercourse with their 4-year-old female pit bull terrier.
She took photos of the act, the report says.
The bestiality law, which took effect in June, was prompted by a case near Enumclaw in which a man died after having sex with a horse.
Before the law was enacted, Washington was one of 14 states where bestiality had not been explicitly prohibited.
The totally not-charming burg of Spanaway is just a stone's throw from my hometown of Puyallup, and I have a couple cousins who live there. You may recognize the name from seeing the Pierce County Sheriff's Department bust up numerous Spanawanian meth labs in a seminal series of classic "Cops"/"America's Most Wanted" crossover episodes. It's hardly surprising that back porch pit bull fucking is occurring there, and I'm just relieved that the alleged caniphile isn't related to me somehow.
What I'm really curious about is the guy from Enumclaw (an equally shiteous hellhole), and how exactly he died fucking a horse. Did it kick him or something? Or did he go out like Catherine the Great and get crushed to death mid-coitus? These are the very important details that a relatively crappy paper like the Tacoma News Tribune fails to report. Why would a guy want to bang a horse in the first place? Although I'm unfamiliar with equine genitalia, presumably the nag would have a huge vagina, and I was under the impression that guys typically find that undesirable. Then again, guys typically don't look to other species in kingdom Animalia to get their rocks off, so I suppose that generalizations don't apply in this circumstance.
Anyway, apart from beautiful scenery, verdant evergreen trees, and delicious salmon, the P-N-Dub has something new to brag about: we send people who pork domestic animals to prison! Man, I can't wait for my next trip home to the 253 now that I know its new zero-tolerance policy regarding sex with animals is being rigidly enforced. Finally, I'll get to experience Christmas in a bestiality-free state!
Man could be charged under cruelty law
Prosecutors say a man’s wife caught him having sex with their dog. He might be the first in the state charged under a new animal cruelty law.
KAREN HUCKS;
The News Tribune
Published: October 20th, 2006 01:00 AM
A Spanaway man is the first person in Pierce County – and possible the first in the state – charged under a new section of the state’s animal cruelty law that makes bestiality a felony. Pierce County prosecutors say Michael Patrick McPhail, 26, had sex with his family’s dog Wednesday.
Deputy prosecutor Karen Watson charged the father of two Thursday with one count of first-degree animal cruelty – a crime that could mean up to a year in jail if he’s convicted.
McPhail was arraigned Thursday afternoon in Pierce County Superior Court and a not-guilty plea was entered on his behalf.
Judge Katherine Stolz ordered him held in the Pierce County Jail in lieu of $20,000 bail.
Stolz set trial for Dec. 11.
According to a Pierce County Sheriff’s Department report, McPhail’s wife told investigators that she caught her husband on the back porch about 9:30 p.m. Wednesday having intercourse with their 4-year-old female pit bull terrier.
She took photos of the act, the report says.
The bestiality law, which took effect in June, was prompted by a case near Enumclaw in which a man died after having sex with a horse.
Before the law was enacted, Washington was one of 14 states where bestiality had not been explicitly prohibited.
The totally not-charming burg of Spanaway is just a stone's throw from my hometown of Puyallup, and I have a couple cousins who live there. You may recognize the name from seeing the Pierce County Sheriff's Department bust up numerous Spanawanian meth labs in a seminal series of classic "Cops"/"America's Most Wanted" crossover episodes. It's hardly surprising that back porch pit bull fucking is occurring there, and I'm just relieved that the alleged caniphile isn't related to me somehow.
What I'm really curious about is the guy from Enumclaw (an equally shiteous hellhole), and how exactly he died fucking a horse. Did it kick him or something? Or did he go out like Catherine the Great and get crushed to death mid-coitus? These are the very important details that a relatively crappy paper like the Tacoma News Tribune fails to report. Why would a guy want to bang a horse in the first place? Although I'm unfamiliar with equine genitalia, presumably the nag would have a huge vagina, and I was under the impression that guys typically find that undesirable. Then again, guys typically don't look to other species in kingdom Animalia to get their rocks off, so I suppose that generalizations don't apply in this circumstance.
Anyway, apart from beautiful scenery, verdant evergreen trees, and delicious salmon, the P-N-Dub has something new to brag about: we send people who pork domestic animals to prison! Man, I can't wait for my next trip home to the 253 now that I know its new zero-tolerance policy regarding sex with animals is being rigidly enforced. Finally, I'll get to experience Christmas in a bestiality-free state!
Labels: bestiality, P-N-Dub, perversion, PWT
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Memo to guys with full beards: shave
I hate guys who sport really full beards. I can put up with guys who have a five o'clock shadow, or a neatly trimmed goatee, or a soul patch (although that usually looks stupid). For example, that guy from "Six Feet Under" is always rocking varying degrees of stubble, but it's short and doesn't interfere with him being hot:
Same with the smoking hot Christian Bale. He sometimes rocks a beard, but it's always neatly shorn:
Justin Timberlake needs a beard, in spite of it making him resemble David Silver from "90210", to make himself sexy (since otherwise he looks like he's 12), but wisely keeps it very short:
Even though my boyfriend Ernest Hemingway usually has a full-face beard, he keeps it trimmed even when hanging out in a safari cabin full of elephant tusks, and thus is squeaks by as a marginally acceptable quantity of facial hair:
However, when I see a guy with a really voluminous beard reminiscent of Jerry Garcia, Santa Claus, or guy from ZZ Top, I just want to attack him with a can of Barbasol and a razor. Hence, Karl Marx gets no love:
There are a lot of general issues I have with these really full beards. They are favored by hippies, probably because they are a style achievable through laziness and poor hygiene. Also, hooking up with guys who have beards is typically a very irritating experience. Apart from beards' kinship with shitty grooming habits and their ability to chafe faces (and sometimes inner thighs and labias), the biggest problem with beards is that they can get downright disgusting.
Roald Dahl was one of my favorite authors as a kid, and he wrote a book called The Twits about "the most revolting couple in the world." The Twits made that family from Pink Flamingoes look sophisticated and refined. I remember that Mr. Twit had a full beard, and he had all kinds of food trapped in it: cornflakes, ketchup, hot dogs, chicken tenders, etc. Whenever he got hungry, he would just start licking his beard to coax out some crusted-on food from meals past. I imagine that the food-trapping issue is a real problem for any man with a beard large enough to obscure the mouth. I'm not down with acquiring sticky, perishable shit in one's hair.
I have long hair, and I usually wear it back because I don't like getting shit in it. Sometimes my hair gets in the way when I'm eating or doing something gross in lab. I've gotten French onion soup and puttanesca and soy sauce with wasabi in my hair. I've gotten don't-let-me-hold-your-unvaccinated-baby polio-ridden mouse spinal exudate in my hair. I've lit my hair on fire. I've dunked my hair in a crock pot. My hair is already unruly due to years of vicious chemical treatments, so I restrain that shitshow when I come across situations, like cooking or working, that have a splash risk. However, dudes with beards can't just tie that shit back. Their facial hair is always there, always in the way, and always ready to mop up whatever type of liquid comes in the vicinity of the mouth. I can't imagine why guys would willingly embrace this personal style. Motherfuckers with beards clearly just don't get it. Beards are gross, and if you have a big one, you should immediately shave.
Same with the smoking hot Christian Bale. He sometimes rocks a beard, but it's always neatly shorn:
Justin Timberlake needs a beard, in spite of it making him resemble David Silver from "90210", to make himself sexy (since otherwise he looks like he's 12), but wisely keeps it very short:
Even though my boyfriend Ernest Hemingway usually has a full-face beard, he keeps it trimmed even when hanging out in a safari cabin full of elephant tusks, and thus is squeaks by as a marginally acceptable quantity of facial hair:
However, when I see a guy with a really voluminous beard reminiscent of Jerry Garcia, Santa Claus, or guy from ZZ Top, I just want to attack him with a can of Barbasol and a razor. Hence, Karl Marx gets no love:
There are a lot of general issues I have with these really full beards. They are favored by hippies, probably because they are a style achievable through laziness and poor hygiene. Also, hooking up with guys who have beards is typically a very irritating experience. Apart from beards' kinship with shitty grooming habits and their ability to chafe faces (and sometimes inner thighs and labias), the biggest problem with beards is that they can get downright disgusting.
Roald Dahl was one of my favorite authors as a kid, and he wrote a book called The Twits about "the most revolting couple in the world." The Twits made that family from Pink Flamingoes look sophisticated and refined. I remember that Mr. Twit had a full beard, and he had all kinds of food trapped in it: cornflakes, ketchup, hot dogs, chicken tenders, etc. Whenever he got hungry, he would just start licking his beard to coax out some crusted-on food from meals past. I imagine that the food-trapping issue is a real problem for any man with a beard large enough to obscure the mouth. I'm not down with acquiring sticky, perishable shit in one's hair.
I have long hair, and I usually wear it back because I don't like getting shit in it. Sometimes my hair gets in the way when I'm eating or doing something gross in lab. I've gotten French onion soup and puttanesca and soy sauce with wasabi in my hair. I've gotten don't-let-me-hold-your-unvaccinated-baby polio-ridden mouse spinal exudate in my hair. I've lit my hair on fire. I've dunked my hair in a crock pot. My hair is already unruly due to years of vicious chemical treatments, so I restrain that shitshow when I come across situations, like cooking or working, that have a splash risk. However, dudes with beards can't just tie that shit back. Their facial hair is always there, always in the way, and always ready to mop up whatever type of liquid comes in the vicinity of the mouth. I can't imagine why guys would willingly embrace this personal style. Motherfuckers with beards clearly just don't get it. Beards are gross, and if you have a big one, you should immediately shave.
Labels: assholes, hot dudes, overcompensation, ranting, scathing indictments, vanity, you're ugly
Friday, October 20, 2006
You go, Larry Johnson
Because I've wanted to see someone do this to Shitburgh Stealer Troy Polamalu for a very long while:
Cut your hair, bitch!
Cut your hair, bitch!
Labels: assholes, NFL football, Stealers suck, you're ugly
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Good news for chronic consumption
Apart from being awesome at alleviating glaucoma, counteracting cachexia (wasting), curbing chemotherapy-induced nausea, and getting you totally high, a team from Scripps showed that marijuana blocks the pathogenesis of Alzheimer's disease. Go on with your bad selves, medical researchers using mouse models to produce insightful and useful information! This is an excellent finding, because it makes me think happy thoughts, like "Hey, Ronald Reagan, bet you wish you had just said YES, asshole!"
This is also rad because it supports a new legitimate bullshit story to tell law enforcement officials should they catch you carrying. "I'm doing what I have to in order to stave off the debilitating effects of Alzheimer's disease," you can argue. I mean, if I'm getting a cold, it's not a crime to take vitamin C and drink orange juice, is it? If I feel an amyloid plaque coming on, then I shouldn't be criminally liable for taking necessary preventative measures. Even better, amyloid plaques can't be detected without some major cranial invasion, so nobody can even tell if you're truly experiencing early-onset asymptomatic Alzheimer's or just coming up with some bullshit excuse because you're high. Brilliant. I love it when a plan comes together!
This is also rad because it supports a new legitimate bullshit story to tell law enforcement officials should they catch you carrying. "I'm doing what I have to in order to stave off the debilitating effects of Alzheimer's disease," you can argue. I mean, if I'm getting a cold, it's not a crime to take vitamin C and drink orange juice, is it? If I feel an amyloid plaque coming on, then I shouldn't be criminally liable for taking necessary preventative measures. Even better, amyloid plaques can't be detected without some major cranial invasion, so nobody can even tell if you're truly experiencing early-onset asymptomatic Alzheimer's or just coming up with some bullshit excuse because you're high. Brilliant. I love it when a plan comes together!
Labels: drugs, epidemic geekery, I LOVE IT, politics, science
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Rohr
I accompanied KatieScarlett and Bienvenido-a-Miami to the historic Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn so that KatieScarlett could film a very scary movie there in preparation for Halloween. KatieScarlett is an excellent director, as you can tell from the scary, scary camera work, the terrifying effects, and the way she inspired Bienvenido-a-Miami and myself to run all over the place. She was so inspiring that I didn't even mind the bruise on my shin I got from purposefully tripping over the rail by Boss Tweed's family plot. So without further ado, check out our spookty movie, Rohr:
My favorite part of the whole thing is the Rorschach test-meets-kaleidoscope effect KatieScarlett employs in the middle of the film. Well, that and the lightning, obviously. The one failing was that the camera angle botched my attempt at providing the film with a solid titty shot, so I mooned the camera instead. It's not a horror movie without nudity, after all. That's called acting, people.
My favorite part of the whole thing is the Rorschach test-meets-kaleidoscope effect KatieScarlett employs in the middle of the film. Well, that and the lightning, obviously. The one failing was that the camera angle botched my attempt at providing the film with a solid titty shot, so I mooned the camera instead. It's not a horror movie without nudity, after all. That's called acting, people.
Labels: artfaggotry, BK, creative projects, epic geekery, KatieScarlett, Razzification, spooktiness
Razzy's husbandry skills on the decline
For the first time EVER, I just lost a mouse in my lab. Usually "losing" mice means that they are cannibalized by their mother, or they just die for no apparent reason at all. Today, however, a mouse actually escaped on my watch. I was about to humanely sacrifice him as follows:
I was about to close the lid on my dry ice and ethanol death chamber and end his existence in this mortal coil when the little fucker jumped out onto my shoulder (mice have serious hops). Then he jumped down to the floor, and before I could either grab his tail or stomp on him, the motherfucker ran off. I guess he wasn't too keen on winding up like this:
I can't say I blame him. I applaud his drive to survive, but because he's inbred and probably retarded even by mouse standards, he'll probably die of starvation in the lab ventilation duct system. Now I've had to inform everyone in my lab that while they are trying to work, they might be surprised by a little guy suddenly running onto their bench and freaking them out. Since everyone but me is the type of girl who will jump on a chair and shout "Eeek!" (well, except J-Sexy, who will probably just say, "Razzy, get over here and kill this dis-gos-ting mouse." Anyway, I'm contemplating putting up posters to apprehend the fugitive before he can spread his transgenes around the Washington Heights wild mice community:
I was about to close the lid on my dry ice and ethanol death chamber and end his existence in this mortal coil when the little fucker jumped out onto my shoulder (mice have serious hops). Then he jumped down to the floor, and before I could either grab his tail or stomp on him, the motherfucker ran off. I guess he wasn't too keen on winding up like this:
I can't say I blame him. I applaud his drive to survive, but because he's inbred and probably retarded even by mouse standards, he'll probably die of starvation in the lab ventilation duct system. Now I've had to inform everyone in my lab that while they are trying to work, they might be surprised by a little guy suddenly running onto their bench and freaking them out. Since everyone but me is the type of girl who will jump on a chair and shout "Eeek!" (well, except J-Sexy, who will probably just say, "Razzy, get over here and kill this dis-gos-ting mouse." Anyway, I'm contemplating putting up posters to apprehend the fugitive before he can spread his transgenes around the Washington Heights wild mice community:
Labels: epidemic geekery, grad school bullshit, lab mishaps, mice, science
Cry me a river, Duke LAX
On "60 Minutes" this weekend, one of the three Duke lacrosse players accused of raping a stripper at their party talked to Ed Bradley about the charges. He stated plainly that they are totally false and that he is being unjustly accused. Making matters worse for the prosecution is that fact that apparently none of David Evans, Reade Seligmann, or Collin Finnerty's DNA supposedly matches the sample collected by the police, and the fact that the alleged victim's friend told Bradley that she was stripping again within two weeks of the lacrosse party where all this went down because she is a lying whore. I don't know whether these guys raped her or not, but I do know one thing. These guys are ASSHOLES. You can tell just by looking at them.
This is David Evans:
This is Reade Seligmann:
And this is Collin Finnerty:
I don't really care whether they raped that woman or not. I know that these guys are just creeps. You can just see how entitled they feel by their body language. Behind those WASPy blazers, Ken doll hairstyles, and thickly knitted brows lurk dudes who, when not competing in belch-offs, spend their time bragging about their penises and calling their female professors names like "sweetheart," "baby," and "doll." They are the types who blame it on their girlfriends when they can't get it up, and who probably secretly beat off to the domestic violence scenes in Lifetime movies. It's not a stretch to imagine any of them discreetly slipping rohypnol into some unsuspecting bitch's spodie and sodomizing her with a lacrosse stick, so I can certainly see them being at the very least abusive pricks to the stripper.
Even when David Evans started whining to Ed Bradley about the injustice of it all, I don't really feel sorry for him even if he is being falsely accused. For one thing, whether he did it or not, he's probably not going to be convicted, because expensive attorneys vs. minimal physical evidence and the dubious word of a poor black stipper is a court battle that the expensive attorneys will probably win, particularly since the stripper is now being called a liar even by her friends. For another, even if they go to trial, they will not be dogged by this scandal forever after their inevitable acquittals. Without any evidence, the stripper will not get far in terms of recompense in civil court (and that's on top of them undoubtedly not tipping her). Also, they won't even suffer professionally, as I am sure their daddies can all get their nepotism on and hook them up with some type of cushy job at their investment firms or whatever. So go ahead and ask for whom the bell tolls, because it does NOT toll for the Duke lacrosse players. They'll be just fine, and once the charges are dropped, they'll be back to date-raping Duke sorority girls with impunity.
This is David Evans:
This is Reade Seligmann:
And this is Collin Finnerty:
I don't really care whether they raped that woman or not. I know that these guys are just creeps. You can just see how entitled they feel by their body language. Behind those WASPy blazers, Ken doll hairstyles, and thickly knitted brows lurk dudes who, when not competing in belch-offs, spend their time bragging about their penises and calling their female professors names like "sweetheart," "baby," and "doll." They are the types who blame it on their girlfriends when they can't get it up, and who probably secretly beat off to the domestic violence scenes in Lifetime movies. It's not a stretch to imagine any of them discreetly slipping rohypnol into some unsuspecting bitch's spodie and sodomizing her with a lacrosse stick, so I can certainly see them being at the very least abusive pricks to the stripper.
Even when David Evans started whining to Ed Bradley about the injustice of it all, I don't really feel sorry for him even if he is being falsely accused. For one thing, whether he did it or not, he's probably not going to be convicted, because expensive attorneys vs. minimal physical evidence and the dubious word of a poor black stipper is a court battle that the expensive attorneys will probably win, particularly since the stripper is now being called a liar even by her friends. For another, even if they go to trial, they will not be dogged by this scandal forever after their inevitable acquittals. Without any evidence, the stripper will not get far in terms of recompense in civil court (and that's on top of them undoubtedly not tipping her). Also, they won't even suffer professionally, as I am sure their daddies can all get their nepotism on and hook them up with some type of cushy job at their investment firms or whatever. So go ahead and ask for whom the bell tolls, because it does NOT toll for the Duke lacrosse players. They'll be just fine, and once the charges are dropped, they'll be back to date-raping Duke sorority girls with impunity.
Labels: assholes, crime and punishment, retard rage, sexual assault
Monday, October 16, 2006
A recent dream ALMOST comes true. Almost.
When discussing the death of Yankees pitcher Cory Lidle making like Mohammed Atta except less determined, more inept, and with far less carnage last week, I mentioned that "if only A-Rod and Jeter would take up some type of dangerous and life-threatening hobby, my day will have been made." Apparently A-Rod already had: private ownership of a Gulfstream G3 piloted by someone with skills tantamount to Cory Lidle's flight instructor's.
I've hated Alex Rodriguez ever since he blew off the Mariners because the Rangers gave him a ridiculous contract. I didn't blame him for following the money, as I'm totally cool with capitalism. However, I thought that leaving to play for a loser team like the Rangers was a bad idea, if only because George W. Bush used to own a share of them and rocks their logo gear on the regs. Well, and the RANGERS SUCK, and A-Rod was too much of a pussy to admit that. Instead, he would say a bunch of incredible bullshit about how the Rangers were a solid team and he was making this decision because he loves to play baseball, and not because he was getting a quarter of a billion dollars to go to Arlington. I strongly dislike people who would rather say a bunch of overtly insincere bullshit rather than just say, "Hey, I'm a greedy asshole, and I wanted to make $250 million dollars just because some rich, desperate idiots in Texas are willing to pay me that." If you're an asshole, have some self-respect and just admit it, for fuck's sake! Spend your time and your signing bonus fucking expensive hookers, drinking Louis XIII, buying diamond-encrusted jockstraps, rolling around on rugs made out of baby seal, and anything else stupid and ostentatious NOT related to building an obviously false image with your PR rep or whoever. Anyway, after tucking his shit firmly between his legs for the sake of PR, A-Rod went from bad to infinitely worse by signing with THE FUCKING YANKEES. That pretty much sealed my eternal grudge against Alex Rodriguez, and in my mind makes him entirely deserving of death by freak plane crash, or at least an embarrassing anal perforation-induced trip to the ER involving Derek Jeter and a most unfortunate gerbil.
I thought the former was going to happen earlier this week when I read the exciting headline: "A-Rod in Plane Crash." However, despite the promising moment when A-Rod's private jet skidded out of control on the tarmac at Bob Hope's Rich People Airport, my fantasies of Pay Rod getting his karmic untimely death comeuppance for being a sanctimonious corporate whore to George Steinbrenner were destroyed by a wall of crushable concrete blocks. Crap.
Although chances are nothing plane crashy ever happen to A-Rod again, I can at least hope that he suffers something like this...
...except instead of being attacked by a fellow baseball player, A-Rod gets his eyes gouged out by a rabid badger wearing shinguards, a chest protector, and a catcher's mask. Seriously, would that not completely rule???
I've hated Alex Rodriguez ever since he blew off the Mariners because the Rangers gave him a ridiculous contract. I didn't blame him for following the money, as I'm totally cool with capitalism. However, I thought that leaving to play for a loser team like the Rangers was a bad idea, if only because George W. Bush used to own a share of them and rocks their logo gear on the regs. Well, and the RANGERS SUCK, and A-Rod was too much of a pussy to admit that. Instead, he would say a bunch of incredible bullshit about how the Rangers were a solid team and he was making this decision because he loves to play baseball, and not because he was getting a quarter of a billion dollars to go to Arlington. I strongly dislike people who would rather say a bunch of overtly insincere bullshit rather than just say, "Hey, I'm a greedy asshole, and I wanted to make $250 million dollars just because some rich, desperate idiots in Texas are willing to pay me that." If you're an asshole, have some self-respect and just admit it, for fuck's sake! Spend your time and your signing bonus fucking expensive hookers, drinking Louis XIII, buying diamond-encrusted jockstraps, rolling around on rugs made out of baby seal, and anything else stupid and ostentatious NOT related to building an obviously false image with your PR rep or whoever. Anyway, after tucking his shit firmly between his legs for the sake of PR, A-Rod went from bad to infinitely worse by signing with THE FUCKING YANKEES. That pretty much sealed my eternal grudge against Alex Rodriguez, and in my mind makes him entirely deserving of death by freak plane crash, or at least an embarrassing anal perforation-induced trip to the ER involving Derek Jeter and a most unfortunate gerbil.
I thought the former was going to happen earlier this week when I read the exciting headline: "A-Rod in Plane Crash." However, despite the promising moment when A-Rod's private jet skidded out of control on the tarmac at Bob Hope's Rich People Airport, my fantasies of Pay Rod getting his karmic untimely death comeuppance for being a sanctimonious corporate whore to George Steinbrenner were destroyed by a wall of crushable concrete blocks. Crap.
Although chances are nothing plane crashy ever happen to A-Rod again, I can at least hope that he suffers something like this...
Labels: celebrities, fuck the Yankees, large exclamatory font, Mariners, NYC
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Frigid bitch
So I've heard that last Wednesday, Shanna Moakler drifted down the Hudson River in plain view of my lab window on a giant iceberg to promote Smirnoff Ice Arctic Berry flavor. I have no idea why the marketing people at Smirnoff would think that this herpes-ridden skank is an appealing spokesperson for their stupid new take on Zima, but apparently some idiot there decided to greenlight this extraordinarily shitty idea:
In case you don't recognize Shanna Moakler, let me give you a quick recap of her CV:
In case you don't recognize Shanna Moakler, let me give you a quick recap of her CV:
- Became Miss USA by default (because the existing Miss USA quit to be Miss Universe) in 1995
- Married boxer Oscar De La Hoya, got pregs, and hit him up for 18 years worth of alimony/child support
- Boned Billy Idol and Dennis Quaid
- Miss December 2001 in Playboy
- Married former Blink182 drummer and skater dude douchebag Travis Barker, popped out a couple of his demon spawn, and starred with him in MTV's "Meet the Barkers."
- Got ass whupped on "Dancing with the Stars" by the likes of Jerry Springer and Emmitt Smith
- Handled divorce proceedings with the aforementioned Mr. Barker through a series of vicious MySpace blog postings and by punching Paris Hilton, who was recently rumored to have given Barker the clap outside Hollywood nightclub Hyde
What the hell was I so busy doing on Wednesday in lab that I didn't notice a giant faux iceberg floating down the Hudson, especially one topped with the despicable Ms. Moakler in a pair of cheap wintry boots and hawking berry-flavored malt liquor??? This would have been a perfectly good reason to get a sniper rifle and make the world a better place, but I was apparently too busy splitting cells or killing mice or something to notice. Fuck. Another missed opportunity.
Labels: alcoholism, celebrities, media whores, stank vaginas
Saturday, October 14, 2006
The latest item on my "to vanquish" list
Once again, I'm giving non-smoking a go for about the hundredth time. I HATE quitting smoking. I'm so sick of doing it: going through the suffering and misery of withdrawal only to have a couple drinks, fire up a Parliament Light, berate myself for failing, and wind up back to my pack-a-day old ways.
Therefore, in order to prevent relapse history from repeating itself, I need to take drastic measures. Since merely mentally committing to quitting smoking clearly isn't enough to keep me off the coffin nails, I have to do something that absolutely, completely,unequivocally prohibits me from smoking. It has to be something that I could never do while smoking at all, and it has to take up at least a year. I was trying to think of different things that are very athletic and aerobic, and require endurance beyond that of a heavy smoker's. The other day on the subway, I saw an ad, and the answer was immediately clear to me. Next year, I am going to compete in this:
I can almost hear all the people who know me laughing scornfully, saying "sha right, Razzy will never be able to quit smoking, much less quit smoking and run 26.2 fucking miles." It's true that I'm very lazy, and I've been a smoker since the tender age of 13, and both those facts support a negative outlook for me successfully running this entire marathon. I think, however, that this is an excellent opportunity to prove to myself and everybody else that I can actually accomplish major feats of athleticism if I am determined enough. Also, my parents are on board, and they are buying me a new pair of fly running shoes in a show of support. And I love shoes, betch, so this should at least motivate me enough to get started. I have enlisted the assistance of the able distance runner KatieScarlett, who is taking me to the best running shoe store in Lesbianville, Brooklyn.
There's another reason why I'm going to run a marathon, and that is because I hate them. I say fuck marathons, and fuck the ancient battle versus the Persians that happened there, too. Memo to Greece: your poems, myths, tragedies, democracy, thinkers, feta cheese, baklava, and word origins are cool and all, but YOUR TECHNOLOGY SUCKED. That's why I got pissed during the movie Troy, because it was all shitty ancient Greek military technology without any gods intervening. Furthermore, the fact that Greece's cultural dominance in the ancient world relies entirely on mythic heroes and the exploitation of Olympian family drama is because your boats and weapons were so fucking crappy in the first place. Marathons are a big part of ancient Greek tradition, and since they aren't epic stories by Homer or badass albeit mythologically inaccurate movies starring Harry Hamlin as Perseus, I can't hold my head up high without definitively kicking some 26.2 mile SISSY MARATHON ASS.
I have 13 months to prepare for this, and in order to get into the marathon, I have to qualify by running in 9 different New York Road Runner races. Well, I don't have to do this, because there is a lottery for people who don't; however, I've never been particularly lucky, and apparently the lottery has steep odds because of the surprisingly huge number of people who for some reason want to punish themselves in this manner. The way I see it, if I qualify by running 9 races alone, it will be pretty damn encouraging that in fact I would be capable of actually sticking it to the ancient Greeks and pulling off an entire full-length marathon.
Just looking at the course makes me want to throw up. Somehow I'll have to get my ass all the way out to Staten Island to start, and then run all the way back to Manhattan through Brooklyn and Queens with a quick detour through the Bronx. This is an absolutely terrifying prospect:
However, if I can do this, then there is NOTHING I can't do, because not only will I have smote the marathon's ruin upon the proverbial mountainside, but I will have accomplished the far more difficult trial of quitting smoking. Achievement here will spur me on to accomplish greater goals, like finally graduating and getting the hell out of grad school. After that, it's straight up world domination time. Go Razzy!
Therefore, in order to prevent relapse history from repeating itself, I need to take drastic measures. Since merely mentally committing to quitting smoking clearly isn't enough to keep me off the coffin nails, I have to do something that absolutely, completely,unequivocally prohibits me from smoking. It has to be something that I could never do while smoking at all, and it has to take up at least a year. I was trying to think of different things that are very athletic and aerobic, and require endurance beyond that of a heavy smoker's. The other day on the subway, I saw an ad, and the answer was immediately clear to me. Next year, I am going to compete in this:
I can almost hear all the people who know me laughing scornfully, saying "sha right, Razzy will never be able to quit smoking, much less quit smoking and run 26.2 fucking miles." It's true that I'm very lazy, and I've been a smoker since the tender age of 13, and both those facts support a negative outlook for me successfully running this entire marathon. I think, however, that this is an excellent opportunity to prove to myself and everybody else that I can actually accomplish major feats of athleticism if I am determined enough. Also, my parents are on board, and they are buying me a new pair of fly running shoes in a show of support. And I love shoes, betch, so this should at least motivate me enough to get started. I have enlisted the assistance of the able distance runner KatieScarlett, who is taking me to the best running shoe store in Lesbianville, Brooklyn.
There's another reason why I'm going to run a marathon, and that is because I hate them. I say fuck marathons, and fuck the ancient battle versus the Persians that happened there, too. Memo to Greece: your poems, myths, tragedies, democracy, thinkers, feta cheese, baklava, and word origins are cool and all, but YOUR TECHNOLOGY SUCKED. That's why I got pissed during the movie Troy, because it was all shitty ancient Greek military technology without any gods intervening. Furthermore, the fact that Greece's cultural dominance in the ancient world relies entirely on mythic heroes and the exploitation of Olympian family drama is because your boats and weapons were so fucking crappy in the first place. Marathons are a big part of ancient Greek tradition, and since they aren't epic stories by Homer or badass albeit mythologically inaccurate movies starring Harry Hamlin as Perseus, I can't hold my head up high without definitively kicking some 26.2 mile SISSY MARATHON ASS.
I have 13 months to prepare for this, and in order to get into the marathon, I have to qualify by running in 9 different New York Road Runner races. Well, I don't have to do this, because there is a lottery for people who don't; however, I've never been particularly lucky, and apparently the lottery has steep odds because of the surprisingly huge number of people who for some reason want to punish themselves in this manner. The way I see it, if I qualify by running 9 races alone, it will be pretty damn encouraging that in fact I would be capable of actually sticking it to the ancient Greeks and pulling off an entire full-length marathon.
Just looking at the course makes me want to throw up. Somehow I'll have to get my ass all the way out to Staten Island to start, and then run all the way back to Manhattan through Brooklyn and Queens with a quick detour through the Bronx. This is an absolutely terrifying prospect:
However, if I can do this, then there is NOTHING I can't do, because not only will I have smote the marathon's ruin upon the proverbial mountainside, but I will have accomplished the far more difficult trial of quitting smoking. Achievement here will spur me on to accomplish greater goals, like finally graduating and getting the hell out of grad school. After that, it's straight up world domination time. Go Razzy!
Labels: defiance, exercise drama, smoking
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Al Qaeda? No, it's just a Bronx bomber.
Usually, the words "a plane crashed into the side of a high rise building in New York" lead most New Yorkers to think "terror" and not "rich professional athlete's tricked-out Cessna had fuel pump problems." I was relieved that yesterday's headline about this was not the bad news that Osama Bin Laden has orchestrated another attack on the Big Apple, but actually the good news that the ever-loathsome Yankees are short a starting pitcher:
I'm sure people are probably going to think it's really mean to make fun of someone who died in a plane crash, but whatever. I HATE the Yankees, and I think anyone else who roots for an American League team that isn't from New York feels the same way (I'm a Mariners fan, obviously). In my dream world, the Yankees' entire starting lineup dies in a plane crash. Better yet, the Yankees' entire starting lineup winds up in one of the Saw movies, except in real life. Because of my blind and consuming hatred of all things Yankee, when one of them dies by accident or otherwise, I consider it a cause for celebration rather than mourning, especially when the deceased was famous for being a slovenly asshole (not that this is any different than any other Yankee). Fellow pitcher (and former Seattle Mariner) Arthur Rhodes had this to say about him:
Despite this, of course the New York tabloids are already trying to be laudatory and respectful, while at the same time coming up with headlines like "'Bomber' pilot crashes plane", although the Post left this off the front page in favor of a more sentimental montage of the crash, a plane, and a photo of Cory Lidle looking sad because he's dead. The Daily News kept the cover simple, but inside the article compares Lidle's death to 9/11. Are you fucking kidding me???
Anyway, at the risk of being killed by mobs of Yankee fans when I venture outside, I'm going to say that dying in a plane crash is Cory Lidle's karmic reward for agreeing to pitch for Satan's pinstriped minions. Now, if only A-Rod and Jeter would take up some type of dangerous and potentially life-threatening hobby, my day will have been made.
I'm sure people are probably going to think it's really mean to make fun of someone who died in a plane crash, but whatever. I HATE the Yankees, and I think anyone else who roots for an American League team that isn't from New York feels the same way (I'm a Mariners fan, obviously). In my dream world, the Yankees' entire starting lineup dies in a plane crash. Better yet, the Yankees' entire starting lineup winds up in one of the Saw movies, except in real life. Because of my blind and consuming hatred of all things Yankee, when one of them dies by accident or otherwise, I consider it a cause for celebration rather than mourning, especially when the deceased was famous for being a slovenly asshole (not that this is any different than any other Yankee). Fellow pitcher (and former Seattle Mariner) Arthur Rhodes had this to say about him:
"He's a scab. When he started, he would go 5 1/3 innings and the bullpen would have to win the game for him. The only thing Cory Lidle wants to do is fly in his plane and gamble."After that, Rhodes goes off on how Lidle worked as a replacement player when baseball players were striking in the mid-90s (hence the scab reference), and how instead of lifting weights he sat in the clubhouse eating ice cream. Lazy fucker. I guess flying his plane was the gamble that finally finished his picket line-crossing ass off.
Despite this, of course the New York tabloids are already trying to be laudatory and respectful, while at the same time coming up with headlines like "'Bomber' pilot crashes plane", although the Post left this off the front page in favor of a more sentimental montage of the crash, a plane, and a photo of Cory Lidle looking sad because he's dead. The Daily News kept the cover simple, but inside the article compares Lidle's death to 9/11. Are you fucking kidding me???
Anyway, at the risk of being killed by mobs of Yankee fans when I venture outside, I'm going to say that dying in a plane crash is Cory Lidle's karmic reward for agreeing to pitch for Satan's pinstriped minions. Now, if only A-Rod and Jeter would take up some type of dangerous and potentially life-threatening hobby, my day will have been made.
Labels: assholes, fuck the Yankees, large exclamatory font, NYC
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Chingy!'s long lost cousin
Is apparently a river otter:
I always thought otters looked like dogs, but this guy especially bears a resemblance to a certain pugged-out retard who haunts my home. Specifically, he is fat, disgusting, and probably smelly. This is even the type of thing that Chingy! would do if he had a pane of glass within reach at his disposal.
CHONGAY CHONG, river otter!
I always thought otters looked like dogs, but this guy especially bears a resemblance to a certain pugged-out retard who haunts my home. Specifically, he is fat, disgusting, and probably smelly. This is even the type of thing that Chingy! would do if he had a pane of glass within reach at his disposal.
CHONGAY CHONG, river otter!
Labels: assholes, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style
Official Razzy Halloween Costume 2006
Every year my Halloween costumes get more outrageous and expository. I wasn't sure how I was going to top King Slut from last year, which was basically some gold jewelry, heavy eye makeup, a cheap pharoah hat, and three rolls of Rite Aid gauze bandages (ignore how extremely, sloppily, rip-roaring drunk I obviously am in this photograph):
All of a sudden I was listening to an old rap mix the other day, and "Big Momma Thang" came on, and I was like, "Oh, I love Lil' Kim". And then I was like, "Eureka!" OF COURSE! I'll go as Lil' Kim this Halloween. And since she's hit the bleaching cream so hard, my complexion isn't all that different from hers anymore. The only question is which Lil' Kim outfit should I attempt to reproduce?
#1. Diana Ross grabs your breast at the VMAs outfit (requiring off-the-shoulder dress, purple wig, and pasty):
#2. La Bella Mafia cover Lil' Kim outfit (requiring black wig, pasties, name necklace, and suspenders):
#3. Brand whore Lil' Kim outfit (requiring leather Louis Vuitton hood and black body paint):
I have to admit that despite my exhibitionist tendencies, outfit #3 is a bit daunting, as I'm not sure I quite have the balls to walk into a grad student party butt naked. Besides, given the designer millinery involved, I think outfit #3 actually is outside of my price range. I don't think the old "buycoachburberrylouisvuittonfendigucciprada" Chinese ladies on Canal Street sell bootlegged Louis Vuitton knockoff calf leather swimming caps.
Anyway, any of you Razzyphiles/haters want to weigh in on what may be my most important decision of the year?
All of a sudden I was listening to an old rap mix the other day, and "Big Momma Thang" came on, and I was like, "Oh, I love Lil' Kim". And then I was like, "Eureka!" OF COURSE! I'll go as Lil' Kim this Halloween. And since she's hit the bleaching cream so hard, my complexion isn't all that different from hers anymore. The only question is which Lil' Kim outfit should I attempt to reproduce?
#1. Diana Ross grabs your breast at the VMAs outfit (requiring off-the-shoulder dress, purple wig, and pasty):
#2. La Bella Mafia cover Lil' Kim outfit (requiring black wig, pasties, name necklace, and suspenders):
#3. Brand whore Lil' Kim outfit (requiring leather Louis Vuitton hood and black body paint):
I have to admit that despite my exhibitionist tendencies, outfit #3 is a bit daunting, as I'm not sure I quite have the balls to walk into a grad student party butt naked. Besides, given the designer millinery involved, I think outfit #3 actually is outside of my price range. I don't think the old "buycoachburberrylouisvuittonfendigucciprada" Chinese ladies on Canal Street sell bootlegged Louis Vuitton knockoff calf leather swimming caps.
Anyway, any of you Razzyphiles/haters want to weigh in on what may be my most important decision of the year?
Labels: Halloween, Lil' Kim, rap, Razzification
Britney's grrrrrreat
Britney Spears loves her some tigers, to the point where she's made over her website. Gone are the faeries, bubbles, and stream of consciousness musings about the beauty of the tiger. Now there's pretty much no content at all except a combo of growling and heavy breathing as Britney's face is superimposed over that of the Cincinnati Bengals mascot. I guess she's trying to convince us all that she has gone from admiring tigers for their "mysteriousness" to actually becoming one, if it's possible for tigers to be greasy gum-chewing sows who subsist on Ho-Hos, chicken fingers, and various flavors of Sonic fruitades.
Oh, and in case you're like me and you furtively listen to Britney's music in secrecy and under the cover of darkness, there's also a clip of what is presumably her newest jam after that. It is a piece seemingly titled "Rebellion," which I'm ashamed to admit that I kind of like. I'm already trying to think up dirty karaoke lyrics to it, but I don't think I'll ever come up with something as good as the "Fuck Me Baby From Behind" I once sang to "Hit Me Baby One More Time."
Anyway, go experience Britney's tiger fetish for yourself, and see if you have as hard of a time as I do deciding whether to laugh at her foolishness or be totally creeped out:
http://www.britneyspears.com/
Oh, and in case you're like me and you furtively listen to Britney's music in secrecy and under the cover of darkness, there's also a clip of what is presumably her newest jam after that. It is a piece seemingly titled "Rebellion," which I'm ashamed to admit that I kind of like. I'm already trying to think up dirty karaoke lyrics to it, but I don't think I'll ever come up with something as good as the "Fuck Me Baby From Behind" I once sang to "Hit Me Baby One More Time."
Anyway, go experience Britney's tiger fetish for yourself, and see if you have as hard of a time as I do deciding whether to laugh at her foolishness or be totally creeped out:
http://www.britneyspears.com/
Labels: Britney Spears, celebrities, hilarious shit, PWT, ridiculous absurdity
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Every city has fools to pity
As I was waiting through commercials during "Entertainment Tonight" to see Anna Nicole Smith's mother rant about how Anna Nicole is brazenly mismanaging her son's funeral, I saw an ad for what has potential to be the best new reality show of the fall season, "I Pity the Fool." Yes, Mr. T FINALLY has a reality show. It's on TV Land, and the premise is something along the lines of Mr. T travelling to different places and dispensing advice to people (such as "quit that jibba jabba"). Mr. T proclaims in the ad that "every city has fools to pity."
Well, I went straight to the internet and found a clip of it. It actually looks kind of lame, as Mr. T doesn't do a whole lot here besides attempt to dance and engage in some trite Mr. T buffoonery:
I hope this show is better than this makes it look, because Mr. T needs to come up with a little more than that if I'm going to figure out what fucking channel TV Land is on. Isn't TV Land that network that only shows the crappy sitcoms of yesteryear that my mom thinks are so funny (ie: "Mary Tyler Moore," "Maude," etc.)? It's not like they have shows I actually want to watch, like "Miami Vice," "V," "Twin Peaks," or "The A-Team."
And while we're on the subject of "The A-Team," check out what I found on YouTube while looking for clips of Mr. T's new show. It's the "A-Team" opening montage, including that whole voice-over part about their frame-job before a military tribunal, subsequent escape from stockade to Los Angeles underground, and new careers as soldiers of fortune, followed by the intro action sequences featuring all the aforementioned team: their organized, cheerful leader Hannibal, the sort-of hot (in an 80s way) guy appropriately named Face, *WILD 'N' CRAZY* Murdock, and Mr. T. of course, as the lavishly gilded B.A. Baracus. It's high time I just stuck a video of "The A-Team" up here for no good reason at all except that they're pretty much the awesomest Vietnam Special Forces veteran wisecracking fugitive goofball mercenaries that never kill anyone ever. Enjoy:
Well, I went straight to the internet and found a clip of it. It actually looks kind of lame, as Mr. T doesn't do a whole lot here besides attempt to dance and engage in some trite Mr. T buffoonery:
I hope this show is better than this makes it look, because Mr. T needs to come up with a little more than that if I'm going to figure out what fucking channel TV Land is on. Isn't TV Land that network that only shows the crappy sitcoms of yesteryear that my mom thinks are so funny (ie: "Mary Tyler Moore," "Maude," etc.)? It's not like they have shows I actually want to watch, like "Miami Vice," "V," "Twin Peaks," or "The A-Team."
And while we're on the subject of "The A-Team," check out what I found on YouTube while looking for clips of Mr. T's new show. It's the "A-Team" opening montage, including that whole voice-over part about their frame-job before a military tribunal, subsequent escape from stockade to Los Angeles underground, and new careers as soldiers of fortune, followed by the intro action sequences featuring all the aforementioned team: their organized, cheerful leader Hannibal, the sort-of hot (in an 80s way) guy appropriately named Face, *WILD 'N' CRAZY* Murdock, and Mr. T. of course, as the lavishly gilded B.A. Baracus. It's high time I just stuck a video of "The A-Team" up here for no good reason at all except that they're pretty much the awesomest Vietnam Special Forces veteran wisecracking fugitive goofball mercenaries that never kill anyone ever. Enjoy:
Labels: celebrities, hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, Mr. T, ridiculous absurdity, TV
"Deal or No Deal" is televised crack
I am ashamed and embarrassed to admit that I can't stop watching this horrible show called "Deal or No Deal." It may be the stupidest premise for a game show I've ever seen. It requires no skill, minimal cognitive function, and is hosted by the violent homicidal thought-inducing Canadian expatriate Howie Mandel. Yet, if I'm flipping channels idly waiting for Monday Night Football to start, I end up lingering on "Deal or No Deal," and then I find myself sucked into the proceedings against my better judgment. This show sucks, but a mere glance can hook you mercilessly. I am a "Deal or No Deal" crackhead.
The show itself is fucking moronic. While Howie Mandel is always talking up "Deal or No Deal" game play as "a combination of luck, skill, wits, and timing," the "game" is played as follows: 26 ditsy, generic models come out wearing identical stretch satin tube dresses and carrying metal briefcases. In each case is a monetary figure between $0.01-$1,000,000. The mouth-breathing idiots "competing" then pick a case without knowing what is in it. Then they pick the other cases one by one to determine by process of elimination what amount is in the case they initially chose, and intermittently they are offered sums to buy that case by the Shylockian Banker. The higher the chance that the case originally chosen has a large amount of money, the larger the "deals" the Banker proposes to the contestant.
The Banker is a shady character who sits in shadow in a glass booth above the "Deal or No Deal" set (and who may actually be former member of *NSYNC Chris Kirkpatrick in a pair of wire-framed glasses, judging by his profile), and taunts the contestants via phone call to Howie Mandel. Howie Mandel will get off the phone and tell the contestant, "The Banker is laughing at you," or "The Banker says he's luckier than you are." The contestant usually returns some feeble retorts, and, with the help of four friends or family members, get their ass kicked in the pathetic exchanges that Howie Mandel refers to as "negotiations" and "high-stakes mind games." They almost invariably fail to cash out soon enough, and get greedy. Usually they say something totally retarded like, "154,000 dollars? That's not enough! Tell that Banker he can keep his chump change! NO DEAL!" Then they open up the last substantial amount remaining (while the model who opens it puts on her best pouty face), and get pissed off when they have to settle for $10 grand, or even worse. I saw somebody go from being offered a deal of over $300,000, only to open up the $500K case on their next turn and get offered $27. Asshole should have known when to say "Deal."
The attraction of this show isn't the intricacies of "Deal or No Deal" gameplay, though. The theatrics of this show just prevent you from changing the channel. I find that when it's on, I just can't turn off "Deal or No Deal." I always have to see if the stupid idiot playing ends up validating their idiotic stupidity. And Howie Mandel DRAGS it out, and it's truly enraging. When the deal offers start getting high (>$50K), the contestant only opens one case at a time, and Howie Mandel spends FOREVER jabbering about what's going on. He'll repeat the deal, he'll question the friends and family members at length, he'll say things like "You could be the Banker's worst nightmare," and then, just when you FINALLY think the player is going to say "Deal" or "No Deal," Howie goes to commercial. "Tell me, DEAL or NO DEAL...right after this commercial break." You want to change the channel, because "Deal or No Deal" is so fucking stupid, but you have to see if they take the deal or it they go for it. I can't decide if I hate "Deal or No Deal" or if I love it, but one thing is for sure: if I happen to come across it in my remote control wanderings, I'll always watch it. Congratulations to NBC for creating a television epidemic.
The show itself is fucking moronic. While Howie Mandel is always talking up "Deal or No Deal" game play as "a combination of luck, skill, wits, and timing," the "game" is played as follows: 26 ditsy, generic models come out wearing identical stretch satin tube dresses and carrying metal briefcases. In each case is a monetary figure between $0.01-$1,000,000. The mouth-breathing idiots "competing" then pick a case without knowing what is in it. Then they pick the other cases one by one to determine by process of elimination what amount is in the case they initially chose, and intermittently they are offered sums to buy that case by the Shylockian Banker. The higher the chance that the case originally chosen has a large amount of money, the larger the "deals" the Banker proposes to the contestant.
The Banker is a shady character who sits in shadow in a glass booth above the "Deal or No Deal" set (and who may actually be former member of *NSYNC Chris Kirkpatrick in a pair of wire-framed glasses, judging by his profile), and taunts the contestants via phone call to Howie Mandel. Howie Mandel will get off the phone and tell the contestant, "The Banker is laughing at you," or "The Banker says he's luckier than you are." The contestant usually returns some feeble retorts, and, with the help of four friends or family members, get their ass kicked in the pathetic exchanges that Howie Mandel refers to as "negotiations" and "high-stakes mind games." They almost invariably fail to cash out soon enough, and get greedy. Usually they say something totally retarded like, "154,000 dollars? That's not enough! Tell that Banker he can keep his chump change! NO DEAL!" Then they open up the last substantial amount remaining (while the model who opens it puts on her best pouty face), and get pissed off when they have to settle for $10 grand, or even worse. I saw somebody go from being offered a deal of over $300,000, only to open up the $500K case on their next turn and get offered $27. Asshole should have known when to say "Deal."
The attraction of this show isn't the intricacies of "Deal or No Deal" gameplay, though. The theatrics of this show just prevent you from changing the channel. I find that when it's on, I just can't turn off "Deal or No Deal." I always have to see if the stupid idiot playing ends up validating their idiotic stupidity. And Howie Mandel DRAGS it out, and it's truly enraging. When the deal offers start getting high (>$50K), the contestant only opens one case at a time, and Howie Mandel spends FOREVER jabbering about what's going on. He'll repeat the deal, he'll question the friends and family members at length, he'll say things like "You could be the Banker's worst nightmare," and then, just when you FINALLY think the player is going to say "Deal" or "No Deal," Howie goes to commercial. "Tell me, DEAL or NO DEAL...right after this commercial break." You want to change the channel, because "Deal or No Deal" is so fucking stupid, but you have to see if they take the deal or it they go for it. I can't decide if I hate "Deal or No Deal" or if I love it, but one thing is for sure: if I happen to come across it in my remote control wanderings, I'll always watch it. Congratulations to NBC for creating a television epidemic.
Labels: Canucks, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, stank vaginas, TV
Monday, October 09, 2006
The silver fox
Man, I love President William Jefferson Clinton. I loved that he was getting blow jobs during his presidency (I mean, if you're the leader of the free world, I think that you should at least get some head as a perk). I loved his jogging to McDonalds. I love that he located his post-White House office in Harlem. The only thing that could deter me from going to the gym is the knowledge that Bill likes his girls porky. Bill Clinton rules.
This video of him eviscerating Chris Wallace on Fox News a few weeks ago is one that I could watch over and over and over, because Bill is just so goddamn hot in it. I particularly love how he jabs and pokes Wallace to emphasize his points, calls his questions "crap", and tells him, "you think you're so clever" right before he hands him his undoubtedly saggy, pockmarked conservative ass. It's a thing of beauty:
This video of him eviscerating Chris Wallace on Fox News a few weeks ago is one that I could watch over and over and over, because Bill is just so goddamn hot in it. I particularly love how he jabs and pokes Wallace to emphasize his points, calls his questions "crap", and tells him, "you think you're so clever" right before he hands him his undoubtedly saggy, pockmarked conservative ass. It's a thing of beauty:
Labels: hilarious shit, hot dudes, international intrigue, politics, President William Jefferson Clinton
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Why six packs are better
Because I bought a half-rack yesterday, and Heineken sells such in a box that gives an already drunk (from spending the day talking shit and racing Bud Lights with your incredibly competitive Fantasy Football League) person NO INSIGHT WHATSOEVER regarding how many beers are left in there. When you buy a sixer, you're like, "Hey, I've already had three beers by myself while watching reruns of 'Flavor of Love,' and before that I spent eight hours drinking inexpensive beer, eating deep-fried foods, and talking shit to recently promoted bartenders. I'd better call it a night." When you buy 12 beers in a large, high-sided, dozen-beer case, you just keep drinking until you're like, "Shit. There's only two beers left!" And the next thing you know, you're even drunker. By yourself. Watching "Flavor of Love" (intently) and NFL football (not nearly as intently as you should).
Jesus Herbert Hoover Christ, I'm a loser. But an AWESOME AND REALLY SLUTTY loser, as far as losers go.
Jesus Herbert Hoover Christ, I'm a loser. But an AWESOME AND REALLY SLUTTY loser, as far as losers go.
Labels: alcoholism, Flavor of Love, NFL football
Hail, Caesar! Happy birthday.
Today is a momentous occasion. My sweet biological dog Caesar turns FIVE today. I can barely believe that much time has passed since I first acquired him.
In fall 2001, my roommate Miss Corbutt worked for this bar in Tacoma called Jazzbones. The owner owned a German Shepherd named Katie who had just given birth to eleven puppies, so he wanted to know if I would like one. My family has always had dogs, and I missed not having a creature of the canine persuasion around my house, so I immediately agreed. Besides, I'd never had a puppy, so I thought that would be fun.
In early November, the puppies turned five weeks old, which is the age where they are first BARELY weaned. Most experts say that it is not wise to separate the pups from the bitch who whelped them until 8 weeks, but Jason, Katie's owner, was desperate to reduce the doggification of his home. I could understand why as soon as I walked in the door. The place smelled like a urine bomb had exploded in there. I'm pretty sure he had to redo the floors after five weeks of eleven puppies (and their mother) shitting and pissing everywhere.
Anyway, I told Jason that I wanted a boy, because I've always had male dogs, and my household had enough bitches in it already with me and Miss Corbutt residing there. So Jason, in preparation for my arrival, separated out the three males in the litter.
"This one's my favorite of the boys," he said, handing me a little black fluffball. I held the puppy, and he was very cute, but he was all black without any interesting markings, and he didn't seem to have any interest in me whatsoever.
Just then, I felt a gentle tugging at the hem of my jeans and looked down into the baby blue eyes of a fuzzy guy who was black with huge brown paws pulling on my pant legs insistently, as if to get my attention. Once I looked at him, he stopped tugging, and wagged his little puppy tail happily.
I handed Jason back his favorite, and said, "I think this one down here chose me." I picked him up, and he immediately licked my face and bit my nose. "I'll take him. Jason, meet Caesar." I had already intended to name this dog Caesar, because I love me some Roman Imperialism.
On the five minute drive back to my house, Caesar sat on my lap and WHINED AND CRIED like the world was ending. It was heartbreaking. Then he threw up all over me, which was disgusting. I spent the day trying to cheer Caesar up with treats, food, toys, etc. He wouldn't eat, wouldn't play, and wouldn't stop crying. The next day, he still wouldn't eat, and I tried wet dog food (for which he indicated his disdain by walking through his food bowl and leaving gross offal footprints all over my kitchen), Miss Corbutt tried to give him brown rice (which he wisely ignored altogether), and I was starting to get worried. Maybe he wasn't fully weaned yet, or maybe the psychological trauma of being separated from his mother and siblings so early was tremendous and causing anorexia. I didn't know what to do, so I decided to feed myself and hope that some inspiration would come to me once I had a full stomach. I heated up a leftover piece of pizza from the Clover Leaf Tavern, my favorite pizza place in T-town. Their pizza is its own special, sublime blend of incredibly salty and overwhelmingly greasy. In other words, it's the best pizza ever. It is so fucking good that I suspect that their secret ingredient is crack.
I was about to eat my slice of pepperoni and black olive when I noticed Caesar sniffing it curiously. I plucked off an olive and held it up for him to smell. After a couple tentative whiffs, he gobbled it up. I was so overjoyed that he was eating, I forgot about the pizza being my lunch, or my resolve not to get Caesar hooked on people food. I offered him a piece of pepperoni, which he scarfed down, and then tore off a piece of pizza with cheese, olive, sauce, crust, and pepperoni. He loved that, too. Caesar started eating and stopped whining after that, although he was incorrigible whenever I ordered pizza from the Clover Leaf. "It's like mother's milk to him," Miss Corbutt observed months later when a much-larger Caesar was stalking me for my pizza. His deep love for the Clover Leaf's fine victuals are what prompted me to start calling him "Pizza", a nickname that he answers to as readily as "Caesar."
During his puppyhood, Caesar did a lot of undesirable things, like eating approximately $1500 worth of me and Miss Corbutt's shoes, eating one of her cameras, eating every remote control in the house, shitting and pissing EVERYWHERE, jumping on visitors, nipping my ass constantly while I walked around the house once his herding instincts kicked in, learning to open doors with his nose, and most embarrassingly, breaking into my room once right when I'd finished fucking the R-uh and trying to lick his dick. I don't know if I'll ever get a puppy again because of his ridiculous antics and how agonizing they were to deal with. However, he was one hell of a cute puppy. He had blue eyes, these little needle teeth, and his breath smelled like cafe au lait. He weighed 5 pounds, his fur was like velvet, and he was the size of a football. See for yourself:
Caesar on a seek-and-destroy-Razzy-and-Miss Corbutt's-property mission:
Caesar could be an intimidating puppy:
As a puppy, Caesar's second favorite food next to Clover Leaf pepperoni and black olive pizza was teddy bears:
He also had a taste for furniture:
And a penchant for viciously barking at stuffed chew toys:
Well, Caesar is all grown up now. He grew to match those giant puppy paws of his and now weighs 110 pounds, has a much more manly-sounding bark, and his blue eyes have turned the most gorgeous shade of brown. Here's a couple pictures of Caesar illustrating what he looks like now. I left the image of LL Cool Jew trying to hug me/put me into a sleeper hold to give you some perspective concerning Caesar's massive size:
And I cropped most of myself out of this picture because it's the worst image of me ever captured on film. However, I left my scrub-clad ass in it again for scale, to show that Caesar comes up to my waist. He is a big fucking boy:
And a really good boy. In fact, he's the best dog in the world, and I'm so lucky that he chose me as his human. Happy birthday, Pizza Pony! Just for him, I'm going to stop at the slice shop next to the football bar I go to and get Caese a big slice of pepperoni and black olive 'zza. It's not the Clover Leaf, but I'm sure it will be a welcomed birthday gift nonetheless. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time for a brisk game of birthday stick-chasing in the park.
In fall 2001, my roommate Miss Corbutt worked for this bar in Tacoma called Jazzbones. The owner owned a German Shepherd named Katie who had just given birth to eleven puppies, so he wanted to know if I would like one. My family has always had dogs, and I missed not having a creature of the canine persuasion around my house, so I immediately agreed. Besides, I'd never had a puppy, so I thought that would be fun.
In early November, the puppies turned five weeks old, which is the age where they are first BARELY weaned. Most experts say that it is not wise to separate the pups from the bitch who whelped them until 8 weeks, but Jason, Katie's owner, was desperate to reduce the doggification of his home. I could understand why as soon as I walked in the door. The place smelled like a urine bomb had exploded in there. I'm pretty sure he had to redo the floors after five weeks of eleven puppies (and their mother) shitting and pissing everywhere.
Anyway, I told Jason that I wanted a boy, because I've always had male dogs, and my household had enough bitches in it already with me and Miss Corbutt residing there. So Jason, in preparation for my arrival, separated out the three males in the litter.
"This one's my favorite of the boys," he said, handing me a little black fluffball. I held the puppy, and he was very cute, but he was all black without any interesting markings, and he didn't seem to have any interest in me whatsoever.
Just then, I felt a gentle tugging at the hem of my jeans and looked down into the baby blue eyes of a fuzzy guy who was black with huge brown paws pulling on my pant legs insistently, as if to get my attention. Once I looked at him, he stopped tugging, and wagged his little puppy tail happily.
I handed Jason back his favorite, and said, "I think this one down here chose me." I picked him up, and he immediately licked my face and bit my nose. "I'll take him. Jason, meet Caesar." I had already intended to name this dog Caesar, because I love me some Roman Imperialism.
On the five minute drive back to my house, Caesar sat on my lap and WHINED AND CRIED like the world was ending. It was heartbreaking. Then he threw up all over me, which was disgusting. I spent the day trying to cheer Caesar up with treats, food, toys, etc. He wouldn't eat, wouldn't play, and wouldn't stop crying. The next day, he still wouldn't eat, and I tried wet dog food (for which he indicated his disdain by walking through his food bowl and leaving gross offal footprints all over my kitchen), Miss Corbutt tried to give him brown rice (which he wisely ignored altogether), and I was starting to get worried. Maybe he wasn't fully weaned yet, or maybe the psychological trauma of being separated from his mother and siblings so early was tremendous and causing anorexia. I didn't know what to do, so I decided to feed myself and hope that some inspiration would come to me once I had a full stomach. I heated up a leftover piece of pizza from the Clover Leaf Tavern, my favorite pizza place in T-town. Their pizza is its own special, sublime blend of incredibly salty and overwhelmingly greasy. In other words, it's the best pizza ever. It is so fucking good that I suspect that their secret ingredient is crack.
I was about to eat my slice of pepperoni and black olive when I noticed Caesar sniffing it curiously. I plucked off an olive and held it up for him to smell. After a couple tentative whiffs, he gobbled it up. I was so overjoyed that he was eating, I forgot about the pizza being my lunch, or my resolve not to get Caesar hooked on people food. I offered him a piece of pepperoni, which he scarfed down, and then tore off a piece of pizza with cheese, olive, sauce, crust, and pepperoni. He loved that, too. Caesar started eating and stopped whining after that, although he was incorrigible whenever I ordered pizza from the Clover Leaf. "It's like mother's milk to him," Miss Corbutt observed months later when a much-larger Caesar was stalking me for my pizza. His deep love for the Clover Leaf's fine victuals are what prompted me to start calling him "Pizza", a nickname that he answers to as readily as "Caesar."
During his puppyhood, Caesar did a lot of undesirable things, like eating approximately $1500 worth of me and Miss Corbutt's shoes, eating one of her cameras, eating every remote control in the house, shitting and pissing EVERYWHERE, jumping on visitors, nipping my ass constantly while I walked around the house once his herding instincts kicked in, learning to open doors with his nose, and most embarrassingly, breaking into my room once right when I'd finished fucking the R-uh and trying to lick his dick. I don't know if I'll ever get a puppy again because of his ridiculous antics and how agonizing they were to deal with. However, he was one hell of a cute puppy. He had blue eyes, these little needle teeth, and his breath smelled like cafe au lait. He weighed 5 pounds, his fur was like velvet, and he was the size of a football. See for yourself:
Caesar on a seek-and-destroy-Razzy-and-Miss Corbutt's-property mission:
Caesar could be an intimidating puppy:
As a puppy, Caesar's second favorite food next to Clover Leaf pepperoni and black olive pizza was teddy bears:
He also had a taste for furniture:
And a penchant for viciously barking at stuffed chew toys:
Well, Caesar is all grown up now. He grew to match those giant puppy paws of his and now weighs 110 pounds, has a much more manly-sounding bark, and his blue eyes have turned the most gorgeous shade of brown. Here's a couple pictures of Caesar illustrating what he looks like now. I left the image of LL Cool Jew trying to hug me/put me into a sleeper hold to give you some perspective concerning Caesar's massive size:
And I cropped most of myself out of this picture because it's the worst image of me ever captured on film. However, I left my scrub-clad ass in it again for scale, to show that Caesar comes up to my waist. He is a big fucking boy:
And a really good boy. In fact, he's the best dog in the world, and I'm so lucky that he chose me as his human. Happy birthday, Pizza Pony! Just for him, I'm going to stop at the slice shop next to the football bar I go to and get Caese a big slice of pepperoni and black olive 'zza. It's not the Clover Leaf, but I'm sure it will be a welcomed birthday gift nonetheless. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time for a brisk game of birthday stick-chasing in the park.
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, doggity style
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Ba fan, Chingy!
Earlier this week, LL Cool Jew and her fiance BigBagel were in town, so that BigBagel could hit the J-school lecture circuit to tell aspiring muckrakers his inspiring tale of surviving Hurricane Katrina under his desk two blocks from the beach in Biloxi and subsequent Pulitzer Prize winning. When I was hanging out with LL Cool Jew over fried foods, beers, and Campari-and-sodas (don't ask me why, but she drinks like a little old Italian man winding down after a heated game of Bocce), she wanted the update on all the nasty things Chingy! has been up to lately.
LL Cool Jew has personally witnessed lots of disgusting and ridiculous Chingy! moments, such as the time he ejaculated everywhere because of reality TV overstimulation, and the time that he tried to fight his reflection in the mirror. She originally made the astute observation that his asshole is reminiscent of the Eye of Sauron. Even though when Chingy! would pull his usual shenanigans, LL Cool Jew would always respond with a dramatic eye roll, she loves hearing about his pugged-out antics. So I sang her all the new Chingy! rap lyrics I've invented recently (like the Ice Cube-inspired "they give us treats and hugs, and then wonder why the fuck we pugs", etc.), and then told her about Chingy!'s recently acquired penchant for cacophagy. I specifically shared my lore about him consuming indigent diarrhea in St. Nicholas Park, much to the dismay and repulsion of our table of Smith alumnae. Then LL Cool Jew countered with some of her dog Dulcinea's urination gaffes, and we had a good laugh.
The next morning, LL Cool Jew sent me a text that read, "If u r nervous abt today, know this: chingy has been caught mor than once eatng human excrement in st nicholas park. And once, lapping up diarrhea. 'no mas, razzy!'" I was like, "Nervous?" Then she sent me another text message saying that she'd intended this for BigBagel, who was apparently a little jittery about lecturing all over Manhattan. I responded that I was glad that something good, like assuaging BigBagel's nerves, could come out of Chingy!'s revolting behavior. LL Cool Jew then suggested that "we gotta come up with a cantonese rebuke he'll understand." I concurred, as I am fully on board with her sentiment that there should be no mas when it comes to feces-eating.
When we were roommates, we concluded that even though Chingy! speaks Ching!ese, he probably does know some Cantonese as well. The family he lived with before I acquired him "temporarily" (three years ago) were Chinese, and they spoke Cantonese around the house. LL Cool Jew's mother is a kung fu master (seriously, she was a bodyguard for the Black Panthers in the 70s, and I'm not making that up), so we thought she might know some choice phrases. Unfortunately, Mama Cool Jew only speaks Mandarin, so we were shit out of luck.
Therefore, I hit the internet and found a Cantonese-to-English dictionary of sorts. Well, it was less a dictionary than a list of words and their translations, in no apparent order. I managed to find the words "ba" and "fan", which I combined to mean "to disgustedly beat, row, or be rampant in defiance of authority" (the dictionary put "fan" that way). Of course, being that I don't speak a fucking lick of any Chinese dialect not involved in a dumpling house menu, this is probably totally wrong, but I thought it suited Chingy! anyway, particularly because it really makes no sense whatsoever.
LL Cool Jew texted me back: "ba fan chongay!"
I decided to give it a try today in the park. Chingy!, after getting bored with the ass-sniffing attentions of a giant Rottweiler puppy named Guinness, wandered off and started eating dirt. I walked exasperatedly over to him to get him to stop, only to discover that he'd added a new variety of shit to his menu. He was totally trying to get at what appeared to be a partially buried cat turd, so I dragged him away by the collar and attempted to reprimand him.
"BA FAN, CHONGAY!"
No response. Nothing. I suspect that even if I became fluent in Cantonese, that dense little stinkhog would still ignore everything I do or say in my attempts to earn his cooperation. There is only one thing he understands, and that's "Chingy!", which means either "sleep", "eat", "defecate", "be obstinate", "stink", "hoist ass onto raised surface", or "fight with disproportionally larger and more vicious dog."
CHONGAY CHONG!
LL Cool Jew has personally witnessed lots of disgusting and ridiculous Chingy! moments, such as the time he ejaculated everywhere because of reality TV overstimulation, and the time that he tried to fight his reflection in the mirror. She originally made the astute observation that his asshole is reminiscent of the Eye of Sauron. Even though when Chingy! would pull his usual shenanigans, LL Cool Jew would always respond with a dramatic eye roll, she loves hearing about his pugged-out antics. So I sang her all the new Chingy! rap lyrics I've invented recently (like the Ice Cube-inspired "they give us treats and hugs, and then wonder why the fuck we pugs", etc.), and then told her about Chingy!'s recently acquired penchant for cacophagy. I specifically shared my lore about him consuming indigent diarrhea in St. Nicholas Park, much to the dismay and repulsion of our table of Smith alumnae. Then LL Cool Jew countered with some of her dog Dulcinea's urination gaffes, and we had a good laugh.
The next morning, LL Cool Jew sent me a text that read, "If u r nervous abt today, know this: chingy has been caught mor than once eatng human excrement in st nicholas park. And once, lapping up diarrhea. 'no mas, razzy!'" I was like, "Nervous?" Then she sent me another text message saying that she'd intended this for BigBagel, who was apparently a little jittery about lecturing all over Manhattan. I responded that I was glad that something good, like assuaging BigBagel's nerves, could come out of Chingy!'s revolting behavior. LL Cool Jew then suggested that "we gotta come up with a cantonese rebuke he'll understand." I concurred, as I am fully on board with her sentiment that there should be no mas when it comes to feces-eating.
When we were roommates, we concluded that even though Chingy! speaks Ching!ese, he probably does know some Cantonese as well. The family he lived with before I acquired him "temporarily" (three years ago) were Chinese, and they spoke Cantonese around the house. LL Cool Jew's mother is a kung fu master (seriously, she was a bodyguard for the Black Panthers in the 70s, and I'm not making that up), so we thought she might know some choice phrases. Unfortunately, Mama Cool Jew only speaks Mandarin, so we were shit out of luck.
Therefore, I hit the internet and found a Cantonese-to-English dictionary of sorts. Well, it was less a dictionary than a list of words and their translations, in no apparent order. I managed to find the words "ba" and "fan", which I combined to mean "to disgustedly beat, row, or be rampant in defiance of authority" (the dictionary put "fan" that way). Of course, being that I don't speak a fucking lick of any Chinese dialect not involved in a dumpling house menu, this is probably totally wrong, but I thought it suited Chingy! anyway, particularly because it really makes no sense whatsoever.
LL Cool Jew texted me back: "ba fan chongay!"
I decided to give it a try today in the park. Chingy!, after getting bored with the ass-sniffing attentions of a giant Rottweiler puppy named Guinness, wandered off and started eating dirt. I walked exasperatedly over to him to get him to stop, only to discover that he'd added a new variety of shit to his menu. He was totally trying to get at what appeared to be a partially buried cat turd, so I dragged him away by the collar and attempted to reprimand him.
"BA FAN, CHONGAY!"
No response. Nothing. I suspect that even if I became fluent in Cantonese, that dense little stinkhog would still ignore everything I do or say in my attempts to earn his cooperation. There is only one thing he understands, and that's "Chingy!", which means either "sleep", "eat", "defecate", "be obstinate", "stink", "hoist ass onto raised surface", or "fight with disproportionally larger and more vicious dog."
CHONGAY CHONG!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, gross, LL Cool Jew
Friday, October 06, 2006
How does this get funded when polio gets the shaft?
Today this article was making the grad school email rounds. I couldn't believe my eyes. Polio research is getting the shaft from grant reviewers (and by the way, people STILL GET POLIO and it's endemic in over 10 countries worldwide), but people are somehow getting funds to investigate what was a hot scientific topic in the fucking pre-Christian era:
I guess this article, from a 2005 issue of the absolutely riveting journal Applied Optics, finally closes the book on the whole round vs. flat earth debate, which has been raging since 500 B.C. Thank God, because this was keeping me up at night. Thanks to this geometric analysis of boat wakes, we can be sure that the world is indeed not flat, in case anyone doubted Pythagoras, Ptolemy, Galileo, or anyone who has provided evidence that resolved this question over the past couple of millennia.
Also, note the author. Is David Lynch taking a break from directing weird movies about dwarves, lesbians, circus freaks, and Laura Palmer to investigate antiquated science questions?
I guess this article, from a 2005 issue of the absolutely riveting journal Applied Optics, finally closes the book on the whole round vs. flat earth debate, which has been raging since 500 B.C. Thank God, because this was keeping me up at night. Thanks to this geometric analysis of boat wakes, we can be sure that the world is indeed not flat, in case anyone doubted Pythagoras, Ptolemy, Galileo, or anyone who has provided evidence that resolved this question over the past couple of millennia.
Also, note the author. Is David Lynch taking a break from directing weird movies about dwarves, lesbians, circus freaks, and Laura Palmer to investigate antiquated science questions?
Labels: epidemic geekery, grad school bullshit, science, viruses rule
A new prayer strategy
With all this Rep. Mark Foley hullabaloo going on, I've been paying more attention to certain details about our political system. Foley looks more and more every day like one of those guys from "To Catch a Predator" short of showing up at some unfortunate page's house with a can of whipped cream and a six-pack of Bacardi Silver, but not even the salacious details concerning this gay Catholic pedophile Republican molestation survivor (!) can distract me from what is a grave and depressing memorandum concerning how our government works. Specifically, the 25th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution guarantees us an ugly fate. That fate has a name, and it is J. Dennis Hastert.
Yes, it's true. If both Bush and Cheney die and move on to the afterlife where they attempt to overthrow God from heaven by claiming that He supports terror, the bastard child of Brian Dennehey and Winston Churchill above will be our motherfucking president. I've always known that the Speaker of the House was next in the line of succession after the Vice President, but constantly seeing Hastert's hideous visage every time I turn on the damn cable news is a grim reminder of this fact. This cannot happen. America will lose whatever credibility we have left if our leader is this repulsive troll.
I might have to cease my daily rosaries dedicated to bringing about the simultaneous deaths of both Bush and Cheney in freak Bible-reading accidents and deadly pheasant attacks (respectively), because I think I'd actually have to move to (God fucking forbid) Canada if I had to see regular images of President Jowls Fatface Hastert. I suppose in the meantime I'll simply devote my Hail Marys to achieving Hastert's resignation amidst a tempest of scandal, as he is the poster boy for fundamentalist neo-con Republicans stealing the duplicitous, smokescreening, complicit pedophile crown from the Roman Catholic clergy. Once the Republicans replace him with someone whose chin doesn't make him look like Jabba the Hutt is reclining on his neck, I'll go back to asking Jesus and the Blessed Virgin to kill Bush and Cheney.
Yes, it's true. If both Bush and Cheney die and move on to the afterlife where they attempt to overthrow God from heaven by claiming that He supports terror, the bastard child of Brian Dennehey and Winston Churchill above will be our motherfucking president. I've always known that the Speaker of the House was next in the line of succession after the Vice President, but constantly seeing Hastert's hideous visage every time I turn on the damn cable news is a grim reminder of this fact. This cannot happen. America will lose whatever credibility we have left if our leader is this repulsive troll.
I might have to cease my daily rosaries dedicated to bringing about the simultaneous deaths of both Bush and Cheney in freak Bible-reading accidents and deadly pheasant attacks (respectively), because I think I'd actually have to move to (God fucking forbid) Canada if I had to see regular images of President Jowls Fatface Hastert. I suppose in the meantime I'll simply devote my Hail Marys to achieving Hastert's resignation amidst a tempest of scandal, as he is the poster boy for fundamentalist neo-con Republicans stealing the duplicitous, smokescreening, complicit pedophile crown from the Roman Catholic clergy. Once the Republicans replace him with someone whose chin doesn't make him look like Jabba the Hutt is reclining on his neck, I'll go back to asking Jesus and the Blessed Virgin to kill Bush and Cheney.
Labels: Catholicism, crime and punishment, fat fucks, perversion, politics
Thursday, October 05, 2006
From the Smith College vault: Razzy gets busted for possession
The other night LL Cool Jew was in town, so JerseyGirl, FalloniousMonk, and myself met her on the Upper West Side for drinks. Since she couldn't meet up with us until later in the evening on account of it being Yom Kippur and having a date with many relatives and a platter of smoked fishes for fast-breaking on the Upper East Side, JerseyGirl and I elected to prefunk at her apartment.
I hadn't seen JerseyGirl in ages before I ran into her randomly at a yoga studio a couple of years ago. Even though we went to Smith together and were buddies from the school newspaper, she was two years behind me and lived in a different house, so we hadn't really kept in touch. However, once she had suffered through a punishing Bikram's class with me, I invited her back to LL Cool Jew and my crib for cheap Chinese food, canned beer, dog admiring, and conversation. We've been hanging out ever since, because she's funny as shit. She works at a certain freedom-loving cable news channel as a producer for a certain famous mustachioed journalist(think angry skinheads hurling chairs), and her stories about life at work, as well as about the New Jersey town she originates from, are priceless.
However, because we've only recently become more frequent hangout buddies, JerseyGirl was unfamiliar with many of the particulars of the hijinks I regularly involved myself in during my college years. Somehow we got to reminiscing about life in the Quad (Jordan House obviously being the best to live in, but I conceded to her that Scales wasn't too bad either), and got to talking about how I scored pot while I was matriculating. There had been a guy who I'll call the Byrdman working in the kitchen of my house who probably every girl smoking pot at Smith had bought from at one time or another, until he got arrested and hauled out of my house. I was rattling off the Byrdman anecdotal tales, and JerseyGirl was loving it to the point where she said, "You should start a blog that's just about Smith. Your stories are hilarious."
I thought about this for a minute. Indeed, I could start a blog that is comprised about just stories about Smith and have ample material at my disposal for fun-poking. However, I can barely keep up with this blog, or my Fantasy Football blog which is turning into a neglected shitshow. Therefore, I decided that when I think of some really good Smith College story I'll just relate it here, and maybe some of my friends from Smith will actually start reading it regularly (yes, I mean you, LL Cool Jew, Wmania, FalloniousMonk, JerseyGirl, Miss Corbutt, and anyone else whose name isn't KatieScarlett). So without further ado, here is the story of my bust for possession by the Smith College "Police" and the subseqent trial before a tribunal of judgmental transgendered bitches:
At Smith we had these party weekends creatively called Winter Weekend and Spring Weekend. Almost all the houses at Smith would host parties, even the lame ones like Talbot and Lamont House, and horny knuckle-dragging men from all over the northeast, from West Point to Dartmouth to the University of fucking Maine, would show up for some action with some desperate Smith girls.
A lot of people are under the misconception that Smith is a "lesbian" school because somewhere in the neighborhood of 30% of the students identify as openly gay. However, I would say that a good 20% of those are LUGs (lesbian until graduation) on the "four-year plan" driven to boobmash by a combination of curiosity and desperation, which makes Smith only 10% gay, just like the rest of the world. Apart from the real dykes and the LUGs, the other 70% is comprised of straight girls with no social skills who want nothing more than to meet a nice guy and GET LAID. Therefore, Winter and Spring weekends represented an excellent opportunity for guys to show up, get laid with minimal effort, and possibly carry out some type of important rite of passage for fraternity pledges. I remember one time this guy in a diaper hauled me into a bathroom, stuck a magic marker in my hand, and informed me that he needed X number of signatures to qualify as a Phi Beta Suckalottacocka or whatever, and would I sign my name and all my friends' names on his back. I whirled him around, then wrote, "I HAVE A MINISCULE PENIS AND CAN'T MAINTAIN AN ERECTION. TELL YOUR FRIENDS NOT TO FUCK ME UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES." Later, once he apparently found out what I'd written, my network of girls informed me that he was looking to have words about how "wrong" it was that I'd written that instead of a list of plagiarized girls' signatures. I guess the self-righteous complaint aspect of the prototypical Smith girl was catching. He never found me, because I was probably already in my room smoking pot with half the party by then.
The Quad, where I lived and where most of these shenanigans went down, generally hosted the best parties. We would have like 6 or 7 kegs. At most state and/or large co-ed schools that's a Tuesday night, but by Smith standards, these were like Spring Break in Mazatlan. However, on Winter or Spring weekend, the turnout was usually so big that these kegs were gone within two or three hours, leaving people angry and beverage-deprived. At that time, I'd corral my group of revelers, and we'd cruise up to my room for unearthing private liquor stashes and the rolling of many joints. Usually my entire floor would do this, so there was always a decent after party at the Jordan second floor. One night during my junior year Winter Weekend, I proceeded to do just this with a large group of girls and their assorted hangers-on, my boyfriend, and some of his townie friends. Shortly after we'd smoked our first joint, there was a loud, authoritative pounding on my door.
"Public Safety! Open up!"
I was a little worried, but not terribly, because Smith doesn't like to compile stats about drug busts, and therefore, they'll generally let it slide to keep promotional material such as the "Crime on Campus" statistic brochure appealing to parents and wealthy alumnae. I hid my bag somewhere, threw the roach out my window, and opened up.
FOUR Public Safety guys marched in and started acting like we were running a sweat shop or something in there. "Where is your marijuana?" demanded the alpha Public Safety guy, a short man with glasses and impeccably gelled hair.
"Marijuana? We were smoking cigarettes," I said, waving my lit Parliament light around to show him so.
"I distinctly smell marijuana. If you don't produce the marijuana, I will search your room."
Since Smith technically owned my room, I had absolutely NO right to privacy at any time. One time Public Safety was investigating something else and accidentally came into my room right while I was fucking my boyfriend. I didn't answer the door, because I didn't want to deal with them, so the officer just let himself right in. I managed to get a bathrobe on just as the door opened, but still there was one hell of an awkward moment as the officer stated that he had the wrong room, and sorry. I knew that they wouldn't hesitate to tear all my personal belongings apart, and if they did, they would find at least two bongs, several assorted pipes, a stack of Zig Zag rolling papers, a large container of seeds left over from my failed attempts at horticulture, and definitely at least a quarter ounce of weed. I didn't want that to happen, so I grabbed the book I had rolled the joint on. "Here is my marijuana," I said. "As you can see, there's hardly anything."
The Public Safety officer looked suspiciously at me, then at the book. There were indeed a few scraps of weed on the book. Acting like some sort of CSI, he made a show about brushing the scraps into a plastic baggie as "evidence." As an afterthought, he also confiscated two candles, because candles are a fire hazard and thus against the rules. Fortunately, this placated him and he didn't search my room. "We're going to have to write you up," he told me. "Expect to be contacted by the director of Public Safety and the Dean of Students about possible disciplinary action."
I knew one of the Public Safety officers there, because he always hung out at the newspaper office. The year prior, when I posed nude for the April Fool's edition of The Sophian, he told me that I had "balls down to here" and requested an autographed copy, which he supposedly hung in his work locker. I asked him if there wasn't anything he could do.
"Sorry," he said. "Normally there would be, but your RC called us specifically to report you. There's a record. My hands are tied."
They left, and I was reeling. I had been ratted out to the fuzz, and I was getting all Tony Soprano about doing horrible, murderous things to the snitch. However, I could do very little, because she was my RC. "RC" stands for "resident coordinator," and they are like RAs at any other school. The RC position was new, and was especially for first-year alumnae who couldn't bear the thought of life somewhere besides Smith. In return for their services and their supposed maturity, they received free board, a suite with a private bathroom, and a "generous" stipend of $11,000. In other words, Smith had created a job tailor-made for losers who couldn't move on with their lives post-graduation. My RC that year fit this description perfectly.
She was this fat bitch named Crystal Daugherty, and yes, that is her real name. She was a women's studies major who drove a VW Fox with fucking daisy stickers all over it, and was the type who thought she knew EVERYTHING. I had already made enemies with her at the LBTA panel discussion in our house when I went as the "ally" (hetero breeder) and wore a shirt that said "It's okay to be straight" on it. I further pissed her off that night at the party by getting mouthy with her when she wasn't letting people in (particularly those of the Y chromosome persuasion) because they weren't on the guest list. I said, "Put them on my guest list, then. Parties are for everyone." She gave me this exasperated, maternal sigh and told the doorwomen to ignore me. Furiously, I marched outside with a piece of paper, took down everyone's names, came in, and gave the sheet to Crystal. "Here is my revised guest list, Crystal, and if you so much as reject one of my friends on it, I'll file a complaint against you with the office of student affairs. If someone is on a guest list, they must be admitted. It's in the fucking handbook under the rules about social functions." Crystal glared at me, knowing there was nothing she could do, and not wanting to mar her perfect disciplinary record with the school with legitimate complaints for which there were witnesses. However, I should have known not to think an obese, socially retarded womyn like her wouldn't immediately seek vengeance that would both stick it to me good and restore her sense of indisputable self-importance. For Crystal, revenge was a dish best served by Public Safety.
I promptly received a letter the next week informing me that I was to report to the judicial board for an inquiry concerning the charges of "possession of a class D substance and candles." I tried to have some words with Crystal about it, but she blew me off with some bullshit about how the particulars of her job were non-negotiable. Even worse, at our Sophian editorial board meeting that week, the rest of the staff thought my inclusion in the "Police Blotter" section of the paper was riotously funny. I was irate, so I decided to get some payback the best way I knew how: I wrote an editorial. The piece was a scathing indictment of the RC program and how it was infringing on our quality of life by ruining the few remotely decent parties that ever happen at Smith. Since Crystal had pissed off plenty of other people the night I got busted by throwing people out of the party because she felt like it, trying to send my neighbors to their rooms, and screaming "GO HOME! THIS IS OUR HOUSE! WE DON'T WANT YOU HERE!" to the entire party the second the kegs were kicked, I had plenty of ammunition to make an example out of her without dragging my legal troubles into it. I argued that the RC program was a failure because no self-respecting Smith girl will be cowed by the authority of someone who acts like an incompetent 12-year-old babysitter, and then likened Crystal and her fat underling (the house "Diversity Coordinator") to Hitler and Mussolini. Crystal was feminazi to the core, so I felt the comparison was valid. Crystal, however, did NOT appreciate it.
Finally, Crystal decided that she wanted to talk, so that we could "understand each other." I trudged down to her suite and sat on her couch. One quick look at the decor told me that we were going to get nowhere in terms of finding common ground. Apart from her Smith diploma prominently displayed on the mantle of her decorative fireplace, the rest of the place was done up in trite-ass feminist icon framed prints (Rosie the Riveter, 70s-era Steinem, etc.) and an ENTIRE WALL devoted to magazine cutouts of Agent Scully from "The X-Files." There was even one Entertainment Weekly cover of Agents Mulder and Scully in bed together, and she'd cut David Duchovny out of the picture. I guess she had a thing for redheads in pleated pants, and she wasn't going to let any inconvenient penis stand in the way of her obsessively lusting after the same.
Anyway, we sat down and she explained to me in a motherly, extraordinarily condescending tone that her job isn't personal, but as RC she has to take drastic action if she suspects drug use. I listened, seething more with every minute of her bullshit story. I most certainly was not the only person smoking pot on the second floor that night, yet somehow the cops only went to my door. Furthermore, she'd been turning a blind eye to underage drinking all night. I know because I had only recently turned 20, and all night long I was arguing with her while clutching a beer.
"Cut the crap, Crystal," I told her. "We all know that it's common practice for RCs to generally overlook things, especially on Winter Weekend. You only called Public Safety on me because you don't like me."
"Why wouldn't I like you?"
"Because I told you that you were full of shit to your face. Maybe I should have gone behind your back in classic Smith non-confrontational tradition."
"That's not what you did! You were trying to let in unsafe, STRANGE MEN! I was just looking out for my house."
"Your house, Crystal? I've lived here for three years. You moved in this year because the school paid you to."
This conversation went like this for about an hour, with both of us becoming increasingly hostile and standoffish. Eventually, we parted with me lying that I wasn't planning on smoking pot anymore anyway, given my date with the judicial board, so I'd appreciate it if she would not immediately dial 2407 and call Public Safety on me whenever she was feeling shemasculated without first investigating herself. Also I believe that I encouraged her to get a real job.
Anyway, I returned to my room only to field a call from Saratoga120, an English professor I'd had my first year. This woman was a total character: she'd been at Smith for twenty years, she was a hard-core Catholic who smoked these foot-long cigarettes (the Saratoga 120s for which she is named) that she carried around in an embroidered cigarette purse, and made scathing comments about people in her class whose writing she thought was "amateurish" or "patently talentless." Fortunately, she liked my writing, and decided to make me a pet project of hers. She was always giving me her two cents on my Sophian articles, constantly pestering me to drop science and become an English major (I told her there was no way unless I'd somehow get out of the Milton-Chaucer-Beowulf requirement), and inviting me to drink coffee and smoke cigarettes with her. So Saratoga120 called me up and launched into a lecture about how stupid I was to be smoking pot. Clearly the word about my bust had made it through the faculty grapevine to her, and she wasn't going to bite her tongue. "I smoked pot twenty years ago at a faculty party!" she raged. "And I threw up on my way home. And dope makes you stupid. You don't want to be stupid, do you?"
After a few minutes of me meekly conceding to her remarks, she then said, "Well, obviously, you'll need representation at your hearing."
"I already read the handbook. I'm not allowed to bring counsel."
"Read it more closely, Razzy, I know that comprehension is one of your strong suits, so don't bullshit me. You're not allowed to have an attorney. You are, however, allowed to have a faculty member plead your case, and thus I will be going with you. Those people on the judicial board are intellectual lightweights, and I won't have them suspending you."
I was delighted. All of a sudden, Fortuna was spinning my way. When the fateful day came, not only did Saratoga120 show up ready to hand the judicial board their asses, but she brought along one of the college's demi-Deans with her. In fact, he was the demi-Dean responsible for overseeing the judicial board. I tried to hide my pleasure and act respectful and somewhat contrite.
When we walked into the judicial board room, I couldn't have been happier to have a posse of impressive faculty and administrators with me. I was faced with a long table populated by a bunch of uptight girls in Smith College sweatshirts and ugly cardigans smiling at me grimly, as if to say, "We can't wait to lord our power over you, you depraved bitch." I'd like to add that I'd been making fun of these types of bitches for two years in the newspaper, and I'm certain that my reputation for being an asshole preceded me into this room. Much like now, my writing in college made people either love me and laud me as hilarious, or hate me with every ounce of their being. The judicial board types were the latter, excepting one woman, a pornography heiress who had once tried to fuck me underneath the giant Georgia O'Keefe lily poster in her room. However, their smiles of imminent Razzy-suspending pleasure were promptly wiped off their smug, acne-ridden faces when my entourage seated themselves alongside me.
The "woman" at the head of the table, and the Chief Bitch of the Judicial Board, glared furiously. S/he was a transgendered person named Gloria Macri who insisted that people call him/her "Billy", yet another example of F2M trannies choosing stupid fucking boy names. My cause would have been hopeless without Saratoga120 and the Dean, as not only did s/he clearly dislike me on principle, but she was also an Ada (meaning "student of non-traditional age", meaning old). However, once s/he saw my entourage, s/he softened his/her reproachful glare immediately and began kissing ass.
"Oh, Dean! Oh, Professor Saratoga120! So NICE to see you! I'm surprised that you would take the time to appear for an insignificant hearing like this one."
I said, "I don't think it's insignificant," earning a kick under the table from Saratoga120, who had advised me to "keep your big mouth shut unless you are asked a specific question, and then answer only that without elaborating. Otherwise, they'll railroad you."
"Yes, well, shall we begin?" asked Billy/Gloria. "The charges are 'possession of a class D substance and candles.' We have your statement here, Ms. Razzy, in which you admit to using the class D substance as well as possessing the candles despite both being expressly prohibited by the school handbook of rules. What do you have to say on the subject?"
"It's all in my statement," I replied.
"Are you aware that marijuana is an illegal drug?"
"Yes. I exercised bad judgment, and for that I apologize," I responded. That was it for the why-were-you-doing-drugs line of questioning. However, the judicial board really wanted to know about the second part of the charge.
"It's obvious why you were using marijuana, but why were you in possession of the candles?"
"Um...decoration, I guess." I couldn't believe I had to come up with a reason for having candles, but I didn't think the right answer was "a flame source for doing hot knives."
"Decoration? Do you ever light them? The Public Safety report says they had clearly been lit."
"Yes, well, you know, to create mood."
"Mood? Mood for what?"
"Romantic mood for when my boyfriend visits."
"You have a boyfriend?"
"Yes, as it clearly says in my statement. Benzo. He's a townie. He works at Cha Cha Cha."
"The one with the rosy cheeks?"
"Yes."
"Oh, I love him, he's so nice!" exclaimed one of the judicial board justices. Benzo has always been a hit with the Smith girls. Even girls who despised me always adored Benzo.
Anyway, Billy/Gloria's tough interrogation tactics were out the window once her cohorts started gushing about how charming and sweet my boyfriend was when he served them black bean burritos, and s/he informed me that I would be receiving my punishment in campus mail. The Dean in my corner advised them that he "would be following up" to ensure that the punishment fit the crime of a first-time offense.
A week later, I received my punishment: a letter on my "permanent record" and loss of priority in the spring housing lottery. I didn't even get probation! The loss of priority in the spring housing lottery sucked, because even though I wound up in my beloved Jordan House, I got shafted from any decent room on the second floor. I ended up in the Dead Girl's Room, a room where during my sophomore year its resident hung herself from a steam pipe and was there for three days before her body was found. Nobody wanted to live there because of rumors going around that it was haunted. I don't believe in ghosts (nor did I see one while living there), so I gladly took it and my only complaint was that it got really shitty light. No wonder the poor girl who lived there killed herself; it was more dreary than a broom closet at Jane Eyre's boarding school.
Crystal Daugherty was clearly appalled by my failure to be removed from her house, and was a royal bitch to me afterward. "So the judicial board didn't even give you probation?" she inquired once after cornering me in the dining room. "That's right," I said happily. "I guess they thought your charges were pretty bogus." I walked away, before she could splutter out any more bullshit about just doing her job. Later that year she tried to have me busted again, but I didn't get caught (although the fake Smith cops were suspicious and got the Dean of Student Affairs to send me to one drug counseling session, but at least I didn't have to explain myself before the judicial board again). She also implied that she would boot my boyfriend out of the house for violating the "no guests may stay longer than 28 consecutive days" rule, but since he usually spent one night of the week at his place, this accusation was groundless as well. That fat bitch was defeated, and undoubtedly spent many nights praying to her shrine to Agent Scully that her totalitarian rule would regain its credibility and allow for the ejection of hateful cockroaches like me.
The next year, despite having to live in the Dead Girl's Room, the RC situation was dramatically improved. First, she didn't display her Smith diploma, and immediately replaced the wall of Agent Scully with a hot black-and-white poster of young Mickey Rourke (9 1/2 Weeks Mickey Rourke, not post-pugilist cheek implants Mickey Rourke). Second, she immediately explained that she was only RC because she couldn't get a job, and wanted an inexpensive, furnished place in which to study for her LSATs. Most importantly, however, not only was she totally down with smoking pot, but she was dating the Byrdman and he got a job in our kitchen. Even when he got arrested (by the real cops) and fired for possessing drugs at work, she moved him covertly into her suite. So when I had previously had to towel my door, light incense, keep the air freshener handy, exhale bong hits through a toilet paper tube stuffed with fabric softener sheets, etc., now I could just stroll downstairs to the RC suite, buy a bag, and smoke it there. Way to rectify your past transgressions, Smith College. I never wrote a derogatory article about the RC program again.
I hadn't seen JerseyGirl in ages before I ran into her randomly at a yoga studio a couple of years ago. Even though we went to Smith together and were buddies from the school newspaper, she was two years behind me and lived in a different house, so we hadn't really kept in touch. However, once she had suffered through a punishing Bikram's class with me, I invited her back to LL Cool Jew and my crib for cheap Chinese food, canned beer, dog admiring, and conversation. We've been hanging out ever since, because she's funny as shit. She works at a certain freedom-loving cable news channel as a producer for a certain famous mustachioed journalist(think angry skinheads hurling chairs), and her stories about life at work, as well as about the New Jersey town she originates from, are priceless.
However, because we've only recently become more frequent hangout buddies, JerseyGirl was unfamiliar with many of the particulars of the hijinks I regularly involved myself in during my college years. Somehow we got to reminiscing about life in the Quad (Jordan House obviously being the best to live in, but I conceded to her that Scales wasn't too bad either), and got to talking about how I scored pot while I was matriculating. There had been a guy who I'll call the Byrdman working in the kitchen of my house who probably every girl smoking pot at Smith had bought from at one time or another, until he got arrested and hauled out of my house. I was rattling off the Byrdman anecdotal tales, and JerseyGirl was loving it to the point where she said, "You should start a blog that's just about Smith. Your stories are hilarious."
I thought about this for a minute. Indeed, I could start a blog that is comprised about just stories about Smith and have ample material at my disposal for fun-poking. However, I can barely keep up with this blog, or my Fantasy Football blog which is turning into a neglected shitshow. Therefore, I decided that when I think of some really good Smith College story I'll just relate it here, and maybe some of my friends from Smith will actually start reading it regularly (yes, I mean you, LL Cool Jew, Wmania, FalloniousMonk, JerseyGirl, Miss Corbutt, and anyone else whose name isn't KatieScarlett). So without further ado, here is the story of my bust for possession by the Smith College "Police" and the subseqent trial before a tribunal of judgmental transgendered bitches:
At Smith we had these party weekends creatively called Winter Weekend and Spring Weekend. Almost all the houses at Smith would host parties, even the lame ones like Talbot and Lamont House, and horny knuckle-dragging men from all over the northeast, from West Point to Dartmouth to the University of fucking Maine, would show up for some action with some desperate Smith girls.
A lot of people are under the misconception that Smith is a "lesbian" school because somewhere in the neighborhood of 30% of the students identify as openly gay. However, I would say that a good 20% of those are LUGs (lesbian until graduation) on the "four-year plan" driven to boobmash by a combination of curiosity and desperation, which makes Smith only 10% gay, just like the rest of the world. Apart from the real dykes and the LUGs, the other 70% is comprised of straight girls with no social skills who want nothing more than to meet a nice guy and GET LAID. Therefore, Winter and Spring weekends represented an excellent opportunity for guys to show up, get laid with minimal effort, and possibly carry out some type of important rite of passage for fraternity pledges. I remember one time this guy in a diaper hauled me into a bathroom, stuck a magic marker in my hand, and informed me that he needed X number of signatures to qualify as a Phi Beta Suckalottacocka or whatever, and would I sign my name and all my friends' names on his back. I whirled him around, then wrote, "I HAVE A MINISCULE PENIS AND CAN'T MAINTAIN AN ERECTION. TELL YOUR FRIENDS NOT TO FUCK ME UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES." Later, once he apparently found out what I'd written, my network of girls informed me that he was looking to have words about how "wrong" it was that I'd written that instead of a list of plagiarized girls' signatures. I guess the self-righteous complaint aspect of the prototypical Smith girl was catching. He never found me, because I was probably already in my room smoking pot with half the party by then.
The Quad, where I lived and where most of these shenanigans went down, generally hosted the best parties. We would have like 6 or 7 kegs. At most state and/or large co-ed schools that's a Tuesday night, but by Smith standards, these were like Spring Break in Mazatlan. However, on Winter or Spring weekend, the turnout was usually so big that these kegs were gone within two or three hours, leaving people angry and beverage-deprived. At that time, I'd corral my group of revelers, and we'd cruise up to my room for unearthing private liquor stashes and the rolling of many joints. Usually my entire floor would do this, so there was always a decent after party at the Jordan second floor. One night during my junior year Winter Weekend, I proceeded to do just this with a large group of girls and their assorted hangers-on, my boyfriend, and some of his townie friends. Shortly after we'd smoked our first joint, there was a loud, authoritative pounding on my door.
"Public Safety! Open up!"
I was a little worried, but not terribly, because Smith doesn't like to compile stats about drug busts, and therefore, they'll generally let it slide to keep promotional material such as the "Crime on Campus" statistic brochure appealing to parents and wealthy alumnae. I hid my bag somewhere, threw the roach out my window, and opened up.
FOUR Public Safety guys marched in and started acting like we were running a sweat shop or something in there. "Where is your marijuana?" demanded the alpha Public Safety guy, a short man with glasses and impeccably gelled hair.
"Marijuana? We were smoking cigarettes," I said, waving my lit Parliament light around to show him so.
"I distinctly smell marijuana. If you don't produce the marijuana, I will search your room."
Since Smith technically owned my room, I had absolutely NO right to privacy at any time. One time Public Safety was investigating something else and accidentally came into my room right while I was fucking my boyfriend. I didn't answer the door, because I didn't want to deal with them, so the officer just let himself right in. I managed to get a bathrobe on just as the door opened, but still there was one hell of an awkward moment as the officer stated that he had the wrong room, and sorry. I knew that they wouldn't hesitate to tear all my personal belongings apart, and if they did, they would find at least two bongs, several assorted pipes, a stack of Zig Zag rolling papers, a large container of seeds left over from my failed attempts at horticulture, and definitely at least a quarter ounce of weed. I didn't want that to happen, so I grabbed the book I had rolled the joint on. "Here is my marijuana," I said. "As you can see, there's hardly anything."
The Public Safety officer looked suspiciously at me, then at the book. There were indeed a few scraps of weed on the book. Acting like some sort of CSI, he made a show about brushing the scraps into a plastic baggie as "evidence." As an afterthought, he also confiscated two candles, because candles are a fire hazard and thus against the rules. Fortunately, this placated him and he didn't search my room. "We're going to have to write you up," he told me. "Expect to be contacted by the director of Public Safety and the Dean of Students about possible disciplinary action."
I knew one of the Public Safety officers there, because he always hung out at the newspaper office. The year prior, when I posed nude for the April Fool's edition of The Sophian, he told me that I had "balls down to here" and requested an autographed copy, which he supposedly hung in his work locker. I asked him if there wasn't anything he could do.
"Sorry," he said. "Normally there would be, but your RC called us specifically to report you. There's a record. My hands are tied."
They left, and I was reeling. I had been ratted out to the fuzz, and I was getting all Tony Soprano about doing horrible, murderous things to the snitch. However, I could do very little, because she was my RC. "RC" stands for "resident coordinator," and they are like RAs at any other school. The RC position was new, and was especially for first-year alumnae who couldn't bear the thought of life somewhere besides Smith. In return for their services and their supposed maturity, they received free board, a suite with a private bathroom, and a "generous" stipend of $11,000. In other words, Smith had created a job tailor-made for losers who couldn't move on with their lives post-graduation. My RC that year fit this description perfectly.
She was this fat bitch named Crystal Daugherty, and yes, that is her real name. She was a women's studies major who drove a VW Fox with fucking daisy stickers all over it, and was the type who thought she knew EVERYTHING. I had already made enemies with her at the LBTA panel discussion in our house when I went as the "ally" (hetero breeder) and wore a shirt that said "It's okay to be straight" on it. I further pissed her off that night at the party by getting mouthy with her when she wasn't letting people in (particularly those of the Y chromosome persuasion) because they weren't on the guest list. I said, "Put them on my guest list, then. Parties are for everyone." She gave me this exasperated, maternal sigh and told the doorwomen to ignore me. Furiously, I marched outside with a piece of paper, took down everyone's names, came in, and gave the sheet to Crystal. "Here is my revised guest list, Crystal, and if you so much as reject one of my friends on it, I'll file a complaint against you with the office of student affairs. If someone is on a guest list, they must be admitted. It's in the fucking handbook under the rules about social functions." Crystal glared at me, knowing there was nothing she could do, and not wanting to mar her perfect disciplinary record with the school with legitimate complaints for which there were witnesses. However, I should have known not to think an obese, socially retarded womyn like her wouldn't immediately seek vengeance that would both stick it to me good and restore her sense of indisputable self-importance. For Crystal, revenge was a dish best served by Public Safety.
I promptly received a letter the next week informing me that I was to report to the judicial board for an inquiry concerning the charges of "possession of a class D substance and candles." I tried to have some words with Crystal about it, but she blew me off with some bullshit about how the particulars of her job were non-negotiable. Even worse, at our Sophian editorial board meeting that week, the rest of the staff thought my inclusion in the "Police Blotter" section of the paper was riotously funny. I was irate, so I decided to get some payback the best way I knew how: I wrote an editorial. The piece was a scathing indictment of the RC program and how it was infringing on our quality of life by ruining the few remotely decent parties that ever happen at Smith. Since Crystal had pissed off plenty of other people the night I got busted by throwing people out of the party because she felt like it, trying to send my neighbors to their rooms, and screaming "GO HOME! THIS IS OUR HOUSE! WE DON'T WANT YOU HERE!" to the entire party the second the kegs were kicked, I had plenty of ammunition to make an example out of her without dragging my legal troubles into it. I argued that the RC program was a failure because no self-respecting Smith girl will be cowed by the authority of someone who acts like an incompetent 12-year-old babysitter, and then likened Crystal and her fat underling (the house "Diversity Coordinator") to Hitler and Mussolini. Crystal was feminazi to the core, so I felt the comparison was valid. Crystal, however, did NOT appreciate it.
Finally, Crystal decided that she wanted to talk, so that we could "understand each other." I trudged down to her suite and sat on her couch. One quick look at the decor told me that we were going to get nowhere in terms of finding common ground. Apart from her Smith diploma prominently displayed on the mantle of her decorative fireplace, the rest of the place was done up in trite-ass feminist icon framed prints (Rosie the Riveter, 70s-era Steinem, etc.) and an ENTIRE WALL devoted to magazine cutouts of Agent Scully from "The X-Files." There was even one Entertainment Weekly cover of Agents Mulder and Scully in bed together, and she'd cut David Duchovny out of the picture. I guess she had a thing for redheads in pleated pants, and she wasn't going to let any inconvenient penis stand in the way of her obsessively lusting after the same.
Anyway, we sat down and she explained to me in a motherly, extraordinarily condescending tone that her job isn't personal, but as RC she has to take drastic action if she suspects drug use. I listened, seething more with every minute of her bullshit story. I most certainly was not the only person smoking pot on the second floor that night, yet somehow the cops only went to my door. Furthermore, she'd been turning a blind eye to underage drinking all night. I know because I had only recently turned 20, and all night long I was arguing with her while clutching a beer.
"Cut the crap, Crystal," I told her. "We all know that it's common practice for RCs to generally overlook things, especially on Winter Weekend. You only called Public Safety on me because you don't like me."
"Why wouldn't I like you?"
"Because I told you that you were full of shit to your face. Maybe I should have gone behind your back in classic Smith non-confrontational tradition."
"That's not what you did! You were trying to let in unsafe, STRANGE MEN! I was just looking out for my house."
"Your house, Crystal? I've lived here for three years. You moved in this year because the school paid you to."
This conversation went like this for about an hour, with both of us becoming increasingly hostile and standoffish. Eventually, we parted with me lying that I wasn't planning on smoking pot anymore anyway, given my date with the judicial board, so I'd appreciate it if she would not immediately dial 2407 and call Public Safety on me whenever she was feeling shemasculated without first investigating herself. Also I believe that I encouraged her to get a real job.
Anyway, I returned to my room only to field a call from Saratoga120, an English professor I'd had my first year. This woman was a total character: she'd been at Smith for twenty years, she was a hard-core Catholic who smoked these foot-long cigarettes (the Saratoga 120s for which she is named) that she carried around in an embroidered cigarette purse, and made scathing comments about people in her class whose writing she thought was "amateurish" or "patently talentless." Fortunately, she liked my writing, and decided to make me a pet project of hers. She was always giving me her two cents on my Sophian articles, constantly pestering me to drop science and become an English major (I told her there was no way unless I'd somehow get out of the Milton-Chaucer-Beowulf requirement), and inviting me to drink coffee and smoke cigarettes with her. So Saratoga120 called me up and launched into a lecture about how stupid I was to be smoking pot. Clearly the word about my bust had made it through the faculty grapevine to her, and she wasn't going to bite her tongue. "I smoked pot twenty years ago at a faculty party!" she raged. "And I threw up on my way home. And dope makes you stupid. You don't want to be stupid, do you?"
After a few minutes of me meekly conceding to her remarks, she then said, "Well, obviously, you'll need representation at your hearing."
"I already read the handbook. I'm not allowed to bring counsel."
"Read it more closely, Razzy, I know that comprehension is one of your strong suits, so don't bullshit me. You're not allowed to have an attorney. You are, however, allowed to have a faculty member plead your case, and thus I will be going with you. Those people on the judicial board are intellectual lightweights, and I won't have them suspending you."
I was delighted. All of a sudden, Fortuna was spinning my way. When the fateful day came, not only did Saratoga120 show up ready to hand the judicial board their asses, but she brought along one of the college's demi-Deans with her. In fact, he was the demi-Dean responsible for overseeing the judicial board. I tried to hide my pleasure and act respectful and somewhat contrite.
When we walked into the judicial board room, I couldn't have been happier to have a posse of impressive faculty and administrators with me. I was faced with a long table populated by a bunch of uptight girls in Smith College sweatshirts and ugly cardigans smiling at me grimly, as if to say, "We can't wait to lord our power over you, you depraved bitch." I'd like to add that I'd been making fun of these types of bitches for two years in the newspaper, and I'm certain that my reputation for being an asshole preceded me into this room. Much like now, my writing in college made people either love me and laud me as hilarious, or hate me with every ounce of their being. The judicial board types were the latter, excepting one woman, a pornography heiress who had once tried to fuck me underneath the giant Georgia O'Keefe lily poster in her room. However, their smiles of imminent Razzy-suspending pleasure were promptly wiped off their smug, acne-ridden faces when my entourage seated themselves alongside me.
The "woman" at the head of the table, and the Chief Bitch of the Judicial Board, glared furiously. S/he was a transgendered person named Gloria Macri who insisted that people call him/her "Billy", yet another example of F2M trannies choosing stupid fucking boy names. My cause would have been hopeless without Saratoga120 and the Dean, as not only did s/he clearly dislike me on principle, but she was also an Ada (meaning "student of non-traditional age", meaning old). However, once s/he saw my entourage, s/he softened his/her reproachful glare immediately and began kissing ass.
"Oh, Dean! Oh, Professor Saratoga120! So NICE to see you! I'm surprised that you would take the time to appear for an insignificant hearing like this one."
I said, "I don't think it's insignificant," earning a kick under the table from Saratoga120, who had advised me to "keep your big mouth shut unless you are asked a specific question, and then answer only that without elaborating. Otherwise, they'll railroad you."
"Yes, well, shall we begin?" asked Billy/Gloria. "The charges are 'possession of a class D substance and candles.' We have your statement here, Ms. Razzy, in which you admit to using the class D substance as well as possessing the candles despite both being expressly prohibited by the school handbook of rules. What do you have to say on the subject?"
"It's all in my statement," I replied.
"Are you aware that marijuana is an illegal drug?"
"Yes. I exercised bad judgment, and for that I apologize," I responded. That was it for the why-were-you-doing-drugs line of questioning. However, the judicial board really wanted to know about the second part of the charge.
"It's obvious why you were using marijuana, but why were you in possession of the candles?"
"Um...decoration, I guess." I couldn't believe I had to come up with a reason for having candles, but I didn't think the right answer was "a flame source for doing hot knives."
"Decoration? Do you ever light them? The Public Safety report says they had clearly been lit."
"Yes, well, you know, to create mood."
"Mood? Mood for what?"
"Romantic mood for when my boyfriend visits."
"You have a boyfriend?"
"Yes, as it clearly says in my statement. Benzo. He's a townie. He works at Cha Cha Cha."
"The one with the rosy cheeks?"
"Yes."
"Oh, I love him, he's so nice!" exclaimed one of the judicial board justices. Benzo has always been a hit with the Smith girls. Even girls who despised me always adored Benzo.
Anyway, Billy/Gloria's tough interrogation tactics were out the window once her cohorts started gushing about how charming and sweet my boyfriend was when he served them black bean burritos, and s/he informed me that I would be receiving my punishment in campus mail. The Dean in my corner advised them that he "would be following up" to ensure that the punishment fit the crime of a first-time offense.
A week later, I received my punishment: a letter on my "permanent record" and loss of priority in the spring housing lottery. I didn't even get probation! The loss of priority in the spring housing lottery sucked, because even though I wound up in my beloved Jordan House, I got shafted from any decent room on the second floor. I ended up in the Dead Girl's Room, a room where during my sophomore year its resident hung herself from a steam pipe and was there for three days before her body was found. Nobody wanted to live there because of rumors going around that it was haunted. I don't believe in ghosts (nor did I see one while living there), so I gladly took it and my only complaint was that it got really shitty light. No wonder the poor girl who lived there killed herself; it was more dreary than a broom closet at Jane Eyre's boarding school.
Crystal Daugherty was clearly appalled by my failure to be removed from her house, and was a royal bitch to me afterward. "So the judicial board didn't even give you probation?" she inquired once after cornering me in the dining room. "That's right," I said happily. "I guess they thought your charges were pretty bogus." I walked away, before she could splutter out any more bullshit about just doing her job. Later that year she tried to have me busted again, but I didn't get caught (although the fake Smith cops were suspicious and got the Dean of Student Affairs to send me to one drug counseling session, but at least I didn't have to explain myself before the judicial board again). She also implied that she would boot my boyfriend out of the house for violating the "no guests may stay longer than 28 consecutive days" rule, but since he usually spent one night of the week at his place, this accusation was groundless as well. That fat bitch was defeated, and undoubtedly spent many nights praying to her shrine to Agent Scully that her totalitarian rule would regain its credibility and allow for the ejection of hateful cockroaches like me.
The next year, despite having to live in the Dead Girl's Room, the RC situation was dramatically improved. First, she didn't display her Smith diploma, and immediately replaced the wall of Agent Scully with a hot black-and-white poster of young Mickey Rourke (9 1/2 Weeks Mickey Rourke, not post-pugilist cheek implants Mickey Rourke). Second, she immediately explained that she was only RC because she couldn't get a job, and wanted an inexpensive, furnished place in which to study for her LSATs. Most importantly, however, not only was she totally down with smoking pot, but she was dating the Byrdman and he got a job in our kitchen. Even when he got arrested (by the real cops) and fired for possessing drugs at work, she moved him covertly into her suite. So when I had previously had to towel my door, light incense, keep the air freshener handy, exhale bong hits through a toilet paper tube stuffed with fabric softener sheets, etc., now I could just stroll downstairs to the RC suite, buy a bag, and smoke it there. Way to rectify your past transgressions, Smith College. I never wrote a derogatory article about the RC program again.
Labels: crime and punishment, defiance, drugs, Dumb Smith bitches, JerseyGirl, LL Cool Jew, Smith College Vault
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
As predicted, "Lost" is already tedious
A mere 14 minutes has elapsed since the beginning of "Lost" and so far all we've found out is that Jack's wife is an Other, and the Others live in a Jonestown-like settlement, where they dress like Mormon zookeepers, bake muffins, listen to lighthearted pop oldies, and have book clubs where they discuss the literature of Stephen King when not busy kidnapping, killing, or otherwise molesting the survivors of Oceanic flight 815. Oh wait, that's not Jack's wife. That's just some woman who looks a LOT like Megan, redeemed ex-prostitute and the fourth Mrs. Michael Mancini on "Melrose Place" (well, okay, fifth...he married Sydney twice). Wife or not, she's totally similar in carriage and appearance, which means Jack will spend the whole episode having flashbacks about his stupid unresolved relationship issues. BOOOOORRRRRING.
Even worse, there has yet to be a Naveen Andrews appearance. Where is my hot Iraqi boyfriend Sayid with his radio rewiring skills and his wife beater?! As LL Cool Jew put it recently, "I quit 'Lost' because I just know the answer to all this is going to be something sci-fi, and I don't do that." So far this is more Lifetime movie of the week than SciFi original series, and I'm not pleased. More Sayid, less processing!
Even worse, there has yet to be a Naveen Andrews appearance. Where is my hot Iraqi boyfriend Sayid with his radio rewiring skills and his wife beater?! As LL Cool Jew put it recently, "I quit 'Lost' because I just know the answer to all this is going to be something sci-fi, and I don't do that." So far this is more Lifetime movie of the week than SciFi original series, and I'm not pleased. More Sayid, less processing!
Vindication
Today I was at the gym, and guess who was flopping around on my Gauntlet stairmaster?
Yes, it was Treadmill Bitch, that saggy old red-headed bitch who once told me that it would make my ass--actually, the word she chose was "rear"--undesirably big. She was perched atop it with her towel, her Vitamin Water, and her sleeveless Susan G. Komen foundation shirt, sweating profusely but looking just as uptight as ever. I smirked up at her as I waited my turn, and could only barely restrain myself from giving her a loud, satisfying "I told you so!"
Maybe one of her kids informed her that asses are all the rage right now. Or maybe hell froze over and Good Housekeeping, Sunset, or Old Bitch Monthly interviewed Bubba Sparxxx or E-40 and she immediately resolved to embrace volumizing and lifting her "rear." Whatever the case, while I'm glad she presumably won't be talking any more shit to me about my fine voluptuous backside in the ladies locker room, that old slut better not start monopolizing my Gauntlet or she and I are going to have a whole new problem.
Yes, it was Treadmill Bitch, that saggy old red-headed bitch who once told me that it would make my ass--actually, the word she chose was "rear"--undesirably big. She was perched atop it with her towel, her Vitamin Water, and her sleeveless Susan G. Komen foundation shirt, sweating profusely but looking just as uptight as ever. I smirked up at her as I waited my turn, and could only barely restrain myself from giving her a loud, satisfying "I told you so!"
Maybe one of her kids informed her that asses are all the rage right now. Or maybe hell froze over and Good Housekeeping, Sunset, or Old Bitch Monthly interviewed Bubba Sparxxx or E-40 and she immediately resolved to embrace volumizing and lifting her "rear." Whatever the case, while I'm glad she presumably won't be talking any more shit to me about my fine voluptuous backside in the ladies locker room, that old slut better not start monopolizing my Gauntlet or she and I are going to have a whole new problem.
Labels: exercise drama, I LOVE IT, stank vaginas, vengeance is sweet
Monday, October 02, 2006
2006 Kings of the Science Nerds
My first year in graduate school, one of the professors teaching my biochemistry class asked us, "Does anyone know what season this is?" A couple of dumbasses responded with, "Fall." I blurted out "Football season!" However, nobody produced the answer he was looking for, so he exasperatedly chided us on being diligent scientists up to date on geek current events and said, "He-LLO! It's Nobel prize season." He was all excited because some guy across town at Rockefeller got the big Nobelian Dynamite award for crystallizing some ion channel or something. Since our teacher was incomprehensibly lecturing us about how hard it is to crystallize transmembrane proteins, he was all psyched that the Nobel prize committee decided to bestow their blessings on a fellow X-ray crystallographer for doing just that. As usual, I proceeded to immediately zone out, and didn't pay attention to the fucking aquaporin or whatever the hell it was that Roderick MacKinnon crystallized.
Later that school year, I was walking through one of the school buildings with a couple of other grad students, and they went all ballistic when they saw a sign that said Roderick MacKinnon was going to be lecturing at Columbia. I took one look at the lecture title, which was something about protein structure, and immediately decided not to attend. I HATE structural biochemistry. For one thing, it involves math. For another thing, all I care about any given protein is what it does, not how many fucking alpha helices it has or how they're arranged. Protein structure blows, and I shared my opinion with the other grad students. They were appalled.
"But it's RODERICK MACKINNON! The Roderick MacKinnon!"
"So?" I said. "What, did he win some prize or something?"
"Um, YEAH. THE NOBEL PRIZE!"
Again...so? Big freaking deal. Richard Axel won it the next year, and he works three floors below me. I see him all the time on the elevator. It's not like I care about his genetic dissection of how Drosophila detects different smells, or whatever he did to earn his trip to Stockholm. Science geeks act like getting the Nobel prize is tantamount to being elected Lord of the Universe. It's a big deal, and it's always great to be recognized for your intellectual achievements, but at the same time, it's not like the people who get it are ANY less nerdy than they were before or their research is any more interesting. Getting a million dollars and shaking the hand of the Swedish king is cool, but it's not like you're going to be walking any red carpets because of it. Most people cannot name the last five Nobel laureates in physiology or medicine, myself included.
Despite the immediate forgetability of these brilliant scientists, I did notice on CNN.com this morning that the Nobel was given to American scientists Andrew Fire and Craig Mello for their "seminal work", which was the discovery of RNA interference. I felt compelled to give these guys a shout out, since I and the rest of the world are destined to immediately forget them. This also marks yet another triumph for America, as we've brought the prize home after those Australian bastards who linked stomach ulcers to H. pylori infection snagged it last year. USA! USA! As you can see, Fire and Mello are a couple of suave characters who will undoubtedly be able to parley their Nobel laureate status into getting laid like nobody's business:
It is for sure time to heap the praise on these gene-silencing hotties! In fact, I sense some sycophantic Science editorials going to press as we speak. Let the scientific community asskissery begin. All hail the kings of geekdom!
Later that school year, I was walking through one of the school buildings with a couple of other grad students, and they went all ballistic when they saw a sign that said Roderick MacKinnon was going to be lecturing at Columbia. I took one look at the lecture title, which was something about protein structure, and immediately decided not to attend. I HATE structural biochemistry. For one thing, it involves math. For another thing, all I care about any given protein is what it does, not how many fucking alpha helices it has or how they're arranged. Protein structure blows, and I shared my opinion with the other grad students. They were appalled.
"But it's RODERICK MACKINNON! The Roderick MacKinnon!"
"So?" I said. "What, did he win some prize or something?"
"Um, YEAH. THE NOBEL PRIZE!"
Again...so? Big freaking deal. Richard Axel won it the next year, and he works three floors below me. I see him all the time on the elevator. It's not like I care about his genetic dissection of how Drosophila detects different smells, or whatever he did to earn his trip to Stockholm. Science geeks act like getting the Nobel prize is tantamount to being elected Lord of the Universe. It's a big deal, and it's always great to be recognized for your intellectual achievements, but at the same time, it's not like the people who get it are ANY less nerdy than they were before or their research is any more interesting. Getting a million dollars and shaking the hand of the Swedish king is cool, but it's not like you're going to be walking any red carpets because of it. Most people cannot name the last five Nobel laureates in physiology or medicine, myself included.
Despite the immediate forgetability of these brilliant scientists, I did notice on CNN.com this morning that the Nobel was given to American scientists Andrew Fire and Craig Mello for their "seminal work", which was the discovery of RNA interference. I felt compelled to give these guys a shout out, since I and the rest of the world are destined to immediately forget them. This also marks yet another triumph for America, as we've brought the prize home after those Australian bastards who linked stomach ulcers to H. pylori infection snagged it last year. USA! USA! As you can see, Fire and Mello are a couple of suave characters who will undoubtedly be able to parley their Nobel laureate status into getting laid like nobody's business:
It is for sure time to heap the praise on these gene-silencing hotties! In fact, I sense some sycophantic Science editorials going to press as we speak. Let the scientific community asskissery begin. All hail the kings of geekdom!
Labels: grad school bullshit, science
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]
