Thursday, November 30, 2006
Go suck a Vilsack
...and so it begins. The 2008 race to the White House is ON! Some guy named Iowa Gov. Tom Vilsack has officially tossed his hat into the ring and popped the cherry of the competition for the Democratic nomination. Upon hearing this story, I immediately thought that I would never elect a President Vilsack. The only thing worse would be if his surname was "Cocksucker", "Dirty Sanchez", or "Butt Pirate."
When I hit the internet for more information about this man from an unfortunately named family, I found some pictures of the 'Sack looking disturbingly Dubya-ish. Note the wild, Old Yeller-once-he-got-the-hydrophobia look in his eyes combined with the sagging slack jaw, and the "now, folks, it's awright" downward air-patting public speaking technique. He's like a cornered animal, and not someone who should keep the cardkey to the football that controls our nukes. See for yourself:
Seriously, 'Sack, do you actually expect to be elected when you look like the bastard child of Dennis Kucinich and Dr. Sean McNamara from "Nip/Tuck" AND your name sounds like profanity AND you remind us of the most absurd and unpleasant mannerisms of our current Commander-in-Chief? Give it up right now, Vilsack, and give the Iowa taxpayers their money's worth, instead of being inspiration for LOTS of juvenile "Saturday Night Live" sketches in your futile quest to become leader of the sort-of free world.
When I hit the internet for more information about this man from an unfortunately named family, I found some pictures of the 'Sack looking disturbingly Dubya-ish. Note the wild, Old Yeller-once-he-got-the-hydrophobia look in his eyes combined with the sagging slack jaw, and the "now, folks, it's awright" downward air-patting public speaking technique. He's like a cornered animal, and not someone who should keep the cardkey to the football that controls our nukes. See for yourself:
Seriously, 'Sack, do you actually expect to be elected when you look like the bastard child of Dennis Kucinich and Dr. Sean McNamara from "Nip/Tuck" AND your name sounds like profanity AND you remind us of the most absurd and unpleasant mannerisms of our current Commander-in-Chief? Give it up right now, Vilsack, and give the Iowa taxpayers their money's worth, instead of being inspiration for LOTS of juvenile "Saturday Night Live" sketches in your futile quest to become leader of the sort-of free world.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Razzy: Pissing off officious Smith bitches since 1996
Last year, I wrote a post called "Fuck You, Smith Alumnae Fund" that actually started off being about Caesar's veterinary drama and ended up being a rant about the Smith Alumnae Quarterly cluttering up my mailbox with shameless attempts to solicit donations poorly disguised as boring feature pieces about various aspects of college life. I highlighted the profile of these two bitches Tej and Katie, who had a suite at Haven-Wesley with a balcony (!!!), and made fun of them.
Well, it seems that one of their friends got tired of staging rallies to free Mumia, shut down the World Bank, end the practice of female circumcision, or whatever the hell Smith girls are getting righteously outraged about these days, decided to surf the net seeking useless bullshit, and found this post. Said friend then forwarded it to Tej, who sent me some angry correspondence filled with weak insults and vague warnings of possible retribution. Seemingly Tej did not dig through my June 2006 archives to find out what I do to people who demand that I censor anything on my website because they don't like it. Remember Paula James? She was this single mother whose teenaged son found my blog in his unsupervised internet wanderings on MySpace, disapproved of the content, and then accused me of "harming children", started an online petition, and claimed to have retained counsel to sue me into oblivion for obscenity and slander. If Tej had read any of that, she would have probably thought twice about e-mailing me, because she would know that when I get e-mail like this, I immediately post it on my blog and have fun at the author's expense. Observe, bitch:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: Tejratan Bindra (tbindra@email.smith.edu)
Subject: Fucked Up
A friend of mine sent me the link to your hateful and dreadful blog. You have no right to say the shit that you did about us especially since your a has-been from the Smith College campus. You need to grow up and not bitch people out without knowing them at all, and I can't believe that I'm writing this email to a 28 YEAR OLD! If you knew anything about us, which you clearly don't, we hated doing this more than you hated reading about it. We were coerced into doing this and it's not like we were able to have any control over the article or the pictures. You need to seriously take some zoloft and get over yourself. Oh and just for your information, that's not Second Sex I'm reading there...oh, and it's pretty retarded of you to think that we just hang out like that, rather than obviously thinking that it's a staged photo shoot.
WOW. GET A LIFE AND REMOVE OUR NAMES FROM YOUR DUMBASS BLOG...clearly you don't want anything to do with me and I'd rather have less to do with you.
Assfuck.
Yes, Tej, this is an excellent way to get someone like me to acquiesce to your demands: think up some lame insults, tell me to get a life, and call my blog hateful. Wait, not just hateful, but hateful AND dreadful. It was bad enough that the Smith Alumnae Association "coerced" them (with a deft combination of Inquisition-era torture tactics and false promises of getting them sweet jobs using the oh-so-powerful alumnae network, no doubt) to do a fluff feature piece on them for the Quarterly, but now I've gone and made fun of them too! That is simply not acceptable. Therefore, Tej took it upon herself to not only demonstrate to me that she is one of the legions unable to properly distinguish the possessive "your" from the contraction "you're" ("your a has-been from the Smith College campus"), but comes up with some stinging invective, like "you need to seriously take some zoloft." Ouch! I can only retort that I do not need zoloft to combat depression when I get plenty of happiness and amusement from making fun of idiots like Tej. The thing is, I do actually have the right to say (or more accurately, write) the shit I did. There is this document, which, despite being quite old, is still relevant, and it is called "The Bill of Rights." Item number one on that document, or the First Amendment to the United States Constitution as it's known, says that I do, in fact, have the right to say any type of shit. So Tej can kiss my gorgeous round ass.
Apparently this e-mail alone was not enough for Tej to get this off her chest. Before I even saw her first e-mail, she decided to send another one that was slightly more polite. By "polite," I mean in between continuing to exhort me to get a life and making some sly jabs about my age "destroying my soul," she uses "please" and "thank you." That's the kind of well-mannered, decent Smith lady who has earned her pearls and penny loafers. Nancy Reagan and Barbara Bush are glowing with pride somewhere about the quality of woman that their alma mater can produce.
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: Tejratan Bindra (tbindra@email.smith.edu)
Subject: By the way...
I can't get over this, so I need to continue to bitch you out. First of all, way to misspell one of our names when it's right in front of your fucking face. Also, is life so miserable that you have the time to not only write this bullshit, but attach pictures and all that shit. You need to get a life! I know being 28 maybe destroying your soul, but really it's the prime of your life, why are you wasting away on 3 or 4 blogs?! Seriously though, please remove us from your blog...if you don't, I won't stop harassing you...I have a temper, I'm not going to lie.
Thank you.
Uh oh, Tej can't get over this and she's not going to stop harassing me. Since Tej is obviously so upset about this and plans on pursuing this beef indefinitely, it seems I'm not the only one who needs to get a life. I smell some baseless threats about litigation for slander coming my way! The only thing I'm slightly ashamed of is that I apparently spelled one of their names wrong, which is embarrassing because I take fact-checking VERY seriously here at RAZZY.org, except by "fact-checking" I actually mean drinking scotch, fucking swarthy rogues, and watching "Beverly Hills, 90210." Somehow I managed to overcome my extreme trepidation regarding what might happen if Tej really loses her legendary temper, and wrote her back:
To: Tejratan Bindra (tbindra@email.smith.edu)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: Re: By the way...
You won't stop harassing me? Oh no!!! I might have to read more lame e-mail from you that I think implies I'm old and makes vague threats about how I should be concerned about your temper! That would be truly a fate worse than death. I mean, you might do something REALLY crazy like have a candlelight vigil or a panel discussion about it with your friends! I bet you could get the Noteables or some other shiteous acapella group to perform and you could all march around the Quad demanding justice. Of course, it would be totally useless, but back in my Smith days, it sure seemed to make lots of self-righteous bitches feel better about themselves.
I'm not removing a goddamned thing from my blog. I had totally forgotten about this
entry since it was almost a year old, and what I wrote about you was mainly to make two points:
1. Most Smith girls are fucking idiots, which you have just underscored with these e-mails in which you call me an assfuck and tell me to get a life, then expect me to actually accomodate your request and remove your and your partner in boobmashing's names from my blog. It's those kind of negotiating skills that will take you far once you graduate and go work for the Human Rights Campaign or whatever the hell you're going to do.
2. The Alumnae Quarterly is a terrible publication that writes lame stories such as the feature piece about your fortunes in the housing lottery, which does not inspire me to give a goddamn thing to Smith College except some bad press on my website.
Maybe they didn't cover this in whatever gender politics classes you've taken, but there's this thing called freedom of fucking speech, which entitles me to say whatever the hell I fucking please on my blog or anywhere else. In fact, it also entitles me to post your e-mails, which I am certain that I will do. Sex, beer, and football are the only things that I enjoy more than fucking with stupid Smith girls. However, I will make sure I spell your name right in the new entry.
Eat me, you dumb cunt.
Razzy
I can't wait until Tej drafts her online petition! Good times.
Well, it seems that one of their friends got tired of staging rallies to free Mumia, shut down the World Bank, end the practice of female circumcision, or whatever the hell Smith girls are getting righteously outraged about these days, decided to surf the net seeking useless bullshit, and found this post. Said friend then forwarded it to Tej, who sent me some angry correspondence filled with weak insults and vague warnings of possible retribution. Seemingly Tej did not dig through my June 2006 archives to find out what I do to people who demand that I censor anything on my website because they don't like it. Remember Paula James? She was this single mother whose teenaged son found my blog in his unsupervised internet wanderings on MySpace, disapproved of the content, and then accused me of "harming children", started an online petition, and claimed to have retained counsel to sue me into oblivion for obscenity and slander. If Tej had read any of that, she would have probably thought twice about e-mailing me, because she would know that when I get e-mail like this, I immediately post it on my blog and have fun at the author's expense. Observe, bitch:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: Tejratan Bindra (tbindra@email.smith.edu)
Subject: Fucked Up
A friend of mine sent me the link to your hateful and dreadful blog. You have no right to say the shit that you did about us especially since your a has-been from the Smith College campus. You need to grow up and not bitch people out without knowing them at all, and I can't believe that I'm writing this email to a 28 YEAR OLD! If you knew anything about us, which you clearly don't, we hated doing this more than you hated reading about it. We were coerced into doing this and it's not like we were able to have any control over the article or the pictures. You need to seriously take some zoloft and get over yourself. Oh and just for your information, that's not Second Sex I'm reading there...oh, and it's pretty retarded of you to think that we just hang out like that, rather than obviously thinking that it's a staged photo shoot.
WOW. GET A LIFE AND REMOVE OUR NAMES FROM YOUR DUMBASS BLOG...clearly you don't want anything to do with me and I'd rather have less to do with you.
Assfuck.
Yes, Tej, this is an excellent way to get someone like me to acquiesce to your demands: think up some lame insults, tell me to get a life, and call my blog hateful. Wait, not just hateful, but hateful AND dreadful. It was bad enough that the Smith Alumnae Association "coerced" them (with a deft combination of Inquisition-era torture tactics and false promises of getting them sweet jobs using the oh-so-powerful alumnae network, no doubt) to do a fluff feature piece on them for the Quarterly, but now I've gone and made fun of them too! That is simply not acceptable. Therefore, Tej took it upon herself to not only demonstrate to me that she is one of the legions unable to properly distinguish the possessive "your" from the contraction "you're" ("your a has-been from the Smith College campus"), but comes up with some stinging invective, like "you need to seriously take some zoloft." Ouch! I can only retort that I do not need zoloft to combat depression when I get plenty of happiness and amusement from making fun of idiots like Tej. The thing is, I do actually have the right to say (or more accurately, write) the shit I did. There is this document, which, despite being quite old, is still relevant, and it is called "The Bill of Rights." Item number one on that document, or the First Amendment to the United States Constitution as it's known, says that I do, in fact, have the right to say any type of shit. So Tej can kiss my gorgeous round ass.
Apparently this e-mail alone was not enough for Tej to get this off her chest. Before I even saw her first e-mail, she decided to send another one that was slightly more polite. By "polite," I mean in between continuing to exhort me to get a life and making some sly jabs about my age "destroying my soul," she uses "please" and "thank you." That's the kind of well-mannered, decent Smith lady who has earned her pearls and penny loafers. Nancy Reagan and Barbara Bush are glowing with pride somewhere about the quality of woman that their alma mater can produce.
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: Tejratan Bindra (tbindra@email.smith.edu)
Subject: By the way...
I can't get over this, so I need to continue to bitch you out. First of all, way to misspell one of our names when it's right in front of your fucking face. Also, is life so miserable that you have the time to not only write this bullshit, but attach pictures and all that shit. You need to get a life! I know being 28 maybe destroying your soul, but really it's the prime of your life, why are you wasting away on 3 or 4 blogs?! Seriously though, please remove us from your blog...if you don't, I won't stop harassing you...I have a temper, I'm not going to lie.
Thank you.
Uh oh, Tej can't get over this and she's not going to stop harassing me. Since Tej is obviously so upset about this and plans on pursuing this beef indefinitely, it seems I'm not the only one who needs to get a life. I smell some baseless threats about litigation for slander coming my way! The only thing I'm slightly ashamed of is that I apparently spelled one of their names wrong, which is embarrassing because I take fact-checking VERY seriously here at RAZZY.org, except by "fact-checking" I actually mean drinking scotch, fucking swarthy rogues, and watching "Beverly Hills, 90210." Somehow I managed to overcome my extreme trepidation regarding what might happen if Tej really loses her legendary temper, and wrote her back:
To: Tejratan Bindra (tbindra@email.smith.edu)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: Re: By the way...
You won't stop harassing me? Oh no!!! I might have to read more lame e-mail from you that I think implies I'm old and makes vague threats about how I should be concerned about your temper! That would be truly a fate worse than death. I mean, you might do something REALLY crazy like have a candlelight vigil or a panel discussion about it with your friends! I bet you could get the Noteables or some other shiteous acapella group to perform and you could all march around the Quad demanding justice. Of course, it would be totally useless, but back in my Smith days, it sure seemed to make lots of self-righteous bitches feel better about themselves.
I'm not removing a goddamned thing from my blog. I had totally forgotten about this
entry since it was almost a year old, and what I wrote about you was mainly to make two points:
1. Most Smith girls are fucking idiots, which you have just underscored with these e-mails in which you call me an assfuck and tell me to get a life, then expect me to actually accomodate your request and remove your and your partner in boobmashing's names from my blog. It's those kind of negotiating skills that will take you far once you graduate and go work for the Human Rights Campaign or whatever the hell you're going to do.
2. The Alumnae Quarterly is a terrible publication that writes lame stories such as the feature piece about your fortunes in the housing lottery, which does not inspire me to give a goddamn thing to Smith College except some bad press on my website.
Maybe they didn't cover this in whatever gender politics classes you've taken, but there's this thing called freedom of fucking speech, which entitles me to say whatever the hell I fucking please on my blog or anywhere else. In fact, it also entitles me to post your e-mails, which I am certain that I will do. Sex, beer, and football are the only things that I enjoy more than fucking with stupid Smith girls. However, I will make sure I spell your name right in the new entry.
Eat me, you dumb cunt.
Razzy
I can't wait until Tej drafts her online petition! Good times.
Labels: Dumb Smith bitches, Razzy Haters, Tej Offensive
Monday, November 27, 2006
FEEEEEEEEEED MEEEEEEEEEEE
Dunno about y'all, but it steams my rice that food in Gotham costs what it does. Lettuce is not worth $8. I don't give a shit what you put in it. If you don't coat the shit with gold, it shouldn't run that high - it's made of water, and even Goldschlager can be had for less trouble.
So I harken back to my days of kollege. While I was chipping away at Chaucer to free my diploma from stone, my homeslice City of Compton was running the DC temp circuit, scrambling for the cash to get him the fuck out of the temperate zone and into , well you guessed it: the land of flip floppin glory, Los Angeles. At this particular juncture, he was knee deep in the most incredible temp job I ever done heard of: surfing the net, all the day long, to locate child pornography and turn in its "Webmasters." Now you've all heard that porn pays. You've also probably heard that government jobs come stacked with benefits. Well, City garnered neither, as the fringe participant in both industries. So in these slim days, he was looking to save some cash and set out on a mission: find and consume a full meal in a city for less than $5. This includes eating your fill and a beverage. This was irrelevant to me at the time, as a meal-plan fed junior scholar, but the truth is this. I am no longer so coddled and I'm a fucking fat bastard. Must get fed. And there are only so many second-rate paninis you can pop a Hamilton for until you ask yourself, maybe that asshole had an idea...
And before you ask yourself any foolish questions like "Why didn't he make his lunch?" you have to realize that this is a) not the point and b) relevant to all of us fuck-abouts who very frequently even forget that there's food in the fridge and wander into work chowless. So take it for what it is: FMagat's guide to deals on meals. Observe, The Affordable Meal:
1) Pizza. Not to state the obvious, but you can get you two cheese slices and a co-cola at any self-respecting Ray's. So walk the extra block. It's out there.
2) Falafel. Delicious and nutritious, the guy-with-cart will serve you a steaming pita for $3, maybe $3.50 with pickled frills. This extends to shwarma/kababs and the hummus. Seek him out by the smell of curried onions. And don't even try the "I don't know where one is." It's there. It's lunchtime in America. Look harder - your best bet is outside of the Gap. You can get your drink at the cart adjacent.
3) The Deli Buffet. Yes, it is a bit suspicious. I know. But so is the never-washed tap at your favorite saloon. And anyway don't be dumb. If it looks weird, don't eat it. This is tricky because you must be honest with yourself about how much you pile into that styrofoam container, but it is a tried and true method. You can recreate just about any food they charge $10 for here, with a little ingenuity.
4) Shin Ramyen. Raz will whut-whut me on this. $1.89 and ready in three minutes. It's noodles, sure, and we've all had our fill of that shit, but this is spicy. Different. Better.
5) Fresco Tortilla. This is an Enycee gem that I discovered during week one of my stint here, about five years ago, and I cannot. get. over. it. It's the dollar store of food delivery - taco, $1. Quesadilla, $1. Chips with salsa, $1. Two items will take you over the top, and the sauce is gooooooooooooood.
6) Tapas. You gotta find the right spot, and this is a tall order in some neighorhoods, but some of these places have unreal steals. The plates are small, okay, but they're cheap - two'll do ya. And so, so tasty.
7) Frozen meal. Even if you forget your lunch, high thee to the supermercato for the delights of frozen food, at the buyer's market price of $2 - sometimes 3 for $5. So what if it's an approximation of food. This is a list about eating for less than $5.
8) Cup-o-soup. If you don't go to Hale and Hearty, you can pretty much sniff out a $4 bucket of soup. Good and good for you, as long as your chicken is not free-range. (Please see qualifier for #7.)
9) Sushi. Iffn you hit the right place, you can waltz away with sush for about $4 - just enough to grab a bottle of water and hit work anew. You'll be hungry again in the afternoon, but it's good for you. Remember that you're on a budget and 10 pounds overweight.
10) Beer. Old reliable. You can get a forty of light whatever for $2.50 in my hood, and $5 in the city - combines your meal and your drink. Fuck a fruit-chunked smoothy or a protein shake. For in the words of my eternally quotable partner in crime Rack, "I don't wanna eat my drink. I wanna drink my dinner."
So I harken back to my days of kollege. While I was chipping away at Chaucer to free my diploma from stone, my homeslice City of Compton was running the DC temp circuit, scrambling for the cash to get him the fuck out of the temperate zone and into , well you guessed it: the land of flip floppin glory, Los Angeles. At this particular juncture, he was knee deep in the most incredible temp job I ever done heard of: surfing the net, all the day long, to locate child pornography and turn in its "Webmasters." Now you've all heard that porn pays. You've also probably heard that government jobs come stacked with benefits. Well, City garnered neither, as the fringe participant in both industries. So in these slim days, he was looking to save some cash and set out on a mission: find and consume a full meal in a city for less than $5. This includes eating your fill and a beverage. This was irrelevant to me at the time, as a meal-plan fed junior scholar, but the truth is this. I am no longer so coddled and I'm a fucking fat bastard. Must get fed. And there are only so many second-rate paninis you can pop a Hamilton for until you ask yourself, maybe that asshole had an idea...
And before you ask yourself any foolish questions like "Why didn't he make his lunch?" you have to realize that this is a) not the point and b) relevant to all of us fuck-abouts who very frequently even forget that there's food in the fridge and wander into work chowless. So take it for what it is: FMagat's guide to deals on meals. Observe, The Affordable Meal:
1) Pizza. Not to state the obvious, but you can get you two cheese slices and a co-cola at any self-respecting Ray's. So walk the extra block. It's out there.
2) Falafel. Delicious and nutritious, the guy-with-cart will serve you a steaming pita for $3, maybe $3.50 with pickled frills. This extends to shwarma/kababs and the hummus. Seek him out by the smell of curried onions. And don't even try the "I don't know where one is." It's there. It's lunchtime in America. Look harder - your best bet is outside of the Gap. You can get your drink at the cart adjacent.
3) The Deli Buffet. Yes, it is a bit suspicious. I know. But so is the never-washed tap at your favorite saloon. And anyway don't be dumb. If it looks weird, don't eat it. This is tricky because you must be honest with yourself about how much you pile into that styrofoam container, but it is a tried and true method. You can recreate just about any food they charge $10 for here, with a little ingenuity.
4) Shin Ramyen. Raz will whut-whut me on this. $1.89 and ready in three minutes. It's noodles, sure, and we've all had our fill of that shit, but this is spicy. Different. Better.
5) Fresco Tortilla. This is an Enycee gem that I discovered during week one of my stint here, about five years ago, and I cannot. get. over. it. It's the dollar store of food delivery - taco, $1. Quesadilla, $1. Chips with salsa, $1. Two items will take you over the top, and the sauce is gooooooooooooood.
6) Tapas. You gotta find the right spot, and this is a tall order in some neighorhoods, but some of these places have unreal steals. The plates are small, okay, but they're cheap - two'll do ya. And so, so tasty.
7) Frozen meal. Even if you forget your lunch, high thee to the supermercato for the delights of frozen food, at the buyer's market price of $2 - sometimes 3 for $5. So what if it's an approximation of food. This is a list about eating for less than $5.
8) Cup-o-soup. If you don't go to Hale and Hearty, you can pretty much sniff out a $4 bucket of soup. Good and good for you, as long as your chicken is not free-range. (Please see qualifier for #7.)
9) Sushi. Iffn you hit the right place, you can waltz away with sush for about $4 - just enough to grab a bottle of water and hit work anew. You'll be hungry again in the afternoon, but it's good for you. Remember that you're on a budget and 10 pounds overweight.
10) Beer. Old reliable. You can get a forty of light whatever for $2.50 in my hood, and $5 in the city - combines your meal and your drink. Fuck a fruit-chunked smoothy or a protein shake. For in the words of my eternally quotable partner in crime Rack, "I don't wanna eat my drink. I wanna drink my dinner."
Labels: gluttony, NYC, thriftiness
Fergie is weak
For some reason, some of my friends continue to argue with me about whether or not the shiteous, pant-pissing Fergie has had plastic surgery. In fact, she has had her face carved up like the (spectacular) turkey I made this Thanksgiving, and, I suspect, some gender reassignment work done on her plumbing. Regardless of what Fergie is rocking in her nether regions, thanks to her new solo album, the world is being tormented with an entire album's worth of her "music," which is a euphemism for "potent inducer of suicidal ideation." However, Fergie's increased media exposure, curse to humanity though it may be, has resulted in gems like the video below popping up on YouTube. This is from season five of the "Mickey Mouse Club"-ripoff show "Kids, Inc.", in which Fergie covers Belinda Carlisle's "I Get Weak" while wandering around a discarded set from Clash of the Titans in an outfit reminiscent of both Little Bo Peep and that chick from Gladiator who was torn between fucking Russell Crowe and (her brother) Joaquin Phoenix:
This pre-op video should definitively prove that Fergie did indeed spend copious amounts of time at Dr. 90210's office getting her entire fucking face reconstructed. See for yourself:
First off, the bitch absolutely had her eyes done. Note how preteen Roman aristocrat Fergie's eyebrows hang steadily, with a natural curve, on her brow ridge. Now look at post-op tranny Fergie's eyebrows, which look like a half-pipe between her eyes. THAT'S FROM SURGERY!
Second, regarding Fergie's mouth, I have just two words to say: LIP ENHANCEMENT. See how markedly larger Fergie's bottom lip has become? Lips don't get bigger as you age unless you go see a nice doctor who injects them full of collagen.
Also, note the lines around Fergie's mouth and nose. I'm-an-extra-in-the-cast-of-"Rome" Fergie's face has only the natural lines that occur when you smile or talk. However, old stank ho Fergie has ditches in her face large enough to pass for a castle moat. This occurs because of more prominent cheekbones stretching the skin. Since cheekbones also don't increase in mass between the ages of sixteen and forty (or however old Fergie's broke ass is now), I'm putting my money on major cheek implants. This is indisputable; it looks like she has shoulder blades on her face, for God's sake!
There are also marked differences in her chin. See how young mythological Fergie's chin rounds to a point? I'm guessing that as she grew older and decided to reinvent herself as a maddeningly annoying self-proclaimed hip-hop artist, she decided that her chin was too long. Undoubtedly she couldn't feel confident singing aural holocausts like "Fergalicious" unless she had Gargamel from "The Smurfs"'s chin.
Finally, we get to the piece de resistance: Fergie's nose. Originally, her nose was not particularly attractive, and somewhat similar to a pig's (or, alternatively, a Chingy!'s) snout. While there wasn't much for the surgeon to work with (last I checked, they haven't invented nose transplants yet, otherwise Michael Jackson wouldn't be frightening away all the children he's trying to molest with his scary schnozz), Fergie definitely had the bridge of her nose shaved down and trimmed on the sides. That shit has rhinoplasty written all over it.
I'm not even going to get started on all the bodywork Fergie's had done except to say that prior to being on her chest, her tits were probably previously stored under airplane seats for use in case of a water landing. This bitch has had so much surgery, she makes Joan Rivers seem like a natural beauty in comparison. I think that the debate about Fergie's surgical status ends here, and I win. She's had LOTS of it. And she'll probably still have more, right in time for her next album to drop like the turd that it is.
This pre-op video should definitively prove that Fergie did indeed spend copious amounts of time at Dr. 90210's office getting her entire fucking face reconstructed. See for yourself:
First off, the bitch absolutely had her eyes done. Note how preteen Roman aristocrat Fergie's eyebrows hang steadily, with a natural curve, on her brow ridge. Now look at post-op tranny Fergie's eyebrows, which look like a half-pipe between her eyes. THAT'S FROM SURGERY!
Second, regarding Fergie's mouth, I have just two words to say: LIP ENHANCEMENT. See how markedly larger Fergie's bottom lip has become? Lips don't get bigger as you age unless you go see a nice doctor who injects them full of collagen.
Also, note the lines around Fergie's mouth and nose. I'm-an-extra-in-the-cast-of-"Rome" Fergie's face has only the natural lines that occur when you smile or talk. However, old stank ho Fergie has ditches in her face large enough to pass for a castle moat. This occurs because of more prominent cheekbones stretching the skin. Since cheekbones also don't increase in mass between the ages of sixteen and forty (or however old Fergie's broke ass is now), I'm putting my money on major cheek implants. This is indisputable; it looks like she has shoulder blades on her face, for God's sake!
There are also marked differences in her chin. See how young mythological Fergie's chin rounds to a point? I'm guessing that as she grew older and decided to reinvent herself as a maddeningly annoying self-proclaimed hip-hop artist, she decided that her chin was too long. Undoubtedly she couldn't feel confident singing aural holocausts like "Fergalicious" unless she had Gargamel from "The Smurfs"'s chin.
Finally, we get to the piece de resistance: Fergie's nose. Originally, her nose was not particularly attractive, and somewhat similar to a pig's (or, alternatively, a Chingy!'s) snout. While there wasn't much for the surgeon to work with (last I checked, they haven't invented nose transplants yet, otherwise Michael Jackson wouldn't be frightening away all the children he's trying to molest with his scary schnozz), Fergie definitely had the bridge of her nose shaved down and trimmed on the sides. That shit has rhinoplasty written all over it.
I'm not even going to get started on all the bodywork Fergie's had done except to say that prior to being on her chest, her tits were probably previously stored under airplane seats for use in case of a water landing. This bitch has had so much surgery, she makes Joan Rivers seem like a natural beauty in comparison. I think that the debate about Fergie's surgical status ends here, and I win. She's had LOTS of it. And she'll probably still have more, right in time for her next album to drop like the turd that it is.
Labels: Fergie, plastic surgery, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, retard rage
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Running in Harlem is fun
Hopefully you'll all excuse my radio silence over the past couple days. I was taking a break from the internet and existing in a state of sheer post-Thanksgiving gluttony. I was going to write a blog entry about the fabulous holiday dinner I made, but then realized that most people who read this aren't looking for domestic tips, like how to weave a gorgeous lattice crust on an apple pie or how to formulate the perfect turkey brine. Since FalloniusMonk has been blogging in my stead, as well as stirring up lots of comment page controversy with her aggressive pro-smoking stance, I decided to instead do a lot of nothing.
Since my guests left in the wee morning hours on Friday, I have been reclining on my couch, watching yesterday's marathon of "Engineering an Empire" on the History Channel, and eating a disgusting amount of leftovers. Thank God I don't have a scale at my house, because I'm pretty sure that I've gained a solid ten pounds in turkey, gravy, stuffing, and pie. I've basically been lounging about in my darkened lair, slowly turning into Jabba the Hutt, except without the army of grunting pig soldiers, cool band of oboists, or a button I can use to feed tentacle-headed strippers to a large, Chingy!-esque monster at my whim. Man, that would be awesome.
As awesome as the perks of Hutt life would be, however, I'm not trying to rock Jabba's figure. Therefore, I got off my now-even-rounder ass, clipped my pedometer to my jogging pants, and went for a run around the hood. I ran an extra mile just to make sure to burn off the holiday poundage. Besides, the weather was gorgeous and I didn't mind being out and about, and it was just as well, because people said some funny shit to me.
I was running toward Lenox Ave, AKA Malcolm X Boulevard, down 127th Street past a row of brownstones. A very, very large woman wearing an Akademks shirt that could double as a sail for an America's Cup racing skiff was sitting on the stoop of one of these houses with her equally obese friend. As I ran by, this woman turned to her friend and said, very loudly, "See, I told you white people are crazy. They runnin' even when nobody's chasing 'em."
I snorted with laughter as I ran by. Shortly after, a fat man smoking a Black and Mild outside the Frederick Douglass Houses (one of the New York City Housing Authority's local developments AKA the 'jects) noticed me running by and asked, "Hey ma, you need a personal trainer?" I looked him over as I trotted past and asked, "What personal trainer? You??" He grinned. "Thanks, I think I'm doing fine on my own," I said and ran off, him protesting in my wake that he would "train me good."
I fucking love my neighborhood. Harlem world!
Since my guests left in the wee morning hours on Friday, I have been reclining on my couch, watching yesterday's marathon of "Engineering an Empire" on the History Channel, and eating a disgusting amount of leftovers. Thank God I don't have a scale at my house, because I'm pretty sure that I've gained a solid ten pounds in turkey, gravy, stuffing, and pie. I've basically been lounging about in my darkened lair, slowly turning into Jabba the Hutt, except without the army of grunting pig soldiers, cool band of oboists, or a button I can use to feed tentacle-headed strippers to a large, Chingy!-esque monster at my whim. Man, that would be awesome.
As awesome as the perks of Hutt life would be, however, I'm not trying to rock Jabba's figure. Therefore, I got off my now-even-rounder ass, clipped my pedometer to my jogging pants, and went for a run around the hood. I ran an extra mile just to make sure to burn off the holiday poundage. Besides, the weather was gorgeous and I didn't mind being out and about, and it was just as well, because people said some funny shit to me.
I was running toward Lenox Ave, AKA Malcolm X Boulevard, down 127th Street past a row of brownstones. A very, very large woman wearing an Akademks shirt that could double as a sail for an America's Cup racing skiff was sitting on the stoop of one of these houses with her equally obese friend. As I ran by, this woman turned to her friend and said, very loudly, "See, I told you white people are crazy. They runnin' even when nobody's chasing 'em."
I snorted with laughter as I ran by. Shortly after, a fat man smoking a Black and Mild outside the Frederick Douglass Houses (one of the New York City Housing Authority's local developments AKA the 'jects) noticed me running by and asked, "Hey ma, you need a personal trainer?" I looked him over as I trotted past and asked, "What personal trainer? You??" He grinned. "Thanks, I think I'm doing fine on my own," I said and ran off, him protesting in my wake that he would "train me good."
I fucking love my neighborhood. Harlem world!
Labels: exercise drama, gluttony, Harlem world, NYC
Saturday, November 25, 2006
I wanna bone Johnny Depp
Brothers and Sisters, let me say it again to testify: I wanna bone Johnny Depp.
I am positively nuts about this summumabitch. This is one of those psychoanalytical, pre-cognition obsessions. I've had a mean one for this guy since the earliest days of his career. I am no fan of horror flicks, but when Nightmare on Elm Street hit HBO at my childhood friend Tanning Bed's house, I watched with rapt attention as the evil Freddy sucked my young playboy's face off. I was in love. I watched ever single 21 Jumpstreet episode, every week on Sunday nights at 7. I saw Cry Baby in the theater, and snipped out the Big Bopper pics for my bedroom wall. Edward Scissorhands too, and I cried, and then I bought the VHS as soon as I was old enough to muscle in time at the VCR.
I even saw Nick of Time and Secret Window, the bastard, red-headed stepchildren of his interim career because I want him so baaaaaaad.
Sure, he's smoking hot, everyone knows that. But lots of people are that hot. The thing that makes this boy the only living guy I would call my boyfriend is that he's not only hot, he's totally rad. My grade school self was enraptured by his hotness proper. But Christian Slater didn't make the cut, nor did Ethan Hawke, because they are douches. Johnny Depp is the kang, and lemme tell you why:
Hunter Thompson. Not only can JD play Thompson [nd upcoming play one of his semi-autobiographical fictitious characters Paul Kemp] - but Thompson gave him the works. When they met and discussed the possibility of making a film out of Fear and Loathing, ole Hunter hauled his fellow Southerner to the ranch to set up some propane tanks and spend the evening exploding them with shotguns. When it came time for the movie to be shot, Thompson did Depp's hair himself using a mining helmet, complete with to-the-tee bald spot, and lent him his 1970s issue jacket. It takes a great deal to obtain that level of endorsement, especially from a crotchety durg-addled genius degenerate like HST.Keith Richards. This man cannot be beat for inspirato.
Tattoos. I steal a great joke from my pal Red - he can laser that "Winona Forever" tat to read "Wino Forever" and be in fine shape. And anyway, pass the bottle. And a ciggy while you're at it.
Freaks, Geeks and Weirdos. The softspots in Depp's career come when he tries to play someone totally normal. He takes the piss out of odd characters that would prove the insufficient mettle of most talent. Edward Scissorhands is weird. Benny & Joon is weird. From Hell is weird.
He's at his best as an opiate fiend, an aberration of science, a Queer as Fuck director, an insane candyman. Even Gilbert Grape was a nut by association. Be it wreckified greaser or metal-fingered freaks, semi-gothic-but-not-annoying swashbucklers and nutjobs, he's cornered the market in dark and eccentric. And you guessed it, he's hot the whole time.Kentucky. Bourbon. Guns. Colorful charcters. Mountains & horses and shit. I eat it up. And anyway, see last four thousand posts, I'm tired of Yankees.
Hairless. No need to say more.
So if you ever meet this man, do me a favor and tell him he can c-c-c-c-c-awl me anytime, any place. And to bring his hot wife to sweeten the deal for us all. Amen.
Labels: hot dudes, Hunter S. Thompson fetish, Johnny Depp, perversion, sex
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
99 Smoking Theses.
I love to smoke. I smoke in the morning after heavy drinking. I smoke at work - I mean, downstairs on the street. (Sorry, Southern Belles. No lady am I.) In fact, I smoke so much that my department comes down to review their assignments with me while I puff a fuckin butt - we call it the first floor conference room. It's where I do my best work.
I book smoking rooms when I travel, I seek out smoking bars, I smoke during the Yankee winter and I smoke in my house. I've even smoked in the shower, just to know if it was worth it. It's not really, just for the record, but it's worth a shot. Edifying. To drive this home: I keep only a few things in the freezer. A humble amount of emergency cash. A copy of my passport. And a carton of cigarettes. Because that's the last thing to go when your house burns down. Got it?
But I got a few issues to address. You've heard them before from smokers. But allow me to repeat ourselves, as the rest of the world apparently isn't listening. These are for your own good - it's about etiquette, fuckwad. Untold numbers of valid antismoking arguments exist, yes, yes - and you ruin your lame ass point by not acknowledging a few essential rules about life, others, and free American goddamn will. So tune in and maybe I'll entertain your tired point before I'm oxygen-machine bound.
Do not tell me I shouldn't smoke because it's bad for my health. I did not just fall out of a high tree branch. I was not recently transported here from the not-planet Pluto. We've all known for well over a year now that smoking causes cancer. But heads up, dickweed. So does cell phone conversation. Microwaves. McDonald's & Twinkies. That ridiculous SUV you drive. Air conditioning. Apparently, they conjecture that sleeping with the lights on gives cancer to women. The short reality is that e'rybody in tha club gon' gettin cancer, so don't look at me. Look at Raz. She's gonna cure the shit. So remember that, and when it's time, you better vote for her. And you best believe I'll be smoking when I accept the hoped-for offer to be her President of Vice.
Do not anticipate that I will move my cigarette when you shove past me on the street. Your coat is on fire because you are dumb. Not my fault that you choose to walk into open flames. Yours, son. All yours.
Do not quit smoking and the bum cigarettes from all of your friends. I had to sell an ovary to afford this habit, so hop off my reproduction system, pony up and purchase your own shit. I don't mind handing out party favors, to strangers or loved ones alike. But be honest with yourself. If you want to quit smoking, step one is not to stop buying cigarettes. It's to quit using them. Word?
DO NOT FAN YOUR NOSE WHEN YOU WALK BY ME ON THE STREET. You deserve to be burned. I don't smack you with a tire iron when I see your fat ass chunks through your too-tight pants, or clap a hand over each ear when you open your stupid mouth to voice your version of an opinion. You choose to do that shit, and it damages my health. I would gladly go back inside and smoke, just to clear that up, if you hadn't voted to send me out on the street. So check yourself before I wreck yourself. Cuz I'm going nowhere.
So Denis Leary, I feel you, and I raise my smoldering ash in your name. And everybody else, nail that shit to your door, 'fore I burn it in.
I book smoking rooms when I travel, I seek out smoking bars, I smoke during the Yankee winter and I smoke in my house. I've even smoked in the shower, just to know if it was worth it. It's not really, just for the record, but it's worth a shot. Edifying. To drive this home: I keep only a few things in the freezer. A humble amount of emergency cash. A copy of my passport. And a carton of cigarettes. Because that's the last thing to go when your house burns down. Got it?
But I got a few issues to address. You've heard them before from smokers. But allow me to repeat ourselves, as the rest of the world apparently isn't listening. These are for your own good - it's about etiquette, fuckwad. Untold numbers of valid antismoking arguments exist, yes, yes - and you ruin your lame ass point by not acknowledging a few essential rules about life, others, and free American goddamn will. So tune in and maybe I'll entertain your tired point before I'm oxygen-machine bound.
Do not tell me I shouldn't smoke because it's bad for my health. I did not just fall out of a high tree branch. I was not recently transported here from the not-planet Pluto. We've all known for well over a year now that smoking causes cancer. But heads up, dickweed. So does cell phone conversation. Microwaves. McDonald's & Twinkies. That ridiculous SUV you drive. Air conditioning. Apparently, they conjecture that sleeping with the lights on gives cancer to women. The short reality is that e'rybody in tha club gon' gettin cancer, so don't look at me. Look at Raz. She's gonna cure the shit. So remember that, and when it's time, you better vote for her. And you best believe I'll be smoking when I accept the hoped-for offer to be her President of Vice.
Do not anticipate that I will move my cigarette when you shove past me on the street. Your coat is on fire because you are dumb. Not my fault that you choose to walk into open flames. Yours, son. All yours.
Do not quit smoking and the bum cigarettes from all of your friends. I had to sell an ovary to afford this habit, so hop off my reproduction system, pony up and purchase your own shit. I don't mind handing out party favors, to strangers or loved ones alike. But be honest with yourself. If you want to quit smoking, step one is not to stop buying cigarettes. It's to quit using them. Word?
DO NOT FAN YOUR NOSE WHEN YOU WALK BY ME ON THE STREET. You deserve to be burned. I don't smack you with a tire iron when I see your fat ass chunks through your too-tight pants, or clap a hand over each ear when you open your stupid mouth to voice your version of an opinion. You choose to do that shit, and it damages my health. I would gladly go back inside and smoke, just to clear that up, if you hadn't voted to send me out on the street. So check yourself before I wreck yourself. Cuz I'm going nowhere.
So Denis Leary, I feel you, and I raise my smoldering ash in your name. And everybody else, nail that shit to your door, 'fore I burn it in.
Labels: defiance, ranting, smoking
I'm gonna tap...your...PHONES
My friend Neo sent me this today. She must have known that I needed something to cheer me up from the grim prospect of spending the day cleaning my shitshow of an apartment in preparation for my holiday guests tomorrow. So enjoy watching Bush screw the country:
To be honest, this is a pretty good idea. It's certainly better and funnier than my Michael Badnarik roleplaying fantasy, where the guy pretends to be a libertarian and shouts things like "Small government! Laissez-faire capitalism! Lower taxes! Legalized drugs! Deregulate the energy industry! Skydiving! Guns!" Instead, the next time I coax some willing honey into my boudoir I'm going to encourage him to do his best Dubya impersonation and inform me that "I'm gonna jeopardate Social Security" while he's drilling me. H-O-T.
To be honest, this is a pretty good idea. It's certainly better and funnier than my Michael Badnarik roleplaying fantasy, where the guy pretends to be a libertarian and shouts things like "Small government! Laissez-faire capitalism! Lower taxes! Legalized drugs! Deregulate the energy industry! Skydiving! Guns!" Instead, the next time I coax some willing honey into my boudoir I'm going to encourage him to do his best Dubya impersonation and inform me that "I'm gonna jeopardate Social Security" while he's drilling me. H-O-T.
Labels: perversion, politics, sex
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Another introduction
Okay, it's official. There is now a new contributor to the RazzyBlog. Everyone say hello to HotLawyer. Like his twin brother Morrissey'sHair, HotLawyer is a hard-working attorney in the P-N-Dub and former high school classmate of yours truly. When he's not providing legal counsel to various Tacompton meth lab kingpins, prostitutes, arsonists who burn their domestic partners' Dale Earnhardt memorabilia shrines, and assorted other neer-do-wells, HotLawyer likes eating, watching "Hogan Knows Best", reading Kierkegaard, and competing against me in the race to destroy our livers. He's also very funny and smart, and has beautiful penmanship. Seriously, he sent me a check for Fantasy Football this year and his signature looked like it belonged on the fucking Declaration of Independence or something.
Anyway, HotLawyer has promised rants against Christians and Paris Hilton, so when he delivers, make sure you leave him a hearty "Bienvenido, Abogado Caliente" on the comment page!
Anyway, HotLawyer has promised rants against Christians and Paris Hilton, so when he delivers, make sure you leave him a hearty "Bienvenido, Abogado Caliente" on the comment page!
Labels: HotLawyer
Monday, November 20, 2006
Dig your way out of this, assholes
Fuck pahkin ya cah in Hahvahd yahd - the new Xtreme sport in Boston is neither finding an open space or understanding the natives, but actually making it to your parking spot.
Well, be fair, not new. But now, it's not the demon drivers that threaten your survival during your journey through Bean Town.
It's the motherfucking road.
I will be the first, second and third to admit that I am no specialist in highway planning. Beware the DOT that plots out a too-tight cloverleaf or fails to number its exits by the mile marker, and might I add that I was awesome at Calculus.
But let's be real, I don't do infrastructure. All the more reason for me to openly admit that I have no business mapping out the pathways of interstates, roads, or even remote cul-de-sacs. So why in the shit should the self-proclaimed intellectual capital of the free green goddamn world not have more sense than to HIRE AN ENGINNER FOR THE BIG DIG?
It was one thing to have the shit collapse on a hapless driver. But dying in transit is par for the course in Boston. Test of the mettle. This, though, this is one of the most extraordinary abuses of Extreme Engineering to hit the Eastern Seaboard in some time. Let's explore:
1. Built on Ass (1): the concrete is shoddy and leaks water. What this means to you and me, friends, is that Boston now rivals New York for which city will fold in on itself faster in the event of a flood, bombing, or subway failure. So take that, MTA - and take my fare back down to $1.50 while you're at it.
2. No Taxation Without... ?: THE SHIT WAS 700% OVER BUDGET. Clearly no one involved has ever worked in the private sector. Your ass would be canned so fast... oh, wait, he was. And they kept digging....
3. Matures With Age: two+ long decades after it began, it is a certifiable failure. To quote Marsellus Wallace, "Motherfuckers thought their ass would age like wine. If you mean it turns to vinegar, it does." Nuff said.
4. Built on Ass (2): the anchor bolts are made not of metal, but epoxy, and fail to extend through the base support of the structure. If one bolt goes, the whole fucking road tumbles - akin to the lame-ass dismantling of the GG Bridge in X3. So alls I can say is, while a hazard to all living persons, this thing will be safe from Magneto when he regains his powers (and Brett Ratner when he regains his career, bless).
5. White Trash: the construction site was a landfill. I don't mean Boston - I hold my own opinion about that. I mean the construction site proper. Pipes. Garbage. Rats. Hard day at work when your quality of life would be higher in the post-Katrina Superdome.
6. L is for Lost Highway: from the people who brought you John Kerry.
7. Things That Make You Go Hmmmmm: ever thought you'd agree with Reagan? Well he thought it was a bullshit idea, and blast, he was right.
So. In short. That is the tribute that Boston can offer in the name of John F. Kennedy. Note to self: beware public projects named after matryred playboy presidents. And more importantly, remember to keep the shit out of the Commonwealth.
Well, be fair, not new. But now, it's not the demon drivers that threaten your survival during your journey through Bean Town.
It's the motherfucking road.
I will be the first, second and third to admit that I am no specialist in highway planning. Beware the DOT that plots out a too-tight cloverleaf or fails to number its exits by the mile marker, and might I add that I was awesome at Calculus.
But let's be real, I don't do infrastructure. All the more reason for me to openly admit that I have no business mapping out the pathways of interstates, roads, or even remote cul-de-sacs. So why in the shit should the self-proclaimed intellectual capital of the free green goddamn world not have more sense than to HIRE AN ENGINNER FOR THE BIG DIG?
It was one thing to have the shit collapse on a hapless driver. But dying in transit is par for the course in Boston. Test of the mettle. This, though, this is one of the most extraordinary abuses of Extreme Engineering to hit the Eastern Seaboard in some time. Let's explore:
1. Built on Ass (1): the concrete is shoddy and leaks water. What this means to you and me, friends, is that Boston now rivals New York for which city will fold in on itself faster in the event of a flood, bombing, or subway failure. So take that, MTA - and take my fare back down to $1.50 while you're at it.
2. No Taxation Without... ?: THE SHIT WAS 700% OVER BUDGET. Clearly no one involved has ever worked in the private sector. Your ass would be canned so fast... oh, wait, he was. And they kept digging....
3. Matures With Age: two+ long decades after it began, it is a certifiable failure. To quote Marsellus Wallace, "Motherfuckers thought their ass would age like wine. If you mean it turns to vinegar, it does." Nuff said.
4. Built on Ass (2): the anchor bolts are made not of metal, but epoxy, and fail to extend through the base support of the structure. If one bolt goes, the whole fucking road tumbles - akin to the lame-ass dismantling of the GG Bridge in X3. So alls I can say is, while a hazard to all living persons, this thing will be safe from Magneto when he regains his powers (and Brett Ratner when he regains his career, bless).
5. White Trash: the construction site was a landfill. I don't mean Boston - I hold my own opinion about that. I mean the construction site proper. Pipes. Garbage. Rats. Hard day at work when your quality of life would be higher in the post-Katrina Superdome.
6. L is for Lost Highway: from the people who brought you John Kerry.
7. Things That Make You Go Hmmmmm: ever thought you'd agree with Reagan? Well he thought it was a bullshit idea, and blast, he was right.
So. In short. That is the tribute that Boston can offer in the name of John F. Kennedy. Note to self: beware public projects named after matryred playboy presidents. And more importantly, remember to keep the shit out of the Commonwealth.
Labels: Assachusetts, driving, retard rage, scathing indictments
Shove your fourth meal up your fat ass
I got home tonight with fifteen minutes to spare before kickoff of the Jags-Giants game, and was watching a totally informative show during Monday Night Countdown commercials, what should be a highly acclaimed documentary on Vh1 entitled "Vh1 Presents Celebrity Breakups." So far, they've covered the usual suspects Leo and Giselle, Hilary and Chad, Paris and Paris, Lance and Sheryl, Da Hoff and his crazy Vicodin-addicted wife, Pam and Tommy, Brad and Jen, Christina Applegate and her whoever her husband was, and now to my disbelief is covering Motley Crue bassist Nikki Sixx and Playmate/Star of "Baywatch Nights" Donna D'Errico's failed marriage (I didn't even know they were married). We have Nick and Jessica's story (yawn) to look forward to. This is a little out of date because there's no mention of Reese and Ryan or Britney and FedEx, but this show rules. Perez Hilton is also one of the pundits, and he is a fabulous pink-cheeked piglet delivering some righteous bitchery. However, I can't really get into this because I'm still raging about a commercial I saw which inspired me to flip to the "Celebrity Breakups" in the first place.
Taco Bell has launched a new advertising campaign centered around the concept of the "Fourth Meal." Basically, these commercials imply that you should be eating an additional meal, and that meal should be obtained at the Taco Bell late-night window.
In the ad I saw, an ugly dude is digging through the office fridge, and is about to steal some bitch's food, when another ugly dude comes in and chastises him for his rapacious ways, then insists that he get an honestly obtained "fourth meal" at Taco Bell. Then the ad reminds everyone that Taco Bell sells all sorts of disgusting shit for really cheap, like the Chicken Enchilada Grilled Stuft Burrito, which is a fried burrito filled with mechanically separated chicken product, enchilada sauce containing at least 200 mg/mL MSG, a rice-lard paste, and some suspiciously serpentine-looking processed cheese. My thought when seeing this is not, "Wow, I'm hungry, I guess I should incorporate a fourth meal consisting of a fucking Stuft heart attack in a flour tortilla." I also have major problems with the spelling of "stuffed." I mean, "stuft"? Who gave the Taco Bell executives license to resort to a Canterbury Tales-era spelling for marketing purposes? However, my biggest problem is the fact that encouraging people to eat this fourth meal bullshit is directly making more of these:
I simply cannot tolerate anything that brings more fat people in the world. Fat people just piss me off. I've had a few times in my life where my body was getting pretty soft in undesirable areas, like my thighs and my stomach. Did I eat a fucking fourth meal? NO! I went to the goddamned gym, ate salads, and switched to Heineken Light. However, I constantly have to go out of my way to accommodate people who are too lazy to do this and insist on eating things like Stuft burritoes and burn it off with a vigorous nap.
Today, for example, I went to the grocery store by my house and purchased the ingredients for Thanksgiving dinner. I'm making the whole spread--turkey, gravy, stuffing, potatoes, cranberry sauce, pies, etc.--for a ragtag posse of orphan grad students and Smith bitches who aren't spending the holiday with their families, so I decided to go shopping this morning to avoid crowds. Despite the relative emptiness of the Pathmark store, I still managed to get stuck behind not one but two fat bitches taking up space and shuffling along at a snail's pace. One woman with no obvious disability besides her morbid obesity was riding one of those Lark scooters, right down the middle of the store aisles, at a pace befitting the walking speed of her only barely ambulatory hippopotamus of a shopping companion. The woman on the scooter kept stopping and demanding that her assistant take things off the shelves and hand them to her for inspection. "Is this safe for my diabetes?" I heard the woman ask her companion, who shrugged as they shamelessly held up traffic in the canned vegetable aisle where I was seeking pumpkin for my pie. Once she resolved that the canned honey yams were, in her totally incorrect opinion, diabetes-friendly, she noticed that there was a Pathmark employee stocking a shelf in her path and she laid on her scooter horn until he moved out of the aisle. I finally managed to maneuver my extremely squeaky granny cart, straining under my 19-pound turkey and 20-pound bag of Healthy Weight Beneful for the boys' Thanksgiving dinner, around the fat people and finish my shopping before my blood pressure rocketed into stroke or aneurysm territory.
This sort of thing happens all the time. I get stuck behind fat people trudging up the subway steps and acting like they're climbing Mt. Everest. I get bumped into by unapologetic fat people on the train. I have to stand in my uncomfortable high heels and try to read my nerdy history book while holding onto the pestilent balance poles when these same fat people take up 1.5-2 seats on my commute. I see fat children, high on sugar, racing around demonically outside the McDonald's next to the Washington Heights Rite Aid, often coming dangerously close to touching me. And why? Because of things like Stuft Burritoes and the concept of a fourth meal. It's NOT COOL. Not even celebrity breakups or, now, a decent Monday Night Football matchup can mitigate my anger at one more bunch of corporate assholes throwing gasoline on the fat people fire by encouraging a meal of garbage between dinner and breakfast. Fuck Taco Bell and their contributing to fat acceptance by making more fat people. Stop the epidemic! No more fat people!
Taco Bell has launched a new advertising campaign centered around the concept of the "Fourth Meal." Basically, these commercials imply that you should be eating an additional meal, and that meal should be obtained at the Taco Bell late-night window.
In the ad I saw, an ugly dude is digging through the office fridge, and is about to steal some bitch's food, when another ugly dude comes in and chastises him for his rapacious ways, then insists that he get an honestly obtained "fourth meal" at Taco Bell. Then the ad reminds everyone that Taco Bell sells all sorts of disgusting shit for really cheap, like the Chicken Enchilada Grilled Stuft Burrito, which is a fried burrito filled with mechanically separated chicken product, enchilada sauce containing at least 200 mg/mL MSG, a rice-lard paste, and some suspiciously serpentine-looking processed cheese. My thought when seeing this is not, "Wow, I'm hungry, I guess I should incorporate a fourth meal consisting of a fucking Stuft heart attack in a flour tortilla." I also have major problems with the spelling of "stuffed." I mean, "stuft"? Who gave the Taco Bell executives license to resort to a Canterbury Tales-era spelling for marketing purposes? However, my biggest problem is the fact that encouraging people to eat this fourth meal bullshit is directly making more of these:
I simply cannot tolerate anything that brings more fat people in the world. Fat people just piss me off. I've had a few times in my life where my body was getting pretty soft in undesirable areas, like my thighs and my stomach. Did I eat a fucking fourth meal? NO! I went to the goddamned gym, ate salads, and switched to Heineken Light. However, I constantly have to go out of my way to accommodate people who are too lazy to do this and insist on eating things like Stuft burritoes and burn it off with a vigorous nap.
Today, for example, I went to the grocery store by my house and purchased the ingredients for Thanksgiving dinner. I'm making the whole spread--turkey, gravy, stuffing, potatoes, cranberry sauce, pies, etc.--for a ragtag posse of orphan grad students and Smith bitches who aren't spending the holiday with their families, so I decided to go shopping this morning to avoid crowds. Despite the relative emptiness of the Pathmark store, I still managed to get stuck behind not one but two fat bitches taking up space and shuffling along at a snail's pace. One woman with no obvious disability besides her morbid obesity was riding one of those Lark scooters, right down the middle of the store aisles, at a pace befitting the walking speed of her only barely ambulatory hippopotamus of a shopping companion. The woman on the scooter kept stopping and demanding that her assistant take things off the shelves and hand them to her for inspection. "Is this safe for my diabetes?" I heard the woman ask her companion, who shrugged as they shamelessly held up traffic in the canned vegetable aisle where I was seeking pumpkin for my pie. Once she resolved that the canned honey yams were, in her totally incorrect opinion, diabetes-friendly, she noticed that there was a Pathmark employee stocking a shelf in her path and she laid on her scooter horn until he moved out of the aisle. I finally managed to maneuver my extremely squeaky granny cart, straining under my 19-pound turkey and 20-pound bag of Healthy Weight Beneful for the boys' Thanksgiving dinner, around the fat people and finish my shopping before my blood pressure rocketed into stroke or aneurysm territory.
This sort of thing happens all the time. I get stuck behind fat people trudging up the subway steps and acting like they're climbing Mt. Everest. I get bumped into by unapologetic fat people on the train. I have to stand in my uncomfortable high heels and try to read my nerdy history book while holding onto the pestilent balance poles when these same fat people take up 1.5-2 seats on my commute. I see fat children, high on sugar, racing around demonically outside the McDonald's next to the Washington Heights Rite Aid, often coming dangerously close to touching me. And why? Because of things like Stuft Burritoes and the concept of a fourth meal. It's NOT COOL. Not even celebrity breakups or, now, a decent Monday Night Football matchup can mitigate my anger at one more bunch of corporate assholes throwing gasoline on the fat people fire by encouraging a meal of garbage between dinner and breakfast. Fuck Taco Bell and their contributing to fat acceptance by making more fat people. Stop the epidemic! No more fat people!
Labels: celebrities, fat fucks, gluttony, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist
Friday, November 17, 2006
An open invitation
I'll probably either regret this or think it was the best idea ever later on, but I'm just going to go ahead and invite the internet to my birthday party. If you happen to be on the fair isle of Mannahattas tomorrow night, get your ass down to the West Village and buy me a drink to celebrate 28 years of debauchery, exhibitionism, and talking extremely loudly.
I'll be arriving around 10 pm with my posse of prurient lushes and plan to deplete the bar's entire supply of scotch. And as I promised MillerTime, I will be proudly reppin' 253 tomorrow night at this fabulous locale:
The Dove
228 Thompson St between W. 3rd and Bleecker
Its interior has red velvet wallpaper, just like a 19th century whorehouse, simultaneously appealing to both my skankiness and love of history. So show up and do some shots with me!
I'll be arriving around 10 pm with my posse of prurient lushes and plan to deplete the bar's entire supply of scotch. And as I promised MillerTime, I will be proudly reppin' 253 tomorrow night at this fabulous locale:
The Dove
228 Thompson St between W. 3rd and Bleecker
Its interior has red velvet wallpaper, just like a 19th century whorehouse, simultaneously appealing to both my skankiness and love of history. So show up and do some shots with me!
Labels: aging, alcoholism, Razzification, Razzyphiles
It's a national holiday
Today is a very important occasion. On this day, 28 years ago, at St. Joseph's Hospital in Tacoma, Washington, yours truly rampaged out into the world. Well, I didn't so much rampage as I was vacuumed out of my mother's vagina and immediately diagnosed with jaundice. This resulted in me being totally yellow and having a huge hickey on my head. I must have been a very attractive baby. When I wasn't being baked under bilirubin lights to take away my sallow complexion, I was hanging out with my mom watching news reports about the Jonestown massacre. Yes, these are the baby stories that my parents tell me when they are in a misty-eyed state of reminiscing.
Anyway, you should recognize the importance of this day by taking time off work and devoting your day to sending me wishes of goodwill, longevity, and fortune. In other words, leave me a fucking comment on my MySpace page, send me an e-mail, or call my ass up and tell me how awesome and sexy and smart and beautiful and original and unique and (insert any other positive attribute here) I am, because I only turn 28 once. Happy motherfucking birthday to me!!!!
P.S. If you know any hot, swarthy, well-endowed, sexually uninhibited men looking for some action, don't forget that hooking up a promiscuous bitch with a birthday lay is a great alternative to an actual gift. Just a thought.
Anyway, you should recognize the importance of this day by taking time off work and devoting your day to sending me wishes of goodwill, longevity, and fortune. In other words, leave me a fucking comment on my MySpace page, send me an e-mail, or call my ass up and tell me how awesome and sexy and smart and beautiful and original and unique and (insert any other positive attribute here) I am, because I only turn 28 once. Happy motherfucking birthday to me!!!!
P.S. If you know any hot, swarthy, well-endowed, sexually uninhibited men looking for some action, don't forget that hooking up a promiscuous bitch with a birthday lay is a great alternative to an actual gift. Just a thought.
Labels: aging, Razzification, Razzyphiles, sex
I hate musicals, but I LOVE the History Channel
In an attempt to mitigate the psychological scarring that witnessing tonight performance of Guys and Dolls, I'm drinking a Heineken and watching "Engineering an Empire: Carthage", which is all about how clever Hannibal was in terms of designing projectile weapons, strategically arranging mobile infantry battalions, and using vinegar to bore war elephant-sized tunnels through the Alps. I thought I recognied the host from somewhere, and it suddenly hit me.
Holy shit! "Engineering an Empire" is hosted by none other than the guy who played the title role in RoboCop! I guess that portraying a resurrected biomechanical police officer from the future and doing faux battle with the bipedal and dangerously malfunctioning ED-209 law enforcement droid qualifies you to discuss the great achievements in military engineering from the ancient world. Fucking awesome.
Holy shit! "Engineering an Empire" is hosted by none other than the guy who played the title role in RoboCop! I guess that portraying a resurrected biomechanical police officer from the future and doing faux battle with the bipedal and dangerously malfunctioning ED-209 law enforcement droid qualifies you to discuss the great achievements in military engineering from the ancient world. Fucking awesome.
Labels: epic geekery, History Channel, RoboCop, TV
Thursday, November 16, 2006
There is a name for hell on earth...
...and that name is Guys and Dolls. I hate musicals, and I mean that I really despise them to the core of my being. I just don't get why people in the midst of some major life event, such as getting a job, falling in love, etc., just spontaneously burst into song about it. It makes no sense to me, and since the songs are usually unbearably cheesy, it's a variety of absurd that I have a very difficult time coping with. Since most Broadway musicals cost around $100 a ticket, I've only attended them on rare occasions, typically when some older relative (ie: my mother) was in town and conscripted me into going by purchasing me a ticket. On those occasions I found myself in the audience alternating between discreet phone checks to see how much longer I would have to endure The Phantom of the Opera and cursing the theaters for not making alcohol more accessible or plentiful.
It's impossible to avoid attending a musical, however, when one's platonic life partner is starring in it. J-Sexy has spent the last two months rehearsing feverishly for her role as New York City prostitute/Havana dancer in the Columbia medical center campus production of Guys and Dolls. It's dominated our lab environment, making J-Sexy work weird hours and compelling her to practice her samba steps while she sets up PCR reactions. One day I came into lab to find her in the tissue culture room with our miserable-looking boss setting up plaque assays and blaring the Guys and Dolls soundtrack, and I was like, "Turn. This. OFF! Turn it off now, if you don't want to see me completely lose my fucking mind." J-Sexy, seeing the crazed Murdock-from-the-A-Team look in my eye and not wanting my musical-hating insanity to become violent, immediately complied and turned on Hot97 instead to placate me. I can put up with a lot of stuff I don't like (bad sex, raisins, cats, Smirnoff Ice, etc.), but I just can't bear listening to showtunes. Since J-Sexy was patient with my brattiness about bringing Guys and Dolls into lab, however, I had no choice but to actually see this monstrosity firsthand this evening.
J-Sexy had originally told me that it was okay if I didn't go, since she only had a small part and she was well aware of my opinion. When I mentioned to our other friend Neo that I wasn't going, however, she said chastisingly, "You HAVE TO go!"
"But J-Sexy said I didn't have to. She knows I hate musicals."
"So what?" said Neo. "She was just saying that. You can't not go! What kind of friend are you?!"
I knew, deep down, that Neo was right. J-Sexy has been by my side through many things she's hated. She helped me stalk C.J. Peters all over the ASV conference this summer. She has watched all three Star Wars and Lord of the Rings movies with me. She's even participated in what is her equivalent of what musicals are to me: spending 12 hours obsessively watching all of Sunday's hard-hitting NFL action. It would be a pretty assholish move on my part not to go see Guys and Dolls, so I groaned and told Neo that we should go see the show on opening night to get it over with.
When I told J-Sexy I'd be attending, her face lit up like a Christmas tree and she seemed very happy about that, so I consoled myself with the knowledge that I was doing a good deed for the sake of friendship. All week I've been trying to pump myself up by making tasteless jokes about it. "So you're supposed to be Cuban in this?" I asked her. "That makes sense. Isn't that part of Jamaica?" (This is a long-running joke of ours about the shockingly large group of people who call the Caribbean "the island(s)" and seem to think that all the countries there are either next to each other, culturally similar, or actually all on one big island. I always say obnoxious shit to J-Sexy like "don't you speak Spanish/French? Isn't that what you speak in the Jamaica section of Haiti/the D.R./Cuba/Puerto Rico/Trinidad and Tobago?" or "I'd better not piss you off, I don't want you pulling any of that voodoo santeria shit that your people are into on me.") Also, I've been dispensing plenty of advice on how she can look like an authentic 1940s-era whore. "Tits out. And get the most cocksucker red shade of lipstick that Wet 'n' Wild manufactures."
J-Sexy did do a great job. For one thing, as the cast was mostly a bunch of stiff, uptight medical students trying to relive their glory days in the high school theater club, she was one of the only good dancers. For another thing, as most of the women were scrawny and assless, J-Sexy had by far the hottest body on the stage. During the "Havana dance" sequence, I elbowed Neo and said, "Look at J-Sexy's ass! H-O-T!" Neo replied, "The choreographer was smart to put her with her back to the audience during this part." Prior to the musical, J-Sexy informed me that "I'll look for you, and while I'm whoring around the stage trying to pick up johns I'll shake my boobs at you." She did, and Neo and I were pleased.
Unfortunately, J-Sexy was on stage for only a fraction of the show. The rest was an interminable story about two couples, their travels to Cuba, and the ups and downs in their relationships. The musical's plot involves resolving whether or not an insane Vaudeville dancer with psychosomatic respiratory problems will ever marry her cheating bookie fiance of 14 years and the possibility that a suave jet-setting gambling addict can make it work with a bossy, virginal, and totally boring Christian missionary. Prior to the show I asked J-Sexy how long I could expect to endure this. "It's only about an hour," she assured me. LIAR! I sat there for three and a half hours, and the only thing that kept me from trying to slit my wrists by administering numerous paper cuts with the edge of my book about the mutiny on the whaleship Globe (the sharpest object I had in my bag) was the free wine they dispensed stingily at the intermission.
The production hadn't worked out the kinks by any means, and I found myself wishing that I'd stocked up on throwing tomatoes prior to attending. Even the musical-loving Neo, who was once utterly woebegone when she couldn't secure tickets to see Usher on Broadway in the cast of Chicago, was getting antsy. After the first musical numbers she was whooping and cheering, and saying things to me like, "I love this!" I would respond, "I hate this so much I'd actually rather see a romantic comedy." However, due to the poor overall quality of the performance, progressively she sank to a level of dull resentment almost similar to mine. At one point in the second act, there is a scene where the Christian chick is getting love advice (in the form of a song, of course) from her grandfather. "You know what would make this better?" Neo whispered to me. "If she just dropped to her knees and started sucking him off right on the stage." I started snickering quietly. The grandfather on stage, proclaiming the virtues of love, sang, "With a sheeeeep's eye and a li-co-rice tooooooth..." and those nonsensical lyrics sent me and Neo from a soft chuckle to full-fledged uncontrollable derisive guffawing. The people around us, who seemed to be enjoying the show, shot us dirty looks. Fortunately at that point, the show was almost over, so we didn't have to spend much longer being the uncouth jerks in the audience being disrespectful to the performance.
After the show, I sought out J-Sexy. "Good job, Life Partner!" I said. "You were fantastic!"
"Really? Did you like it?" she asked.
"Well, no, I hated every minute of it. But you did great, and I think that if you do this in the future, you should go for a lead role, because you were the best part of the show. If I have to sit through another one of these things, I'd rather do so while you're dancing it up and singing, because I can cope with that," I told her. "Seriously, you were the highlight of the entire show. Well, you and the amazing lighting and set design, of course," I added quickly, as my friends Js and Ps and SeanJohn, respectively the spotlight operator and set designer, were standing there. Js and Ps then made my day by giving me a beer, showing me his shirt (which said "fiasco", because in his view that's what the show was), and assuring me that he didn't have to do the lighting for the Sunday performance and would be free to watch football with me on Sunday. They asked if I wanted to join them at the cast party afterward, but I explained that I had to get home and walk Caese and Chingy!, and write a big rant on my blog about how much I hate musicals. Done and done.
It's impossible to avoid attending a musical, however, when one's platonic life partner is starring in it. J-Sexy has spent the last two months rehearsing feverishly for her role as New York City prostitute/Havana dancer in the Columbia medical center campus production of Guys and Dolls. It's dominated our lab environment, making J-Sexy work weird hours and compelling her to practice her samba steps while she sets up PCR reactions. One day I came into lab to find her in the tissue culture room with our miserable-looking boss setting up plaque assays and blaring the Guys and Dolls soundtrack, and I was like, "Turn. This. OFF! Turn it off now, if you don't want to see me completely lose my fucking mind." J-Sexy, seeing the crazed Murdock-from-the-A-Team look in my eye and not wanting my musical-hating insanity to become violent, immediately complied and turned on Hot97 instead to placate me. I can put up with a lot of stuff I don't like (bad sex, raisins, cats, Smirnoff Ice, etc.), but I just can't bear listening to showtunes. Since J-Sexy was patient with my brattiness about bringing Guys and Dolls into lab, however, I had no choice but to actually see this monstrosity firsthand this evening.
J-Sexy had originally told me that it was okay if I didn't go, since she only had a small part and she was well aware of my opinion. When I mentioned to our other friend Neo that I wasn't going, however, she said chastisingly, "You HAVE TO go!"
"But J-Sexy said I didn't have to. She knows I hate musicals."
"So what?" said Neo. "She was just saying that. You can't not go! What kind of friend are you?!"
I knew, deep down, that Neo was right. J-Sexy has been by my side through many things she's hated. She helped me stalk C.J. Peters all over the ASV conference this summer. She has watched all three Star Wars and Lord of the Rings movies with me. She's even participated in what is her equivalent of what musicals are to me: spending 12 hours obsessively watching all of Sunday's hard-hitting NFL action. It would be a pretty assholish move on my part not to go see Guys and Dolls, so I groaned and told Neo that we should go see the show on opening night to get it over with.
When I told J-Sexy I'd be attending, her face lit up like a Christmas tree and she seemed very happy about that, so I consoled myself with the knowledge that I was doing a good deed for the sake of friendship. All week I've been trying to pump myself up by making tasteless jokes about it. "So you're supposed to be Cuban in this?" I asked her. "That makes sense. Isn't that part of Jamaica?" (This is a long-running joke of ours about the shockingly large group of people who call the Caribbean "the island(s)" and seem to think that all the countries there are either next to each other, culturally similar, or actually all on one big island. I always say obnoxious shit to J-Sexy like "don't you speak Spanish/French? Isn't that what you speak in the Jamaica section of Haiti/the D.R./Cuba/Puerto Rico/Trinidad and Tobago?" or "I'd better not piss you off, I don't want you pulling any of that voodoo santeria shit that your people are into on me.") Also, I've been dispensing plenty of advice on how she can look like an authentic 1940s-era whore. "Tits out. And get the most cocksucker red shade of lipstick that Wet 'n' Wild manufactures."
J-Sexy did do a great job. For one thing, as the cast was mostly a bunch of stiff, uptight medical students trying to relive their glory days in the high school theater club, she was one of the only good dancers. For another thing, as most of the women were scrawny and assless, J-Sexy had by far the hottest body on the stage. During the "Havana dance" sequence, I elbowed Neo and said, "Look at J-Sexy's ass! H-O-T!" Neo replied, "The choreographer was smart to put her with her back to the audience during this part." Prior to the musical, J-Sexy informed me that "I'll look for you, and while I'm whoring around the stage trying to pick up johns I'll shake my boobs at you." She did, and Neo and I were pleased.
Unfortunately, J-Sexy was on stage for only a fraction of the show. The rest was an interminable story about two couples, their travels to Cuba, and the ups and downs in their relationships. The musical's plot involves resolving whether or not an insane Vaudeville dancer with psychosomatic respiratory problems will ever marry her cheating bookie fiance of 14 years and the possibility that a suave jet-setting gambling addict can make it work with a bossy, virginal, and totally boring Christian missionary. Prior to the show I asked J-Sexy how long I could expect to endure this. "It's only about an hour," she assured me. LIAR! I sat there for three and a half hours, and the only thing that kept me from trying to slit my wrists by administering numerous paper cuts with the edge of my book about the mutiny on the whaleship Globe (the sharpest object I had in my bag) was the free wine they dispensed stingily at the intermission.
The production hadn't worked out the kinks by any means, and I found myself wishing that I'd stocked up on throwing tomatoes prior to attending. Even the musical-loving Neo, who was once utterly woebegone when she couldn't secure tickets to see Usher on Broadway in the cast of Chicago, was getting antsy. After the first musical numbers she was whooping and cheering, and saying things to me like, "I love this!" I would respond, "I hate this so much I'd actually rather see a romantic comedy." However, due to the poor overall quality of the performance, progressively she sank to a level of dull resentment almost similar to mine. At one point in the second act, there is a scene where the Christian chick is getting love advice (in the form of a song, of course) from her grandfather. "You know what would make this better?" Neo whispered to me. "If she just dropped to her knees and started sucking him off right on the stage." I started snickering quietly. The grandfather on stage, proclaiming the virtues of love, sang, "With a sheeeeep's eye and a li-co-rice tooooooth..." and those nonsensical lyrics sent me and Neo from a soft chuckle to full-fledged uncontrollable derisive guffawing. The people around us, who seemed to be enjoying the show, shot us dirty looks. Fortunately at that point, the show was almost over, so we didn't have to spend much longer being the uncouth jerks in the audience being disrespectful to the performance.
After the show, I sought out J-Sexy. "Good job, Life Partner!" I said. "You were fantastic!"
"Really? Did you like it?" she asked.
"Well, no, I hated every minute of it. But you did great, and I think that if you do this in the future, you should go for a lead role, because you were the best part of the show. If I have to sit through another one of these things, I'd rather do so while you're dancing it up and singing, because I can cope with that," I told her. "Seriously, you were the highlight of the entire show. Well, you and the amazing lighting and set design, of course," I added quickly, as my friends Js and Ps and SeanJohn, respectively the spotlight operator and set designer, were standing there. Js and Ps then made my day by giving me a beer, showing me his shirt (which said "fiasco", because in his view that's what the show was), and assuring me that he didn't have to do the lighting for the Sunday performance and would be free to watch football with me on Sunday. They asked if I wanted to join them at the cast party afterward, but I explained that I had to get home and walk Caese and Chingy!, and write a big rant on my blog about how much I hate musicals. Done and done.
Labels: J-Sexy, musicals suck, Neo
Stand By Your Man
I'm in a reflective mood; I'm concerned about the Magnolia State.
In the wake of the monumental paddling put to the collective ass of the Republican Party last week, I sincerely thought that the G.O.P. might view its defeat as an opportunity to move away from its conservative Christian base and back toward the center of its purported "big tent"; away from bigotry and back toward inclusion. You know, a lesson learned and all that jazz...Apparently, I was wrong.
Yesterday's national headlines prominently heralded the political resurrection of this man:
Chester Trent Lott, junior senator from the great State of Mississippi (not to mention, founding father of the Singing Senators barbershop quartet), seen here with his 2006 summer intern (who appears to have endulged in one too many pecan pies, by the way). Until 2001, Trent was best known for consistently delivering the "solid south" vote , and consequently, rising to the position of Majority Whip in the Senate. Subsequent to 2001, however, most people know Senator Lott as the disgraced former Whip, the man forced (seriously; he did not volunteer to step down) to resign his leadership post in the wake of the following comments made at the memorial service for fellow legislator and institutional racist, Strom Thurmond:
"I want to say this about my state: When Strom Thurmond ran for president, we voted for him. We're proud of it. And if the rest of the country had followed our lead, we wouldn't have had all these problems over all these years, either."
In addition to marginalizing the citizens of the burgeoning "New South", Senator Lott's patent admiration for a man who ran for president of the United States under an ersatz party banner, whose sole plank was "segregation then, segregation now and segregation forever", put him at the penumbra of even the GOP. And yet...yesterday, after a closed door meeting, Rebublican leadership narrowly voted to resurrect their fallen comrade to 2nd in command of their Senate caucus. There were no reports of doves or fire, but this Pentecost was clearly another act of Republican defiance--not to mention classic Rove, "govern to the base", politicking. Just warms the heart if you ask me.
In the wake of the monumental paddling put to the collective ass of the Republican Party last week, I sincerely thought that the G.O.P. might view its defeat as an opportunity to move away from its conservative Christian base and back toward the center of its purported "big tent"; away from bigotry and back toward inclusion. You know, a lesson learned and all that jazz...Apparently, I was wrong.
Yesterday's national headlines prominently heralded the political resurrection of this man:
Chester Trent Lott, junior senator from the great State of Mississippi (not to mention, founding father of the Singing Senators barbershop quartet), seen here with his 2006 summer intern (who appears to have endulged in one too many pecan pies, by the way). Until 2001, Trent was best known for consistently delivering the "solid south" vote , and consequently, rising to the position of Majority Whip in the Senate. Subsequent to 2001, however, most people know Senator Lott as the disgraced former Whip, the man forced (seriously; he did not volunteer to step down) to resign his leadership post in the wake of the following comments made at the memorial service for fellow legislator and institutional racist, Strom Thurmond:
"I want to say this about my state: When Strom Thurmond ran for president, we voted for him. We're proud of it. And if the rest of the country had followed our lead, we wouldn't have had all these problems over all these years, either."
In addition to marginalizing the citizens of the burgeoning "New South", Senator Lott's patent admiration for a man who ran for president of the United States under an ersatz party banner, whose sole plank was "segregation then, segregation now and segregation forever", put him at the penumbra of even the GOP. And yet...yesterday, after a closed door meeting, Rebublican leadership narrowly voted to resurrect their fallen comrade to 2nd in command of their Senate caucus. There were no reports of doves or fire, but this Pentecost was clearly another act of Republican defiance--not to mention classic Rove, "govern to the base", politicking. Just warms the heart if you ask me.
Labels: Dirrty Dirrty, fat fucks, politics, Trent Lott
My mother needs her eyes checked
I was catching up with my mom via phone the other day and somehow the conversation found its way to recent events in the P-N-Dub, specifically the Spanaway man who was imprisoned for fucking his family's Pit Bull. My mother was laughing with me about it, and then got serious, saying:
"What I don't understand is why he did it in the first place. I mean, he was a very good looking guy."
Riiiiiight, Mom...because usually only ugly people pork the family pet. Besides, I don't know about my mother's taste in men. She has been married for 30 years to my devastatingly handsome father, so maybe the years of monogamy have stunted her idea of what is "good looking", because accused caniphile Michael McPhail looks like what would result if Edward Furlong and the lead singer of the Killers had a wild night of meth-addled passion and conceived an unholy hybrid in the form of this future Jerry Springer Show guest:
Good looking?! I think it's time for my mom to suck it up and admit that she needs her glasses all the time, not just when she's reading.
"What I don't understand is why he did it in the first place. I mean, he was a very good looking guy."
Riiiiiight, Mom...because usually only ugly people pork the family pet. Besides, I don't know about my mother's taste in men. She has been married for 30 years to my devastatingly handsome father, so maybe the years of monogamy have stunted her idea of what is "good looking", because accused caniphile Michael McPhail looks like what would result if Edward Furlong and the lead singer of the Killers had a wild night of meth-addled passion and conceived an unholy hybrid in the form of this future Jerry Springer Show guest:
Good looking?! I think it's time for my mom to suck it up and admit that she needs her glasses all the time, not just when she's reading.
Labels: bestiality, oh the horror, P-N-Dub, perversion, PWT
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Ladies look out, indeed
Apparently trying to extort $30 million and custody of Sean Preston and Jayden James out of Britney Spears by threatening to release their sex tape on the internet is not the only classy move the FedEx is making with regard to handling his divorce proceedings. The perenially informative publication Us Weekly reports that at one of his sparsely attended concerts recently, Federlame took a Sharpie to his dressing room's shower door and scrawled this triumphant freedom cry/touching reiteration of his commitment to being a good father/response to his wife's petition for dissolution of marriage/dire threat to the women of planet Earth in his toddleresque penmanship:
Consider me warned and actively looking out. If I see that cornrowed parasite coming anywhere near me I'll be looking out for a free clinic to get some prophylactic anti-herpetic like Valtrex, as well as a broad-spectrum antibiotic and some delousing powder just for good measure. As a microbiologist, I'm well aware that most STDs can't be transmitted by casual contact or proximity alone, but you can never be too careful around guys like the unshaven greaseball above. His look just oozes "potentially pathogenic", and I'm not taking any chances.
Consider me warned and actively looking out. If I see that cornrowed parasite coming anywhere near me I'll be looking out for a free clinic to get some prophylactic anti-herpetic like Valtrex, as well as a broad-spectrum antibiotic and some delousing powder just for good measure. As a microbiologist, I'm well aware that most STDs can't be transmitted by casual contact or proximity alone, but you can never be too careful around guys like the unshaven greaseball above. His look just oozes "potentially pathogenic", and I'm not taking any chances.
Labels: celebrities, Kevin Federline, oh the horror, PWT, retard rage
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
From the Smith College vault: Tangling with the Dead Gays
People seem to like my stories about Smith, and since very little has gone on with me lately besides work, work, work (and who the hell wants to hear about my mice? NOBODY, myself included), I figured that I would relate one instead of talking about how lame my life is at present. Besides, I was thinking of this because that fat little bastard Chingy! got into a box that had some of my old college photos and letters in it, and cleaning up the destroyed remnants of assorted college treasures (such as the masticated remnants of my old Metallica And Justice For All tape) that he scattered all over the floor inspired a wave of reminiscing. I ended up grabbing my old binder of my newspaper clippings from my Smith days and leafing through it.
My senior year, I wrote a column for The Sophian, our page-turner of a newspaper, called "Angie's Weekly Rant," which was sort of the proto-RazzyBlog, except with less swearing. Since I was the associate editor, I would strongarm the editorial board into letting me write about whatever the fuck I felt like. This meant that every week, I would get half a page in the Op/Ed section to bitch about whatever was pissing me off that week. That meant that sometimes I tackled "real" issues (ie: articles entitled "Family weekend is a crock") and other times I just tore apart people who I didn't like (ie: "Morrow: Worst of the Quad"). Right before Christmas 1999, the Y2K hysteria was in full effect, and I decided to compile a list of reasons why I hoped the world was ending. It was like the Razzy version of Martin Luther's nailing his theses to the cathedral at Wittenburg, but instead of complaining about the selling of indulgences, simony, lay investiture, etc., I took issue with virtually every flavor of stupid cunt at Smith. I had 99 problems, and a bitch could account for every single one of them.
(P.S. I know this didn't scan well but that's what you get when you pay <$100 for a shitty HP printer/copier/scanner)
In this article, "Waiting patiently for the Apocalypse", I basically had a bulleted list of all the things that make me mad or annoy me, such as "annoying introspective female folk/pop singers", "MTV game shows which simulate our judicial system", "Jewel's burgeoning career as a poet and actress," "idiotic discourse on how to shave your pubic hair on the Smith Daily Jolt (Smith-specific internet bulletin/message board)," and "dirty hippies." Like I said, this was the proto-RazzyBlog. Anyway, one of the things I listed was "dead gay performance art," which immediately got me into hot water with the Dead Gays.
Every year there was a party in the Quad, where I lived, called Celebration of Sisterhood. It was started in response to a "homophobic incident" in the early 90s, where some retarded cow started distributing signs that said something along the lines of "Smithies, reclaim your pearls and penny loafers!", insinuating that the increasingly vocal lesbian population on campus had no business being at Smith, and that the college would be better served to hearken back to a time when it was a blueblooded finishing school producing mainly upper crust wives and suicidal poets. I mean, what would Anne Morrow Lindbergh or Nancy Reagan say about all these muff divers running around with their shaved heads, Doc Martens, and pride rings?!?!
Anyway, the lesbians and "allies" (straight people who are down with the gays) fought back by staging the Celebration of Sisterhood, which was a combined candlelight vigil/Quad house sketch comedy and talent show. Mainly it was an excuse to get drunk and feel all warm and fuzzy about getting along with people, as well as an excellent opportunity for the curious to give kissing a girl a try. However, my senior year, a group of pretentious snatches decided that Celebration of Sisterhood was sending the wrong message, and decided to crash it.
All of a sudden, Wilson House was in the middle of a skit about acceptance or whatever, when all these bitches storm the stage wearing black robes and white skeleton-esque face paint. Their costumes looked like a cross between a Carmelite nun and the Halloween costumes that Johnny and his henchman from the Kobra Kai dojo wear in the first part of The Karate Kid, where they beat the living shit out of Daniel-san.
Anyway, these people started swarming through the crowd handing out flyers that said "Resist heteronormativity!" and "Marriage=Death", then performed some type of grim funerary wedding mock ritual thing...I think. I remember not having any idea what the fuck they were doing, while simultaneously my Smith Dumb Bitch detector was going berserk. When they left the stage, I think they were all congratulating themselves at having done something revolutionary and groundbreaking. However, most of the people in the crowd were just puzzled, not having any idea what their point was. Were they against straight people? Or marriage? Or gay people acting straight? Or gay marriage? What were they getting at? Was "heteronormativity" even a real fucking word?? Their propaganda sheets and presentation were unclear and confusing, so people just shrugged and went back to the cute "we're sisters...yay!"-themed skits and then got drunk and fingerbanged their friends, or whatever. I probably went back to my room and took bong hits and then hit a bar with my boyfriend Benzo.
Anyway, a couple days later, the people behind this disruption identified themselves in the school events calendar as the Dead Gays, and scheduled a "panel teach-in" about their message to clarify why in the hell they interrupted Celebration of Sisterhood. Much to their disappointment, nobody showed up except most of the Sophian editorial staff, who apart from being there to report the story, had been having lots of fun at the Dead Gays' expense during editorial board meetings. The girl who was reporting the news story asked the who, what, when, where, how, and most importantly, why questions, and they went off on some incomprehensible tirade about "performance art pieces facilitating a revolution against conformity" that made no sense. Every time the news reporter would ask, "So, was this intended as art, or as a political statement?" she'd get a bullshit answer like "Neither, and both," and then a heaping helping of condescending artfag gibberish.
Then it was my turn. I raised my hand and began with, "I'm Razzy, and I write an opinion column in the Sophian, and I have a few que-"
The Head Dead Gay in charge raised her hand to silence me (thus instantly earning my eternal disdain), then said in her frostiest possible tone, "We know who you are."
Hmmm....I guess the Dead Gays, some of whom lived in Talbot House, didn't like the article I wrote about their Immorality party in which I discussed their "infirm physiques", their "mediocre DJ and unfriendly, extremely paranoid bartenders," and quoted a male partygoer complaining about "too many fat girls in tight clothes, the girl pouring the keg had a happy strip bigger than mine". It's also possible that they were pissed off by one or more of my many other Sophian editorials, most of which had titles like "Veganism fails to stop human suffering" and "Keep depleting that ozone", not to mention my status as the paper's official "Republican" (I was the closest thing to an actual Republican, what with my ideas about small government and lower taxes, and I liked McCain) in the political point-counterpoint section. In any event, the Dead Gays made their dislike for me quite clear.
"Okay," I said, preparing myself for a hostile exchange. "So, what exactly was the point of your little performance?"
"It was a performance art piece," said the Head Dead Gay.
"Yes, I heard that, but what exactly was it about? What did you hope to accomplish with it?" I asked.
Head Dead Gay and her cohorts all looked at each other and rolled their eyes, then started rattling off more nonsensical bullshit about how performance art doesn't have to have a point, as it is just a means of expression. "What were you trying to express?" I asked. It went on like this for several minutes, with them getting becoming more convoluted and patronizing by the second, and me getting progressively more irritated by the bitch's tone.
I should have known better than to expect any kind of straight answer from the Dead Gays. The Head Dead Gay was this artsy BDOC (Big Dyke on Campus) named K8 Hardy. I'm sure her name was originally Katherine or something, but undoubtedly spelling her name in the style of a text message gave her some authentic artist street cred. It's lucky that K8 has continued her career as a pretentious artfag, because there is no shortage of pictures of her dressed like a fucking idiot when you Google "K8 Hardy".
For example, in this photo, she manages to offset her crotchless pants with the face and hair of the walking dead. I'm betting she totally hired one of George A. Romero's effects guys to style this shoot. I can almost hear her thinking, "Come on, K8, channel your inner uppity feminist zombie, channel it!"
There's also this downright disgusting picture of K8's lopsided tits and stank crotch. I honestly can't tell if that's her gash I can see through these underwear or a fresh period stain, but either way, EWWWW! I just lost my appetite. I love me some naked chicks, but I'd say this definitely falls under the rubric of BAD NUDITY. Close your legs, ho, and while you're at it, SHAVE THEM!
If you just swallowed your vomit, then relax, this next picture isn't gross, unless you're disgusted by shameless plagiarism and unnecessary displays of tricep definition. It's just K8 Hardy biting the personal style of Jeffrey Sebelia, equally smug deconstructionist tool and "Project Runway" winner:
And this last one, in which K8 Hardy attends the annual outdoor costume picnic of the American Association of Performance Tardists dressed as a combination of Kermit the Frog, that guy from A Clockwork Orange, and Stands with a Fist from Dances With Wolves, is my favorite. Bitch totally stuffed her codpiece. Wait for it, wait for it...
Anyway, that's the Head Dead Gay. She was such an insufferably obnoxious cunt at the Dead Gays' "panel teach-in" that I immediately added a line in my Sophian column about the end of the world listing "Dead Gay performance art" as a reason why I was eagerly waiting for the Apocalypse.
The Dead Gays were not pleased about this. For one thing, the news article about them was very small and, since they didn't give us a coherent explanation about whatever the hell it was they were trying to accomplish besides getting people's undivided (and totally befuddled) attention, it made it sound as though that were the only point they were trying to make. For another, I think they were pissed that they were included on my pro-Apocalypse list between "the Zappa children" and "aerosol cheese," as it all meant that we DIDN'T TAKE THEM SERIOUSLY.
For the rest of the year, the Dead Gays tried all sorts of passive aggressive shit to get back at us. After Senior Ball, they showed up at the afterparty LL Cool Jew and Wmania were having at their campus apartment and tried to bring in this giant cardboard wave decoration thing they stole from the dance (Senior Ball's theme was "Enchantment Under the Sea"...just like in Back to the Future, I shit you not). They were causing all sorts of trouble by being assholes to all of the guests. I remember getting into it with K8 Hardy and her monstrously fat, mustachioed dyke-along Monica, and being about this close to bathing them in my bottom-shelf gin and tonic. Finally, Wmania had enough, got bossy, and told them to leave. When they refused, she took the big cardboard wave they brought and threw it off the back staircase. When they went after it, she locked them out.
The night before we graduated, I threw a party on the Jordan second floor and those bitches showed up to drink the keg beer I bought with my "Award for excellence in research in microbiology and immunology" prize money. Since we had to move out soon, my shit was all over my room in the packing process. Those skanks brazenly walked into my room and started competing in feats of strength involving lifting my deer head. My deer head is one of my most prized possessions (it's still on my wall to this day), even if it is only a 6-point buck, so I'd be damned if it was going to get a cracked antler or something at the hands of a Dead Gay. I tossed them out with the help of the rest of the party (I think that one of the townies there may have given them an impromptu beer shower), and pretty much forgot about them.
However, when I attended my two-year reunion (Smith has reunions all the time to milk the alumnae for the sake of our endowment), LL Cool Jew brought us to some campus party in the very apartment where KatieScarlett and Miss Corbutt used to live. I quickly realized whose party it was...Monica, K8 Hardy's obese sidekick. She was still fat, still ugly, and still hadn't waxed off her pube 'stache. Fortunately, Benzo's stepbrother and his male friends from Vassar were with us, and they were fucking with so many Smith girls that ultimately Public Safety kicked us all out. On our way out, Wmania and I managed to swipe some typed up "sexual manifesto" off their apartment corkboard, which we read aloud outside to our hysterical drunken delight. Given that it was three pages of bad metaphors about lady unicorns in caves, it was apparent that this bitch had never had sex beyond the few times when she likely had too much peach schnapps and engaged in some reckless boobmashing with some equally repellant demi-Dead Gay.
According to Google, K8 Hardy lives in New York, so it's always possible that I could run into her. In fact, being that I associate with some artfags myself (although KatieScarlett and BloodyTosser are actually good at what they do and are not so pretentious as to try to claim that pictures of some old pervert whacking off is anything but a jerker, and Miss Corbutt doesn't really frequent the artfag circuit), it's always possible that our paths could cross at some sort of art function. If and when I see K8, I'm going to hope that narcissistic slut has come across this by Googling herself, so that we can throw down just like back in the 'Hamp. It's ALWAYS good times fucking with stupid Smith bitches. Always.
My senior year, I wrote a column for The Sophian, our page-turner of a newspaper, called "Angie's Weekly Rant," which was sort of the proto-RazzyBlog, except with less swearing. Since I was the associate editor, I would strongarm the editorial board into letting me write about whatever the fuck I felt like. This meant that every week, I would get half a page in the Op/Ed section to bitch about whatever was pissing me off that week. That meant that sometimes I tackled "real" issues (ie: articles entitled "Family weekend is a crock") and other times I just tore apart people who I didn't like (ie: "Morrow: Worst of the Quad"). Right before Christmas 1999, the Y2K hysteria was in full effect, and I decided to compile a list of reasons why I hoped the world was ending. It was like the Razzy version of Martin Luther's nailing his theses to the cathedral at Wittenburg, but instead of complaining about the selling of indulgences, simony, lay investiture, etc., I took issue with virtually every flavor of stupid cunt at Smith. I had 99 problems, and a bitch could account for every single one of them.
(P.S. I know this didn't scan well but that's what you get when you pay <$100 for a shitty HP printer/copier/scanner)
In this article, "Waiting patiently for the Apocalypse", I basically had a bulleted list of all the things that make me mad or annoy me, such as "annoying introspective female folk/pop singers", "MTV game shows which simulate our judicial system", "Jewel's burgeoning career as a poet and actress," "idiotic discourse on how to shave your pubic hair on the Smith Daily Jolt (Smith-specific internet bulletin/message board)," and "dirty hippies." Like I said, this was the proto-RazzyBlog. Anyway, one of the things I listed was "dead gay performance art," which immediately got me into hot water with the Dead Gays.
Every year there was a party in the Quad, where I lived, called Celebration of Sisterhood. It was started in response to a "homophobic incident" in the early 90s, where some retarded cow started distributing signs that said something along the lines of "Smithies, reclaim your pearls and penny loafers!", insinuating that the increasingly vocal lesbian population on campus had no business being at Smith, and that the college would be better served to hearken back to a time when it was a blueblooded finishing school producing mainly upper crust wives and suicidal poets. I mean, what would Anne Morrow Lindbergh or Nancy Reagan say about all these muff divers running around with their shaved heads, Doc Martens, and pride rings?!?!
Anyway, the lesbians and "allies" (straight people who are down with the gays) fought back by staging the Celebration of Sisterhood, which was a combined candlelight vigil/Quad house sketch comedy and talent show. Mainly it was an excuse to get drunk and feel all warm and fuzzy about getting along with people, as well as an excellent opportunity for the curious to give kissing a girl a try. However, my senior year, a group of pretentious snatches decided that Celebration of Sisterhood was sending the wrong message, and decided to crash it.
All of a sudden, Wilson House was in the middle of a skit about acceptance or whatever, when all these bitches storm the stage wearing black robes and white skeleton-esque face paint. Their costumes looked like a cross between a Carmelite nun and the Halloween costumes that Johnny and his henchman from the Kobra Kai dojo wear in the first part of The Karate Kid, where they beat the living shit out of Daniel-san.
Anyway, these people started swarming through the crowd handing out flyers that said "Resist heteronormativity!" and "Marriage=Death", then performed some type of grim funerary wedding mock ritual thing...I think. I remember not having any idea what the fuck they were doing, while simultaneously my Smith Dumb Bitch detector was going berserk. When they left the stage, I think they were all congratulating themselves at having done something revolutionary and groundbreaking. However, most of the people in the crowd were just puzzled, not having any idea what their point was. Were they against straight people? Or marriage? Or gay people acting straight? Or gay marriage? What were they getting at? Was "heteronormativity" even a real fucking word?? Their propaganda sheets and presentation were unclear and confusing, so people just shrugged and went back to the cute "we're sisters...yay!"-themed skits and then got drunk and fingerbanged their friends, or whatever. I probably went back to my room and took bong hits and then hit a bar with my boyfriend Benzo.
Anyway, a couple days later, the people behind this disruption identified themselves in the school events calendar as the Dead Gays, and scheduled a "panel teach-in" about their message to clarify why in the hell they interrupted Celebration of Sisterhood. Much to their disappointment, nobody showed up except most of the Sophian editorial staff, who apart from being there to report the story, had been having lots of fun at the Dead Gays' expense during editorial board meetings. The girl who was reporting the news story asked the who, what, when, where, how, and most importantly, why questions, and they went off on some incomprehensible tirade about "performance art pieces facilitating a revolution against conformity" that made no sense. Every time the news reporter would ask, "So, was this intended as art, or as a political statement?" she'd get a bullshit answer like "Neither, and both," and then a heaping helping of condescending artfag gibberish.
Then it was my turn. I raised my hand and began with, "I'm Razzy, and I write an opinion column in the Sophian, and I have a few que-"
The Head Dead Gay in charge raised her hand to silence me (thus instantly earning my eternal disdain), then said in her frostiest possible tone, "We know who you are."
Hmmm....I guess the Dead Gays, some of whom lived in Talbot House, didn't like the article I wrote about their Immorality party in which I discussed their "infirm physiques", their "mediocre DJ and unfriendly, extremely paranoid bartenders," and quoted a male partygoer complaining about "too many fat girls in tight clothes, the girl pouring the keg had a happy strip bigger than mine". It's also possible that they were pissed off by one or more of my many other Sophian editorials, most of which had titles like "Veganism fails to stop human suffering" and "Keep depleting that ozone", not to mention my status as the paper's official "Republican" (I was the closest thing to an actual Republican, what with my ideas about small government and lower taxes, and I liked McCain) in the political point-counterpoint section. In any event, the Dead Gays made their dislike for me quite clear.
"Okay," I said, preparing myself for a hostile exchange. "So, what exactly was the point of your little performance?"
"It was a performance art piece," said the Head Dead Gay.
"Yes, I heard that, but what exactly was it about? What did you hope to accomplish with it?" I asked.
Head Dead Gay and her cohorts all looked at each other and rolled their eyes, then started rattling off more nonsensical bullshit about how performance art doesn't have to have a point, as it is just a means of expression. "What were you trying to express?" I asked. It went on like this for several minutes, with them getting becoming more convoluted and patronizing by the second, and me getting progressively more irritated by the bitch's tone.
I should have known better than to expect any kind of straight answer from the Dead Gays. The Head Dead Gay was this artsy BDOC (Big Dyke on Campus) named K8 Hardy. I'm sure her name was originally Katherine or something, but undoubtedly spelling her name in the style of a text message gave her some authentic artist street cred. It's lucky that K8 has continued her career as a pretentious artfag, because there is no shortage of pictures of her dressed like a fucking idiot when you Google "K8 Hardy".
For example, in this photo, she manages to offset her crotchless pants with the face and hair of the walking dead. I'm betting she totally hired one of George A. Romero's effects guys to style this shoot. I can almost hear her thinking, "Come on, K8, channel your inner uppity feminist zombie, channel it!"
If you just swallowed your vomit, then relax, this next picture isn't gross, unless you're disgusted by shameless plagiarism and unnecessary displays of tricep definition. It's just K8 Hardy biting the personal style of Jeffrey Sebelia, equally smug deconstructionist tool and "Project Runway" winner:Anyway, that's the Head Dead Gay. She was such an insufferably obnoxious cunt at the Dead Gays' "panel teach-in" that I immediately added a line in my Sophian column about the end of the world listing "Dead Gay performance art" as a reason why I was eagerly waiting for the Apocalypse.
The Dead Gays were not pleased about this. For one thing, the news article about them was very small and, since they didn't give us a coherent explanation about whatever the hell it was they were trying to accomplish besides getting people's undivided (and totally befuddled) attention, it made it sound as though that were the only point they were trying to make. For another, I think they were pissed that they were included on my pro-Apocalypse list between "the Zappa children" and "aerosol cheese," as it all meant that we DIDN'T TAKE THEM SERIOUSLY.
For the rest of the year, the Dead Gays tried all sorts of passive aggressive shit to get back at us. After Senior Ball, they showed up at the afterparty LL Cool Jew and Wmania were having at their campus apartment and tried to bring in this giant cardboard wave decoration thing they stole from the dance (Senior Ball's theme was "Enchantment Under the Sea"...just like in Back to the Future, I shit you not). They were causing all sorts of trouble by being assholes to all of the guests. I remember getting into it with K8 Hardy and her monstrously fat, mustachioed dyke-along Monica, and being about this close to bathing them in my bottom-shelf gin and tonic. Finally, Wmania had enough, got bossy, and told them to leave. When they refused, she took the big cardboard wave they brought and threw it off the back staircase. When they went after it, she locked them out.
The night before we graduated, I threw a party on the Jordan second floor and those bitches showed up to drink the keg beer I bought with my "Award for excellence in research in microbiology and immunology" prize money. Since we had to move out soon, my shit was all over my room in the packing process. Those skanks brazenly walked into my room and started competing in feats of strength involving lifting my deer head. My deer head is one of my most prized possessions (it's still on my wall to this day), even if it is only a 6-point buck, so I'd be damned if it was going to get a cracked antler or something at the hands of a Dead Gay. I tossed them out with the help of the rest of the party (I think that one of the townies there may have given them an impromptu beer shower), and pretty much forgot about them.
However, when I attended my two-year reunion (Smith has reunions all the time to milk the alumnae for the sake of our endowment), LL Cool Jew brought us to some campus party in the very apartment where KatieScarlett and Miss Corbutt used to live. I quickly realized whose party it was...Monica, K8 Hardy's obese sidekick. She was still fat, still ugly, and still hadn't waxed off her pube 'stache. Fortunately, Benzo's stepbrother and his male friends from Vassar were with us, and they were fucking with so many Smith girls that ultimately Public Safety kicked us all out. On our way out, Wmania and I managed to swipe some typed up "sexual manifesto" off their apartment corkboard, which we read aloud outside to our hysterical drunken delight. Given that it was three pages of bad metaphors about lady unicorns in caves, it was apparent that this bitch had never had sex beyond the few times when she likely had too much peach schnapps and engaged in some reckless boobmashing with some equally repellant demi-Dead Gay.
According to Google, K8 Hardy lives in New York, so it's always possible that I could run into her. In fact, being that I associate with some artfags myself (although KatieScarlett and BloodyTosser are actually good at what they do and are not so pretentious as to try to claim that pictures of some old pervert whacking off is anything but a jerker, and Miss Corbutt doesn't really frequent the artfag circuit), it's always possible that our paths could cross at some sort of art function. If and when I see K8, I'm going to hope that narcissistic slut has come across this by Googling herself, so that we can throw down just like back in the 'Hamp. It's ALWAYS good times fucking with stupid Smith bitches. Always.
Labels: Dumb Smith bitches, feminazism, Razzification, retard rage, Smith College Vault, stank vaginas
Monday, November 13, 2006
Fucking spam
It seems that as my traffic has increased, so has the amount of e-mail I get. I'm always excited to read e-mail that some stranger has written me about the website, as whether good or bad (ie: Paula James or Ryan Benser), it generally amuses me. However, along with more frequent e-mails from people who are actually reading my site and reacting to it, I ALSO get a shitload more spam.
Spammers these days are getting more adept at sneaking their wares past spam filters, and the poorly supported mail program utilized by my hosting company doesn't put up much of a fight. This is what my inbox looked like today:
I deduced immediately, based on either the name of the e-mailer (I don't believe ANYONE is named "Centimeter L. Franciscan") or the subject that this was all spam. The only e-mail I was kind of psyched to see was the one from Edgar Martinez, retired Seattle Mariners designated hitter, saying hi to me. When I opened it, though, it wasn't 'Gar telling me in his cute broken English that he likes my useless bullshit, but yet another harebrained investment scheme involving shares in some possibly fictional timber company.
I'd REALLY like to know who falls for this crap. Are there really people in the world stupid enough to get stock tips from strangers with names like Vender E. Prehistory and Comet Q. Reforest? Certainly I'm continually impressed by the new levels of stupidity that some people are able to achieve, but I would think that at the very least these idiots' stockbrokers would mention that e-mailed spam is not the best place to get sound investment strategies. Furthermore, I would think that most dudes realize that products which claim to "help you to shoot more and more" DON'T WORK (and are pointless anyway, as while women want their male partners to be able to be ready for more frequent consecutive fornication, I've never heard of a chick who wished their man could ejaculate a larger volume...what's the point of that?). Even if a man does have some penis insecurity which would lead him to fall for such a stupid sales ruse, I would think that after purchasing these undoubtedly ineffective products (and possibly having his identity stolen in the process) he would realize what a waste of time and money they are. Is it possible that, even with my VERY low opinion of humanity's general intellect, I've overestimated the intelligence of stupid people?
Since I still get spam, presumably it's still making people like Janaye Carmita and Finances.com Acrimonious money somewhere. I'm really sick of it, though, because I have to sift through each piece painstakingly to determine that it is indeed spam and not some Razzyphile (or hater) trying to give me their two cents. Also, it can be an emotional roller coaster, as with the aforemention mail from Edgar Martinez, in which I get flushed with excitement, only to be emotionally crushed when I realize it's yet another bullshit spam scam and not a former beloved Mariner idling away his retirement reading RAZZY.org. Fucking spam! It's damaging me.
Spammers these days are getting more adept at sneaking their wares past spam filters, and the poorly supported mail program utilized by my hosting company doesn't put up much of a fight. This is what my inbox looked like today:
I deduced immediately, based on either the name of the e-mailer (I don't believe ANYONE is named "Centimeter L. Franciscan") or the subject that this was all spam. The only e-mail I was kind of psyched to see was the one from Edgar Martinez, retired Seattle Mariners designated hitter, saying hi to me. When I opened it, though, it wasn't 'Gar telling me in his cute broken English that he likes my useless bullshit, but yet another harebrained investment scheme involving shares in some possibly fictional timber company.
I'd REALLY like to know who falls for this crap. Are there really people in the world stupid enough to get stock tips from strangers with names like Vender E. Prehistory and Comet Q. Reforest? Certainly I'm continually impressed by the new levels of stupidity that some people are able to achieve, but I would think that at the very least these idiots' stockbrokers would mention that e-mailed spam is not the best place to get sound investment strategies. Furthermore, I would think that most dudes realize that products which claim to "help you to shoot more and more" DON'T WORK (and are pointless anyway, as while women want their male partners to be able to be ready for more frequent consecutive fornication, I've never heard of a chick who wished their man could ejaculate a larger volume...what's the point of that?). Even if a man does have some penis insecurity which would lead him to fall for such a stupid sales ruse, I would think that after purchasing these undoubtedly ineffective products (and possibly having his identity stolen in the process) he would realize what a waste of time and money they are. Is it possible that, even with my VERY low opinion of humanity's general intellect, I've overestimated the intelligence of stupid people?
Since I still get spam, presumably it's still making people like Janaye Carmita and Finances.com Acrimonious money somewhere. I'm really sick of it, though, because I have to sift through each piece painstakingly to determine that it is indeed spam and not some Razzyphile (or hater) trying to give me their two cents. Also, it can be an emotional roller coaster, as with the aforemention mail from Edgar Martinez, in which I get flushed with excitement, only to be emotionally crushed when I realize it's yet another bullshit spam scam and not a former beloved Mariner idling away his retirement reading RAZZY.org. Fucking spam! It's damaging me.
Labels: correspondence, crime and punishment, ranting, retard rage
Friday, November 10, 2006
Poppin' Razzy's thangs
I've gotten several queries about my feelings regarding Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson. Why does he hold #1 boyfriend status? Why is he your top MySpace friend? Don't you know he's gay?
Well, yes, but that's not the point. If anyone still has any doubts about 50's status on the down low, you should check out his Vitamin Water bus ads, which feature a ribbed mock turtleneck-clad 50 carrying a New York Times, a bottle of Formula 50, and a Jack Russell terrier beneath the caption "No groupies, no rented mansion, just 50." Since I couldn't find a picture of that on the internet (reason #457 why I desperately need a digital camera), here is the next best thing, a screen capture from the Vitamin Water website about his signature grape-flavored health beverage. How much you want to bet the ad exec who wrote this got paid extra for every authentic rap word they managed to incorporate in the text? I mean, "a cheddar check-in with the accountants"? Come ON.
Anyway, in spite of his faggy beverage endorsements, the reasons I love 50 so much are so numerous I could fill a large tome. Nobody wants to read that, so I'll just explain the genesis of my 50 adoration. I first became interested in him after seeing the G-Unit's "Poppin Them Thangs" video. The premise of this video is that the Gorilla Unit is a high-powered heavy hitter in the world of international organized crime, and they are attending a meeting with a number of bigwigs presumably inspired by Grand Theft Auto games.
Somehow we are supposed to believe that 50 Cent, accompanied by his henchmen Lloyd Banks and Young Buck, is the leader of the G-Unit branch of this global crime syndicate. The camera pans around the table and the viewer is introduced to the various criminal overlords of the Japanese Yakuza, the Russian Mafiya, some random Colombian cartel, the Chinese Triad, the Hell's Angels, the Don Whatever family of New York, and...the G-Unit. Then the boys from G-Unit start rapping, and it's immediately apparent why they are included in this group. 50 starts off the song by talking about how he beat up his baby mama for cussing him out after the 2002 VMAs, how he cuts the grass where he walks so you can see his sneakers, which female R&B singers he wants to bang (good luck with Missy Elliott, dude...everyone knows she's a big old lesbo), and accessorizing cars with his clothes. Lloyd Banks and Young Buck then clarify that they are out for vengeance (against who and for what is unclear), as Lloyd says "I'm out for revenge like one of Bin Laden's cousins" and Buck says, "On the front of the Maybach it say 'payback'". I am still not sure what the G-Unit brings to the metaphorical table at this clandestine warehouse meeting of the high-powered criminal underworld, but I guess it has something to do with drug dealing, as right after Lloyd Banks brags about a woman who had his balls head first like a soccer star, he says something about how he "takes care of birds like an animal doctor." I suppose that given Tony Yayo was in absentia due to being in prison for the extremely gangsta crime of possessing a phony passport, the G-Unit is also useful for their expertise at forgery.
It seems that the other criminal leaders are not fond of 50 Cent and the G-Unit, because his "theatrics" are "bad for business." 50 doesn't care, and announces that he "wants in" on the myriad illicit money-making schemes, such as "sanitation contracts in Chicago" and "corporate takeovers in Japan." The other leaders oppose this, so 50 invites half of Jamaica, Queens to the warehouse, scaring everyone and paving the way for Tony Yayo to own a trucking company as a front for more sordid enterprises.
Anyway, just watch it for yourself, because this video is absurd and hilarious, and after seeing it, I immediately made a point to familiarize myself with all of 50's greatest achievements. Then I fell in love. And that's why 50 is my main man. If he's not yours after watching this, then there's something wrong with you.
Well, yes, but that's not the point. If anyone still has any doubts about 50's status on the down low, you should check out his Vitamin Water bus ads, which feature a ribbed mock turtleneck-clad 50 carrying a New York Times, a bottle of Formula 50, and a Jack Russell terrier beneath the caption "No groupies, no rented mansion, just 50." Since I couldn't find a picture of that on the internet (reason #457 why I desperately need a digital camera), here is the next best thing, a screen capture from the Vitamin Water website about his signature grape-flavored health beverage. How much you want to bet the ad exec who wrote this got paid extra for every authentic rap word they managed to incorporate in the text? I mean, "a cheddar check-in with the accountants"? Come ON.
Anyway, in spite of his faggy beverage endorsements, the reasons I love 50 so much are so numerous I could fill a large tome. Nobody wants to read that, so I'll just explain the genesis of my 50 adoration. I first became interested in him after seeing the G-Unit's "Poppin Them Thangs" video. The premise of this video is that the Gorilla Unit is a high-powered heavy hitter in the world of international organized crime, and they are attending a meeting with a number of bigwigs presumably inspired by Grand Theft Auto games.
Somehow we are supposed to believe that 50 Cent, accompanied by his henchmen Lloyd Banks and Young Buck, is the leader of the G-Unit branch of this global crime syndicate. The camera pans around the table and the viewer is introduced to the various criminal overlords of the Japanese Yakuza, the Russian Mafiya, some random Colombian cartel, the Chinese Triad, the Hell's Angels, the Don Whatever family of New York, and...the G-Unit. Then the boys from G-Unit start rapping, and it's immediately apparent why they are included in this group. 50 starts off the song by talking about how he beat up his baby mama for cussing him out after the 2002 VMAs, how he cuts the grass where he walks so you can see his sneakers, which female R&B singers he wants to bang (good luck with Missy Elliott, dude...everyone knows she's a big old lesbo), and accessorizing cars with his clothes. Lloyd Banks and Young Buck then clarify that they are out for vengeance (against who and for what is unclear), as Lloyd says "I'm out for revenge like one of Bin Laden's cousins" and Buck says, "On the front of the Maybach it say 'payback'". I am still not sure what the G-Unit brings to the metaphorical table at this clandestine warehouse meeting of the high-powered criminal underworld, but I guess it has something to do with drug dealing, as right after Lloyd Banks brags about a woman who had his balls head first like a soccer star, he says something about how he "takes care of birds like an animal doctor." I suppose that given Tony Yayo was in absentia due to being in prison for the extremely gangsta crime of possessing a phony passport, the G-Unit is also useful for their expertise at forgery.
It seems that the other criminal leaders are not fond of 50 Cent and the G-Unit, because his "theatrics" are "bad for business." 50 doesn't care, and announces that he "wants in" on the myriad illicit money-making schemes, such as "sanitation contracts in Chicago" and "corporate takeovers in Japan." The other leaders oppose this, so 50 invites half of Jamaica, Queens to the warehouse, scaring everyone and paving the way for Tony Yayo to own a trucking company as a front for more sordid enterprises.
Anyway, just watch it for yourself, because this video is absurd and hilarious, and after seeing it, I immediately made a point to familiarize myself with all of 50's greatest achievements. Then I fell in love. And that's why 50 is my main man. If he's not yours after watching this, then there's something wrong with you.
Labels: 50 cent, boyfriends, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Election? What election?
Who gives a flying fuck about the shifting balance of power in Congress when YESTERDAY BRITNEY SPEARS FILED FOR DIVORCE FROM KEVIN FEDERLINE!!!
Even better than voting and doing my civic duty yesterday was getting a text from LL Cool Jew reading "Britney files 4 divorce from K-Fed!"
The internet is blowing up about this, and Perez Hilton has even coined a totally awesome new term for Federlame:
Even better, YouTube now has video of the FedEx appearing on MuchMusic (Canada's MTV), talking about how supportive Britney (aka "the wife") is of his career as a piss-poor rapper and instigator/body slam fodder for WWE superstars. The BEST part is when Kevin, while filming some type of reality show, receives a text informing him that Spears just filed for divorce. Now THIS is my kind of reality show, because it doesn't get more real than the look on his face. You almost expect him to start screaming "I'm melting! I'm meeeellllllllltttttinggg!!!!", or possibly making that squeaky, farty noise that helium balloons make when they develop a slow leak. I could watch this part of the video over and over.
Other highlights of this video include Kevin showing off how he retooled the engagement band he gave to Britney into a tacky-ass pinky ring, says that he only goes out partying when he's "beefing with the wife", treats the disinterested audience of Much on Demand (MuchMusic's "TRL") to a showcase of his "music," and talks about how much Britney believes in his talent and the notion that "together we take over the world"...all on the same day Britney's lawyers dropped off her petition for dissolution of marriage down at the courthouse.
Given the barrage of juicy divorce details forthcoming, I could care less about the Virginia and Montana Senate races. This shit is NOT going to be amicable, y'all, but it IS going to be fucking entertaining. And the betting window is OPEN if anyone wants to wager how long it will take FedEx to sign up for the next installment of "The Surreal Life" and/or "Dancing with the Stars."
Even better than voting and doing my civic duty yesterday was getting a text from LL Cool Jew reading "Britney files 4 divorce from K-Fed!"
The internet is blowing up about this, and Perez Hilton has even coined a totally awesome new term for Federlame:
Even better, YouTube now has video of the FedEx appearing on MuchMusic (Canada's MTV), talking about how supportive Britney (aka "the wife") is of his career as a piss-poor rapper and instigator/body slam fodder for WWE superstars. The BEST part is when Kevin, while filming some type of reality show, receives a text informing him that Spears just filed for divorce. Now THIS is my kind of reality show, because it doesn't get more real than the look on his face. You almost expect him to start screaming "I'm melting! I'm meeeellllllllltttttinggg!!!!", or possibly making that squeaky, farty noise that helium balloons make when they develop a slow leak. I could watch this part of the video over and over.
Other highlights of this video include Kevin showing off how he retooled the engagement band he gave to Britney into a tacky-ass pinky ring, says that he only goes out partying when he's "beefing with the wife", treats the disinterested audience of Much on Demand (MuchMusic's "TRL") to a showcase of his "music," and talks about how much Britney believes in his talent and the notion that "together we take over the world"...all on the same day Britney's lawyers dropped off her petition for dissolution of marriage down at the courthouse.
Given the barrage of juicy divorce details forthcoming, I could care less about the Virginia and Montana Senate races. This shit is NOT going to be amicable, y'all, but it IS going to be fucking entertaining. And the betting window is OPEN if anyone wants to wager how long it will take FedEx to sign up for the next installment of "The Surreal Life" and/or "Dancing with the Stars."
Labels: Britney Spears, celebrities, comeuppance, Kevin Federline, LL Cool Jew
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
GO VOTE, YOU LAZY ASSHOLES!
I don't care who you vote for, but it's fucking election day, and I just voted, and you should too.
Labels: civic duty
The 12th Man in NYC
KatieScarlett and I have been commisserating over the past week about how desperately we both wanted some Chinese food. We tried to get some last week, but KatieScarlett's friend from grad school Ms. Hyde was in town visiting and she wanted "bistro fare", so we ended up getting shitfaced on red wine and scotch at The Pink Pony instead. Although it was fun, our bloodlust for Shanghai soup dumplings was unabated, so last night we hit up Mott Street and got our Chinese grub on.
Originally our plan had been to pound Tsingtaos and head up to Union Square to see either Saw III or Borat, but we had such a good time at dinner that we realized we'd missed our movie times once we left. Neither of us could deal with a 10:30 movie, as I had to get home to watch the Seahawks on Monday Night Football and she had to get home because she's been really busy at work, being a small business owner and all. So instead we went over to Winnie's, this really weird little bar in Chinatown that we go to for after-dinner drinks when we're in the neighborhood.
Winnie's is awesome. It's on Baxter Street, nestled in between a SHITTY looking Thai restaurant and a massage parlor across the street from the Tombs, which in case you don't watch "Law and Order" is the New York City jail. Winnie's is always dark, and the proprietress (presumably Winnie) has plastered the area behind the bar with pictures of herself meeting with famous politicians; I could pick out photos of her kicking it with former NYC mayors Ed Koch and Rudy Giuliani, shaking hands with silver fox President William Jefferson Clinton, etc. They serve bizarre drinks with names like "purple mofo", "crazy fuck", "cookie milk", and "blazing dragon," and the bar is always populated mainly by old Chinese men with poor dental hygiene who fight over the MegaTouch machine. We went in, bellied up to the bar, and ordered drinks (scotch and beer...we still have yet to indulge in a "purple mofo"). I was instantly pleased to see that the bar had "Monday Night Countdown" on, and they were talking about whether the Seahawks are suffering the "Super Bowl Losers' Curse", in which the losing Super Bowl team doesn't make the playoffs the year after losing the Big Game, which notably afflicted the Giants in 2001 and the Rams in 2003.
I groused about that for a few minutes to KatieScarlett, and there were a few Chinese dudes loitering about talking football who overheard me. They had been talking about quarterbacks who could run, and speculated whether or not Seneca Wallace would do much scrambling in this game. One of them was comparing him to Michael Vick and "that guy from Philadelphia...what's his name?" Without even thinking or being invited to join their conversation, I said "Donovan McNabb" and then returned to bitching about the Seahawks' recent losses and injury reports. The guys were impressed.
"Do you like the Seahawks?" one little old man with tea-stained, half-rotten teeth asked me.
"Well, I'm from Seattle, so yeah," I said. (To all my peeps from the P-N-Dub, I know I'm not actually from Seattle, but I didn't feel like explaining where Puyallup is.)
The men conferred in Chinese while looking at me appraisingly, then one of the younger guys said, "You're only the second girl I've met EVER who knows anything about football." I was thinking to myself, "You don't know who Donovan McNabb is? PLEASE. Even my mom knows that."
"Football is my favorite sport," I replied. I didn't feel like explaining that I don't just know "anything" about football, but that I am pathologically obsessed with the NFL. KatieScarlett likes her some football, but she's not like me, and I didn't want to be rude and have her sit there while I chatted it up with some guys at the superfan level.
"We love the Seahawks!" said the guy enthusiastically. Then the game started, and when Seneca Wallace connected with Deion Branch for a touchdown and I leapt off my barstool with arms raised, I was not the only one in the bar doing so. The whole bar (except Winnie, who clearly didn't like football and was trying in vain to get KatieScarlett and I to sing some karaoke) was cheering and whooping. Even the guy who was monopolizing the MegaTouch looked up from his game of Erotic Photo Hunt or Funky Monkey or Tri-Towers or whatever to holler his approval.
This was such a refreshing change from the usual New York football bar scene, which typically involves a lot of obnoxious Giants fans, a lot of even more obnoxious Eagles fans, a smattering of despondent, moody Jets fans in dated Chrebet and Testaverde jerseys, and, worst of all, the occasional asshole Shitsburgh Stealers fan. There have only been two times when I was not the only Seahawks fan in the bar, and one of those times was when MillerTime was visiting me. I actually have to import people from the P-N-Dub to have some Seahawks solidarity. The last thing in the world I expected was to walk into Winnie's and find that it's a fucking Seahawks bar!
It's a crying shame that Winnie's has only one TV (well, two, but the other one is dedicated to karaoke), because I'd be there every fucking Sunday if they had a selection of screens and NFL Sunday Ticket. I think I need to find a way for Winnie to meet Tiki Barber or something, so that she'd have a reason to be more accommodating of football watching in her bar. It's GREAT watching a game with people who share your love for a team, and it happens so rarely.
We had to go at the beginning of the second quarter, because I wanted to watch the second half at home and General Tso, legendary warrior that he is, was cutting a swath of destruction through my GI tract. After getting home and taking care of business in the bathroom, and talking more Seahawks with MillerTime on the phone, I received a text message from my ex-boyfriend Benzo, who, being born and raised in Assachusetts, is a Patriots fan. "Your team sucks!" he wrote. I texted him back reminding him saltily of the four interceptions Brady threw the night before in the Pats' loss to the Colts. Fortunately, I didn't have to put up with too much more Seahawks shit-talking because I then gave him a synopsis of the hilarious exchange in the broadcast booth in which former Hawks bust Brian Bosworth gave Joe Theismann a bunch of shit for being too pussy-whipped to ride a motorcycle, and then Tony Kornheiser referenced the Boz's brief stint as an actor in Stone Cold and asked him, "Since your career wasn't nearly as great as you or anyone else thought it was giong to be, do you have any regrets?" But digression aside, the only thing I usually ever hear about the Seahawks in New York is, at best, that nobody cares, and at worst, that they suck. Going to Winnie's and finding a cozy little enclave of Seahawks fans, whether speaking broken English or not, made my entire fucking week.
And the Hawks won an ugly game, primarily because Oakland has one of the worst offenses I've seen in years and became the only team to get shut out twice in one season on Monday Night Football, but the Hawks won nonetheless. The Seahawks are 5-3, Shaun Alexander is probably coming back next week, and the NFC West is a total shitshow anyway so I've got high hopes for avoiding the "Super Bowl Losers Curse." And I've got high hopes that I'll return to Winnie's sometime during a Seahawks game!
Originally our plan had been to pound Tsingtaos and head up to Union Square to see either Saw III or Borat, but we had such a good time at dinner that we realized we'd missed our movie times once we left. Neither of us could deal with a 10:30 movie, as I had to get home to watch the Seahawks on Monday Night Football and she had to get home because she's been really busy at work, being a small business owner and all. So instead we went over to Winnie's, this really weird little bar in Chinatown that we go to for after-dinner drinks when we're in the neighborhood.
Winnie's is awesome. It's on Baxter Street, nestled in between a SHITTY looking Thai restaurant and a massage parlor across the street from the Tombs, which in case you don't watch "Law and Order" is the New York City jail. Winnie's is always dark, and the proprietress (presumably Winnie) has plastered the area behind the bar with pictures of herself meeting with famous politicians; I could pick out photos of her kicking it with former NYC mayors Ed Koch and Rudy Giuliani, shaking hands with silver fox President William Jefferson Clinton, etc. They serve bizarre drinks with names like "purple mofo", "crazy fuck", "cookie milk", and "blazing dragon," and the bar is always populated mainly by old Chinese men with poor dental hygiene who fight over the MegaTouch machine. We went in, bellied up to the bar, and ordered drinks (scotch and beer...we still have yet to indulge in a "purple mofo"). I was instantly pleased to see that the bar had "Monday Night Countdown" on, and they were talking about whether the Seahawks are suffering the "Super Bowl Losers' Curse", in which the losing Super Bowl team doesn't make the playoffs the year after losing the Big Game, which notably afflicted the Giants in 2001 and the Rams in 2003.
I groused about that for a few minutes to KatieScarlett, and there were a few Chinese dudes loitering about talking football who overheard me. They had been talking about quarterbacks who could run, and speculated whether or not Seneca Wallace would do much scrambling in this game. One of them was comparing him to Michael Vick and "that guy from Philadelphia...what's his name?" Without even thinking or being invited to join their conversation, I said "Donovan McNabb" and then returned to bitching about the Seahawks' recent losses and injury reports. The guys were impressed.
"Do you like the Seahawks?" one little old man with tea-stained, half-rotten teeth asked me.
"Well, I'm from Seattle, so yeah," I said. (To all my peeps from the P-N-Dub, I know I'm not actually from Seattle, but I didn't feel like explaining where Puyallup is.)
The men conferred in Chinese while looking at me appraisingly, then one of the younger guys said, "You're only the second girl I've met EVER who knows anything about football." I was thinking to myself, "You don't know who Donovan McNabb is? PLEASE. Even my mom knows that."
"Football is my favorite sport," I replied. I didn't feel like explaining that I don't just know "anything" about football, but that I am pathologically obsessed with the NFL. KatieScarlett likes her some football, but she's not like me, and I didn't want to be rude and have her sit there while I chatted it up with some guys at the superfan level.
"We love the Seahawks!" said the guy enthusiastically. Then the game started, and when Seneca Wallace connected with Deion Branch for a touchdown and I leapt off my barstool with arms raised, I was not the only one in the bar doing so. The whole bar (except Winnie, who clearly didn't like football and was trying in vain to get KatieScarlett and I to sing some karaoke) was cheering and whooping. Even the guy who was monopolizing the MegaTouch looked up from his game of Erotic Photo Hunt or Funky Monkey or Tri-Towers or whatever to holler his approval.
This was such a refreshing change from the usual New York football bar scene, which typically involves a lot of obnoxious Giants fans, a lot of even more obnoxious Eagles fans, a smattering of despondent, moody Jets fans in dated Chrebet and Testaverde jerseys, and, worst of all, the occasional asshole Shitsburgh Stealers fan. There have only been two times when I was not the only Seahawks fan in the bar, and one of those times was when MillerTime was visiting me. I actually have to import people from the P-N-Dub to have some Seahawks solidarity. The last thing in the world I expected was to walk into Winnie's and find that it's a fucking Seahawks bar!
It's a crying shame that Winnie's has only one TV (well, two, but the other one is dedicated to karaoke), because I'd be there every fucking Sunday if they had a selection of screens and NFL Sunday Ticket. I think I need to find a way for Winnie to meet Tiki Barber or something, so that she'd have a reason to be more accommodating of football watching in her bar. It's GREAT watching a game with people who share your love for a team, and it happens so rarely.
We had to go at the beginning of the second quarter, because I wanted to watch the second half at home and General Tso, legendary warrior that he is, was cutting a swath of destruction through my GI tract. After getting home and taking care of business in the bathroom, and talking more Seahawks with MillerTime on the phone, I received a text message from my ex-boyfriend Benzo, who, being born and raised in Assachusetts, is a Patriots fan. "Your team sucks!" he wrote. I texted him back reminding him saltily of the four interceptions Brady threw the night before in the Pats' loss to the Colts. Fortunately, I didn't have to put up with too much more Seahawks shit-talking because I then gave him a synopsis of the hilarious exchange in the broadcast booth in which former Hawks bust Brian Bosworth gave Joe Theismann a bunch of shit for being too pussy-whipped to ride a motorcycle, and then Tony Kornheiser referenced the Boz's brief stint as an actor in Stone Cold and asked him, "Since your career wasn't nearly as great as you or anyone else thought it was giong to be, do you have any regrets?" But digression aside, the only thing I usually ever hear about the Seahawks in New York is, at best, that nobody cares, and at worst, that they suck. Going to Winnie's and finding a cozy little enclave of Seahawks fans, whether speaking broken English or not, made my entire fucking week.
And the Hawks won an ugly game, primarily because Oakland has one of the worst offenses I've seen in years and became the only team to get shut out twice in one season on Monday Night Football, but the Hawks won nonetheless. The Seahawks are 5-3, Shaun Alexander is probably coming back next week, and the NFC West is a total shitshow anyway so I've got high hopes for avoiding the "Super Bowl Losers Curse." And I've got high hopes that I'll return to Winnie's sometime during a Seahawks game!
Labels: alcoholism, hilarious shit, KatieScarlett, NFL football, NYC, Seahawks
Monday, November 06, 2006
It's not inspirational, it's terrorism
I don't give a rat's ass that Kirstie Alley lost 75 pounds. There is just NO reason for her to be running around anywhere in a bikini, much less on Oprah. The bitch is almost 60 years old, and I don't need to see any senior citizens rocking a bikini.
While I'm thankful that Oprah didn't decide to rock a bikini as well, I have to say that she and Thunder Thighs here have done a great disservice to the world with this little stunt. Now all the saggy old hags who watch Oprah are going to get inspired to work out and wear bikinis themselves, and since they don't have a team of personal trainers, plastic surgeons, and master airbrushers like Kirstie Alley does, it's going to be cellulite and stretch mark-stravaganza at the beach come next summer. I am already shuddering in anticipation of the aged cows that will be terrorizing the shores of Long Island with their slack midriffs.
Labels: celebrities, fat fucks, oh the horror, ranting
I heart NY tabloids
Since I was absorbed in hard-hitting NFL action (how about the end of that Cowboys-Redskins game?!?!) yesterday, I missed the breaking news that Saddam Hussein was sentenced to death for crimes against humanity. At least the idiots who do NFL commentary (Terry Bradshaw, Howie Long, and crew, and the literally terrible twosome of Troy Aikman and Joe Buck) didn't mention it when they were recapping the days highlights during halftimes.
Thank God I live in a city where we have numerous papers that can keep me informed with succinct headlines and some grim yet hilarious Photoshopping:
What I particularly love in addition to the flagrant editorializing (obviously Saddam's pending appointment at the gallows is "good noose" to Rupert Murdoch, owner of the Post), the tabloids have no problem displaying this rather serious piece of news alongside their competing scratch ticket contests.
I don't know if I've seen such awesome Post and Daily News covers since Scott Peterson's guilty verdict came in ("Frey him!") or Cynthia Nixon came out of the closet ("Same sex in the city"). Now THIS is how to keep the news interesting!
Thank God I live in a city where we have numerous papers that can keep me informed with succinct headlines and some grim yet hilarious Photoshopping:
What I particularly love in addition to the flagrant editorializing (obviously Saddam's pending appointment at the gallows is "good noose" to Rupert Murdoch, owner of the Post), the tabloids have no problem displaying this rather serious piece of news alongside their competing scratch ticket contests.
I don't know if I've seen such awesome Post and Daily News covers since Scott Peterson's guilty verdict came in ("Frey him!") or Cynthia Nixon came out of the closet ("Same sex in the city"). Now THIS is how to keep the news interesting!
Labels: international intrigue, large exclamatory font, NYC, politics
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Kiss my brass
I've gotten a few comments here and there about the color of my hair. Specifically, several astute readers have pointed out that my color, L'Oreal Feria Pure Diamond Extra Light Natural Blonde, isn't exactly "natural" and sometimes has a brassy tone. I am well aware of this, although I don't really mind it. "Brassy" also means ballsy, brazen, saucy, and loud, attributes which certainly apply to me. I ldefinitely think of myself as a brassy broad. Also, Tonya Harding was a pretty brassy bitch, being PWT from the P-N-Dub and all, and there's no shame in channeling a bit of her scrappy, cheating spirit by having a similar hair color:
I do, however, draw the line at rocking the deflating bangs and partially grown-out Fantastic Sam's spiral perm. Also, I certainly wouldn't be smiling if I had whatever the hell is going on with her teeth. Anyway, my defense of brassiness and my conflicted feelings about Ms. Harding aside, I don't really have a choice about the whole hair color situation. Getting your hair professionally colored in New York City is pricey, and in order to afford it, I'd have to give up drinking. I am a dedicated alcoholic, and not about to let vanity get in the way of my quest to destroy my liver, so that is not an option. Therefore, I see myself in fucking Feria.
I have naturally blonde hair, but it's what my mom calls "dishwater" blonde. I used to have really light, almost white blonde hair when I was a small child, but as I got older, it got darker. I think it's really boring and blah, so I hit the bottle to brighten it up. Big deal. Most blondes don't sport their natural color, so it's not like I'm the only bitch in the room with a bleach job.
Tonight J-Sexy is having a party, and while the prospects of getting laid there are slim (I'm so NOT trying to bang 99% of my fellow science nerds...no offense, grad school guys), there are some people that J-Sexy knows from elsewhere attending. Therefore, on the off chance that there is some cute random single Jamaican boozing it up at J-Sexy's tonight, I decided to touch up my roots this morning while I was catching reruns of "90210" on SoapNet.
As I was pulling on my vinyl gloves and mixing up the chemicals in my bathroom, I noticed that the Feria box was lauding their improved conditioner formula. The concerned readers who have expressed dismay or displeasure regarding my hair color can rest easy now, because the conditioner is now a special formula for blondes called ANTI-BRASS. Presumably the use of this conditioner will reduce the color-treated look of my hair and make it seem more natural. I don't see how conditioner, which is basically grease you put on your hair AFTER you wash out the actual dye, will accomplish this, but it's supposedly "shimmer enhancing" and claims that it will "bring out multi-faceted shine in my hair." So the next time I put up a picture of myself and people are like, "Your hair looks like a yellow crayon" or "Quit dyeing your hair!", instead you can tell me how natural, shimmering, and multi-faceted it looks. And regardless of how my hair actually looks, I'll probably respond brassily.
I do, however, draw the line at rocking the deflating bangs and partially grown-out Fantastic Sam's spiral perm. Also, I certainly wouldn't be smiling if I had whatever the hell is going on with her teeth. Anyway, my defense of brassiness and my conflicted feelings about Ms. Harding aside, I don't really have a choice about the whole hair color situation. Getting your hair professionally colored in New York City is pricey, and in order to afford it, I'd have to give up drinking. I am a dedicated alcoholic, and not about to let vanity get in the way of my quest to destroy my liver, so that is not an option. Therefore, I see myself in fucking Feria.
I have naturally blonde hair, but it's what my mom calls "dishwater" blonde. I used to have really light, almost white blonde hair when I was a small child, but as I got older, it got darker. I think it's really boring and blah, so I hit the bottle to brighten it up. Big deal. Most blondes don't sport their natural color, so it's not like I'm the only bitch in the room with a bleach job.
Tonight J-Sexy is having a party, and while the prospects of getting laid there are slim (I'm so NOT trying to bang 99% of my fellow science nerds...no offense, grad school guys), there are some people that J-Sexy knows from elsewhere attending. Therefore, on the off chance that there is some cute random single Jamaican boozing it up at J-Sexy's tonight, I decided to touch up my roots this morning while I was catching reruns of "90210" on SoapNet.
As I was pulling on my vinyl gloves and mixing up the chemicals in my bathroom, I noticed that the Feria box was lauding their improved conditioner formula. The concerned readers who have expressed dismay or displeasure regarding my hair color can rest easy now, because the conditioner is now a special formula for blondes called ANTI-BRASS. Presumably the use of this conditioner will reduce the color-treated look of my hair and make it seem more natural. I don't see how conditioner, which is basically grease you put on your hair AFTER you wash out the actual dye, will accomplish this, but it's supposedly "shimmer enhancing" and claims that it will "bring out multi-faceted shine in my hair." So the next time I put up a picture of myself and people are like, "Your hair looks like a yellow crayon" or "Quit dyeing your hair!", instead you can tell me how natural, shimmering, and multi-faceted it looks. And regardless of how my hair actually looks, I'll probably respond brassily.
Labels: bleach blonde, celebrities, P-N-Dub, PWT, Razzification, Tonya Harding, vanity
Friday, November 03, 2006
Everyone's on board the You're a Fucking Idiot, John Kerry bandwagon
LL Cool Jew, college buddy, former Razzy roommate, and presently the Lois Lane of David Banner's Mississippi hometown e-mailed me this morning:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
Subject: fwd: my frantic email to john kerry
after checking your blog (john kerry is a moron and a liability),
wanted to share this with you
you/we are so right on. i'm convinced our lending our voices to the
chorus was partially why that dipshit canceled all his appearances
wednesday. can't you just see some staffer rushing in and being like
"I'VE GOTTEN 15,000 EMAILS ON THIS IN THE LAST TWO HOURS...THEY'RE
KILLING US!"
Then LL Cool Jew appended the text of the letter she sent to Senator Kerry's office, and it's fucking righteous:
Who would've thunk it – John Kerry delivers the October surprise for
Republicans. After your bizarre, idiotic gaffe Monday, it's time for
you to GET OFF TELEVISION. I voted for you in 2004, but you are
turning a 24-hour story into a week-long nightmare for the party. That
you were on Imus this morning and are going on Blitzer this afternoon
is nothing short of astonishing. No one is interested in your defense
of your bloated ego; no one needs what everyone down here in Red
country thinks of as an elitist Massachusetts senator – who, by the
way, ain't gonna win in '08 either, so hang it up – becoming the face
of the Democratic Party a week before the donkey's first chance to
gain some power in Washington for the first time in more than a
decade. Disappear.
Not only did I very much enjoy it, I was impressed that LL Cool Jew was able to send out such a cogent "frantic" email, especially since she's a very busy girl. In addition to the Herculean effort of planning her wedding and coordinating emails cautioning the wedding party to order our bridesmaid dresses in geranium NOT holiday red, she's apparently spent the last few days busily reporting a story about electronic voting machines entitled "Will Your Vote for Trent Lott be Counted?"
How does LL Cool Jew manage to keep such a straight face???
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
Subject: fwd: my frantic email to john kerry
after checking your blog (john kerry is a moron and a liability),
wanted to share this with you
you/we are so right on. i'm convinced our lending our voices to the
chorus was partially why that dipshit canceled all his appearances
wednesday. can't you just see some staffer rushing in and being like
"I'VE GOTTEN 15,000 EMAILS ON THIS IN THE LAST TWO HOURS...THEY'RE
KILLING US!"
Then LL Cool Jew appended the text of the letter she sent to Senator Kerry's office, and it's fucking righteous:
Who would've thunk it – John Kerry delivers the October surprise for
Republicans. After your bizarre, idiotic gaffe Monday, it's time for
you to GET OFF TELEVISION. I voted for you in 2004, but you are
turning a 24-hour story into a week-long nightmare for the party. That
you were on Imus this morning and are going on Blitzer this afternoon
is nothing short of astonishing. No one is interested in your defense
of your bloated ego; no one needs what everyone down here in Red
country thinks of as an elitist Massachusetts senator – who, by the
way, ain't gonna win in '08 either, so hang it up – becoming the face
of the Democratic Party a week before the donkey's first chance to
gain some power in Washington for the first time in more than a
decade. Disappear.
Not only did I very much enjoy it, I was impressed that LL Cool Jew was able to send out such a cogent "frantic" email, especially since she's a very busy girl. In addition to the Herculean effort of planning her wedding and coordinating emails cautioning the wedding party to order our bridesmaid dresses in geranium NOT holiday red, she's apparently spent the last few days busily reporting a story about electronic voting machines entitled "Will Your Vote for Trent Lott be Counted?"
How does LL Cool Jew manage to keep such a straight face???
Labels: Assachusetts, Dirrty Dirrty, John Kerry, LL Cool Jew, politics, retard rage, Trent Lott
Juve the Great Sir Mix-a-Lot Beat Biter
I realized to my horror and chagrin this morning that three days of November have passed without putting a new Hysterical Hip-Hop/R&B Lyric up on the RAZZY.org home page. Obviously that had to be rectified immediately, and I knew with what.
In case you are unfamiliar with the artistic repertoire of Terius "Juvenile" Grey, let me provide a brief summary. He is this portly fellow originating from the Magnolia Projects (AKA the 'Nolia) in New Orleans, Louisiana.
He has released such rap masterpieces as "Back that Azz Up" (his spelling, not mine), "Get it From Ya Mama", "Slow Motion", and "Booty Language." Despite the personal hardships he's faced (beef with Birdman and the Cash Money crew, having his house destroyed by Hurricane Katrina), Juve has bounced back like an ass in one of his videos with a new album that I very much enjoy, Reality Check. There is one song in particular which LL Cool Jew pointed out to me, entitled "Loose Booty." Juvenile is a fan of the booty, and it is a pervasive theme in his music. I intended the hilarious lyric of the month to be "Time out to freeze and ease that pussy" or "no nickel or dime, she got a dollar back", but found to my dismay that this song was unavailable on Juvenile's MySpace page. Since I always put my Hysterical Lyric of the Month on my own MySpace profile, I could not use "Loose Booty." FUCK! I'm not wild about that "Rodeo" song and I just wasn't feeling "Get Ya Hustle On". How can there not be at least ONE song available to add to my profile that's predominantly about fat women's asses??? Anyway, I opted instead to use "What's Happenin'".
This song is not really typical Juvenile, in tone or cadence, and to quote Kells, it reminded me of somethin', but I just can't think what it is. I realized this morning that it didn't remind me of my jeep, but in fact of a rap classic from my childhood, Antony "Sir Mix-a-Lot" Ray's "Posse on Broadway" from the seminal album Swass!
Before he gained international renown by popularizing women with small waists and huge butts unmissed by red beans and rice, Sir Mix-a-Lot sold this modest album all about G'in around the greater Seattle area. This set includes the title track ("don't you wish your boyfriend was swass like me? *SWASS*"), a song implying something sexual about canned refrigerated biscuit dough ("now grab that can and wrap it in your hand, bang that sucker till the dough expands"), the "Square Dance Rap", a cautionary tale about banging fat Navy whores on the docks in Bremerton entitled "Bremelo", and, of course, "Posse on Broadway."
"Posse on Broadway" is Sir Mix-a-Lot's narration of his exciting night out with the boys on Broadway, the street running through Capitol Hill (which, FYI, is GAY CENTRAL in Seattle). In Sir Mix-a-Lot's world, Broadway is where you get def and Dick's, a drive-in burger joint, is "where the swass like to play and the rich flaunt clout." Sir Mix-a-Lot narrates a thrilling tale in which he and his posse Kid Sensation ("the teenage lady killer"), Maharaji ("on the def side, dancin' like a freak"), Larry ("the white guy, people think he's funny"), and his homeboy PLB/Kevin are rolling around in their Benz with the Alpine system, pick up so many women outside Seattle Central Community College that they overflow the vehicle and have muffler problems, stop at Taco Bell "for some Mexican eatin'", realize that Taco Bell is closed and go to Dick's instead, get in an altercation with a crack addict and steal his hot abused girlfriend on the basis that "I got a def posse, you got a bunch-a dudes", subdue said crack addict with mace, and live happily ever after with all the freaks ("5 fellas and 22 freaks"). Obviously, Juvenile has never been to Seattle and experienced for himself how truly absurd this song actually is, because he blatantly ripped off its style in "What's Happenin'"!
See for yourself:
Sir Mix-a-Lot: But Taco Bell was closed, the girls was on my tip, they said, "Go back the other way, we'll stop and eat at Dick's"
Juvenile: Visited our spot, this girl was on my dick, she said "I love you, Juvenile, but you know you the shit"
Sir Mix-a-Lot: Dick's is the place where the cool hang out, the swass like to play, and the rich flaunt clout
Juvenile: I grabbed on my Glock, it's where the fools hang out, I'm only tryin' to hustle another change route
Sir Mix-a-Lot: The Alpine's bumpin' but I need the volume higher
Juvenile: The subwoofer's bumpin', I need it in my life
Seriously, the whole damn song sounds like "Posse on Broadway". I was bopping around to it and almost caught myself singing "every time we do this sucka MCs want to battle, I'm the man they love to hate, the J.R. Ewing of Seattle", "we put em on the trunk, we put em on the hood, some sat up with the driver, they made him feel good," and "we're rollin' Rainier and the jealous wanna get some" instead of Juvenile's lyrics about eating fish and shrimp po' boys, his soldier rag, how good his heater looks up in his B-M, and picking up biracial lesbians to "get it right with this big ol' totem pole."
At this point, I'm used to vintage Sir Mix-a-Lot beats being appropriated for modern popular music, and I definitely favor Juvenile's homage to the P-N-Dub's only homegrown rapper over "Don't cha", the monstrous abortion resulting from the Pussycat Dolls' theft of the "Swass" hook. However, I wish he would get a little credit for his pioneering style once in a while. The man is so unrecognized that he can't even get gigs as a pop culture pundit on Vh1 countdowns anymore. Show Mix-a-Lot some love, people. Posse up!
In case you are unfamiliar with the artistic repertoire of Terius "Juvenile" Grey, let me provide a brief summary. He is this portly fellow originating from the Magnolia Projects (AKA the 'Nolia) in New Orleans, Louisiana.
He has released such rap masterpieces as "Back that Azz Up" (his spelling, not mine), "Get it From Ya Mama", "Slow Motion", and "Booty Language." Despite the personal hardships he's faced (beef with Birdman and the Cash Money crew, having his house destroyed by Hurricane Katrina), Juve has bounced back like an ass in one of his videos with a new album that I very much enjoy, Reality Check. There is one song in particular which LL Cool Jew pointed out to me, entitled "Loose Booty." Juvenile is a fan of the booty, and it is a pervasive theme in his music. I intended the hilarious lyric of the month to be "Time out to freeze and ease that pussy" or "no nickel or dime, she got a dollar back", but found to my dismay that this song was unavailable on Juvenile's MySpace page. Since I always put my Hysterical Lyric of the Month on my own MySpace profile, I could not use "Loose Booty." FUCK! I'm not wild about that "Rodeo" song and I just wasn't feeling "Get Ya Hustle On". How can there not be at least ONE song available to add to my profile that's predominantly about fat women's asses??? Anyway, I opted instead to use "What's Happenin'".
This song is not really typical Juvenile, in tone or cadence, and to quote Kells, it reminded me of somethin', but I just can't think what it is. I realized this morning that it didn't remind me of my jeep, but in fact of a rap classic from my childhood, Antony "Sir Mix-a-Lot" Ray's "Posse on Broadway" from the seminal album Swass!
Before he gained international renown by popularizing women with small waists and huge butts unmissed by red beans and rice, Sir Mix-a-Lot sold this modest album all about G'in around the greater Seattle area. This set includes the title track ("don't you wish your boyfriend was swass like me? *SWASS*"), a song implying something sexual about canned refrigerated biscuit dough ("now grab that can and wrap it in your hand, bang that sucker till the dough expands"), the "Square Dance Rap", a cautionary tale about banging fat Navy whores on the docks in Bremerton entitled "Bremelo", and, of course, "Posse on Broadway."
"Posse on Broadway" is Sir Mix-a-Lot's narration of his exciting night out with the boys on Broadway, the street running through Capitol Hill (which, FYI, is GAY CENTRAL in Seattle). In Sir Mix-a-Lot's world, Broadway is where you get def and Dick's, a drive-in burger joint, is "where the swass like to play and the rich flaunt clout." Sir Mix-a-Lot narrates a thrilling tale in which he and his posse Kid Sensation ("the teenage lady killer"), Maharaji ("on the def side, dancin' like a freak"), Larry ("the white guy, people think he's funny"), and his homeboy PLB/Kevin are rolling around in their Benz with the Alpine system, pick up so many women outside Seattle Central Community College that they overflow the vehicle and have muffler problems, stop at Taco Bell "for some Mexican eatin'", realize that Taco Bell is closed and go to Dick's instead, get in an altercation with a crack addict and steal his hot abused girlfriend on the basis that "I got a def posse, you got a bunch-a dudes", subdue said crack addict with mace, and live happily ever after with all the freaks ("5 fellas and 22 freaks"). Obviously, Juvenile has never been to Seattle and experienced for himself how truly absurd this song actually is, because he blatantly ripped off its style in "What's Happenin'"!
See for yourself:
Sir Mix-a-Lot: But Taco Bell was closed, the girls was on my tip, they said, "Go back the other way, we'll stop and eat at Dick's"
Juvenile: Visited our spot, this girl was on my dick, she said "I love you, Juvenile, but you know you the shit"
Sir Mix-a-Lot: Dick's is the place where the cool hang out, the swass like to play, and the rich flaunt clout
Juvenile: I grabbed on my Glock, it's where the fools hang out, I'm only tryin' to hustle another change route
Sir Mix-a-Lot: The Alpine's bumpin' but I need the volume higher
Juvenile: The subwoofer's bumpin', I need it in my life
Seriously, the whole damn song sounds like "Posse on Broadway". I was bopping around to it and almost caught myself singing "every time we do this sucka MCs want to battle, I'm the man they love to hate, the J.R. Ewing of Seattle", "we put em on the trunk, we put em on the hood, some sat up with the driver, they made him feel good," and "we're rollin' Rainier and the jealous wanna get some" instead of Juvenile's lyrics about eating fish and shrimp po' boys, his soldier rag, how good his heater looks up in his B-M, and picking up biracial lesbians to "get it right with this big ol' totem pole."
At this point, I'm used to vintage Sir Mix-a-Lot beats being appropriated for modern popular music, and I definitely favor Juvenile's homage to the P-N-Dub's only homegrown rapper over "Don't cha", the monstrous abortion resulting from the Pussycat Dolls' theft of the "Swass" hook. However, I wish he would get a little credit for his pioneering style once in a while. The man is so unrecognized that he can't even get gigs as a pop culture pundit on Vh1 countdowns anymore. Show Mix-a-Lot some love, people. Posse up!
Labels: Dirrty Dirrty, Juvenile, P-N-Dub, rap, ridiculous absurdity, scathing indictments, Sir Mix-a-Lot
Thursday, November 02, 2006
John Kerry is a moron and a liability
During the last presidential election, one of my friends worked for a George Soros-funded 527 attempting to counter those Swift Boat people and get John Kerry in the White House. I told her then that John Kerry was too much of an obtuse, blueblooded schmuck to ever get people like my Aunt Jesus and all the other Red Staters to vote for him over a folksy, aw-shucks kind of guy like Bush. She sent me a scathing email with some poll numbers from MTV (!) to set me straight, and I sent her an email informing her that most of MTV's audience was either too young to vote or would probably realize that failing to vote due to laziness and apathy wouldn't result in imminent death regardless of what Diddy's shirt says. I decided not to argue, since I didn't want to get into a full-blown fight, and she was already mad at me for declaring that Michael Badnarik, skydiving libertarian, had my vote. When Kerry did indeed lose, I was about to rub it in until I got a text message from her reading, "I am devastated," so I stuck to consoling her, being myself comforted knowing that I'd never have to see Kerry's saggy ass snowboarding again or listen to sound bites from his gnarled troll of a wife.
I'm sick of Al Gore's complaining, and he actually has something legitimate to bitch about in terms of the 2000 election. Kerry, on the other hand, straight up LOST to Bush, and nobody disputes that. The appropriate thing for him to do would be to sit the fuck down, shut the fuck up, and let the Democrats go about the business of figuring out how not to have every election be a total shitshow. However, getting his ass handed to him by a man who is basically a poorly-trained chimp with access to nukes hasn't stopped Kerry from shooting his mouth off, as though he's able to speak from some kind of authority. As usual, Kerry applied the same piss poor rhetorical skills and made a "joke" to a bunch of college students that if they didn't study hard, they'd "get stuck in Iraq."
Of course, the New York tabloids have immediately rallied to opine in 72-point font about what a dumbass Kerry is for joking that the troops in Iraq are stupid:
Why do the Democrats let John Kerry do anything at all? The man never said anything useful when he was running for president, so why on earth would he POSSIBLY be able to help fellow members of his party get elected now? The Democrats should know better than to let Kerry try to fun up his usual unintelligible gibberish with jokes at the expense of the FUCKING TROOPS IN IRAQ. Then again, the Democrats are the party who, after losing to Bush in '04, decided to place their political strategizing in the whooping and hollering hands of Howard Fucking Dean. They are the party who, despite the fact that Bush's approval ratings have been in the gutter for some time, continually fail to capitalize on it. The only thing they could do to suck even more at winning is to commit communal suicide Jonestown-style. Well, either that or go ahead with bestowing the party's '08 presidential nomination to a certain closeted lesbian senator from New York. One thing is sure, though: I will be surprised if the Democrats actually manage to NOT monumentally fuck up.
I'm sick of Al Gore's complaining, and he actually has something legitimate to bitch about in terms of the 2000 election. Kerry, on the other hand, straight up LOST to Bush, and nobody disputes that. The appropriate thing for him to do would be to sit the fuck down, shut the fuck up, and let the Democrats go about the business of figuring out how not to have every election be a total shitshow. However, getting his ass handed to him by a man who is basically a poorly-trained chimp with access to nukes hasn't stopped Kerry from shooting his mouth off, as though he's able to speak from some kind of authority. As usual, Kerry applied the same piss poor rhetorical skills and made a "joke" to a bunch of college students that if they didn't study hard, they'd "get stuck in Iraq."
Of course, the New York tabloids have immediately rallied to opine in 72-point font about what a dumbass Kerry is for joking that the troops in Iraq are stupid:
Why do the Democrats let John Kerry do anything at all? The man never said anything useful when he was running for president, so why on earth would he POSSIBLY be able to help fellow members of his party get elected now? The Democrats should know better than to let Kerry try to fun up his usual unintelligible gibberish with jokes at the expense of the FUCKING TROOPS IN IRAQ. Then again, the Democrats are the party who, after losing to Bush in '04, decided to place their political strategizing in the whooping and hollering hands of Howard Fucking Dean. They are the party who, despite the fact that Bush's approval ratings have been in the gutter for some time, continually fail to capitalize on it. The only thing they could do to suck even more at winning is to commit communal suicide Jonestown-style. Well, either that or go ahead with bestowing the party's '08 presidential nomination to a certain closeted lesbian senator from New York. One thing is sure, though: I will be surprised if the Democrats actually manage to NOT monumentally fuck up.
Labels: Assachusetts, assholes, John Kerry, large exclamatory font, libertarians rule, politics, ranting, retard rage
I made my intro gettin' fucked in the Pinto...
...now I'm skin deep in the Lexus jeep. Well, as far as personal wealth goes I'm still pretty much in Pinto territory, but Lil' Kim lyrics are just fun to write. Since I've gotten a flurry of comments, e-mails, and MySpace messages from various Razzyphiles applauding my exposed breast Lil' Kim Halloween costume, I figured I'd just go ahead and shamelessly stick another picture of it up here.
Now, before all the haters come out of the woodwork telling me how fat I look, let me once again blame it on my fucking costume. After tearing apart TWO separate Ricky's locations on the Upper West Side, the only thing I could find that could conceivably be altered to resemble Lil' Kim's bedazzled off-the-breast VMA outfit from five years ago was this costume called "Ursa Minor":
Since this outfit is basically what would result if you allowed the people at Mattel to design uniforms for NASA, I assume that the "Ursa Minor" name refers to the Little Dipper constellation and NOT a small bear. Anyway, I was being jostled and prodded by the throngs of annoying Ricky's shoppers, and when I saw this after hours of searching, attempting in vain to explain my costume concept to the Ricky's staff (except the ladies at the wig counter...they got it), and feeling generally pissed-off and grouchy, I grabbed it. "No problem," I thought. "I'll just cut off that fucking ugly-ass lavender space-bib and petticoat, and since it's a leotard, it should be easy to fix it so that my right tit is hanging out." I noted that the costume said "One size fits all", but since the model wearing it on the package seemed relatively thin, I figured that the "one size" would be more geared toward women who don't shop at Lane Bryant. Why would fat people wear a costume involving a leotard in the first place?
How wrong I was. When I opened up the package, the tag on the leotard read "SIZE 14." SIZE 14?! I chided myself: Razzy, you stupid idiot, how could you not have realized that "one size fits all" obviously includes the rapidly growing ranks of the morbidly obese? As I was getting ready to hit the party at J-Sexy's house, she cackled her hearty, pealing laugh as she watched me desperately try to hide extra purple fabric by bunching it up my ass crack. Didn't work. I tried cinching the leotard with safety pins in various arrangements around my waist. Didn't work. I told J-Sexy when tying the skirt around my waist to incorporate as much spare leotard fabric as possible and "cinch that shit like I'm Scarlett O'Hara and you're lacing my goddamned corset". Didn't work. Nothing really worked, so although I managed to pull off a bold and daring Halloween look, I'm going to cringe at the illusion of fatness that this outfit gave me every time I see a picture of it for the rest of my life. I just try to channel my inner Queen Bee and repeat the inspirational lyrics to "Magic Stick" like a mantra: "this junk in my trunk ain't made for chumps."
Despite my concerns and self-consciousness, it seems that my exposed breast managed to distract everyone from the poorly fitted, relatively inaccurate approximation of Lil' Kim's purple VMA pantsuit. Yay for tits!
Now, before all the haters come out of the woodwork telling me how fat I look, let me once again blame it on my fucking costume. After tearing apart TWO separate Ricky's locations on the Upper West Side, the only thing I could find that could conceivably be altered to resemble Lil' Kim's bedazzled off-the-breast VMA outfit from five years ago was this costume called "Ursa Minor":
Since this outfit is basically what would result if you allowed the people at Mattel to design uniforms for NASA, I assume that the "Ursa Minor" name refers to the Little Dipper constellation and NOT a small bear. Anyway, I was being jostled and prodded by the throngs of annoying Ricky's shoppers, and when I saw this after hours of searching, attempting in vain to explain my costume concept to the Ricky's staff (except the ladies at the wig counter...they got it), and feeling generally pissed-off and grouchy, I grabbed it. "No problem," I thought. "I'll just cut off that fucking ugly-ass lavender space-bib and petticoat, and since it's a leotard, it should be easy to fix it so that my right tit is hanging out." I noted that the costume said "One size fits all", but since the model wearing it on the package seemed relatively thin, I figured that the "one size" would be more geared toward women who don't shop at Lane Bryant. Why would fat people wear a costume involving a leotard in the first place?
How wrong I was. When I opened up the package, the tag on the leotard read "SIZE 14." SIZE 14?! I chided myself: Razzy, you stupid idiot, how could you not have realized that "one size fits all" obviously includes the rapidly growing ranks of the morbidly obese? As I was getting ready to hit the party at J-Sexy's house, she cackled her hearty, pealing laugh as she watched me desperately try to hide extra purple fabric by bunching it up my ass crack. Didn't work. I tried cinching the leotard with safety pins in various arrangements around my waist. Didn't work. I told J-Sexy when tying the skirt around my waist to incorporate as much spare leotard fabric as possible and "cinch that shit like I'm Scarlett O'Hara and you're lacing my goddamned corset". Didn't work. Nothing really worked, so although I managed to pull off a bold and daring Halloween look, I'm going to cringe at the illusion of fatness that this outfit gave me every time I see a picture of it for the rest of my life. I just try to channel my inner Queen Bee and repeat the inspirational lyrics to "Magic Stick" like a mantra: "this junk in my trunk ain't made for chumps."
Despite my concerns and self-consciousness, it seems that my exposed breast managed to distract everyone from the poorly fitted, relatively inaccurate approximation of Lil' Kim's purple VMA pantsuit. Yay for tits!
Labels: Halloween, Lil' Kim, nudity, rap, Razzification
Adobe Illustrator + Micro Nerd=Happy Razzy
So today Blogger directed me to this "blog of note" called Adopt A Microbe. It's basically one post after another of cartoon bacteria introducing themselves. I was pleased to see that the fucking infectious disease dorks of the world are alive and wasting time on the computer while neglecting their graduate studies. Judging by the illustrations and accompanying text, it's clear that the keeper of this blog geeks out on epidemic history as much as I do. My only criticism of the author's bacterial lab cred is that she fails to properly italicize or underline taxonomic classifications (scientific names) and also occasionally incorrectly capitalizes species names, but whatever. I still think it rules, at least to those who get their rocks off sucking up information about the microbial biome like yours truly. Plus, the little bugs are kind of cute.
For example, Shigella dysenteriae is rocking a sweet camouflage commando helmet, obviously a nod to the ability of dysentery to tear shit up (literally) in trench warfare:
I'm not sure why Vibrio cholerae is flashing a peace sign, because cholera certainly doesn't give the afflicted any peace. I suppose it was easier to show the bug flashing a big V for Vibrio than to depict it inducing up to 15 liters per day of chalk-colored diarrhea. Extra points to the artist for giving it Vibrio's characteristic apostrophe shape!
I particularly love how Haemophilus ducreyi, as the causative agent of a STD, is wearing a pair of panties on its head:
And my favorite of the bunch is good old Yersinia "Bubonic Plague" pestis, rocking some authentic medieval Black Death couture!
Really, my only complaint is that there are no viral or rickettsial diseases anywhere on her blog. They would make cute little cartoons, too! Rabies virus, for example, is bullet-shaped and could fit into an adorable (albeit mildly disturbing) illustration involving Old Yeller. Smallpox virus is biscuit-shaped and it could be wearing 17th century British military regalia and chasing around Native Americans. Poliovirus is like a sweet little scoop of ice cream, which would be a great illustration because that's how monkey brain homogenates infected with vaccine strains were originally fed to the retarded kids they were first unethically tested on. I noticed that the yeasts, molds, and other fungi are also underrepresented there. Microbes constitute way more than what used to be called Kingdom Monera, so bacteria shouldn't have all the fucking fun.
For example, Shigella dysenteriae is rocking a sweet camouflage commando helmet, obviously a nod to the ability of dysentery to tear shit up (literally) in trench warfare:
I'm not sure why Vibrio cholerae is flashing a peace sign, because cholera certainly doesn't give the afflicted any peace. I suppose it was easier to show the bug flashing a big V for Vibrio than to depict it inducing up to 15 liters per day of chalk-colored diarrhea. Extra points to the artist for giving it Vibrio's characteristic apostrophe shape!
I particularly love how Haemophilus ducreyi, as the causative agent of a STD, is wearing a pair of panties on its head:
And my favorite of the bunch is good old Yersinia "Bubonic Plague" pestis, rocking some authentic medieval Black Death couture!
Really, my only complaint is that there are no viral or rickettsial diseases anywhere on her blog. They would make cute little cartoons, too! Rabies virus, for example, is bullet-shaped and could fit into an adorable (albeit mildly disturbing) illustration involving Old Yeller. Smallpox virus is biscuit-shaped and it could be wearing 17th century British military regalia and chasing around Native Americans. Poliovirus is like a sweet little scoop of ice cream, which would be a great illustration because that's how monkey brain homogenates infected with vaccine strains were originally fed to the retarded kids they were first unethically tested on. I noticed that the yeasts, molds, and other fungi are also underrepresented there. Microbes constitute way more than what used to be called Kingdom Monera, so bacteria shouldn't have all the fucking fun.
Labels: down with OPB (other people's blogs), epidemic geekery, I LOVE IT, science
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Hood Sweet Hood
I sooper dooper la la love to love Bed Stuy. And not just because that's where I keep all of my stuff. I heart the old architectural gems crammed between LMI ghetto-blocked, Fedders-AC'd single family apartments. Heart the "Influential Women of Brooklyn" mural that shouts out Margaret Sanger. Heart the way beer [sandwich, trash bag, cat food, ramen, super glue] costs half what it does in Man-a-hattan. Heart the way people hang out on their stoops, keep dogs in the fenced in front yards, and even keep a few junk cars stashed in the back - just like bein home back in Kakalaka. And of course, I heart that whitey stays away. Mostly. (Begone, honkey, begone! High thee to the Willy-B!)
I gotta fess up, though, that a big chunk of why I get that special feeling out of living here is that it reaffirms something I've long suspected: the television didn't lie. Life really is like this. All that archetypical cable-portrayed bullshit came from somewhere, and I've hit a main nerve. Observe.
Fix-it Guy. Fix-it Guy lives on my block. He retiles, he hangs shingles, he repairs TVs, he cleans yards. Shovels snow, retools misbehaved plumbing, changes transmission. He borrows five dollars and he calls people "dude," to make fun of my white ass. He takes in the stray cats and still lives with him mom. I cruise home at any hour and my man is on the street with a wrench and some fucking twine reassmbling a television set that he can turn on without electricity. At nights he works as a barback at some rough and tumble queer joint, somewhere deeper into the hood. I have some untouched VIP passes awaiting myself and ten of my closest intrepid adventurers to go see what it's all about. Next time my microwave starts to leak plutonium, I'm packing that mofucker into a diuffel bag, rounding the bitches up and headed off to Starlight to see what it is.
Schneider. Unfortunately, Fix-it Guy has competition in the Boy next Door - Trinidad's answer to One Day at a Time's Schneider, complete with tool belt and laugh track. Comes in through the front door unannounced with a 22 of Guiness and some lilting tail of block bullshit. Two hours later, after he finishes the brew and a humble blunt, he heads in to the bathroom for 15 minutes of ceiling repair and leaves immediately, his drying handiwork taped up under a black garbage bag. He brings gifts like extra stereo speakers and grenadine, and for a while, he lived in the basement. Now he's done a runner, somewhere Upstate. But not before he replastered the ceiling.
Kools. People smoke them. I mean goddamn everybody.
White People. Roommate, a blond, has been referred to as Britney - for the once-glamorous and sweet-assed pre-Fed Ms Spears. She has been summoned with, "White meat! Come to me!" I have been addressed as "Asal" by the Yemen crew, for "sweet," but also as "Snow Ball," and one incredible time, a girl on her stoop just clucked at me loud as hell.
Store/Church Names. No editorializing: Mr. B's Black Power Variety, Homie Boyz Fried Chicken and Pizza, Fu King Chinese Food, Morning Dew Industrial Church of the Light of His Son, Bambi Day Care and Hair Salon. Nuff Said.
Guy on the Corner. See "Booty."
Cops. Not a rumor: cops hate black people. I thought this was true before, but y'all, the shit crackles.
The _____ Van Club. Conversion vans are the hottest ticket in this slice of America, fools. Make no mistake. The owners convene, brand their wehicles with vinyl logos, airbursh "Fruit Loops" or "Shawntelle" across the back. It could be "The Gold Suns of Glory Van Club," or "The K-unit Van Club." Contributing to the beautification of your street with righteous rims and paisley curtains, glimmering and shimmering in the late summer sun. Magnificent.
Booty. And I don't mean ass. I mean that's somebody's name. I mean Guy on the Corner, there all day and most o fthe night. A neighborhood insitution. You wanna find somebody? Ask Booty. You need to see someone who knows you? Find Booty. 'Bout 5"1' with a platinum grill, a real slick smile and witness to everything that happens in the script. I put this to anyone who offers the "Pirates or Ninjas" debate at a party.
A tree. Every block has a tree. In many cases, just one. If it has several, construction will down them like Vietnam vets until you got, you guessed, a Tree Growing in Brooklyn. Thank God people read.
Lest one confuse this marvelous screenplay with Life in Brooklyn, think on Bay Ridge. Willamsburg. Park Slope. For me, even day toliving showed me the way. I used to live in Bushwick, see, the heavy Latin edge before all the factories became lazy musician/hack artist lofts. Plenty of charm, Bushwick, but harder to translate, and altogether lacking the daily zing of life in the hood. Chocolate the toothless lech of a security guard took off when they finished construction. Johnny, the ex-punker, ex-jukie dealer of miscellany - books, swifter wet jets, safety pins, whatever - got hit by a car and vanished for the winter. Kids who opened bottles with his teeth at the grocery store foudn other interests. Not the Stuy. New adventures, daily, but a ready cast and plenty of reliability - a clockwork testament to the 70s film industry, a time machine of city wonder. Quentin Tarantino is a shit talker, and too interested in LA and Kung Fu - but from time to time, you have to realize that from the outside, you start to see that he does have a point.
What do you do?
Get back to the tube for some higher education.
I gotta fess up, though, that a big chunk of why I get that special feeling out of living here is that it reaffirms something I've long suspected: the television didn't lie. Life really is like this. All that archetypical cable-portrayed bullshit came from somewhere, and I've hit a main nerve. Observe.
Fix-it Guy. Fix-it Guy lives on my block. He retiles, he hangs shingles, he repairs TVs, he cleans yards. Shovels snow, retools misbehaved plumbing, changes transmission. He borrows five dollars and he calls people "dude," to make fun of my white ass. He takes in the stray cats and still lives with him mom. I cruise home at any hour and my man is on the street with a wrench and some fucking twine reassmbling a television set that he can turn on without electricity. At nights he works as a barback at some rough and tumble queer joint, somewhere deeper into the hood. I have some untouched VIP passes awaiting myself and ten of my closest intrepid adventurers to go see what it's all about. Next time my microwave starts to leak plutonium, I'm packing that mofucker into a diuffel bag, rounding the bitches up and headed off to Starlight to see what it is.
Schneider. Unfortunately, Fix-it Guy has competition in the Boy next Door - Trinidad's answer to One Day at a Time's Schneider, complete with tool belt and laugh track. Comes in through the front door unannounced with a 22 of Guiness and some lilting tail of block bullshit. Two hours later, after he finishes the brew and a humble blunt, he heads in to the bathroom for 15 minutes of ceiling repair and leaves immediately, his drying handiwork taped up under a black garbage bag. He brings gifts like extra stereo speakers and grenadine, and for a while, he lived in the basement. Now he's done a runner, somewhere Upstate. But not before he replastered the ceiling.
Kools. People smoke them. I mean goddamn everybody.
White People. Roommate, a blond, has been referred to as Britney - for the once-glamorous and sweet-assed pre-Fed Ms Spears. She has been summoned with, "White meat! Come to me!" I have been addressed as "Asal" by the Yemen crew, for "sweet," but also as "Snow Ball," and one incredible time, a girl on her stoop just clucked at me loud as hell.
Store/Church Names. No editorializing: Mr. B's Black Power Variety, Homie Boyz Fried Chicken and Pizza, Fu King Chinese Food, Morning Dew Industrial Church of the Light of His Son, Bambi Day Care and Hair Salon. Nuff Said.
Guy on the Corner. See "Booty."
Cops. Not a rumor: cops hate black people. I thought this was true before, but y'all, the shit crackles.
The _____ Van Club. Conversion vans are the hottest ticket in this slice of America, fools. Make no mistake. The owners convene, brand their wehicles with vinyl logos, airbursh "Fruit Loops" or "Shawntelle" across the back. It could be "The Gold Suns of Glory Van Club," or "The K-unit Van Club." Contributing to the beautification of your street with righteous rims and paisley curtains, glimmering and shimmering in the late summer sun. Magnificent.
Booty. And I don't mean ass. I mean that's somebody's name. I mean Guy on the Corner, there all day and most o fthe night. A neighborhood insitution. You wanna find somebody? Ask Booty. You need to see someone who knows you? Find Booty. 'Bout 5"1' with a platinum grill, a real slick smile and witness to everything that happens in the script. I put this to anyone who offers the "Pirates or Ninjas" debate at a party.
A tree. Every block has a tree. In many cases, just one. If it has several, construction will down them like Vietnam vets until you got, you guessed, a Tree Growing in Brooklyn. Thank God people read.
Lest one confuse this marvelous screenplay with Life in Brooklyn, think on Bay Ridge. Willamsburg. Park Slope. For me, even day toliving showed me the way. I used to live in Bushwick, see, the heavy Latin edge before all the factories became lazy musician/hack artist lofts. Plenty of charm, Bushwick, but harder to translate, and altogether lacking the daily zing of life in the hood. Chocolate the toothless lech of a security guard took off when they finished construction. Johnny, the ex-punker, ex-jukie dealer of miscellany - books, swifter wet jets, safety pins, whatever - got hit by a car and vanished for the winter. Kids who opened bottles with his teeth at the grocery store foudn other interests. Not the Stuy. New adventures, daily, but a ready cast and plenty of reliability - a clockwork testament to the 70s film industry, a time machine of city wonder. Quentin Tarantino is a shit talker, and too interested in LA and Kung Fu - but from time to time, you have to realize that from the outside, you start to see that he does have a point.
What do you do?
Get back to the tube for some higher education.
Labels: BK, Britney Spears, hilarious shit, NYC, ridiculous absurdity
Co-douchebag of the year: A.J. Von Suarma
Just when I thought Aleksey Vaynar was the biggest would-be i-banker dipshit on the planet, one of my faithful readers e-mailed me a video of this dude, A.J. "The Power Broker" Von Suarma. In fact, when I got this e-mail, I couldn't have been more enthused about the free e-mail account this particular Razzyphile chose to open in my honor. Someone going through the trouble to create a Yahoo! ID of "homagetorazzy" pretty much cured my post-Halloween party Coors Light-and-Jack Daniels-swilling dry heaves almost immediately:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: Razzy Blog (homagetorazzy@yahoo.com)
Subject: Models and Bottles
As great as Alexey Vayner was, this is even better. I am waiting for the trilogy. Scroll down and click on the code.tv link.
DealBook Blog-Another Day, Another Video: This Time it's Wall Street Gone Wild
Aside from Von Suarma's ripping off his title from a Pulitzer prize-winning biography of New York City planner Robert Moses, be SURE to click on this link and watch the video of what a fucking dumbass he is. (I tried to embed the video, but the pretentious assholes at LX.tv, which is apparently what code.tv is called now, are even worse at providing cut-and-paste code than their stuck-up colleagues at Nerve.com)
While unlike Aleksey Vaynar, he doesn't attempt to distract everyone from his obvious masculine shortcomings, A.J. instead overcompensates by using his money to drive around in a sportscar (as, after all, Thursday is the night when you "put the top down"), obtain some whorish "arm candy" and consume $200 blends of champagne and various expensive aged cognacs at NYC nightclub Cain. The only thing the video doesn't show is A.J. slipping into the men's room to blow lines off his buddies' equally tiny weiners while congratulating each other on how their analysts' salaries have transformed them from ill-equipped losers to "ballers."
And just in case anyone is tired of the "he has a small penis...I can just tell" argument, let me go ahead and break out my quantitative skills to prove empirically just what an unsatisfying and unappealing prospect sleeping with A.J. or his cronies might be:
As you can see, this equation breaks down to dividing by zero, which anyone who has ever made a spreadsheet on Microsoft Excel can tell you is not possible. Therefore, Aleksey is going to have to move over and share his "Douchebag of the Year" title with A.J. Von Suarma. Oh, and ladies, if you're ever in Chelsea looking for some action with one of the Wall Street fucktards milling around at Cain, RUN don't walk away from A.J. Unless you like a small weiner, in which case, ask him to buy you a "Grandeur" and take you for a ride in his Porsche. I'm sure he has room, even though it's only a two-seater.
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: Razzy Blog (homagetorazzy@yahoo.com)
Subject: Models and Bottles
As great as Alexey Vayner was, this is even better. I am waiting for the trilogy. Scroll down and click on the code.tv link.
DealBook Blog-Another Day, Another Video: This Time it's Wall Street Gone Wild
Aside from Von Suarma's ripping off his title from a Pulitzer prize-winning biography of New York City planner Robert Moses, be SURE to click on this link and watch the video of what a fucking dumbass he is. (I tried to embed the video, but the pretentious assholes at LX.tv, which is apparently what code.tv is called now, are even worse at providing cut-and-paste code than their stuck-up colleagues at Nerve.com)
While unlike Aleksey Vaynar, he doesn't attempt to distract everyone from his obvious masculine shortcomings, A.J. instead overcompensates by using his money to drive around in a sportscar (as, after all, Thursday is the night when you "put the top down"), obtain some whorish "arm candy" and consume $200 blends of champagne and various expensive aged cognacs at NYC nightclub Cain. The only thing the video doesn't show is A.J. slipping into the men's room to blow lines off his buddies' equally tiny weiners while congratulating each other on how their analysts' salaries have transformed them from ill-equipped losers to "ballers."
And just in case anyone is tired of the "he has a small penis...I can just tell" argument, let me go ahead and break out my quantitative skills to prove empirically just what an unsatisfying and unappealing prospect sleeping with A.J. or his cronies might be:
As you can see, this equation breaks down to dividing by zero, which anyone who has ever made a spreadsheet on Microsoft Excel can tell you is not possible. Therefore, Aleksey is going to have to move over and share his "Douchebag of the Year" title with A.J. Von Suarma. Oh, and ladies, if you're ever in Chelsea looking for some action with one of the Wall Street fucktards milling around at Cain, RUN don't walk away from A.J. Unless you like a small weiner, in which case, ask him to buy you a "Grandeur" and take you for a ride in his Porsche. I'm sure he has room, even though it's only a two-seater.
Labels: assholes, overcompensation, Razzyphiles, scathing indictments, small penises
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