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:
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: