Sunday, December 31, 2006
My New Year's Resolutions
As I bravely prepare to destroy an entire lobe of my liver to welcome the year ought-seven (and toast my buddy Rack celebrating her birthday on the other coast), I have been doing some reflection about New Year's resolutions.
This morning, I was battling a brutal hangover and heading home from my buddy Mullah AntoniHo's house, where I was forced to crash due to excess consumption of Rainier Tallboys. I was flipping channels on the radio and lingered upon Journey's "Faithfully." I have a real thing for Journey, so I didn't notice which station was playing this, and instead chose to focus on the soaring vocals of a certain Mr. Steve Perry (as my ex Benzo is fond of saying, "Small guy...BIG voice"), which made my hangover dissipate somewhat. Unfortunately, I should have heeded which fucking station this was on, because it was the "Warm" station. Every city has one of these stations. Save the occasionally totally kickass Journey power ballad, they mostly play unbearably crappy shit like Michael Bolton and Josh Groban that every dentist office in the world seems to think people want to hear while they're getting their teeth drilled. Also, these are the stations that invariably switch to the "all-Christmas" format the day after Thanksgiving.
Anyway, I realized to my horror that I had unwittingly landed on Warm 106.9 when FUCKING JOHN TESH piped up (apparently he has a Sunday morning show, which just goes to tell you how absolutely horrible this radio station is). Tesh, who is best known for being the worst co-host of "Entertainment Tonight" in TV celebrity news history and the composer of homicidal rage-inducing New Age Casio keyboard music that is apparently best played at the Red Rocks Amphitheater, started lecturing listeners about resolving to spend 2007 performing "intelligently programmed acts of kindness," whatever the fuck that means. I guess that asshole Tesh doesn't like the stochastic nature of random acts of kindness, and thus has coined this new bullshit term for being a simpering do-gooder pussy. At that point, I elected to change the channel to KUBE 93 right in time for Akon's "Smack That" to come on, saving me from crashing my car into the jersey barrier on I-5 to put myself out of my misery. However, I did start thinking about my own New Year's resolutions.
Usually, I don't make New Year's resolutions, because I think that's the quickest way to NOT do something, like lose weight or quit smoking. If Tesh is busy exhorting people to plan acts of kindness, however, I have to do something to counter that. With all these damn Warm 106.9 listeners running around spreading kindness and expecting congratulations for being nice to everyone, I'm going to have to DOUBLE my output of assholishness. Therefore, I am dedicating 2007 to "intelligently programmed" acts of mean-spirited bitchery and useless bullshit, such as:
-The wholesale destruction of Oprah Winfrey, Alex Rodriguez (well, and ALL the Yankees, for that matter), and Pope Benedixteen. Don't ask me how I'll bring this about, but my plan so far involves inventing a machine that can spontaneously generate black holes and shoot fireballs.
-Killing AT LEAST 1,000 more inbred and/or transgenic lab mice
-Rubbing it in that the Shitsburgh Stealers DID NOT MAKE THE PLAYOFFS THIS YEAR, particularly because BEN ROETHLISBERGER SUCKS A FAT DICK.
-Fucking Tej Bindra's boyfriend. Okay, so she might be on the Smith College boobmashing four-year plan NOW, but she is graduating from Smith this May. She'll therefore be back on the penis by June, which means that I'll be able to seek out and bone her boyfriend by early fall at the latest. Revenge, after all, is a dish best served naked.
-Writing a brutal literary critique of Rosie O'Donnell's feminist blog poetry. I don't need that bitch explaining gender inequity in beauty pageants using "u" as a substitute for "you" and talking about pimps from the 70s. What the fuck?
-As long as I'm thinking about Rosie, I might as well try to piss off Donald Trump, as well. I won't rest until the motherfucker sues me for at least 200 gazillion dollars.
-Training my crosshairs upon stupid whores that I didn't have time to make fun of in 2006 (Beyonce, Jessica Simpson, and the Pussycat Dolls should be cowering in terror right about now)
-Much like Gandalf and the fucking Balrog of Moria, I will smote rhinovirus's ruin upon the mountainside. Believe it, motherfuckers. You'll be calling me "Dr. Razzy" by 2008.
-Meeting Aleksey Vayner and punching him in the nuts, just to see if he has any. My prediction is that he'll have HUGE balls, but no discernible penis. I'm so confident this is true I'd put money on it.
-Publicly humiliating anyone foolish enough to send me an e-mail telling me (undoubtedly via verbage involving incorrect spelling, punctuation, and/or grammar) that I suck, I am a slut, I am fat, I am ugly, I am a jerk, etc.
-Continue to increase the tally of people from high school fortunate enough to fuck me. WHO will be the lucky man at this year's Crab Feed???
-Quitting smoking FOR REAL. 2007 is the year of the Commit Lozenge, baby!
-Kicking ass and calling people names per usual. Oh yeah, and getting totally wasted. Claro.
I could go on all day, but like I said, I have hepatocytes to destroy. Be safe and take cabs tonight, y'all, and make sure you have someone to make out with, or better yet, to bang at midnight. I still have yet to figure out who this is for me, but the night is young and there are many parties here in Puyallup. Happy fucking New Year, Razzyphiles!
This morning, I was battling a brutal hangover and heading home from my buddy Mullah AntoniHo's house, where I was forced to crash due to excess consumption of Rainier Tallboys. I was flipping channels on the radio and lingered upon Journey's "Faithfully." I have a real thing for Journey, so I didn't notice which station was playing this, and instead chose to focus on the soaring vocals of a certain Mr. Steve Perry (as my ex Benzo is fond of saying, "Small guy...BIG voice"), which made my hangover dissipate somewhat. Unfortunately, I should have heeded which fucking station this was on, because it was the "Warm" station. Every city has one of these stations. Save the occasionally totally kickass Journey power ballad, they mostly play unbearably crappy shit like Michael Bolton and Josh Groban that every dentist office in the world seems to think people want to hear while they're getting their teeth drilled. Also, these are the stations that invariably switch to the "all-Christmas" format the day after Thanksgiving.
Anyway, I realized to my horror that I had unwittingly landed on Warm 106.9 when FUCKING JOHN TESH piped up (apparently he has a Sunday morning show, which just goes to tell you how absolutely horrible this radio station is). Tesh, who is best known for being the worst co-host of "Entertainment Tonight" in TV celebrity news history and the composer of homicidal rage-inducing New Age Casio keyboard music that is apparently best played at the Red Rocks Amphitheater, started lecturing listeners about resolving to spend 2007 performing "intelligently programmed acts of kindness," whatever the fuck that means. I guess that asshole Tesh doesn't like the stochastic nature of random acts of kindness, and thus has coined this new bullshit term for being a simpering do-gooder pussy. At that point, I elected to change the channel to KUBE 93 right in time for Akon's "Smack That" to come on, saving me from crashing my car into the jersey barrier on I-5 to put myself out of my misery. However, I did start thinking about my own New Year's resolutions.
Usually, I don't make New Year's resolutions, because I think that's the quickest way to NOT do something, like lose weight or quit smoking. If Tesh is busy exhorting people to plan acts of kindness, however, I have to do something to counter that. With all these damn Warm 106.9 listeners running around spreading kindness and expecting congratulations for being nice to everyone, I'm going to have to DOUBLE my output of assholishness. Therefore, I am dedicating 2007 to "intelligently programmed" acts of mean-spirited bitchery and useless bullshit, such as:
-The wholesale destruction of Oprah Winfrey, Alex Rodriguez (well, and ALL the Yankees, for that matter), and Pope Benedixteen. Don't ask me how I'll bring this about, but my plan so far involves inventing a machine that can spontaneously generate black holes and shoot fireballs.
-Killing AT LEAST 1,000 more inbred and/or transgenic lab mice
-Rubbing it in that the Shitsburgh Stealers DID NOT MAKE THE PLAYOFFS THIS YEAR, particularly because BEN ROETHLISBERGER SUCKS A FAT DICK.
-Fucking Tej Bindra's boyfriend. Okay, so she might be on the Smith College boobmashing four-year plan NOW, but she is graduating from Smith this May. She'll therefore be back on the penis by June, which means that I'll be able to seek out and bone her boyfriend by early fall at the latest. Revenge, after all, is a dish best served naked.
-Writing a brutal literary critique of Rosie O'Donnell's feminist blog poetry. I don't need that bitch explaining gender inequity in beauty pageants using "u" as a substitute for "you" and talking about pimps from the 70s. What the fuck?
-As long as I'm thinking about Rosie, I might as well try to piss off Donald Trump, as well. I won't rest until the motherfucker sues me for at least 200 gazillion dollars.
-Training my crosshairs upon stupid whores that I didn't have time to make fun of in 2006 (Beyonce, Jessica Simpson, and the Pussycat Dolls should be cowering in terror right about now)
-Much like Gandalf and the fucking Balrog of Moria, I will smote rhinovirus's ruin upon the mountainside. Believe it, motherfuckers. You'll be calling me "Dr. Razzy" by 2008.
-Meeting Aleksey Vayner and punching him in the nuts, just to see if he has any. My prediction is that he'll have HUGE balls, but no discernible penis. I'm so confident this is true I'd put money on it.
-Publicly humiliating anyone foolish enough to send me an e-mail telling me (undoubtedly via verbage involving incorrect spelling, punctuation, and/or grammar) that I suck, I am a slut, I am fat, I am ugly, I am a jerk, etc.
-Continue to increase the tally of people from high school fortunate enough to fuck me. WHO will be the lucky man at this year's Crab Feed???
-Quitting smoking FOR REAL. 2007 is the year of the Commit Lozenge, baby!
-Kicking ass and calling people names per usual. Oh yeah, and getting totally wasted. Claro.
I could go on all day, but like I said, I have hepatocytes to destroy. Be safe and take cabs tonight, y'all, and make sure you have someone to make out with, or better yet, to bang at midnight. I still have yet to figure out who this is for me, but the night is young and there are many parties here in Puyallup. Happy fucking New Year, Razzyphiles!
Labels: assholes, hilarious shit, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, Razzification, Razzy Haters, Razzyphiles, ridiculous absurdity
Balboa vs. Vayner: Impossible is Nothing
I'm totally NOT going to see that new Rocky movie, only because Rocky V sucked so much ass it totally negated the awesomeness of Rocky, Rocky III, and Rocky IV combined. However, my new friend from my JFK-SeaTac flight sent me this video, and I have to say, if this shit was actually the plot of Rocky Balboa, I'd show up and see the shit at midnight on opening night.
Behold, Impossible is Nothing, an epic Hollywood showcase of pugilism so ferociously rad that it should be a fucking crime that this movie has NOT been made:
I never thought that Rocky Balboa would face a more contemptible foe of than Ivan Drago, but I stand corrected. When Aleksey Vayner finally gets kicked out of Yale for plagiarism and/or assault via unlicensed acupuncture and/or profiting from fraudulent charities and/or one stint on academic probation too many and/or just being a lying putz in general, I think he should seriously consider a career as a sports movie villain. Everyone already knows that he's the fucking Sir Laurence Olivier of pretending to be athletic already.
Behold, Impossible is Nothing, an epic Hollywood showcase of pugilism so ferociously rad that it should be a fucking crime that this movie has NOT been made:
I never thought that Rocky Balboa would face a more contemptible foe of than Ivan Drago, but I stand corrected. When Aleksey Vayner finally gets kicked out of Yale for plagiarism and/or assault via unlicensed acupuncture and/or profiting from fraudulent charities and/or one stint on academic probation too many and/or just being a lying putz in general, I think he should seriously consider a career as a sports movie villain. Everyone already knows that he's the fucking Sir Laurence Olivier of pretending to be athletic already.
Labels: Aleksey Vayner, hilarious shit, ridiculous absurdity
Saturday, December 30, 2006
2006: The Year of the Slut
It's that time again: the year in review. Here are the top hits that I knew about for the year - lovingly dubbed "The Year of the Slut" by my buddy Garbo. NEW YEAR'S EVE: We rang it in with more than good cheer. It's Rack's birthday, assholes, so the New Year is the least important of the relevant events. There were spankings from a Bettie Page look-alike, potfulls of thrice-spiked cider, a Harppon-employee (ergo free beer for three solid days), make-out sessions on linoleum floors, probably table-dances (can't remember), and more drastic instances of misbehavior. Well worth the drive and looking forward to the sequel tonight.
THE FIFA WORLD CUP: If you forget about the TOTAL shock of its outcome, the raucous good times of floating boozily through Irish bars in Manhattan, and the really remarkable number of hookups that invariably accompany this sort of endless social event, the title goes to Zinedine-I'm'a-fuck-your-face-up-Zidane. I was so drunk for a month that I couldn't feel my face when he cracked skull on the field, but I sure felt my jaw drop. Right into my next beer.
THE O.J. BOOK: Don't matter if Murdock prints it or not, which is great because he won't. But what FUCKING SHIT WAS THAT. Just when we thought that this pivotal post-Rodney King, pre-Dialo racial moment couldn't get any weirder, we are reminded why models and football players are not allowed to speak.
SADDAM HUSSEIN: [...]
AMERICA VOTES: The Democrats swept the nation in the 2006 elections. The outcomes hangs in the balance to see what can get done in this political gridlock, as our Commandante in Chief struggles with English and leadership, and the threat of any level of disaster to a Democratic Senator can upset the balance, but hell - the victory parties have been unrivaled.
TEJ OFFENSIVE: An evil plot to silence Razzy is foiled. Still ugly. But foiled. NOICE!
PLUTO DEMOTED: After millienia of devoted service, Pluto is kicked back down the cosmic ladder to middle management. No gold-plated watch. Just the outer ranks of outerspace. Qouth my father, "It throughs astrology into a tailspin." All I wanna know is, who's fucking head can I cut off for this? MY SALARY: In contrast to Pluto's diminished status, my shit hit a seismic spike. make no bones about it: it pays to be experiential. Fingers crossed for my bonus, when I can finally silence those rat bastard credit cards.
NORTH KOREA'S NUKES: Bless.
MY MOM IS DONE WITH MENOPAUSE: Score!
NASA: Three cheers for these poor sons of bitches for getting their shit together. They saved their funding, they pulled off three launches and they're thinking big on four for next year, they got shit on Mars, and they actually studied their data to apply it to the Orion - shit is rosy for America in SPACE Space space. Here's to you, JFK. TEACHER'S HIGH SCHOOL REUNION: My buddies Teach and Tubby hit their South Kakalaka high school reunion where the Most Popular Guy in their class, piss drunk and hard up for cash, tried to sell Tubby a dime bag. Almost simultaneously, M.P.G.'s remarkably drunker girlfriend made a confession to Teach that she and M.P.G. had met on MySpace, and requested discretion. Both bits of news hit the floor about eight minutes later. Luckily, M.P.G. was involved in a fist fight at the punch table for other reasons, and was forcibly ejected by security.
PLASTIC SURGERY: That is, my grandmother, at 80, has decided to close the door on face lifts.
MICROSOFT VISTA: At long fucking last, Gates takes a cue from Apple. If it ever comes out, we'll maybe have computers we can use. After all, the only criticism comes from Forbes.com is that it's not "people-ready". Quote they, "The new system is bloated and overly complex. Why wait?"
JACK BAUER: First of all, Keifer Southerland's career is officially saved. After Flatliners, we weren't sure, but things are on the up and up for the son of the Donald.
STEP DOWN: Lance Armstrong abdicates. David Beckham steps aside. Rumsfeld is out. But Jigger's back, bitches, and that's all that matters.
NATURAL DISASTER: 2004 gave us the Thai tsunami. 2005 was back with a vengeance with hurricanes so extraordinary, Katrina included, that we ran out of letters and had to start with the Greek alphabet. Fingers crossed that we make it through the next seven hours.
SNAKES ON A PLANE: Best line ever, forgive me if I paraphrase, the Samuel L. wrach delievred: "Enough is enough! I have had it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane!" I mean, after holiday travel, who isn't?
SMOKING GUN: Paris announces it will shortly ban smoking. I can't hear you.
TOM CRUISE: L. Ron strikes again. But on Oprah this time.
JACK PALANCE & GERALD FORD: Rest your souls, gents.
WATCH OUT, WILT CHAMBERLAIN: Cuz Kobe Bryant is the close saludatorian on all your titles, bro. But in this instance, I'm only talking about the game against the Raptors.
PAUL McCARTNEY: He gets that one-legged hooker to stand down, and also Rack and I stood within eight feet of him at JFK. He fucking smiled at her. Eat that, Beatle lovers. And also, no more Beatles died this year. With any luck, Death will focus on the Bay City Rollers for a while.
K-FED-ED: I need not say more. Free at last, Miss Britney, to reclaim your battered rock stardom.
LOYD IS GONE: With his charges mostly resolved, the renovations mostly done, and his rent mostly paid, Loyd is no longer employed as the Schnieder of the Blythewood Fallon household. No more advances on the paycheck, no more half-assed networking attempts of the dental laboratory technology, and no more visits for fucking nothing at 7 am. My parents fired his moochin ass, Pax Fallonia regained. Fuck that last unhung door.
BLYTHEWOOD, S.C.: Maybe y'all 'on'y know 'bout Doko, but Blythewood is on the climbin track this year. There are now five - count them, five - stoplights in my one-stoplight town. Four gas stations, three hotels, two grocery stores, partridge and shit, and a high school. And not just any high shcool. in its first year out of the gate, the highly anticipated Blythewood Bengals spank fat AAA-ass to take the state title in their first season. First of all, this just don't happen. And second of all - this just don't happen. Let's hear it for country ass in motion. 
JACK SPARROW: He lives, and so does Keith Richards, steadily enough to pop up in the next Pirates of the Caribbean. This is a monumentous occasion, and let us give thanks for both.
THE DA VINCI CODE: The American public still spends money on Tom Hanks. Cuz after all, life is a box of chocolates. And that's what Ron Howard gives his boyfriend.
BORAT: Ali G's years of underground genius finally make him some fucking money. High five. PINK TUTU: That is, my mom suggested that I wear one while I do dishes. This may sound insane to some of you, but the reality is that, had you placed a bet ten years ago as to which one I do first, you'd'a a fifty-chance of winning. Now that I support myself, I do, on occasion, wash dishes, so she was just testing the limits. Rest assured, though, that if your bet was on dishes, you won.
THE REAL WORLD: My sister is a college ga-gaduala, got a real job, and has a really good relationship in the works. And she has the CUTEST DOG. Gold medal for my bitch.
PLAYING THE FIELD: The Duke Lacrosse team is back. Into what, you ask? Remains to be seen.
PARIS HILTON: Still fucking famous, someone help me understand.
MICHAEL RICHARDS: Fuck bird flu. This erstwhile semi-celebrity gets foot-in-mouth disease by bringing back that old Ku Klux favorite joke, LYNCHING BLACK PEOPLE. Lest we think En Vogue's "Colorblind" made headway, beware ye hostile stand-ups and Seinfield hasbeens.
MEL GIBSON LEARNS TO DRIVE SLOWER: The miracle is, Russell Crowe's been off the grid for too long for comfort - watch out, 2K7.
REHAB: Robin Williams and Keith Urban. Their tell-all novel will def sell out.
MARGARET SANGER: The morning after pill cracks the glass ceiling. OU812 and RU486 step aside for drugs and concepts with names.
LOCAL DOG DISCOVERS ASPIRIN: As New York canines make confessions to their therapists, South Carolina native pooch Toby renews his own lease on life with aspirin for his arthritis, and gets back to his bee-biting, possum-cornering, car barking, ear scratching, and Alpo at seven[-ish].
TORINO: The Flying Tomato takes all.
MARDI GRAS: It happened, motherfuckers. And so did the Jazz Festival. Big fuck you, Mother Nature. Our boozing ceases not.
MR. T.: Sheds chains and still has TV career. I pity the naysayin' fool.
GET YOUR GAME ON: X-box 360 or Nintendo Wii, that is - either way, these gadgets had folks in line like it was a Star Wars premier - and fortunately, with better execution.
RESPITE OF THE SITH: Thanks be to the benevolence of Baby Jesus, George Lucas remained silent on the scriptwriting front, and our minds were able to rest from bungled romantic space operas. The capacity of Americans to show affection and have feelings dramatically rises. HD-DVD VERSUS BLU-RAY: Either begins or continues "taking digital perfection to a higher level."
NEW MEXICO: Chosen for Branson's Virgin Galactic SPACE Space space flight landing dock. Just a $20K deposit and you too can be on the waiting list to look at a lot of stars and then a whole lot of fucking sand. So spake my hero Han Solo, "This ain't like dustin' crops, boy. "
MADONNA REINSTATES SLAVE TRADE: But the kid will invariably get an awesome track suit from H&M in exchange for his daddy.
THE BIG RED HOOTER: Mal discovers the cocktail of the year, from across the great waters. Two shots tequila, one shot amaretto, fill the shit with pineapple juice and splash in some grenadine. Drunk dial me after three. I FOLD: After a decade of arbitrary resistance, I finally agree to watch Buffy: The Vampire Slayer with my family. My sister doesn't home and fucks up the plan, but the concession stands.
NATIVITY: The Greatest Story Ever Told. Told again. And again. And again. You guys ever heard of this guy, Jesus? Wicked plot. CANCER: Not cured. Again. Raz, you're still up.
BRANGELINA: Still being seen. Again. Good news is, whatever Brad's doing has put an end to her making out with her brother on-screen.
ON HUMAN BOND-AGE: Daniel Craig returns for a James Bond renewal in Casino Royale. He can't drive stick, he's afraid of water, and hates guns just like what'sit in Layer Cake, but goddamnit he's hot, and Sean Connery didn't protest, so it's all good. At least Bond lives on.
JONBENET RAMSEY: Still dead. But we got a revisitation with the possibility that her killer had finally been located. Since it turned out to be shoite, we have great hopes for more thrilling updates in 2007. And by the way, she's buried in the same graveyard as my old Georgia family.Labels: alcoholism, assholes, Britney Spears, crime and punishment, Dumb Smith bitches, FalloniusMonk, Johnny Depp, Kevin Federline, movies, Mr. T, Razzy Haters, smoking, tragedy
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Chingy! goes to fat camp
My father asked for and received a treadmill for Christmas in his latest bid to lose weight. I suspect that it's only a matter of time before the treadmill, like the Stairmaster and NordicTrack before it, will begin service as a very expensive clothes drying rack. However, although I have yet to see my dad do any meaningful exercise on it, he has now decided that Chingy!'s need for weight loss is greater than his own.
"This dog needs a walk," he said this morning, as I sat in my pajamas drinking coffee and watching NFL Live with my brother.
"Put him outside," I said, knowing that Chingy! will walk around at a most leisurely pace until he sniffs and successfully pisses on every rhododendron in my parents' backyard. "Or better yet, why don't you take him for a walk?" I thought privately that my old man needs the exercise just as much as Chingy! does.
"Why don't you take him running with you?" my dad asked.
"Because there's no way in hell that dog can do three miles," I replied. "He's too fat, and with his brachycephalic face and collapsible trachea, he'll stop breathing if he exerts himself too much."
"That dog needs a walk," my dad reiterated, then leashed him up. I thought it was odd that my dad was planning on walking him when he himself was barefoot and wearing naught but a pair of basketball shorts and an old t-shirt, but shrugged and went back to the discussion about our mutual hatred of the brothers Manning I was involved in with my brother.
"Hey, Razzy, come here!" my dad shouted from his room.
"Hang on, we're busy talking about how Mark Schlereth looks more like a corporate lawyer than a lineman!" I shouted. "Besides, lame shit like the World Series of Poker is on next, so can't it wait until that comes on?"
"No, it can't! Get in here and look at your dog!"
I walked down the hall to my parents' room and saw that my dad had, indeed, decided to take Chingy! for a walk. Except instead of actually taking him for a walk, my dad was reclining on the bed watching the Military Channel and Chingy! was doing this, with an expression of utmost disdain and resentment on his pugly little face:
"I've got him up to five minutes," my dad said proudly, as if expecting kudos for his skills as an obese dog personal trainer. I checked the pace on the treadmill, and saw that Chingy! was going at the explosive speed of 0.2 miles per hour. This was still too fast for him, as he kept trying to sit down but couldn't figure out how to accomplish this on the moving treadmill. If he weren't leashed to the treadmill and thus forced to keep walking, I have no doubt that he'd gladly just park his ass and sail right off the end of the conveyor belt.
"Well, try not to wear him out TOO much, Dad," I said sarcastically.
"Alright, Chongay, that's enough," said my dad in a laudatory tone when Chingy!'s five minutes were up. Chingy! promptly staggered across the hall and collapsed in a hail of loud snoring on my new Seahawks blanket. I can't wait to see how totally not effective this new exercise regimen is going to be for Chingy!, and how much weight he's NOT going to lose.
"This dog needs a walk," he said this morning, as I sat in my pajamas drinking coffee and watching NFL Live with my brother.
"Put him outside," I said, knowing that Chingy! will walk around at a most leisurely pace until he sniffs and successfully pisses on every rhododendron in my parents' backyard. "Or better yet, why don't you take him for a walk?" I thought privately that my old man needs the exercise just as much as Chingy! does.
"Why don't you take him running with you?" my dad asked.
"Because there's no way in hell that dog can do three miles," I replied. "He's too fat, and with his brachycephalic face and collapsible trachea, he'll stop breathing if he exerts himself too much."
"That dog needs a walk," my dad reiterated, then leashed him up. I thought it was odd that my dad was planning on walking him when he himself was barefoot and wearing naught but a pair of basketball shorts and an old t-shirt, but shrugged and went back to the discussion about our mutual hatred of the brothers Manning I was involved in with my brother.
"Hey, Razzy, come here!" my dad shouted from his room.
"Hang on, we're busy talking about how Mark Schlereth looks more like a corporate lawyer than a lineman!" I shouted. "Besides, lame shit like the World Series of Poker is on next, so can't it wait until that comes on?"
"No, it can't! Get in here and look at your dog!"
I walked down the hall to my parents' room and saw that my dad had, indeed, decided to take Chingy! for a walk. Except instead of actually taking him for a walk, my dad was reclining on the bed watching the Military Channel and Chingy! was doing this, with an expression of utmost disdain and resentment on his pugly little face:
"I've got him up to five minutes," my dad said proudly, as if expecting kudos for his skills as an obese dog personal trainer. I checked the pace on the treadmill, and saw that Chingy! was going at the explosive speed of 0.2 miles per hour. This was still too fast for him, as he kept trying to sit down but couldn't figure out how to accomplish this on the moving treadmill. If he weren't leashed to the treadmill and thus forced to keep walking, I have no doubt that he'd gladly just park his ass and sail right off the end of the conveyor belt.
"Well, try not to wear him out TOO much, Dad," I said sarcastically.
"Alright, Chongay, that's enough," said my dad in a laudatory tone when Chingy!'s five minutes were up. Chingy! promptly staggered across the hall and collapsed in a hail of loud snoring on my new Seahawks blanket. I can't wait to see how totally not effective this new exercise regimen is going to be for Chingy!, and how much weight he's NOT going to lose.
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, exercise drama, fat fucks
Some bullshit is what it is
I just arrived home with a heavy fucking heart. I'm not going to go into details, because I'd hate to shatter my carefully cultivated image of being a stone-hearted, ball-busting bitch, but I had a very emotionally draining night with someone who I love deeply, but with whom it just won't work. I don't think he and I have ever had such an honest conversation, and it resulted in us both being in tears and lamenting both our bad decisions and the unfairness of life in general. In the course of our conversation, I even admitted cowardice, which is a rare occasion indeed. Finally, after singing our sorrows about how we wound up at this miserable juncture, acknowledging many, many failures, and speculating about how things might have been under different circumstances, I actually said, "Not to sound trite and quote Hemingway, but isn't it pretty to think so?" It's not exactly trite to quote Hemingway (because who the fuck besides me busts out lines from The Sun Also Rises in major relationship discussions?), but nonetheless I was embarrassed I couldn't come up with something more original.
In any event, after crying, kissing, confessing our mutual love for one another, crying some more, kissing some more, making some feeble jokes about Seattle people and the stupid "I heart KCTS (public TV)" bumper stickers on their busted Peugeots, crying and kissing yet some more, and finally making the difficult adult decision to go our separate ways for the evening without having sex to mitigate our respective senses of gloominess, I got in the car and tried to forcibly lighten my mood with my favorite kind of "I rule the world, and everything is okay" music: rap. Unfortunately, I was in such a depressed state that not even my boy Kells singing about pulling up to the club in the Phantom with the wheels spinnin' and the ladies sayin' "that's that," nor could me shouting "ballin!" along with Jim Jones and half of the ballerholics/ballers extravaganza from Atlanta, New Orleans, and Houston cheer my despondent ass up. However, I should have known that if I couldn't lift my spirits, at least I could distract myself with the next best thing: unchecked rage.
KUBE 93, Seattle's only hip-hop station, decided to play the song "Some Cut" by Trillville. This song is over two years old, but as is befitting this not-down-at-all city, Seattle has apparently just discovered it. I immediately thought this song was hilarious when I first heard it several years ago and it even enjoyed a brief stint as my cell phone ringtone. Every time I play it in lab, J-Sexy rolls her eyes and says, "Ugh, is this 'What it is, ho?' This song is revolting." The song is pretty disgusting in terms of the sentiments portrayed, and even a big slut like myself would take offense at the seduction techniques which comprise its lyrics employed by the incredibly ugly trio of men in Trillville.
In case you haven't heard this song, the chorus goes as follows:
What it is, ho? What's up?
Can a nigga get in them guts?
Cause you walk like you ain't been cut
I'll show that ass how to really catch a nut
Well, give me yo' number and I'll call
I'll follow that ass in the mall
Take you home, let you choke on my balls
While I beat and tear down your walls
As hilarious as this is in a song, I'd slap a motherfucker who said something like this to me, and I'm not the kind of girl who runs around slapping dudes for saying dirty shit. Well, I'd at least slap a dude if he looked like any of the guys in Trillville and was audacious enough to approach me like that. Anyway, my tolerance for nasty pick-up lines aside, I was even more offended by the radio edit of this song. It takes this from being an over-the-top, hilariously offensive song to being straight-up crappy:
What it is, yo? What's up?
Can a playa just keep in touch?
Crunk you up like you ain't been crunk
Show us all how to really give it up
Well, give me yo' number, and I'll call
I'll follow that thang in the mall
Take you home so we can do it all
While I (:::silence:::) your walls
What the fuck is that? "So we can do it all" doesn't hold a damn candle to "let you choke on my balls," and "Crunk you up like you ain't been crunk" is certainly a far cry from "'cause you walk like you ain't been cut". For God's sake, the name of the damn song is "Some Cut"! It gets worse, too.
At one point, there's a line that says "you a certified head doctor, number one staller who takes dick in the ass and won't holler" which is replaced in the radio version with "you a certified love doctor, number one staller who knows how to treat a true baller." Why did someone decide to even put this song on the radio in the first place when literally every lyric has to be changed to some lame radio-friendly euphemism?! Granted, I suppose that the proper way to treat a "true baller" is indeed to refrain from responding audibly when being anally penetrated, but anyone with the slightest appreciation for lyrical brilliance can tell you that "takes dick in the ass and won't holler" has a hell of a lot more panache and artistry.
I may be feeling sad, and nursing my tender little tragic wounds, but I'm not too down and out to sit idly by when a good thing is irreparably fucked with. Hey, KUBE 93, show "Some Cut" some goddamn respect and don't change "catch a nut something serious" to "I love you and I'm serious." That's just wrong!
In any event, after crying, kissing, confessing our mutual love for one another, crying some more, kissing some more, making some feeble jokes about Seattle people and the stupid "I heart KCTS (public TV)" bumper stickers on their busted Peugeots, crying and kissing yet some more, and finally making the difficult adult decision to go our separate ways for the evening without having sex to mitigate our respective senses of gloominess, I got in the car and tried to forcibly lighten my mood with my favorite kind of "I rule the world, and everything is okay" music: rap. Unfortunately, I was in such a depressed state that not even my boy Kells singing about pulling up to the club in the Phantom with the wheels spinnin' and the ladies sayin' "that's that," nor could me shouting "ballin!" along with Jim Jones and half of the ballerholics/ballers extravaganza from Atlanta, New Orleans, and Houston cheer my despondent ass up. However, I should have known that if I couldn't lift my spirits, at least I could distract myself with the next best thing: unchecked rage.
KUBE 93, Seattle's only hip-hop station, decided to play the song "Some Cut" by Trillville. This song is over two years old, but as is befitting this not-down-at-all city, Seattle has apparently just discovered it. I immediately thought this song was hilarious when I first heard it several years ago and it even enjoyed a brief stint as my cell phone ringtone. Every time I play it in lab, J-Sexy rolls her eyes and says, "Ugh, is this 'What it is, ho?' This song is revolting." The song is pretty disgusting in terms of the sentiments portrayed, and even a big slut like myself would take offense at the seduction techniques which comprise its lyrics employed by the incredibly ugly trio of men in Trillville.
In case you haven't heard this song, the chorus goes as follows:
What it is, ho? What's up?
Can a nigga get in them guts?
Cause you walk like you ain't been cut
I'll show that ass how to really catch a nut
Well, give me yo' number and I'll call
I'll follow that ass in the mall
Take you home, let you choke on my balls
While I beat and tear down your walls
As hilarious as this is in a song, I'd slap a motherfucker who said something like this to me, and I'm not the kind of girl who runs around slapping dudes for saying dirty shit. Well, I'd at least slap a dude if he looked like any of the guys in Trillville and was audacious enough to approach me like that. Anyway, my tolerance for nasty pick-up lines aside, I was even more offended by the radio edit of this song. It takes this from being an over-the-top, hilariously offensive song to being straight-up crappy:
What it is, yo? What's up?
Can a playa just keep in touch?
Crunk you up like you ain't been crunk
Show us all how to really give it up
Well, give me yo' number, and I'll call
I'll follow that thang in the mall
Take you home so we can do it all
While I (:::silence:::) your walls
What the fuck is that? "So we can do it all" doesn't hold a damn candle to "let you choke on my balls," and "Crunk you up like you ain't been crunk" is certainly a far cry from "'cause you walk like you ain't been cut". For God's sake, the name of the damn song is "Some Cut"! It gets worse, too.
At one point, there's a line that says "you a certified head doctor, number one staller who takes dick in the ass and won't holler" which is replaced in the radio version with "you a certified love doctor, number one staller who knows how to treat a true baller." Why did someone decide to even put this song on the radio in the first place when literally every lyric has to be changed to some lame radio-friendly euphemism?! Granted, I suppose that the proper way to treat a "true baller" is indeed to refrain from responding audibly when being anally penetrated, but anyone with the slightest appreciation for lyrical brilliance can tell you that "takes dick in the ass and won't holler" has a hell of a lot more panache and artistry.
I may be feeling sad, and nursing my tender little tragic wounds, but I'm not too down and out to sit idly by when a good thing is irreparably fucked with. Hey, KUBE 93, show "Some Cut" some goddamn respect and don't change "catch a nut something serious" to "I love you and I'm serious." That's just wrong!
Labels: oh the horror, rap, retard rage, scathing indictments
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Cruella Diddy Ville
In case you haven't been paying attention to the news, Sean "Diddy" Combs had some bad press to contend with when some animal rights assholes (okay, it was actually the Humane Society) went above and beyond the call of duty to stick the collar of a Sean John hoodie into a mass spec and determine that his "faux rabbit fur" is actually from a DOG! What kind of a tacky fucktard, save for anorexic, menopausal Disney movie villains with two-toned hair, wears a damn dogskin coat?
I've never understood why dog fur would make a good coat. I'd never wear dog fur, and it's not because I'm against fur. I'm not against fur at all, and I hate animals on principle. In fact, once I make my billions, I'm going to wear minks and chinchillas all day just because I can and it's an asshole thing to do, and woe betide the dirty hippie who dares to try and throw paint on me for it. Then I'll take my 2 miles-per-gallon gas-guzzling Hummer out for a spin and run over Al Gore with it. Man, I'm going to be the awesomest rich person ever...but I digress.
My disapproval of dog fur also has nothing to do with the fact that I love dogs. I do wholeheartedly adore Caesar and begrudgingly adore Chingy!, and it is true that I only cry during dog-related movies. I fell asleep during Schindler's List, laughed when Ralph Fiennes' girlfriend died in The English Patient, applauded wildly when E.T. went back to his planet, and hated Tom Hanks so much that I was rooting for AIDS by the end of Philadelphia, but if you want to see me cry, pop in a DVD of Old Yeller, Where the Red Fern Grows, or (worst of them all) White Fang. Christ, I'm getting misty just thinking about the scene in White Fang where the puppy sleeps on his dead mother and when he wakes up she's covered with snow and he starts to whine...oh God, I can't even continue writing about this. However, not even this extreme emotional attachment to dogs forms the basis for my frowning upon dog fur. My reasons for condemning Sean John dogskin coats is much more pragmatic. I think Diddy should have to explain why he decided to try sneak collars onto the market made from such crappy fur, particularly since he's always shooting his mouth off about how his shit is the epitome of luxury. Dog fur is NOT luxurious; it's downright chintzy and cheap.
I doubt the genius who decided that using fur from the raccoon dog, a species of wild dog, ever owned a dog. If they had, they would know that you don't need to kill and skin a dog to get a dog fur coat. You can just be a bad housekeeper and let your dogs brush up against and/or sleep on your coats. Most dogs shed so fucking much that if you leave an article of clothing around them for any given amount of time, it will be completely covered in dog hair. I have a closet full of dog fur-trimmed clothes, and not only did not one of them required the death of a dog, they look like total shit. Furthermore, I can only assume that anyone who actually has such a piss-poor concept of style that they purchased a Sean John snorkel hoodie jacket will note that the fur will be falling out in chunks after one or two wearings. Dog fur is constantly falling off dogs while they're alive, so it seems that it would do the same once the dog is dead, except in that case it's not going to grow back. Congratulations, asshole; you just paid too much for a shitty, ratty-ass coat when you could have just borrowed someone's dog and let them do this on your collar:
Dogskin coats, Diddy...?! Give me a fucking break.
My disapproval of dog fur also has nothing to do with the fact that I love dogs. I do wholeheartedly adore Caesar and begrudgingly adore Chingy!, and it is true that I only cry during dog-related movies. I fell asleep during Schindler's List, laughed when Ralph Fiennes' girlfriend died in The English Patient, applauded wildly when E.T. went back to his planet, and hated Tom Hanks so much that I was rooting for AIDS by the end of Philadelphia, but if you want to see me cry, pop in a DVD of Old Yeller, Where the Red Fern Grows, or (worst of them all) White Fang. Christ, I'm getting misty just thinking about the scene in White Fang where the puppy sleeps on his dead mother and when he wakes up she's covered with snow and he starts to whine...oh God, I can't even continue writing about this. However, not even this extreme emotional attachment to dogs forms the basis for my frowning upon dog fur. My reasons for condemning Sean John dogskin coats is much more pragmatic. I think Diddy should have to explain why he decided to try sneak collars onto the market made from such crappy fur, particularly since he's always shooting his mouth off about how his shit is the epitome of luxury. Dog fur is NOT luxurious; it's downright chintzy and cheap.
I doubt the genius who decided that using fur from the raccoon dog, a species of wild dog, ever owned a dog. If they had, they would know that you don't need to kill and skin a dog to get a dog fur coat. You can just be a bad housekeeper and let your dogs brush up against and/or sleep on your coats. Most dogs shed so fucking much that if you leave an article of clothing around them for any given amount of time, it will be completely covered in dog hair. I have a closet full of dog fur-trimmed clothes, and not only did not one of them required the death of a dog, they look like total shit. Furthermore, I can only assume that anyone who actually has such a piss-poor concept of style that they purchased a Sean John snorkel hoodie jacket will note that the fur will be falling out in chunks after one or two wearings. Dog fur is constantly falling off dogs while they're alive, so it seems that it would do the same once the dog is dead, except in that case it's not going to grow back. Congratulations, asshole; you just paid too much for a shitty, ratty-ass coat when you could have just borrowed someone's dog and let them do this on your collar:
Dogskin coats, Diddy...?! Give me a fucking break.
Labels: assholes, celebrities, Diddy, doggity style, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Monday, December 25, 2006
Christmas with the Razzies
So today is Christ's birthday, and since this year I was naughty instead of nice (although to be truthful, naughty is nice in my view), Santa gave me a brutal head cold in my stocking, or more specifically, in my frontal sinuses. I suppose that this is my deserved reward for spending the past year taunting and mocking most of humanity, drinking with reckless abandon, publicly stripping, and fucking my friends. For the past two days I've been steadily depleting the entire supply of Puffs Plus and DayQuil in the greater South Hill/unincorporated Pierce County area on account of my sinuses being filled with what feels like enough cement to add an extra lane to I-5. This morning I got on the phone with my cousin, and I barely said "Merry Christmas" to her when she says, "God, you sound terrible. Do you have pneumonia or throat cancer or something?" On the bright side, it's very rare that I'm actually sick in the presence of my mom, and can thus garner sympathy and consequent waiting-upon.
In the spirit of the holiday, however, I figured I'd provide a little update about what else has gone on with me during this blessed and festive season. It hasn't all been boozing and lesbian sex...in fact, yesterday, I went to church! Despite praying for relief from my congestion and sore throat, God chose to ignore my pleas for healing and redemption. That's probably because my brother and I were too busy being assholes during mass to warrant any divine mercy of any sort.
My brother, Lil' Tevie, is in many ways my polar opposite. He is quiet and reserved, he doesn't really drink much, and he actually likes and gets along with children (he's a P.E. teacher). However, in one way, my brother is VERY much like me in that he is hilarious and will make fun of everything and everybody. Normally, my family goes to the 10:30 p.m. mass on Christmas Eve, but this year we elected to go at 5 p.m. That's because my mom let it slip that the priest is a smoker, and therefore keeps mass blissfully short so he can get outside and feed his addiction. "Let's go to his mass," I insisted.
"But it's the childrens' mass," said my mom. She knows I hate kids.
"I don't care. If it's short, and it means not going all the way to Eatonville for the 10:30 mass, I say it's childrens' mass all the way."
"I second that," said Lil' Tevie.
Unfortunately, we forgot that mass coincided with the end of the Seahawks game, and my mom huffed off to find a seat in the church while my dad, brother, and I listened to the extremely upsetting "And Rivers completes a 37-yard pass to the end zone...touchdown San Diego!" Fuck!
Anyway, we went inside and located my mom, and no sooner had Lil' Tevie and I sat down between our parents than we started making fun of people. "Mullet alert!" said Lil' Tevie, pointing.
"Is that a man or a woman? I really can't tell. Too bad we're not Muslims, then we'd have to see which side of the mosque it would sit on." I responded, once I'd zeroed in on the person Lil' Tevie was mocking. The person was morbidly obese, as well as wearing a very gender neutral sweatsuit.
"It's Pat," said Lil' Tevie. "Check out that lady over there. Nice fanny pack!"
"Don't be mean, it has a Christmas tree on it! Obviously she picked that out especially for the holidays." I said, then spied a man with a beard, bald head, and slightly tinted wire-framed glasses. "Hey, don't look now, Teves, but I think that's the BTK killer!"
Lil' Tevie started snickering and my mom turned and glared at us both. "Am I going to have to separate you two?" she asked. We both then looked slightly humbled. It's embarrassing to be in your mid-to-late-twenties and have your mother threaten to separate you for bad behavior in the house of the Lord.
"As long as there's no air-humpers in front of us, we'll be fine," Lil' Tevie said. Several years before, there was a kid standing in front of us who spent the entire mass rocking back and forth from the fulcrum of his pelvis, and Lil' Tevie had deemed him "the air-humper." On that occasion, Lil' Tevie made this proclamation at the moment when the priest was consecrating the host. The priest had barely said, "Do this in memory of me," and was mid-way through a reverent bow to the eucharist when I burst out laughing...loudly. My mother didn't approve, but nonetheless she couldn't suppress a giggle in memory of the air-humper. "Well, just try to be quiet. And stop comparing people in church to serial killers, Razzy!"
Then mass started, and since it was the childrens' mass, the priest had barely started speaking when there was a pounding at the doors of the church. The pounding was all part of this hokey "there's no room at the inn and my wife and newborn baby and I need a place to stay" Nativity skit. Once the couple playing Mary and Joseph walked in with their baby, Lil' Tevie leaned over to me and said, "Okay, we made room for you and your stupid kid, now shut up so we can get on with mass."
"Dude, Mary is totally NOT a virgin," I said to Lil' Tevie. "Nor is she fifteen. That bitch is like 35!"
"She's not a carpenter's wife, either. Look at that rock on her finger!" Lil' Tevie was very observant. Mary's engagement band contained at least a two-karat stone.
Fortunately, once Mary, Joseph, and the non-Jesus Baby Jesus got settled, the priest rolled through the mass. They even skipped doing a second reading and went straight to the gospel after the responsorial psalm. Unfortunately, though, the homily was geared toward the younger parishioners.
"What's this?" asked the priest, waving around some type of plush puppet.
"It looks like that guy from Total Recall who was in the dude's stomach!" Lil' Tevie whispered to me.
"Quaiiiid. Start the reactorrrr! Free Mars!" I replied. We started laughing. My mom shot us a death stare.
"It's a turtle!" she hissed at us. "Quit talking in church, you two!"
Lil' Tevie astutely pointed out two deaf kids across the aisle who were busy conversing furiously during the homily in sign language. "They get to talk in church."
"Yeah, it's not fair," I added. "I wish we were deaf, Tevie."
My mother glared at us again. Fortunately, she got so sick of our bullshit that she hustled us out after the first verse of "What Child is This?" that closed out the mass. "I'm NEVER letting you two sit next to each other in church! Is it too much to ask for you two to not be total wiseasses for just one hour once a year? I almost liked it better when Razzy used to fake sick so she wouldn't have to go!"
"But Mom," I protested. "I am sick this year. I couldn't be quiet, because I had to keep blowing my nose!"
That distracted my mom, and she went back into "oh, you poor thing" mode. She patted my dad on the arm. "Taz, stop at this Walgreen's so we can get your daughter some more Kleenex." Lil' Tevie gave me a silent high-five for ceasing the litany of "why can't you behave yourselves in church, you are adults now" complaints by referencing my infirm, cold-having status. Operation Be-Assholes-In-Church-And-Evade-Mom-Problems was successful once again!
And that is how we Razzies roll around holiday time. It's a combination of mockery, bitchery, and, since tonight following dinner my relatives democratically decided to watch RoboCop unedited on Encore immediately followed by "Engineering an Empire: The Byzantines", total awesomeness, as well. Christmas with my family, and especially my brother, totally rules.
In the spirit of the holiday, however, I figured I'd provide a little update about what else has gone on with me during this blessed and festive season. It hasn't all been boozing and lesbian sex...in fact, yesterday, I went to church! Despite praying for relief from my congestion and sore throat, God chose to ignore my pleas for healing and redemption. That's probably because my brother and I were too busy being assholes during mass to warrant any divine mercy of any sort.
My brother, Lil' Tevie, is in many ways my polar opposite. He is quiet and reserved, he doesn't really drink much, and he actually likes and gets along with children (he's a P.E. teacher). However, in one way, my brother is VERY much like me in that he is hilarious and will make fun of everything and everybody. Normally, my family goes to the 10:30 p.m. mass on Christmas Eve, but this year we elected to go at 5 p.m. That's because my mom let it slip that the priest is a smoker, and therefore keeps mass blissfully short so he can get outside and feed his addiction. "Let's go to his mass," I insisted.
"But it's the childrens' mass," said my mom. She knows I hate kids.
"I don't care. If it's short, and it means not going all the way to Eatonville for the 10:30 mass, I say it's childrens' mass all the way."
"I second that," said Lil' Tevie.
Unfortunately, we forgot that mass coincided with the end of the Seahawks game, and my mom huffed off to find a seat in the church while my dad, brother, and I listened to the extremely upsetting "And Rivers completes a 37-yard pass to the end zone...touchdown San Diego!" Fuck!
Anyway, we went inside and located my mom, and no sooner had Lil' Tevie and I sat down between our parents than we started making fun of people. "Mullet alert!" said Lil' Tevie, pointing.
"Is that a man or a woman? I really can't tell. Too bad we're not Muslims, then we'd have to see which side of the mosque it would sit on." I responded, once I'd zeroed in on the person Lil' Tevie was mocking. The person was morbidly obese, as well as wearing a very gender neutral sweatsuit.
"It's Pat," said Lil' Tevie. "Check out that lady over there. Nice fanny pack!"
"Don't be mean, it has a Christmas tree on it! Obviously she picked that out especially for the holidays." I said, then spied a man with a beard, bald head, and slightly tinted wire-framed glasses. "Hey, don't look now, Teves, but I think that's the BTK killer!"
Lil' Tevie started snickering and my mom turned and glared at us both. "Am I going to have to separate you two?" she asked. We both then looked slightly humbled. It's embarrassing to be in your mid-to-late-twenties and have your mother threaten to separate you for bad behavior in the house of the Lord.
"As long as there's no air-humpers in front of us, we'll be fine," Lil' Tevie said. Several years before, there was a kid standing in front of us who spent the entire mass rocking back and forth from the fulcrum of his pelvis, and Lil' Tevie had deemed him "the air-humper." On that occasion, Lil' Tevie made this proclamation at the moment when the priest was consecrating the host. The priest had barely said, "Do this in memory of me," and was mid-way through a reverent bow to the eucharist when I burst out laughing...loudly. My mother didn't approve, but nonetheless she couldn't suppress a giggle in memory of the air-humper. "Well, just try to be quiet. And stop comparing people in church to serial killers, Razzy!"
Then mass started, and since it was the childrens' mass, the priest had barely started speaking when there was a pounding at the doors of the church. The pounding was all part of this hokey "there's no room at the inn and my wife and newborn baby and I need a place to stay" Nativity skit. Once the couple playing Mary and Joseph walked in with their baby, Lil' Tevie leaned over to me and said, "Okay, we made room for you and your stupid kid, now shut up so we can get on with mass."
"Dude, Mary is totally NOT a virgin," I said to Lil' Tevie. "Nor is she fifteen. That bitch is like 35!"
"She's not a carpenter's wife, either. Look at that rock on her finger!" Lil' Tevie was very observant. Mary's engagement band contained at least a two-karat stone.
Fortunately, once Mary, Joseph, and the non-Jesus Baby Jesus got settled, the priest rolled through the mass. They even skipped doing a second reading and went straight to the gospel after the responsorial psalm. Unfortunately, though, the homily was geared toward the younger parishioners.
"What's this?" asked the priest, waving around some type of plush puppet.
"It looks like that guy from Total Recall who was in the dude's stomach!" Lil' Tevie whispered to me.
"Quaiiiid. Start the reactorrrr! Free Mars!" I replied. We started laughing. My mom shot us a death stare.
"It's a turtle!" she hissed at us. "Quit talking in church, you two!"
Lil' Tevie astutely pointed out two deaf kids across the aisle who were busy conversing furiously during the homily in sign language. "They get to talk in church."
"Yeah, it's not fair," I added. "I wish we were deaf, Tevie."
My mother glared at us again. Fortunately, she got so sick of our bullshit that she hustled us out after the first verse of "What Child is This?" that closed out the mass. "I'm NEVER letting you two sit next to each other in church! Is it too much to ask for you two to not be total wiseasses for just one hour once a year? I almost liked it better when Razzy used to fake sick so she wouldn't have to go!"
"But Mom," I protested. "I am sick this year. I couldn't be quiet, because I had to keep blowing my nose!"
That distracted my mom, and she went back into "oh, you poor thing" mode. She patted my dad on the arm. "Taz, stop at this Walgreen's so we can get your daughter some more Kleenex." Lil' Tevie gave me a silent high-five for ceasing the litany of "why can't you behave yourselves in church, you are adults now" complaints by referencing my infirm, cold-having status. Operation Be-Assholes-In-Church-And-Evade-Mom-Problems was successful once again!
And that is how we Razzies roll around holiday time. It's a combination of mockery, bitchery, and, since tonight following dinner my relatives democratically decided to watch RoboCop unedited on Encore immediately followed by "Engineering an Empire: The Byzantines", total awesomeness, as well. Christmas with my family, and especially my brother, totally rules.
Labels: Catholicism, family matters, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT
Ching!-le bells
It wouldn't be Christmas at Casa de Razzy without some ridiculous Chingy!-related misadventures. I was trying to relate a story about our experience at Christmas mass last night, but my mom is bitching at me to help with the ham before the relatives arrive, so that will have to wait. In the meantime, I'll just explain what my fat, stanky monster of a pug has been up to since I staggered off the plane with him in his skintight travel sack and hauled his exposed ass out to Puyallup for the holiday.
Since arriving at my parents' place in the P-N-Dub, my family has reported that Chingy! pines for me when I'm out and about carousing with my friends. He has thus appropriated a bed that reminds him of me, since it's made entirely of my clothes, jewelry, and other personal effects:
The little asshole! No sooner do I wash a load of laundry and stick it back in my suitcase than Chingy! the Hutt is reclining on it and contaminating everything with his pesky fawn hairs. While my dad has been giving Chingy! a lot of press for having "velveteen" fur, he doesn't realize that said fur is virtually impossible to get out of your clothes. I swear to God his hairs are barbed. You can sticky roller your coat for hours, but once Chingy!'s gotten comfortable on it, he leaves an indelible mark in the form of residual fur. That's not the only way he's ruining my wardrobe. The little son of a bitch already put a hole in that lace dress you see him snuggling on, probably because he runs when he dreams (the only exercise he ever gets...if only he'd run in real life he wouldn't be so fucking fat), and his little claws snagged the lace and ripped it.
On top of that, my little brother (well, he's not that little, he's 25, but he'll ALWAYS be a pesky little pain in the ass) Lil' Tevie decided to take a picture of me actually saying "Chongay chong!" at him, and I think it may be the worst picture ever taken of me. Certainly in this photo, all those statements from people who called me "downs syndromy" awhile back may have some credence.
It's rare that a picture is taken in which Chingy! is the most handsome creature in it, but there you go. Merry Christmas, from me and the fattest little puglet in the P-N-Dub. CHONGAY CHONG!
Since arriving at my parents' place in the P-N-Dub, my family has reported that Chingy! pines for me when I'm out and about carousing with my friends. He has thus appropriated a bed that reminds him of me, since it's made entirely of my clothes, jewelry, and other personal effects:
The little asshole! No sooner do I wash a load of laundry and stick it back in my suitcase than Chingy! the Hutt is reclining on it and contaminating everything with his pesky fawn hairs. While my dad has been giving Chingy! a lot of press for having "velveteen" fur, he doesn't realize that said fur is virtually impossible to get out of your clothes. I swear to God his hairs are barbed. You can sticky roller your coat for hours, but once Chingy!'s gotten comfortable on it, he leaves an indelible mark in the form of residual fur. That's not the only way he's ruining my wardrobe. The little son of a bitch already put a hole in that lace dress you see him snuggling on, probably because he runs when he dreams (the only exercise he ever gets...if only he'd run in real life he wouldn't be so fucking fat), and his little claws snagged the lace and ripped it.
On top of that, my little brother (well, he's not that little, he's 25, but he'll ALWAYS be a pesky little pain in the ass) Lil' Tevie decided to take a picture of me actually saying "Chongay chong!" at him, and I think it may be the worst picture ever taken of me. Certainly in this photo, all those statements from people who called me "downs syndromy" awhile back may have some credence.
It's rare that a picture is taken in which Chingy! is the most handsome creature in it, but there you go. Merry Christmas, from me and the fattest little puglet in the P-N-Dub. CHONGAY CHONG!
Labels: assholes, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style
Saturday, December 23, 2006
A long time coming
There's a couple of things I haven't done in a while. I haven't had sex with a girl since before I could legally drink, and I haven't been able to wear my authentic 1987 Def Leppard Hysteria tour t-shirt since Chapstick Dick egregiously stole it. I am pleased to announce that after a night of drunken rowdiness, the dry spell has been broken on both counts.
I was tearing around Tacompton after getting about ten Cosmopolitans deep at my family's annual Christmas party (at which, I should add, my Aunt Jesus ignored me so aggressively that I loudly informed a posse of cousins that I'm officially shunned for my hell-bound status). I decided unwisely to start drinking scotch at the bars, and I was wearing a very slutty dress; so slutty, in fact, that a woman came up to me at one of the bars I was at and tried to tell me that my ass was clearly visible as I leaned over to talk to my drinking companions in a polite way by saying, "Your dress is really short."
"So?" I said, being my typical hammered and belligerent self. "I don't give a fuck if my ass is showing. My ass is hot!"
This is classic shitfaced Razzy behavior. I usually follow such statements up by being extremely sexually aggressive with any attractive person who crosses my path. When in this state of inebriation, I have all the seductive subtlety of Genghis Khan. I'll shout come-ons like "let's fuck!" or "are you going to do me or what?" at whoever happens to be in my crosshairs at that moment. Sometimes this results in me getting laid. Sometimes this results in me having lots of 'splaining--and apologizing--to do the next day. Last night, what my male drinking buddy who I apparently decided to hit on called my "salty" behavior warranted some contrition and mild embarrassment on my part this morning. However, despite my lack of success on that front, I managed to nonetheless get some ass and take a walk down memory lane. And by "memory lane", I mean "when I used to eat pussy."
After the bar closed, I was staggeringly drunk. I was so drunk, in fact, that I'm amazed that I'm not vomiting my face off today. My girls and I went back to my friend G-Boner's house. G-Boner's roommate and landlord is Chapstick Dick. To make a long story short, years ago Chapstick Dick tried to fuck me unsuccessfully, and I don't mean I rejected him. I mean his penis was literally too small for me to figure out the mechanics of how to actually get it to go into my vadge. Then he started crying, told me he loved me, I threw him out of my apartment, he put on my prized Def Leppard shirt and took it with him, and we didn't speak again...until last night! I barged into her place and found Chapstick Dick, all drunk and coked up and a sitting duck for receiving the full force of my years of Def Leppard shirtless rage.
"Where's my fucking Def Leppard shirt?!" I demanded, probably at an ear-splitting decibel level. "I want it back!"
He looked shell-shocked. "Um...I think I've got it somewhere."
"Well, go GET IT! GO!" I shouted. He stared at me. "What are you waiting for?! GET MY SHIRT! NOW!"
I shooed him off to his basement room and proceeded to trudge upstairs with the ladies to drink and party more. I don't know what happened to everyone else, but eventually it was just myself and one other friend in the room. Chapstick Dick strolled by and meekly dropped the shirt into the room.
Maybe it was my recent attention to the drunken lesbians of the Miss USA pageant circuit, or just my drunken horniness and lack of an available penis, but in any event, I decided that I was in the mood to muff dive in celebration of the return of my treasured buttrock relic. Apart from making out with chicks here and there, I haven't actually had sex with a woman since I made an amateur porn with a couple of my friends and my boyfriend in college (and that was hilarious...we devised a plot to segue into three-way lesbian sex that involved us saying "look at all this furniture! We'd better move it!" and then "tripping" and falling face-first into each others' crotches. Good times.) However, the victory of receiving my Def Leppard shirt back combined with my alcohol-induced lust to result in banging the hell out of one of my girlfriends. At one point we simultaneously lamented the fact that we didn't have a strap-on. Jesus H. Christ. I'm even embarrassed by my own behavior. For a long time now, I've thought that none of my male friends were safe from my drunken advances. Now it seems the ladies need to safeguard their virtue when I'm around, as well, since I'm DEFINITELY out of the running for the title of Miss USA. On the bright side, Smith College has yet another reason to applaud me as one of its most visible alumnae. Go Pioneers!
I was tearing around Tacompton after getting about ten Cosmopolitans deep at my family's annual Christmas party (at which, I should add, my Aunt Jesus ignored me so aggressively that I loudly informed a posse of cousins that I'm officially shunned for my hell-bound status). I decided unwisely to start drinking scotch at the bars, and I was wearing a very slutty dress; so slutty, in fact, that a woman came up to me at one of the bars I was at and tried to tell me that my ass was clearly visible as I leaned over to talk to my drinking companions in a polite way by saying, "Your dress is really short."
"So?" I said, being my typical hammered and belligerent self. "I don't give a fuck if my ass is showing. My ass is hot!"
This is classic shitfaced Razzy behavior. I usually follow such statements up by being extremely sexually aggressive with any attractive person who crosses my path. When in this state of inebriation, I have all the seductive subtlety of Genghis Khan. I'll shout come-ons like "let's fuck!" or "are you going to do me or what?" at whoever happens to be in my crosshairs at that moment. Sometimes this results in me getting laid. Sometimes this results in me having lots of 'splaining--and apologizing--to do the next day. Last night, what my male drinking buddy who I apparently decided to hit on called my "salty" behavior warranted some contrition and mild embarrassment on my part this morning. However, despite my lack of success on that front, I managed to nonetheless get some ass and take a walk down memory lane. And by "memory lane", I mean "when I used to eat pussy."
After the bar closed, I was staggeringly drunk. I was so drunk, in fact, that I'm amazed that I'm not vomiting my face off today. My girls and I went back to my friend G-Boner's house. G-Boner's roommate and landlord is Chapstick Dick. To make a long story short, years ago Chapstick Dick tried to fuck me unsuccessfully, and I don't mean I rejected him. I mean his penis was literally too small for me to figure out the mechanics of how to actually get it to go into my vadge. Then he started crying, told me he loved me, I threw him out of my apartment, he put on my prized Def Leppard shirt and took it with him, and we didn't speak again...until last night! I barged into her place and found Chapstick Dick, all drunk and coked up and a sitting duck for receiving the full force of my years of Def Leppard shirtless rage.
"Where's my fucking Def Leppard shirt?!" I demanded, probably at an ear-splitting decibel level. "I want it back!"
He looked shell-shocked. "Um...I think I've got it somewhere."
"Well, go GET IT! GO!" I shouted. He stared at me. "What are you waiting for?! GET MY SHIRT! NOW!"
I shooed him off to his basement room and proceeded to trudge upstairs with the ladies to drink and party more. I don't know what happened to everyone else, but eventually it was just myself and one other friend in the room. Chapstick Dick strolled by and meekly dropped the shirt into the room.
Maybe it was my recent attention to the drunken lesbians of the Miss USA pageant circuit, or just my drunken horniness and lack of an available penis, but in any event, I decided that I was in the mood to muff dive in celebration of the return of my treasured buttrock relic. Apart from making out with chicks here and there, I haven't actually had sex with a woman since I made an amateur porn with a couple of my friends and my boyfriend in college (and that was hilarious...we devised a plot to segue into three-way lesbian sex that involved us saying "look at all this furniture! We'd better move it!" and then "tripping" and falling face-first into each others' crotches. Good times.) However, the victory of receiving my Def Leppard shirt back combined with my alcohol-induced lust to result in banging the hell out of one of my girlfriends. At one point we simultaneously lamented the fact that we didn't have a strap-on. Jesus H. Christ. I'm even embarrassed by my own behavior. For a long time now, I've thought that none of my male friends were safe from my drunken advances. Now it seems the ladies need to safeguard their virtue when I'm around, as well, since I'm DEFINITELY out of the running for the title of Miss USA. On the bright side, Smith College has yet another reason to applaud me as one of its most visible alumnae. Go Pioneers!
Labels: alcoholism, hot chicks, perversion, ridiculous absurdity, sex, sluts
Thursday, December 21, 2006
More slutty lesbian beauty queens!
For those of you who have been living under a rock, this past week Miss USA Tara Conner was allowed to keep her crown and swank Trump Place Upper East Side apartment for agreeing to undergo drug testing and enter rehab. Miss Universe pageant owner Donald Trump is currently bickering with Rosie O'Donnell over the appropriate response to accusations of wild behavior by Miss USA and Miss Teen USA. This hullabaloo started when one of my favorite New York papers, the New York Post, reported on Page Six that the Miss USAs were tearing up the Manhattan party scene, guzzling booze like Kelly Taylor's mom on Bev Niner, openly snorting lots of coke in various club bathrooms, and turning their pageant crib at Trump place into Lesbian Orgy Central. Would rather see pageant bitches encouraging people to reach for their dreams and prancing around in hideous evening gowns answering questions like "How would you change the world in a positive way?" or them piss-drunk, blowing lines off each others tits, and eating each other out in a coked-up frenzy?
Obviously, booze, drugs, and titties are WAY better than this bullshit! Those pearly white smiles might LOOK innocent, but we all know better. They're anticipating the coke, champagne, and cunnilingus which will ensue once this dumb photo shoot is over.
Well, it seems Miss USA and Miss Teen USA got off easy. Yet ANOTHER bitch from the Miss USA/Universe circuit has gotten in trouble for Girls Gone Wild-esque behavior, and she didn't get a slap on the wrist and a trip to rehab. Katie Rees, Miss Nevada 2007, was stripped of her crown for these photos:
Seriously, what is wrong with this? I don't see why just because Miss Nevada happens to get drunk and happens to drop her pants and then happens to make out with a couple of chicks she should get fired. I think this behavior is so commendable that she should automatically win the title of Miss USA just for being totally awesome. For whatever reason, the prudish assholes working for Trump disagree with me, and seem to want someone who doesn't get drunk and start stripping and exploring her sexuality. Booooorrrrrring. Now I remember why I hate beauty pageants.
It's a damn good thing I've never considered a career in pageant competition, because I can't even tell you how many photos of this ilk there are floating around of me out there. Of course, I'd probably trip on my gown and say something totally inappropriate during the question-answer segment, like, "I'm not trying to change the fucking world, asshole, I'm trying to be Miss USA! Or didn't you pay attention to the fact that this is the Miss USA Pageant and not a goddamn United Nations summit?! What the fuck do expect me to do with a goddamn pageant crown, depose Ahmadinejad?" Old photos of me hooking up with girls and showing my titties would be the least of my problems. Still, I guarantee that if there were more Miss Nevadas running around, more people would give a shit about the Miss USA pageant, starting with me. Just a suggestion, Donald Trump.
[EDIT: Holy shit! If you want to see the full cadre of Miss Nevada's skankity and SUPER NOT SAFE FOR WORK transgressions, click here. It's a lot worse than those relatively tame pictures I posted. Except by "worse" I mean "infinitely more awesome." Simulated oral sex! Nipple licking! Go now!]
Obviously, booze, drugs, and titties are WAY better than this bullshit! Those pearly white smiles might LOOK innocent, but we all know better. They're anticipating the coke, champagne, and cunnilingus which will ensue once this dumb photo shoot is over.
Well, it seems Miss USA and Miss Teen USA got off easy. Yet ANOTHER bitch from the Miss USA/Universe circuit has gotten in trouble for Girls Gone Wild-esque behavior, and she didn't get a slap on the wrist and a trip to rehab. Katie Rees, Miss Nevada 2007, was stripped of her crown for these photos:
Seriously, what is wrong with this? I don't see why just because Miss Nevada happens to get drunk and happens to drop her pants and then happens to make out with a couple of chicks she should get fired. I think this behavior is so commendable that she should automatically win the title of Miss USA just for being totally awesome. For whatever reason, the prudish assholes working for Trump disagree with me, and seem to want someone who doesn't get drunk and start stripping and exploring her sexuality. Booooorrrrrring. Now I remember why I hate beauty pageants.
It's a damn good thing I've never considered a career in pageant competition, because I can't even tell you how many photos of this ilk there are floating around of me out there. Of course, I'd probably trip on my gown and say something totally inappropriate during the question-answer segment, like, "I'm not trying to change the fucking world, asshole, I'm trying to be Miss USA! Or didn't you pay attention to the fact that this is the Miss USA Pageant and not a goddamn United Nations summit?! What the fuck do expect me to do with a goddamn pageant crown, depose Ahmadinejad?" Old photos of me hooking up with girls and showing my titties would be the least of my problems. Still, I guarantee that if there were more Miss Nevadas running around, more people would give a shit about the Miss USA pageant, starting with me. Just a suggestion, Donald Trump.
[EDIT: Holy shit! If you want to see the full cadre of Miss Nevada's skankity and SUPER NOT SAFE FOR WORK transgressions, click here. It's a lot worse than those relatively tame pictures I posted. Except by "worse" I mean "infinitely more awesome." Simulated oral sex! Nipple licking! Go now!]
Labels: beauty queens, hot chicks, media whores, perversion, porn, ridiculous absurdity, sex, sluts, TV
Gryffindors do NOT bang Slytherins!
I have been dicking around my parents' house all morning, reading my books about serial killers, trying to keep Chingy! from sleeping in my open suitcase (which, since arriving in the P-N-Dub, he has appropriated as a bassinet of sorts) and getting his barbed little hairs all over my clothes, and prowling the net for useless bullshit to write about. I was excited to see that J.K. Rowling has released the title for the seventh and final installment of the Harry Potter series.
I am a HUGE Harry Potter geek. I fucking love these books and I've read them all countless times. Last night, I was having beers with Morrissey'sHair and Sexxxica, and we were talking about this one classmate of ours from high school who is very pompous. I was like, "You know who he reminds me of? Ernie MacMillen, the prefect from Hufflepuff house."
Morrissey'sHair gave me a look that plainly said, "Okay, well I've read Harry Potter, but not enough to remember descriptions of relatively minor characters, YOU FUCKING NERD, RAZZY." What he actually said was, "I don't remember who that is."
I then added that Ernie MacMillen was always characterized as being self-righteous, pompous, and oddly formal in his mannerisms, and reminded myself that not everyone is as hard-core of a Harry Potter nerd as myself. If you recall, in book 6 after Harry and Dumbledore overcome a mob of Inferi while trying to get Voldemort's locket Horcrux, they open the locket only to find that this is a fake Horcrux and the real one was stolen by someone with the initials R.A.B. Well, R.A.B. is obviously the late Sirius Black's brother Regulus, who was supposedly killed by Lord Voldemort for trying to quit the Death Eaters but REALLY was killed for stealing and destroying his Horcruxes. I can point out the part in book 5 where Harry, Ron, and Hermione throw out the REAL locket Horcrux in the course of cleaning centuries of accumulated magical crap at number twelve Grimmauld Place. I suspect this locket doesn't actually get thrown out, but is squirreled away by Kreacher the malevolent house elf. THAT is how much of a Harry Potter geek I am. The only other people who think about this kind of crap this much are probably masturbating to DVDs of "Farscape" right now.
Anyway, now that I've revealed the depths to which my Harry Potter obsession goes, I was thrilled to see that book seven is called Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. I also immediately started fretting over whether Harry, Ron, or Hermione is going to die (you know one of them HAS to). Then, however, I stopped worrying about that when I saw this picture. Jesus H. Christ, why is Harry Potter sexually experimenting with a KNOWN FUCKING DEATH EATER???
I don't like the idea of naked Draco Malfoy spooning naked Harry Potter one bit. If the people making Harry Potter movies want to sex it up a notch, they could stick Harry between the sheets with Cho Chang or Ginny Weasley. Or better yet, Cho Chang AND Ginny Weasley. Or Ron and Hermione. Or Hermione and Viktor Krum. Even truly revolting images would be preferable, such as Professor McGonagall riding Dumbledore like a triple crown jockey, or Hagrid sucking off Buckbeak the Hippogriff, or Madam Hooch masturbating vigorously with a Nimbus 2000. Anything would be more acceptable than this. The Harry Potter I know and love wouldn't be caught dead with a Slytherin's dick in his ass, and I do NOT approve.
I am a HUGE Harry Potter geek. I fucking love these books and I've read them all countless times. Last night, I was having beers with Morrissey'sHair and Sexxxica, and we were talking about this one classmate of ours from high school who is very pompous. I was like, "You know who he reminds me of? Ernie MacMillen, the prefect from Hufflepuff house."
Morrissey'sHair gave me a look that plainly said, "Okay, well I've read Harry Potter, but not enough to remember descriptions of relatively minor characters, YOU FUCKING NERD, RAZZY." What he actually said was, "I don't remember who that is."
I then added that Ernie MacMillen was always characterized as being self-righteous, pompous, and oddly formal in his mannerisms, and reminded myself that not everyone is as hard-core of a Harry Potter nerd as myself. If you recall, in book 6 after Harry and Dumbledore overcome a mob of Inferi while trying to get Voldemort's locket Horcrux, they open the locket only to find that this is a fake Horcrux and the real one was stolen by someone with the initials R.A.B. Well, R.A.B. is obviously the late Sirius Black's brother Regulus, who was supposedly killed by Lord Voldemort for trying to quit the Death Eaters but REALLY was killed for stealing and destroying his Horcruxes. I can point out the part in book 5 where Harry, Ron, and Hermione throw out the REAL locket Horcrux in the course of cleaning centuries of accumulated magical crap at number twelve Grimmauld Place. I suspect this locket doesn't actually get thrown out, but is squirreled away by Kreacher the malevolent house elf. THAT is how much of a Harry Potter geek I am. The only other people who think about this kind of crap this much are probably masturbating to DVDs of "Farscape" right now.
Anyway, now that I've revealed the depths to which my Harry Potter obsession goes, I was thrilled to see that book seven is called Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. I also immediately started fretting over whether Harry, Ron, or Hermione is going to die (you know one of them HAS to). Then, however, I stopped worrying about that when I saw this picture. Jesus H. Christ, why is Harry Potter sexually experimenting with a KNOWN FUCKING DEATH EATER???
I don't like the idea of naked Draco Malfoy spooning naked Harry Potter one bit. If the people making Harry Potter movies want to sex it up a notch, they could stick Harry between the sheets with Cho Chang or Ginny Weasley. Or better yet, Cho Chang AND Ginny Weasley. Or Ron and Hermione. Or Hermione and Viktor Krum. Even truly revolting images would be preferable, such as Professor McGonagall riding Dumbledore like a triple crown jockey, or Hagrid sucking off Buckbeak the Hippogriff, or Madam Hooch masturbating vigorously with a Nimbus 2000. Anything would be more acceptable than this. The Harry Potter I know and love wouldn't be caught dead with a Slytherin's dick in his ass, and I do NOT approve.
Labels: epic geekery, Harry Potter, librophilia, scathing indictments
Fuck the sphinx
Last Saturday I woke up with a terrible, brutal, hangover. I was nauseated and retching, and I had such a splitting headache that it felt as though my skull would split sagittally and Athena would pop out, clad in battle armor with gray eyes flashing. Nonetheless, I was determined to make a dim sum date with KatieScarlett and Bienvenido-a-Miami, so around noon I steeled myself for the arduous process of exiting my bed, making myself look slightly less like the bastard child of Bret Michaels and Aileen Wuornos, walking the dogs, fighting off the urge to dry heave all over the A train, and battling counterfeit purse-seeking tourists on Canal Street.
It took me a few minutes to even begin the process of moving the blankets off me, much less actually change from a supine posture to an upright one. The night before I was in serious revelry mode: I rocked a cocksucker red dress (it's a very Christmassy color), drank half a gallon of Smirnoff vodka with a very light splash of tonic, and tore up various grad student holiday parties. I was in BAD shape. And while I tried to cope with being awake and being this severely hung over, I looked down and noticed something that made me frown.
My fucking pubes were shaved crookedly. The day before, I had trimmed the hedges, so to speak, and I obviously hadn't used a level to shape my racing stripe. The shit looked like the trajectory of a bad Golden Tee shot. How could I have done this? It's not like it's THAT hard to shave in a straight fucking line. I had done said shaving during my morning shower, so it's not like I was drunk. I was completely sober, and still managed to do a hack job on what is a normal part of my routine. Maybe it was the hangover, but I was really bothered by this.
When I finally made it to the shower, I resolved to correct it. However, the sheer magnitude of punishment that my massive vodka consumption laid upon me dictated that I was physically unable to wield a sharp object around my nether regions with great precision. I didn't want to have a terrible accident with my Mach 3, and since I've already cheated death once while trying to shave my crotch, I didn't want to push it. However, I knew that if I didn't correct the crooked pubes, it would bother me all day. Lacking other options, I foolishly elected to do something very extreme. I shaved everything off.
Some might ask, "Why do you bother shaving? If you just go get waxed, you only have to do it every four weeks, and you don't have to worry about shaping it." I got waxed once, and it was horrible. LL Cool Jew made this appointment for us right before we went to Belize two years ago, and she asked what I wanted. "A Brazilian," I responded. "With a little racing stripe. Like Clark Gable's mustache, except vertical." LL Cool Jew called the waxing place, which claimed to be NYC's ONLY "exclusively wax studio", and told me, "They made up new names for all the standard waxes. Your procedure is called the deep Playboy bikini with buttocks strip instead of a good, old-fashioned Brazilian. If you want it all taken off, that's called the Sphinx. You don't want the Sphinx, right?"
"No way," I said. "I think that's kind of weird."
We went to get waxed and I walked into the room. The very massive non-English speaking Russian woman who was to wax my crotch indicated via some subtle hand gesticulations that I should take off my pants. I dropped trou, but didn't take them off. I'm comfortable being naked, but I wasn't sure what the procedure was for having someone else wax your pussy. Certainly at the gynecologist there's a certain amount of decorum involved in getting naked and sticking your feet in the stirrups, followed by some careful gown draping. I didn't know how this was done at the waxing salon. The woman shook her head and clucked at me sharply, then gestured more insistently that the pants and panties were to come all the way off. I obliged, and got up on the table.
The waxer smacked her meaty hands together with a loud slapping sound, reached down and grabbed my ankles, and roughly wrenched my legs apart. She began to apply the wax. I thought, "Well, it's not too hot. This isn't too bad." As if the waxer could read my mind, she smirked sadistically at the prospect of shattering my false sense of security, and slapped on a piece of paper and RIPPED.
I bit my lip, determined not to audibly express how excruciatingly painful it is to have hair torn out by the root from your labia majora. She continued this for about ten agonizing minutes, and seemed to be taking great pleasure in the amount of punishment she was inflicting upon me. Every time it was actually painful enough to warrant a gasp on my part, she got this look on her face that I can only describe as tremendous satisfaction. I swear to God that before this woman came to the U.S., she probably ran a backpacker torture-for-hire facility similar to the one in the movie Hostel.
I am no stranger to pain in my nether regions. I was born with a congenital urethral defect which, although surgically repaired when I was three, has resulted in me experiencing a lifetime of urinary tract infections and being catheterized for tests several times. I've also had an abnormal pap smear which prompted several less-than-delightful cervical biopsies, the last of which involved slicing off pieces of dysplasia from my cervix with an electrified loop of wire. I also developed a benign mole on my chode (AKA the perineum AKA "the taint" as my brother calls it, which is the region from your vadge to your asshole, and in order for the doctor to remove it, I had to get a shot of anesthetic IN MY CHODE. So it's not like waxing has been the only pelvic trauma I've ever faced, but I have to say, it's right up there with the supremely bad traumas.
When we finally left the waxing studio and LL Cool Jew helped me hobble back to the 1 train, I could barely stand to wear pants that night because my goodies were so sore and inflamed. It was much better by the next day, and I looked hot in my bikini in Belize, but I swore that I'd never do that again. Besides, it was $60, and that's a steep price to pay to be willfully tortured. It's even worse being obligated to tip your torturer.
Ever since, I've gladly risked my neck to shave my punani. It's less smooth and has to be done more frequently, but it's considerably more comfortable than the alternative. However, now that I fucked it up, and since I tried to repair it while I was barely in a state to walk upright much less shave precisely around my precious, I'm rocking the goddamn Britney Spears vajayjay. It looks weird. Looking at myself naked, it's like my top half belongs to a grown woman and my lower half belongs to a girl that would appeal more to Humbert Humbert, Warren Steed Jeffs, or R. Kelly. I'm hoping that I won't get laid until it grows back at least a little bit, because I hate it so much that I'm afraid to even let a fuck-and-run honey see it. "The Sphinx" sucks. I want my fucking pubes back.
It took me a few minutes to even begin the process of moving the blankets off me, much less actually change from a supine posture to an upright one. The night before I was in serious revelry mode: I rocked a cocksucker red dress (it's a very Christmassy color), drank half a gallon of Smirnoff vodka with a very light splash of tonic, and tore up various grad student holiday parties. I was in BAD shape. And while I tried to cope with being awake and being this severely hung over, I looked down and noticed something that made me frown.
My fucking pubes were shaved crookedly. The day before, I had trimmed the hedges, so to speak, and I obviously hadn't used a level to shape my racing stripe. The shit looked like the trajectory of a bad Golden Tee shot. How could I have done this? It's not like it's THAT hard to shave in a straight fucking line. I had done said shaving during my morning shower, so it's not like I was drunk. I was completely sober, and still managed to do a hack job on what is a normal part of my routine. Maybe it was the hangover, but I was really bothered by this.
When I finally made it to the shower, I resolved to correct it. However, the sheer magnitude of punishment that my massive vodka consumption laid upon me dictated that I was physically unable to wield a sharp object around my nether regions with great precision. I didn't want to have a terrible accident with my Mach 3, and since I've already cheated death once while trying to shave my crotch, I didn't want to push it. However, I knew that if I didn't correct the crooked pubes, it would bother me all day. Lacking other options, I foolishly elected to do something very extreme. I shaved everything off.
Some might ask, "Why do you bother shaving? If you just go get waxed, you only have to do it every four weeks, and you don't have to worry about shaping it." I got waxed once, and it was horrible. LL Cool Jew made this appointment for us right before we went to Belize two years ago, and she asked what I wanted. "A Brazilian," I responded. "With a little racing stripe. Like Clark Gable's mustache, except vertical." LL Cool Jew called the waxing place, which claimed to be NYC's ONLY "exclusively wax studio", and told me, "They made up new names for all the standard waxes. Your procedure is called the deep Playboy bikini with buttocks strip instead of a good, old-fashioned Brazilian. If you want it all taken off, that's called the Sphinx. You don't want the Sphinx, right?"
"No way," I said. "I think that's kind of weird."
We went to get waxed and I walked into the room. The very massive non-English speaking Russian woman who was to wax my crotch indicated via some subtle hand gesticulations that I should take off my pants. I dropped trou, but didn't take them off. I'm comfortable being naked, but I wasn't sure what the procedure was for having someone else wax your pussy. Certainly at the gynecologist there's a certain amount of decorum involved in getting naked and sticking your feet in the stirrups, followed by some careful gown draping. I didn't know how this was done at the waxing salon. The woman shook her head and clucked at me sharply, then gestured more insistently that the pants and panties were to come all the way off. I obliged, and got up on the table.
The waxer smacked her meaty hands together with a loud slapping sound, reached down and grabbed my ankles, and roughly wrenched my legs apart. She began to apply the wax. I thought, "Well, it's not too hot. This isn't too bad." As if the waxer could read my mind, she smirked sadistically at the prospect of shattering my false sense of security, and slapped on a piece of paper and RIPPED.
I bit my lip, determined not to audibly express how excruciatingly painful it is to have hair torn out by the root from your labia majora. She continued this for about ten agonizing minutes, and seemed to be taking great pleasure in the amount of punishment she was inflicting upon me. Every time it was actually painful enough to warrant a gasp on my part, she got this look on her face that I can only describe as tremendous satisfaction. I swear to God that before this woman came to the U.S., she probably ran a backpacker torture-for-hire facility similar to the one in the movie Hostel.
I am no stranger to pain in my nether regions. I was born with a congenital urethral defect which, although surgically repaired when I was three, has resulted in me experiencing a lifetime of urinary tract infections and being catheterized for tests several times. I've also had an abnormal pap smear which prompted several less-than-delightful cervical biopsies, the last of which involved slicing off pieces of dysplasia from my cervix with an electrified loop of wire. I also developed a benign mole on my chode (AKA the perineum AKA "the taint" as my brother calls it, which is the region from your vadge to your asshole, and in order for the doctor to remove it, I had to get a shot of anesthetic IN MY CHODE. So it's not like waxing has been the only pelvic trauma I've ever faced, but I have to say, it's right up there with the supremely bad traumas.
When we finally left the waxing studio and LL Cool Jew helped me hobble back to the 1 train, I could barely stand to wear pants that night because my goodies were so sore and inflamed. It was much better by the next day, and I looked hot in my bikini in Belize, but I swore that I'd never do that again. Besides, it was $60, and that's a steep price to pay to be willfully tortured. It's even worse being obligated to tip your torturer.
Ever since, I've gladly risked my neck to shave my punani. It's less smooth and has to be done more frequently, but it's considerably more comfortable than the alternative. However, now that I fucked it up, and since I tried to repair it while I was barely in a state to walk upright much less shave precisely around my precious, I'm rocking the goddamn Britney Spears vajayjay. It looks weird. Looking at myself naked, it's like my top half belongs to a grown woman and my lower half belongs to a girl that would appeal more to Humbert Humbert, Warren Steed Jeffs, or R. Kelly. I'm hoping that I won't get laid until it grows back at least a little bit, because I hate it so much that I'm afraid to even let a fuck-and-run honey see it. "The Sphinx" sucks. I want my fucking pubes back.
Labels: oh the horror, Razzification, sex, tragedy, vanity
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Six degrees of Aleksey Vayner
Yesterday while I was waiting to board my flight at JFK I sat down and attempted to stuff Chingy!'s fat ass back into his skintight travel bag. The girl sitting next to me in the waiting area started complimenting him on his cuteness, and I was like, "He might look cute, but he has a yeast infection...in his ears. Cute, right?" The girl was undeterred, and we got to chatting.
When we boarded the plane, I discovered that the girl was sitting in my very aisle. We continued talking, and I was pleasantly surprised to be seated next to a person on a plane who I not only didn't mind talking with, but whose conversation I actually enjoyed. She is a student at Yale, and knows some people at Smith. I related to her the Tej Bindra saga. Fortunately, it seems her Smith friends are not Tej, which would explain why this chick was so friendly to me. Then, while we both leafed through her Us Weekly and talked about how much we each hate Jennifer Aniston, she mentioned something about Aleksey Vayner.
"Aleksey Vayner?" I asked. "Shit, do you know him? I made fun of him on my blog, too." In late October, I came across his now-famous video CV, "Impossible is Nothing", leaked after an interview with UBS Warburg, and ragged on him and what I surmised was his impossibly small penis. In said extremely overcompensating video, he lifts weights, performs a variety of trick skiing maneuvers, dances with a miserable-looking chick in a leotard, plays tennis with himself, and karate chops a stack of bricks in between lectures on how to achieve success. I was by no means the only person on the internet making fun of this; Aleksey Vayner was all over the blogosphere and the cable news. Advertising God and C-NBC pundit Donny Deutsch even thought he was such a narcissistic, pompous bullshitter that he would "hire him sight unseen."
"Know him?" she said. "He's a legend at Yale. He still goes there. He's on the seven year plan, since he gets such pathetic grades." Then she explained that she knows him quite well, and I won't explain how, because Mr. Vayner is quick to litigate and I don't want to get her in trouble. In any event, he's 24 and still is only a junior at Yale because he's failed so many classes, so I would imagine that lawsuits and various internet scams are his main prospects for making money if and when he finally does graduate.
Not that Aleksey Vayner has anyone to blame but himself for being quite possibly the biggest douche on the planet. This girl told me all kinds of stories about him that are, well, ridiculous. "His last name used to be Garber," she said. "But he had to change it because he told all these ridiculous lies about himself during his pre-frosh orientation, and people were making fun of him before he even got to Yale."
The video was just the tip of the iceberg in terms of Aleksey Vayner shenanigans. "He wrote a book about the Holocaust!" she said. "A book about women in the Holocaust, no less! And you know what it was called? Women's Silent Tears."
I snorted with laughter. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
"I'm not, but that's not even the best part. He plagiarized the entire book from an online encyclopedia about the Holocaust! Word for fucking word."
"No!" I said, scandalized. "What kind of dipshit plagiarizes something that's online...and what kind of dipshit tries to profit from a counterfeit book ABOUT THE HOLOCAUST?!"
"Only Aleksey," she said. "And also, he had all these links on his website to donate to this charity he claimed to run, called--" (She giggled) "--Youth Empowerment Strategies, or YES. All the links went back to his personal PayPal account!"
"Strange that he didn't mention 'creating fraudulent charities' in his lectures on how to succeed," I laughed. "Dude, I should have done more Aleksey Vayner research when I wrote my original blog entry. All I did was dig up some footage from FoxNews where they were reporting that he was suing UBS for leaking his video CV."
"Yeah, 'Impossible is Nothing', which he shamelessly stole from an old Adidas ad campaign! Seriously, he has made such a name for himself at Yale that they have Aleksey Vayner parties, where you go dressed up as Karate Aleksey, Weight-Lifting Aleksey, Skiing Aleksey, Under Armour-Shirt-Wearing Aleksey. He claimed at one point that he was a model for Under Armour!" she laughed. "And he makes his extra money by performing acupuncture on people. Acupuncture! People actually pay this untrained asshole to stick needles into them!"
"Let me guess," I said. "He's not a licensed acupuncturist."
"Hell no!" she said. "But he charges like $100 a session anyway!"
I immediately resolved to check this out as soon as I got to my parents place. According to the (fucking hilarious) Wikipedia article about him, this is all true, and then some. He had to change his name after the pre-frosh lying incident because the stories he told are WHOPPERS. Among them are that "he is one of the four people in the state of Connecticut qualified to handle nuclear waste," he was a child secret agent for the CIA AND the Cosa Nostra, he gave tennis lessons to Sarah Michelle Gellar and Harrison Ford, he's repeatedly beaten Pete Sampras at tennis, is a personal friend of the Dalai Lama, and has killed over two dozen men in gladiatorial contests.
As amazing as Aleksey's completely unabashed and absurd chicanery is, what's more unbelievable is that this is the SECOND time I or one of my friends has randomly encountered Aleksey Vayner. When I initially posted his video CV, platinum elite-level Razzyphile Morrissey'sHair called me up and informed me that the guy spotting Aleksey during the weight lifting scenes in his video lived down the hall from him in college. "The dude was a grade A dickhead asshole," he told me.
And now I've run into a person who sees Aleksey Vayner on a daily basis, in the normal course of her life. Fuck Kevin Bacon; I think from now on, a good drinking game to play among graduates of snobby private colleges in the northeast would be "Six Degrees of Aleksey Vayner." This douchebag, it appears, is pervasive.
When we boarded the plane, I discovered that the girl was sitting in my very aisle. We continued talking, and I was pleasantly surprised to be seated next to a person on a plane who I not only didn't mind talking with, but whose conversation I actually enjoyed. She is a student at Yale, and knows some people at Smith. I related to her the Tej Bindra saga. Fortunately, it seems her Smith friends are not Tej, which would explain why this chick was so friendly to me. Then, while we both leafed through her Us Weekly and talked about how much we each hate Jennifer Aniston, she mentioned something about Aleksey Vayner.
"Aleksey Vayner?" I asked. "Shit, do you know him? I made fun of him on my blog, too." In late October, I came across his now-famous video CV, "Impossible is Nothing", leaked after an interview with UBS Warburg, and ragged on him and what I surmised was his impossibly small penis. In said extremely overcompensating video, he lifts weights, performs a variety of trick skiing maneuvers, dances with a miserable-looking chick in a leotard, plays tennis with himself, and karate chops a stack of bricks in between lectures on how to achieve success. I was by no means the only person on the internet making fun of this; Aleksey Vayner was all over the blogosphere and the cable news. Advertising God and C-NBC pundit Donny Deutsch even thought he was such a narcissistic, pompous bullshitter that he would "hire him sight unseen."
Not that Aleksey Vayner has anyone to blame but himself for being quite possibly the biggest douche on the planet. This girl told me all kinds of stories about him that are, well, ridiculous. "His last name used to be Garber," she said. "But he had to change it because he told all these ridiculous lies about himself during his pre-frosh orientation, and people were making fun of him before he even got to Yale."
The video was just the tip of the iceberg in terms of Aleksey Vayner shenanigans. "He wrote a book about the Holocaust!" she said. "A book about women in the Holocaust, no less! And you know what it was called? Women's Silent Tears."
I snorted with laughter. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
"I'm not, but that's not even the best part. He plagiarized the entire book from an online encyclopedia about the Holocaust! Word for fucking word."
"No!" I said, scandalized. "What kind of dipshit plagiarizes something that's online...and what kind of dipshit tries to profit from a counterfeit book ABOUT THE HOLOCAUST?!"
"Only Aleksey," she said. "And also, he had all these links on his website to donate to this charity he claimed to run, called--" (She giggled) "--Youth Empowerment Strategies, or YES. All the links went back to his personal PayPal account!"
"Strange that he didn't mention 'creating fraudulent charities' in his lectures on how to succeed," I laughed. "Dude, I should have done more Aleksey Vayner research when I wrote my original blog entry. All I did was dig up some footage from FoxNews where they were reporting that he was suing UBS for leaking his video CV."
"Yeah, 'Impossible is Nothing', which he shamelessly stole from an old Adidas ad campaign! Seriously, he has made such a name for himself at Yale that they have Aleksey Vayner parties, where you go dressed up as Karate Aleksey, Weight-Lifting Aleksey, Skiing Aleksey, Under Armour-Shirt-Wearing Aleksey. He claimed at one point that he was a model for Under Armour!" she laughed. "And he makes his extra money by performing acupuncture on people. Acupuncture! People actually pay this untrained asshole to stick needles into them!"
"Let me guess," I said. "He's not a licensed acupuncturist."
"Hell no!" she said. "But he charges like $100 a session anyway!"
I immediately resolved to check this out as soon as I got to my parents place. According to the (fucking hilarious) Wikipedia article about him, this is all true, and then some. He had to change his name after the pre-frosh lying incident because the stories he told are WHOPPERS. Among them are that "he is one of the four people in the state of Connecticut qualified to handle nuclear waste," he was a child secret agent for the CIA AND the Cosa Nostra, he gave tennis lessons to Sarah Michelle Gellar and Harrison Ford, he's repeatedly beaten Pete Sampras at tennis, is a personal friend of the Dalai Lama, and has killed over two dozen men in gladiatorial contests.
As amazing as Aleksey's completely unabashed and absurd chicanery is, what's more unbelievable is that this is the SECOND time I or one of my friends has randomly encountered Aleksey Vayner. When I initially posted his video CV, platinum elite-level Razzyphile Morrissey'sHair called me up and informed me that the guy spotting Aleksey during the weight lifting scenes in his video lived down the hall from him in college. "The dude was a grade A dickhead asshole," he told me.
And now I've run into a person who sees Aleksey Vayner on a daily basis, in the normal course of her life. Fuck Kevin Bacon; I think from now on, a good drinking game to play among graduates of snobby private colleges in the northeast would be "Six Degrees of Aleksey Vayner." This douchebag, it appears, is pervasive.
Labels: Aleksey Vayner, assholes, hilarious shit, retard rage, ridiculous absurdity, scathing indictments, small penises
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
A reminder to my friends in the P-N-Dub
The recent destructive windstorms experienced by the P-N-Dub are nothing...NOTHING...compared to the hurricane that's blowing in tonight. Around 10 p.m. this evening, Hurricane Razzy and Chingy! will arrive at Seattle-Tacompton airport for a fortnight of holiday revelry in the beloved 253 (and 206 and 360).
So to my peeps in the P-N-Dub, I hope you didn't die from carbon monoxide poisoning by bringing your Weber grills inside during the storm last weekend (I heard there was an epidemic of this in western Washington from CNN...better that than the usual "meth epidemic" they report on, I guess). If you're still alive, and you happen to have a special nickname on my website, know that I expect you to cancel any and all appointments and be prepared to jump up in my Lamborghini Gallardo and go back to my place and kick it like tae bo. Well, by "Lamborghini Gallardo" I mean "my parents' Honda Accord", and by "go back to my place", I mean "go back to your place", because my parents aren't down with me using their crib for the drunken after-hours party. It's not that they're unwelcoming; they are usually happy when friends drop in for dinner and watch "Seinfeld" with my dad, or swoon over Giada DeLaurentiis, the buxom host of "Everyday Italian" on the Food Network, with my brother Lil' Tevie, but they usually get pissed when I return home with a posse of drunk people at 2 a.m. and try to squeeze everyone into the twin day bed that occupies the guest/computer room which once was mine. Your places are obviously preferable for late night shenanigans. In any event, I strongly encourage you to stock up on scotch and cases of Vitamin R cans and brace yourself for Razzification.
Also, on a special aside to MillerTime, I promise not to taint your new couches by fucking former high school quarterbacks on them. Would the floor of your new condo be an acceptable alternative?
So to my peeps in the P-N-Dub, I hope you didn't die from carbon monoxide poisoning by bringing your Weber grills inside during the storm last weekend (I heard there was an epidemic of this in western Washington from CNN...better that than the usual "meth epidemic" they report on, I guess). If you're still alive, and you happen to have a special nickname on my website, know that I expect you to cancel any and all appointments and be prepared to jump up in my Lamborghini Gallardo and go back to my place and kick it like tae bo. Well, by "Lamborghini Gallardo" I mean "my parents' Honda Accord", and by "go back to my place", I mean "go back to your place", because my parents aren't down with me using their crib for the drunken after-hours party. It's not that they're unwelcoming; they are usually happy when friends drop in for dinner and watch "Seinfeld" with my dad, or swoon over Giada DeLaurentiis, the buxom host of "Everyday Italian" on the Food Network, with my brother Lil' Tevie, but they usually get pissed when I return home with a posse of drunk people at 2 a.m. and try to squeeze everyone into the twin day bed that occupies the guest/computer room which once was mine. Your places are obviously preferable for late night shenanigans. In any event, I strongly encourage you to stock up on scotch and cases of Vitamin R cans and brace yourself for Razzification.
Also, on a special aside to MillerTime, I promise not to taint your new couches by fucking former high school quarterbacks on them. Would the floor of your new condo be an acceptable alternative?
Labels: alcoholism, MillerTime, P-N-Dub, Razzification
Dude does NOT look like a lady
So the dedicated and ferocious Razzyphile BigWig has graciously provided a link to what I assume is a picture of the Indian sprinter being stripped of his/her Asian Games silver medal in the women's 800 meter race for "failing a gender test." I figured that this sprinter would be more of the type who looked like my ex-girlfriend from high school: a little too tall and muscular, and lacking feminine curviness, but still undoubtedly female and probably getting laid like the sultan of Dubai at lesbian bars for her butchiness. While my high school ex is a tad on the androgynous side (and I think these days it's a look she's embraced), I can say that I've personally performed a gender test on her in the course of our teenage experimenting, and she passed the plumbing portion of the exam.
The Indian track star, however, is undeniably a dude. I've seen drag hookers in the Meatpacking district who are less obviously male than this person. I can't even imagine how s/he got into women's international competition in the first place. Granted, I bet that openly transgendered people are much more of a rarity in India than they are here, and I bet it's also harder to get the hormones and surgeries needed to make the switch, but it's like this dude didn't even try. It reminds me of those bitches at Smith that would cut their hair and rename themselves Colin or Bobby or Julian, and then expect everyone to immediately refer to them with masculine pronouns without explaining themselves. I got into trouble with several Smith trannies back in the day because of such confusion, and to this day I'm still uncertain when a half-assed tranny crosses my path how to properly address them (ie: Miss J, judge, runway walking coach, and instigator of idiot Tyra Banks behavior from "America's Next Top Model.") Santhi Soudarajan seemingly just expected everyone to take his word for it that s/he's a chick, without really putting any effort into ensuring that the transformation is complete. Maybe it's hard to schedule an Adam's apple shaving with a New Delhi plastic surgeon, but at the very least, wear some WOMEN'S CLOTHES, dumbass! That's the least you can do before you try to pass yourself off as female in international competitions. See for yourself:
She's a man, baby!
The Indian track star, however, is undeniably a dude. I've seen drag hookers in the Meatpacking district who are less obviously male than this person. I can't even imagine how s/he got into women's international competition in the first place. Granted, I bet that openly transgendered people are much more of a rarity in India than they are here, and I bet it's also harder to get the hormones and surgeries needed to make the switch, but it's like this dude didn't even try. It reminds me of those bitches at Smith that would cut their hair and rename themselves Colin or Bobby or Julian, and then expect everyone to immediately refer to them with masculine pronouns without explaining themselves. I got into trouble with several Smith trannies back in the day because of such confusion, and to this day I'm still uncertain when a half-assed tranny crosses my path how to properly address them (ie: Miss J, judge, runway walking coach, and instigator of idiot Tyra Banks behavior from "America's Next Top Model.") Santhi Soudarajan seemingly just expected everyone to take his word for it that s/he's a chick, without really putting any effort into ensuring that the transformation is complete. Maybe it's hard to schedule an Adam's apple shaving with a New Delhi plastic surgeon, but at the very least, wear some WOMEN'S CLOTHES, dumbass! That's the least you can do before you try to pass yourself off as female in international competitions. See for yourself:
Labels: America's Next Top Model, exercise drama, gender bending, international intrigue
Monday, December 18, 2006
This just in: Chingy! still as disgusting as ever
Today, I had to take my fatass pug Chingy! to the vet for his triannual rabies immunization. An interesting fact about rabies that those of you not enslaved in the service of academic virology might not know is that it is the deadliest virus known to science. Everyone who gets rabies, or at least rabies in their central nervous system, dies. If you get bitten by an infected animal, you have about two weeks to get the series of around 15 extremely painful intraperitoneal shots of anti-rabies neutralizing IgG antibodies that will prevent the virus from getting into your neurons, and you can live, which is why nobody in the developed world ever dies of the hydrophobia anymore. But if you don't get your antisera and that shit gets in your neurons, you're fucked. There is a 100% mortality rate. That's bigger than HIV/AIDS, bigger than smallpox, bigger than the 1918 flu pandemic, WAY bigger than H5N1 bird flu, and bigger than even the most deadly flavor of Ebola (the Zaire strain has a 96% mortality rate). Maybe 5 or 6 people survived Ebola Zaire infection. Nobody has ever survived neuroinvasive rabies.
Since the thought of Chingy! going all rabid on my ass, possibly attacking me and infecting me with his rhabdovirus-filled slavering bite, and ultimately dying, I placed a high priority on ensuring that he stays up to date on his rabies boosters. Normally I give the boys immunizations for other doggy pathogens myself (distemper, canine parvovirus, leptospirosis, etc.), because I am certainly capable of giving a simple subcutaneous injection and because these vaccines are optional. Rabies, however, requires a license, so you have to go to a vet for it. So I decided to go to the ASPCA Animal Hospital, because I'm sort of a sucker for animal charities, and because they're cheaper than going to the regular vet. The only problem with this is that the ASPCA Animal Hospital is on E. 92nd St, between 1st and York. That means that calculating a means of getting there via public transportation would involve the hellish experience of riding a crosstown bus. Specifically, the M96 bus, and that joy would come after carting Chingy!'s heavy ass all over the C train.
Therefore, I decided to force Chingy! to walk from the C stop at 96th and Central Park West all the way to the ASPCA, about a mile and a half. It ended up being more, because I got us lost on the Central Park bridle path. I figured Chingy! could use the exercise, especially since I've spent most of the past couple weeks trying to devise effective diet strategies for the little fucker to ensure that he'll fit beneath my feet on the flight to Seattle tomorrow. Unfortunately our extra time on the horse trail cancelled out any calorie-burning gain, as it resulted in Chingy!'s discovering a new type of feces to eat: equine. Chingy!, energized by his covert road-apple tasting, managed to make it all the way to the ASPCA, but promptly fell asleep on the waiting room floor and began snoring loudly.
The vet we were supposed to see came out to get us, spied Chingy!, and said, "Oh, this must be Chinky!"
"Chingy!" I said. "It's short for Chin-Chin, and it's pronounced Chongay!"
"Uh...okay, Chonk-ay. You're the fattest pug I've ever seen! But you're SO CUTE!"
Once Chingy! was up on the table, the vet began examining him. After a few minutes in which I explained my desperate attempts to get Chingy! to lose weight, followed by a few minutes in which the vet said that I should just keep up the work, which I interpreted as, "He's fucking fat. Just accept it. He's SO CUTE anyway." Then the vet got to his ears. I related that he'd had an ear infection last year around Christmas, and while the drops he got a year ago seemed to improve it greatly, he still had a varying quantity of brown tar in his ears. However, he didn't act like his ears were itchy or sore, and Caesar makes a regular habit of literally licking all the shit out of Chingy!'s ears as part of some sort of bizarre grooming ritual that I consider entirely the dogs' business and don't interfere with. Since it didn't seem to bother Chingy! and I didn't notice any obvious signs of inflammation in his ear, and since Caesar's attentions kept it relatively at bay, I just figured it was some stank earwax. Chingy! is synonymous with revolting bodily excretions, so I assumed his ears were no exception.
The vet strongly suggested she put it under the microscope and see if there was any evidence of a bacterial or yeast infection. Since I'm paying for all this, and therefore the equivalent of Chingy!'s HMO, I decided to inquire as to the necessity of this test. For one thing, I could do the test myself, if all she's going to do is look at his earwax under the scope.
"How do you determine if he's got an infection or if you just see commensals under the scope?" I asked.
"Commensals?" the vet said, blinking.
I forget that science lingo doesn't always transcend specialties, and it's possible "commensal organisms" isn't how they describe your normal microbial cohabitants in the veterinary textbooks on infectious disease. "The normal non-pathogenic bacteria and other microbes that live in his ears," I explained.
"Oh, right," said the vet, giving me a weird look. "Well, it's usually pretty obvious if one organism is outgrowing everything else. Hang on a moment while I examine the sample," she said, waving the slide containing Chingy!'s ear smear and hurrying out of the room.
When she returned a few minutes later, she informed me that Chingy! has a yeast infection. A yeast infection! I mused, "I always thought Candida albicans was typically white. Why is his ear schmegma brown?"
"Excuse me?" the vet said, looking puzzled.
"Candida albicans. Isn't that what usually causes yeast infections?"
"Oh no, in dogs it's typically Malassezia. What did you say you do again?"
"I'm a grad student in microbiology. There's a lab in my department that works on Candida. I've heard a lot of seminars from them, complete with lots of gross pictures of oral thrush." I leave out my opinion that they probably only show thrush because it's marginally less gross than a picture of someone's cottage cheese biofilm-oozing vadge.
The vet laughed. "Do you study yeast?"
"No, I'm in the virus business. Polio and the common cold."
"Oh, so that's why you're so on top of Chonk-ay's rabies shots."
"Yes. And I saw Old Yeller."
The vet laughed again. I frowned. Old Yeller is no laughing matter. I get upset just thinking about how that movie ended, and I cry every time I see it. I don't deal with the tragic death of great fucking dogs very well, but I thought I'd let it slide in this case. It's not the ASPCA's job to accommodate my personal issues with dying dog movies, and I was ready to get my eardrops, put on Chingy!'s lovely gold rabies tag, and begin the trudge back to the west side. So I thanked the vet for identifying Chingy!'s fungal malady and paid for the exam and Chingy!'s Monistat. Then I told Chingy! to get excited for the walk back to the C train.
Unfortunately, Chingy! decided not to get excited and went on a sit-down strike around Lexington Avenue, so I got fed up and hailed a cab. My dog is morbidly obese, and has a fucking YEAST INFECTION...IN HIS EARS, so I figured I could treat us both to a cab ride back to Sugar Hill. Goddamn that Chingy!, and his yeast infection! Even his illnesses are revolting.
Since the thought of Chingy! going all rabid on my ass, possibly attacking me and infecting me with his rhabdovirus-filled slavering bite, and ultimately dying, I placed a high priority on ensuring that he stays up to date on his rabies boosters. Normally I give the boys immunizations for other doggy pathogens myself (distemper, canine parvovirus, leptospirosis, etc.), because I am certainly capable of giving a simple subcutaneous injection and because these vaccines are optional. Rabies, however, requires a license, so you have to go to a vet for it. So I decided to go to the ASPCA Animal Hospital, because I'm sort of a sucker for animal charities, and because they're cheaper than going to the regular vet. The only problem with this is that the ASPCA Animal Hospital is on E. 92nd St, between 1st and York. That means that calculating a means of getting there via public transportation would involve the hellish experience of riding a crosstown bus. Specifically, the M96 bus, and that joy would come after carting Chingy!'s heavy ass all over the C train.
Therefore, I decided to force Chingy! to walk from the C stop at 96th and Central Park West all the way to the ASPCA, about a mile and a half. It ended up being more, because I got us lost on the Central Park bridle path. I figured Chingy! could use the exercise, especially since I've spent most of the past couple weeks trying to devise effective diet strategies for the little fucker to ensure that he'll fit beneath my feet on the flight to Seattle tomorrow. Unfortunately our extra time on the horse trail cancelled out any calorie-burning gain, as it resulted in Chingy!'s discovering a new type of feces to eat: equine. Chingy!, energized by his covert road-apple tasting, managed to make it all the way to the ASPCA, but promptly fell asleep on the waiting room floor and began snoring loudly.
The vet we were supposed to see came out to get us, spied Chingy!, and said, "Oh, this must be Chinky!"
"Chingy!" I said. "It's short for Chin-Chin, and it's pronounced Chongay!"
"Uh...okay, Chonk-ay. You're the fattest pug I've ever seen! But you're SO CUTE!"
Once Chingy! was up on the table, the vet began examining him. After a few minutes in which I explained my desperate attempts to get Chingy! to lose weight, followed by a few minutes in which the vet said that I should just keep up the work, which I interpreted as, "He's fucking fat. Just accept it. He's SO CUTE anyway." Then the vet got to his ears. I related that he'd had an ear infection last year around Christmas, and while the drops he got a year ago seemed to improve it greatly, he still had a varying quantity of brown tar in his ears. However, he didn't act like his ears were itchy or sore, and Caesar makes a regular habit of literally licking all the shit out of Chingy!'s ears as part of some sort of bizarre grooming ritual that I consider entirely the dogs' business and don't interfere with. Since it didn't seem to bother Chingy! and I didn't notice any obvious signs of inflammation in his ear, and since Caesar's attentions kept it relatively at bay, I just figured it was some stank earwax. Chingy! is synonymous with revolting bodily excretions, so I assumed his ears were no exception.
The vet strongly suggested she put it under the microscope and see if there was any evidence of a bacterial or yeast infection. Since I'm paying for all this, and therefore the equivalent of Chingy!'s HMO, I decided to inquire as to the necessity of this test. For one thing, I could do the test myself, if all she's going to do is look at his earwax under the scope.
"How do you determine if he's got an infection or if you just see commensals under the scope?" I asked.
"Commensals?" the vet said, blinking.
I forget that science lingo doesn't always transcend specialties, and it's possible "commensal organisms" isn't how they describe your normal microbial cohabitants in the veterinary textbooks on infectious disease. "The normal non-pathogenic bacteria and other microbes that live in his ears," I explained.
"Oh, right," said the vet, giving me a weird look. "Well, it's usually pretty obvious if one organism is outgrowing everything else. Hang on a moment while I examine the sample," she said, waving the slide containing Chingy!'s ear smear and hurrying out of the room.
When she returned a few minutes later, she informed me that Chingy! has a yeast infection. A yeast infection! I mused, "I always thought Candida albicans was typically white. Why is his ear schmegma brown?"
"Excuse me?" the vet said, looking puzzled.
"Candida albicans. Isn't that what usually causes yeast infections?"
"Oh no, in dogs it's typically Malassezia. What did you say you do again?"
"I'm a grad student in microbiology. There's a lab in my department that works on Candida. I've heard a lot of seminars from them, complete with lots of gross pictures of oral thrush." I leave out my opinion that they probably only show thrush because it's marginally less gross than a picture of someone's cottage cheese biofilm-oozing vadge.
The vet laughed. "Do you study yeast?"
"No, I'm in the virus business. Polio and the common cold."
"Oh, so that's why you're so on top of Chonk-ay's rabies shots."
"Yes. And I saw Old Yeller."
The vet laughed again. I frowned. Old Yeller is no laughing matter. I get upset just thinking about how that movie ended, and I cry every time I see it. I don't deal with the tragic death of great fucking dogs very well, but I thought I'd let it slide in this case. It's not the ASPCA's job to accommodate my personal issues with dying dog movies, and I was ready to get my eardrops, put on Chingy!'s lovely gold rabies tag, and begin the trudge back to the west side. So I thanked the vet for identifying Chingy!'s fungal malady and paid for the exam and Chingy!'s Monistat. Then I told Chingy! to get excited for the walk back to the C train.
Unfortunately, Chingy! decided not to get excited and went on a sit-down strike around Lexington Avenue, so I got fed up and hailed a cab. My dog is morbidly obese, and has a fucking YEAST INFECTION...IN HIS EARS, so I figured I could treat us both to a cab ride back to Sugar Hill. Goddamn that Chingy!, and his yeast infection! Even his illnesses are revolting.
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, epidemic geekery, gross, viruses rule
This is a new one
You often hear about athletes failing various drug tests, but Indian runner Santhi Soudarajan is expected to be stripped of the silver medal she won in the women's 800 meter in the Asian Games, according to this hilariously titled article on SI/CNN, for failing a fucking GENDER TEST:
How embarrassing. If you're going to compete in international track-and-field events, and you happen to be a less-than-convincing M2F tranny, make sure you get a set of tits put in before your ass is receiving your silver medal. Although this article doesn't give specifics about what exactly was suspicious about the runner in question, it does mention that a team of doctors determined that s/he "does not possess the sexual characteristics of a woman."
So does that mean s/he has a Y chromosome and this was determined by cytogenetics after someone noticed her Adam's apple and flat chest, or does that mean that when s/he squatted at the starting line, her cock-and-balls fell out of her jogging shorts? I don't understand why the mainstream press always excludes these very important details, because to me this is the most important part of the story. Jeez. One of these days, after my useless bullshit empire has assets in the billions, I'll be able to send peons off to cover things like the World Asian Games in places like Doha, Qatar to report these stories properly.
How embarrassing. If you're going to compete in international track-and-field events, and you happen to be a less-than-convincing M2F tranny, make sure you get a set of tits put in before your ass is receiving your silver medal. Although this article doesn't give specifics about what exactly was suspicious about the runner in question, it does mention that a team of doctors determined that s/he "does not possess the sexual characteristics of a woman."
So does that mean s/he has a Y chromosome and this was determined by cytogenetics after someone noticed her Adam's apple and flat chest, or does that mean that when s/he squatted at the starting line, her cock-and-balls fell out of her jogging shorts? I don't understand why the mainstream press always excludes these very important details, because to me this is the most important part of the story. Jeez. One of these days, after my useless bullshit empire has assets in the billions, I'll be able to send peons off to cover things like the World Asian Games in places like Doha, Qatar to report these stories properly.
Labels: exercise drama, hilarious shit, international intrigue
Go get "Go Getta"
So last week, Jay "Young Jeezy" Jenkins released his sophomore album, The Inspiration nee Thug Motivation 102. Obviously, I immediately purchased it. In fact, I had to purchase it twice because I initially accidentally bought the "clean" version on iTunes, and I like my rap music explicit and nasty.
Now, I'll probably write an entire review of this eventually, because I think that my boy Da Snowman is fucking hilarious, and so far I'm enjoying the entire album. Jeezy claims that he dropped the Thug Motivation 102 subtitle from the album because it's such a tremendous departure from his first album Let's Get It!: Thug Motivation 101, I guess the beats are kind of different, but as far as I can tell the entire thing is about souped-up Chevies, avoiding the "red dogs" (AKA the police) and dominating the Atlanta street cocaine dealing scene (AKA "trapping"). Since these are the main topics addressed in every Young Jeezy song ever written, and since in the first song Jeezy's saying stuff like "Call me Rubik's cube, we got the white squares" and "I got a half a brick left, do anybody want it?" and doing his usual trademark "ad libs" (ie: barking "jeah!", "tha's riiiiiight", "daaaayum", and "ayyyy" during lyrical pauses), I don't see what's all that different about The Inspiration that warrants ejection from the syllabus of Jeezy's instructional Thug Motivation courses, but whatever. My comparative analysis of Young Jizzle's musical repertoire is of little consequence.
The purpose of this particular post is to praise one particular song, entitled "Go Getta." I hadn't really paid close attention to the other people who were lending their vocal talents to this album, but as soon as "Go Getta" started, I immediately snapped to attention. "Young Jeezy," sang a familiar voice to kick off the song, and said voice definitely reminded me of somethin', somethin' along the lines of my jeep, sound, car, and bank account...could it be? COULD IT FUCKING BE?! Validating my suspicions, the voice next sang, "...and ya boy Keeellllllls." YES! YES! YES!!!! My boyfriend Robert Sylvester Kelly and Young Jeezy teaming up to sing about trapping all day and playing all night being the life of a go getta! AWESOME!
I pointed this out to J-Sexy, who, when I told her I'd purchased the Young Jeezy album, rolled her eyes and said, "Ugh, that dis-gos-ting fat man, I don't know why you like him." I was like, "well, first because he compares himself to Will Smith and then names his gun Jada, and secondly, and most interesting to you, THAT GUY SINGING THE HOOK IS R. FUCKING KELLY!" and cranked my computer speakers so she could hear my Robert singing about how "ya boy Kells out da coupe in Miami white linen" to "put D on chicks like Wallace." (Why exactly he's trying to defend himself against these women in the manner of Chicago Bulls center Ben Wallace is unclear, but presumably it means something other than that he'll be battling them for rebounds, because later he notes that he and Jeezy are leaving with a "shitloada women.") In case you're now dying to hear this song, here's a really ghetto "video" (meaning there is no video at all besides a still shot of the Jeezy album cover):
J-Sexy loves her some R. Kelly, and I think she liked it a little though she subsequently pronounced the song "ridicolos" and went back to loading her protein gel. However, I noticed that she was doing a little wining while working in spite of herself. You can't fool me, Life Partner! I, in turn, promptly played "Go Getta" like 5 more times until, much to J-Sexy's relief, I had to run some errands and thus had to relinquish my status as Lab DJ. However, to all my friends in the P-N-Dub, I fully burned The Inspiration, and you can expect me to annoy you all for the next two weeks with "Go Getta" starting with my arrival at Seattle-Tacompton airport tomorrow night!
Now, I'll probably write an entire review of this eventually, because I think that my boy Da Snowman is fucking hilarious, and so far I'm enjoying the entire album. Jeezy claims that he dropped the Thug Motivation 102 subtitle from the album because it's such a tremendous departure from his first album Let's Get It!: Thug Motivation 101, I guess the beats are kind of different, but as far as I can tell the entire thing is about souped-up Chevies, avoiding the "red dogs" (AKA the police) and dominating the Atlanta street cocaine dealing scene (AKA "trapping"). Since these are the main topics addressed in every Young Jeezy song ever written, and since in the first song Jeezy's saying stuff like "Call me Rubik's cube, we got the white squares" and "I got a half a brick left, do anybody want it?" and doing his usual trademark "ad libs" (ie: barking "jeah!", "tha's riiiiiight", "daaaayum", and "ayyyy" during lyrical pauses), I don't see what's all that different about The Inspiration that warrants ejection from the syllabus of Jeezy's instructional Thug Motivation courses, but whatever. My comparative analysis of Young Jizzle's musical repertoire is of little consequence.
The purpose of this particular post is to praise one particular song, entitled "Go Getta." I hadn't really paid close attention to the other people who were lending their vocal talents to this album, but as soon as "Go Getta" started, I immediately snapped to attention. "Young Jeezy," sang a familiar voice to kick off the song, and said voice definitely reminded me of somethin', somethin' along the lines of my jeep, sound, car, and bank account...could it be? COULD IT FUCKING BE?! Validating my suspicions, the voice next sang, "...and ya boy Keeellllllls." YES! YES! YES!!!! My boyfriend Robert Sylvester Kelly and Young Jeezy teaming up to sing about trapping all day and playing all night being the life of a go getta! AWESOME!
I pointed this out to J-Sexy, who, when I told her I'd purchased the Young Jeezy album, rolled her eyes and said, "Ugh, that dis-gos-ting fat man, I don't know why you like him." I was like, "well, first because he compares himself to Will Smith and then names his gun Jada, and secondly, and most interesting to you, THAT GUY SINGING THE HOOK IS R. FUCKING KELLY!" and cranked my computer speakers so she could hear my Robert singing about how "ya boy Kells out da coupe in Miami white linen" to "put D on chicks like Wallace." (Why exactly he's trying to defend himself against these women in the manner of Chicago Bulls center Ben Wallace is unclear, but presumably it means something other than that he'll be battling them for rebounds, because later he notes that he and Jeezy are leaving with a "shitloada women.") In case you're now dying to hear this song, here's a really ghetto "video" (meaning there is no video at all besides a still shot of the Jeezy album cover):
J-Sexy loves her some R. Kelly, and I think she liked it a little though she subsequently pronounced the song "ridicolos" and went back to loading her protein gel. However, I noticed that she was doing a little wining while working in spite of herself. You can't fool me, Life Partner! I, in turn, promptly played "Go Getta" like 5 more times until, much to J-Sexy's relief, I had to run some errands and thus had to relinquish my status as Lab DJ. However, to all my friends in the P-N-Dub, I fully burned The Inspiration, and you can expect me to annoy you all for the next two weeks with "Go Getta" starting with my arrival at Seattle-Tacompton airport tomorrow night!
Labels: Dirrty Dirrty, I LOVE IT, J-Sexy, rap, Razzification, Robert Sylvester Kelly, Young Jeezy
Thursday, December 14, 2006
The ghosts of bitchery past
I just woke up from a dream in which all these people I've made fun of showed up in my lab to remind me of past blog-related transgressions. This Dickensian troupe of spirits included Tej and Katie, Kendra from "The Girls Next Door", failed country singer Razzy Bailey (complete with scary combover), Jade from "America's Next Top Model" cycle six, and former Speaker of the House Dennis Hastert. Instead of rattling their chains in a menacing, Jacob Marleyesque way, however, they were there for a different purpose. Well, Rep. Hastert just sat there croaking "Bud-weis-er", Jade snapped her fingers at me like some kind of demonic beat poet, Kendra wouldn't stop giggling and saying "aight", Razzy Bailey sang mournful tunes about his dog dying, and Katie didn't say a single word, but in the dream Tej told me that she had rethought her position, realized that my blog was very funny, wouldn't dream of depriving the world of its awesomeness by trying to frighten me into censoring myself, hoped that we could be friends, and asked if I'd dust off my white dress to wear in the alumnae parade on the Ivy Day before her graduation. By the end of the dream, Tej even hugged me tightly with her thick, meaty arms.
While I in no way believe this is the type of reception I would get if I were actually face to face with Tej in reality, it did get me thinking. Granted, the ghosts of bitchery future didn't appear next to show me my early grave (or more likely, me ruling the world, fucking Reggie Bush on the daily, and owning the Seahawks), but nonetheless I didn't want to feel like a big Scrooge without a single solitary shred of compassion. Although most of my heart (and my liver) are black and necrotic at this point in my life, this dream affected what was left of my viable cardiac tissue, and for that matter, the remnant of my soul that the ravages of age have not yet destroyed. I'm not going to stop making fun of people, or remove anything I've written, but I feel that it would be honest and fair to clear Tej's name of some of the wrongdoings I've accused her of. Also, since the legions of faithful Razzyphiles expressed concern about the whole Craigslist situation, I thought I should address this matter. Although at first it was funny (and if unsolicited penis pictures of ugly men were gold, I'd be richer than Bill Gates and Paul Allen put together), it eventually devolved into threats of sexual assault and identity theft, causing myself and others to worry for my safety and well-being, and prompting me to contact law enforcement. Thus, I figure I should provide an update on the ongoing investigation anyway to make certain that everyone, Razzyphiles and Haters alike, are up to speed. Who am I to ignore the promptings of my own subconscious?
As part of my own determination not to be cowed by "razzysux@gmail.com", I contacted Craigslist to find out if they could provide some information on the person at this e-mail address who posted my naked pictures and phone number in their "casual encounters" section. For some reason, I thought it was unlikely they would do anything besides send me some form e-mail telling me they would look into it and thanks for bringing it to their attention. Wrong! Apparently Craigslist isn't too fond of people who post other people's personal information in a pathetic attempt at harassment such as what "razzysux@gmail.com" did with me, so they immediately rolled on the perp and gave me his/her IP address. I subsequently did a DNS search, and determined to my surprise and shock that it was NOT from the Smith campus.
I was so certain that Tej was behind it, I had even contacted the Dean of Students at Smith to request that she determine if this was originating from Tej's room in Wesley House, and said Dean sent the file to Smith Public Safety and put their dicks on the case. I just could not imagine why someone would go to so much trouble and solely demand that I remove posts related to Tej from my blog if it wasn't Tej. Most people just don't care about other people enough to venture into felony territory on their behalf, and certainly random blog readers never get that righteously pissed about it. I mean, look at Ryan Benser. I posted his name, e-mail address, angry correspondence, and MySpace profile, and didn't hear a peep out of him or any angry Ryan Benser apologists (though in fairness all his "friends" are probably comprised exclusively of the internet porn stars he masturbates to, and they're too busy getting bukkaked to take up his cause). Nor do you see, for example, rabid Chloe Sevigny fans sending perverts to my front door in repayment for my besmirching her appallingly bad sense of style and taste in men a la Vincent Gallo. I reasoned that the only person who would go so far out of their way to harass and menace me to force me to remove posts about Tej Bindra was indeed Tej Bindra herself. Thus I was absolutely astounded to see that "razzysux@gmail.com" was posting on Craigslist from a private home in Billerica, Assachusetts.
Billerica is much closer to Boston than it is to Northampton, and it is certainly far enough away from Smith that it's not plausible as a home for any Smith student living off campus. Also, I was getting hits from Northeastern University's server, which has a campus in nearby Tewksbury, so I wonder if it's not some friend or relative of Tej's at Northeastern doing her dirty work on her behalf, or out of some misguided yet profound sense of loyalty. Since I am unable to determine the identity of the poster without serving a subpoena to their ISP, my investigation ends here. I passed the offending IP address on to the Federales, so as far as I'm concerned, it's in the FBI's hands now. The calls from creepy Craigslist guys have stopped, and even if "razzysux" does something untoward with my social security number, there's not much they can do. I make <$30K a year and live in New York City, so consequently, my credit sucks anyway. Have fun maxing out whatever piece of shit $200 credit limit Capital One card you get, or whatever. I've literally got "razzysux's" number, and so do the Feds, so if he/she foolishly decides to pursue the identity theft route, "razzysux" will be the person who pays dearly for it. I WIN. I didn't have to take a damn thing off my site except some copyrighted photos belonging to the Alumnae Quarterly, and I've resumed sleeping peacefully through the night.
However, just so Tej Bindra doesn't have to fret about being kicked out of Smith for being a dumbfuck unjustly accused of harassing me, I should add that I did inform Smith Public Safety about the IP address of the Craigslist person, thus exonerating Tej. Tej and all her friends can leave bitchy anonymous comments self-righteously accusing me of racism on the basis of being white and liking 50 Cent to their heart's content, and so long as they don't send depraved motherfuckers to my door expecting sex, they can rest easy knowing that their status as a matriculating Smith student will remain unchallenged. Getting Smith involved was not an attempt to seek revenge on Tej for disliking me or my blog, or calling me names, or sending poorly composed e-mails. I simply didn't want to end up being a case ripped from the headlines for an episode of what MillerTime called "SVU: Sugar Hill," and I felt that if law enforcement wasn't able to take action to protect me from the person actively sending dudes to my home presuming that they'll get to fuck me when they get there, the college certainly would. Supporting my theory that the culprit is an acquaintance of Tej's, there was radio silence from "razzysux@gmail.com" immediately after Smith Public Safety commenced their investigation, so I have a feeling that Tej called up her accomplice in Billerica and was like, "Dude, mission abort! I won't be able to stand it if my vague ambitions about becoming a human rights lawyer are crushed by expulsion from Smith in my senior year."
So, like I said, Tej can chill out. The only concerns she'll have about her future is that prospective employers/law schools might Google her and find out that she took the communication skills she learned at her summer internship with the New York City Commission for Human Rights and informed a resident of NYC that she's an assfuck for writing useless bullshit. I told Public Safety that it wasn't her posting to Craigslist, and (after giving kudos to my investigative work and praising my abilities as a writer) they graciously told me that if I felt they could assist in any way in the future, I should let them know. As much as I make fun of Smith, the college officials I dealt with, and particularly those in the Department of Public Safety, could not have been more professional, courteous, or attentive to this matter, and although I've already done so in correspondence, I'd like to thank them again publicly. This is in spite of the fact that my permanent record with the college contains a conviction for possession of a class D substance and candles, as well as several EXTREMELY critical articles I wrote about the Dean of the College (at one point, I believe I suggested she had learned how to deal with dissent from Joseph Stalin) and other administrators when I worked for the school paper, a stint during my sophomore year where I avoided academic probation by the skin of my teeth, a D in physics that I've openly attributed to skipping class to feed my "Beverly Hills, 90210" addiction, and video footage of me at my Commencement ceremony standing on my chair double-fisting bottles of Freixenet in clear violation of the "no-alcohol-at-graduation" rules. Despite my history as a student, and my current hobby of ranking on Smith students past and present mercilessly, the college took me utterly seriously and treated me with respect and consideration, and I am grateful for that. While I'm not going to stop making fun of Smith bitches at ALL (and I have some good stories about rugby parties and my two-year reunion on the back burner for future "Smith College Vault" entries), I will say to all the Smith-affiliated readers who were greatly upset by this whole incident that fortunately the criminal aspects of this furor did NOT originate in the college servers, and I could not have been happier with the way the college handled it. I even want to write a laudatory letter to the U.S. News and World Report in hopes of bringing Smith's precipitous descent in their Best Colleges rankings to a screeching halt.
So that's where this all stands now. I've cleared Tej's eminent name, gave Smith some well-deserved asskissery, solved the "razzysux" mystery, and can attend Christmas mass with the rest of Clan Razzy back in Puyallup with a clean conscience and nary a care in the world. I can now go back to cracking the cases I prefer (those containing frosty cold Heinekens), and resume business as usual: writing useless bullshit, massacring scores of innocent mice, geeking out over my FACS data and the History Channel, obsessing over my dogs, gearing up for the NFL playoffs, and pursuing hot, slutty guys to ravish. God bless us, every one.
While I in no way believe this is the type of reception I would get if I were actually face to face with Tej in reality, it did get me thinking. Granted, the ghosts of bitchery future didn't appear next to show me my early grave (or more likely, me ruling the world, fucking Reggie Bush on the daily, and owning the Seahawks), but nonetheless I didn't want to feel like a big Scrooge without a single solitary shred of compassion. Although most of my heart (and my liver) are black and necrotic at this point in my life, this dream affected what was left of my viable cardiac tissue, and for that matter, the remnant of my soul that the ravages of age have not yet destroyed. I'm not going to stop making fun of people, or remove anything I've written, but I feel that it would be honest and fair to clear Tej's name of some of the wrongdoings I've accused her of. Also, since the legions of faithful Razzyphiles expressed concern about the whole Craigslist situation, I thought I should address this matter. Although at first it was funny (and if unsolicited penis pictures of ugly men were gold, I'd be richer than Bill Gates and Paul Allen put together), it eventually devolved into threats of sexual assault and identity theft, causing myself and others to worry for my safety and well-being, and prompting me to contact law enforcement. Thus, I figure I should provide an update on the ongoing investigation anyway to make certain that everyone, Razzyphiles and Haters alike, are up to speed. Who am I to ignore the promptings of my own subconscious?
As part of my own determination not to be cowed by "razzysux@gmail.com", I contacted Craigslist to find out if they could provide some information on the person at this e-mail address who posted my naked pictures and phone number in their "casual encounters" section. For some reason, I thought it was unlikely they would do anything besides send me some form e-mail telling me they would look into it and thanks for bringing it to their attention. Wrong! Apparently Craigslist isn't too fond of people who post other people's personal information in a pathetic attempt at harassment such as what "razzysux@gmail.com" did with me, so they immediately rolled on the perp and gave me his/her IP address. I subsequently did a DNS search, and determined to my surprise and shock that it was NOT from the Smith campus.
I was so certain that Tej was behind it, I had even contacted the Dean of Students at Smith to request that she determine if this was originating from Tej's room in Wesley House, and said Dean sent the file to Smith Public Safety and put their dicks on the case. I just could not imagine why someone would go to so much trouble and solely demand that I remove posts related to Tej from my blog if it wasn't Tej. Most people just don't care about other people enough to venture into felony territory on their behalf, and certainly random blog readers never get that righteously pissed about it. I mean, look at Ryan Benser. I posted his name, e-mail address, angry correspondence, and MySpace profile, and didn't hear a peep out of him or any angry Ryan Benser apologists (though in fairness all his "friends" are probably comprised exclusively of the internet porn stars he masturbates to, and they're too busy getting bukkaked to take up his cause). Nor do you see, for example, rabid Chloe Sevigny fans sending perverts to my front door in repayment for my besmirching her appallingly bad sense of style and taste in men a la Vincent Gallo. I reasoned that the only person who would go so far out of their way to harass and menace me to force me to remove posts about Tej Bindra was indeed Tej Bindra herself. Thus I was absolutely astounded to see that "razzysux@gmail.com" was posting on Craigslist from a private home in Billerica, Assachusetts.
Billerica is much closer to Boston than it is to Northampton, and it is certainly far enough away from Smith that it's not plausible as a home for any Smith student living off campus. Also, I was getting hits from Northeastern University's server, which has a campus in nearby Tewksbury, so I wonder if it's not some friend or relative of Tej's at Northeastern doing her dirty work on her behalf, or out of some misguided yet profound sense of loyalty. Since I am unable to determine the identity of the poster without serving a subpoena to their ISP, my investigation ends here. I passed the offending IP address on to the Federales, so as far as I'm concerned, it's in the FBI's hands now. The calls from creepy Craigslist guys have stopped, and even if "razzysux" does something untoward with my social security number, there's not much they can do. I make <$30K a year and live in New York City, so consequently, my credit sucks anyway. Have fun maxing out whatever piece of shit $200 credit limit Capital One card you get, or whatever. I've literally got "razzysux's" number, and so do the Feds, so if he/she foolishly decides to pursue the identity theft route, "razzysux" will be the person who pays dearly for it. I WIN. I didn't have to take a damn thing off my site except some copyrighted photos belonging to the Alumnae Quarterly, and I've resumed sleeping peacefully through the night.
However, just so Tej Bindra doesn't have to fret about being kicked out of Smith for being a dumbfuck unjustly accused of harassing me, I should add that I did inform Smith Public Safety about the IP address of the Craigslist person, thus exonerating Tej. Tej and all her friends can leave bitchy anonymous comments self-righteously accusing me of racism on the basis of being white and liking 50 Cent to their heart's content, and so long as they don't send depraved motherfuckers to my door expecting sex, they can rest easy knowing that their status as a matriculating Smith student will remain unchallenged. Getting Smith involved was not an attempt to seek revenge on Tej for disliking me or my blog, or calling me names, or sending poorly composed e-mails. I simply didn't want to end up being a case ripped from the headlines for an episode of what MillerTime called "SVU: Sugar Hill," and I felt that if law enforcement wasn't able to take action to protect me from the person actively sending dudes to my home presuming that they'll get to fuck me when they get there, the college certainly would. Supporting my theory that the culprit is an acquaintance of Tej's, there was radio silence from "razzysux@gmail.com" immediately after Smith Public Safety commenced their investigation, so I have a feeling that Tej called up her accomplice in Billerica and was like, "Dude, mission abort! I won't be able to stand it if my vague ambitions about becoming a human rights lawyer are crushed by expulsion from Smith in my senior year."
So, like I said, Tej can chill out. The only concerns she'll have about her future is that prospective employers/law schools might Google her and find out that she took the communication skills she learned at her summer internship with the New York City Commission for Human Rights and informed a resident of NYC that she's an assfuck for writing useless bullshit. I told Public Safety that it wasn't her posting to Craigslist, and (after giving kudos to my investigative work and praising my abilities as a writer) they graciously told me that if I felt they could assist in any way in the future, I should let them know. As much as I make fun of Smith, the college officials I dealt with, and particularly those in the Department of Public Safety, could not have been more professional, courteous, or attentive to this matter, and although I've already done so in correspondence, I'd like to thank them again publicly. This is in spite of the fact that my permanent record with the college contains a conviction for possession of a class D substance and candles, as well as several EXTREMELY critical articles I wrote about the Dean of the College (at one point, I believe I suggested she had learned how to deal with dissent from Joseph Stalin) and other administrators when I worked for the school paper, a stint during my sophomore year where I avoided academic probation by the skin of my teeth, a D in physics that I've openly attributed to skipping class to feed my "Beverly Hills, 90210" addiction, and video footage of me at my Commencement ceremony standing on my chair double-fisting bottles of Freixenet in clear violation of the "no-alcohol-at-graduation" rules. Despite my history as a student, and my current hobby of ranking on Smith students past and present mercilessly, the college took me utterly seriously and treated me with respect and consideration, and I am grateful for that. While I'm not going to stop making fun of Smith bitches at ALL (and I have some good stories about rugby parties and my two-year reunion on the back burner for future "Smith College Vault" entries), I will say to all the Smith-affiliated readers who were greatly upset by this whole incident that fortunately the criminal aspects of this furor did NOT originate in the college servers, and I could not have been happier with the way the college handled it. I even want to write a laudatory letter to the U.S. News and World Report in hopes of bringing Smith's precipitous descent in their Best Colleges rankings to a screeching halt.
So that's where this all stands now. I've cleared Tej's eminent name, gave Smith some well-deserved asskissery, solved the "razzysux" mystery, and can attend Christmas mass with the rest of Clan Razzy back in Puyallup with a clean conscience and nary a care in the world. I can now go back to cracking the cases I prefer (those containing frosty cold Heinekens), and resume business as usual: writing useless bullshit, massacring scores of innocent mice, geeking out over my FACS data and the History Channel, obsessing over my dogs, gearing up for the NFL playoffs, and pursuing hot, slutty guys to ravish. God bless us, every one.
Labels: comeuppance, contrition, crime and punishment, Dumb Smith bitches, for serious people, retard rage, sexual assault, Tej Offensive, threats
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
The money shot
I know that nobody really gives a shit except me when I post stuff like, "Yay, I got a Northern blot to work!", but I don't care. I'm so FUCKING EXCITED about my latest success in the lab, you're all just going to have to put up with it. Since my attempts to actually give a mouse the common cold have been much less successful than my ability to get lab infections of the same virus, and since I want to graduate ASAP and make a real living, I've been working on a few other things.
Since I've always been a complete and total pimp when it comes to cellular immunology, one of these other things has been to see if I can get mouse dendritic cells to respond to the virus. I was again coming up short until I came up with a brilliant idea: borrow someone else's methodology from their Nature paper! It totally worked, which is why I guess they got a Nature paper out of it in the first place. Well, that, and because studies addressing the mechanics of innate viral infection sensing are SO HOT right now.
Not that any of you care about what dendritic cells do, or what MHC class II expression means, but take a look at this histogram of my FACS data and just try not to have a heart attack with excitement.
Yes! That light blue line represents the DCs that were like, "Hey, T cells, we got some rhinovirus up in this bitch!", and they are responding like a Craigslist pervert to naked pictures of me. Oh, and P.S., take note of my badass skills with the flow cytometer. I'm so goddamn good at FACS ("FACS" is to "flow cytometer" what "Band-Aid" is to "adhesive bandage") that I should get a fucking award. In fact, the FACSCalibur, my cytometer of choice, broke this week, and I suspect that's because it was overwhelmed by the awesomeness of the samples I was running through it and could do naught but shut down. Like after you have a really mind-blowing orgasm, and you can't really move or do anything but sit there and catch your breath and glow, except instead of an orgasm it was my cells, and instead of sitting there glowing, the laser burned out.
Man, I rule. And it looks like I might just graduate after all.
Since I've always been a complete and total pimp when it comes to cellular immunology, one of these other things has been to see if I can get mouse dendritic cells to respond to the virus. I was again coming up short until I came up with a brilliant idea: borrow someone else's methodology from their Nature paper! It totally worked, which is why I guess they got a Nature paper out of it in the first place. Well, that, and because studies addressing the mechanics of innate viral infection sensing are SO HOT right now.
Not that any of you care about what dendritic cells do, or what MHC class II expression means, but take a look at this histogram of my FACS data and just try not to have a heart attack with excitement.
Man, I rule. And it looks like I might just graduate after all.
Labels: epidemic geekery, grad school bullshit, Razzification, science, viruses rule
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Et tu, Caesar?
Ever since that fat little puglet Chingy! moved into my home three years ago, he has, against my every effort, taught Caesar some of his bad habits. For example, his tendency to kick dirt everywhere after he shits and/or pisses. This is annoying when Chingy! does it, because he tends to get dirt all over my shoes and ankles, and because he always does it with this insufferably superior look on his wrinkly, squashy little face, but at least Chingy! is small enough that he doesn't manage to do much damage. Caesar, who has now decided this would be a useful part of his bathroom ritual, is so large that he manages to kick up so much dirt I feel as though I'm stuck in a Sahara desert sandstorm. Invariably he digs a furrow so large that you could wage trench warfare in St. Nicholas Park in it, if you so desired.
Since Caesar is my favorite, I always blame Chingy! for spreading his evil mannerisms like a disease. I would shout at him if it would do any good, but usually Chingy! is stupid enough to be standing behind Caesar when he begins excavating his post-excretory ditch, and he ends up so covered in dirt that all I can see of him is his little pink tongue poking out of his snaggly little mouth. I can't imagine that shouting at Chingy! for teaching Caesar this trick in the first place would accomplish a damn thing. Instead I just silently curse Chingy! for being a bad influence, because Caesar never pulled this kind of crap until Chingy! waddled insolently into our lives.
Today I realized to my absolute horror that Chingy! has taught Caesar something else that is far worse. Chingy!'s taste for usually revolting shit is well-documented. Chingy! has been caught guiltily scarfing down everything from acorns to mud to cat shit to decomposing squirrel remains to homeless guy diarrhea. I always thought that the handsome, noble Caesar, a dog so intelligent he figured out how to open doors, would be above such things. I thought wrong.
Granted, Caesar has always had a penchant for finding and eating what I call "street food." If there is a chicken bone on the street, Caesar will go into stealth mode, pretend to be innocently sniffing a fire hydrant or other prospective piss target, and the next thing I know, he'll be crunching up the offending discarded bone. I understand that dogs like bones, and I've always attributed Caesar's annoying covert street bone-acquiring to his above-average dog intellect and his insatiable love for people food. I NEVER for one second anticipated he'd devolve into Chingy!-esque cacophagy.
Today, as usual, I released Caesar from the fetters of his leash when we strolled into the park. I usually do this, because off-leash dogs, while technically against the law, are nonetheless customary within the confines of the park so long as the dog is friendly, which goofy, tongue-hanging-out Caese obviously is. Since Caesar is huge, and totally obsessed with the prospect of our usual morning stick-chasing session, I let him off the leash because he pulls on it too much and it annoys me. So he gets to burn off his extra energy by doing exuberant laps of the park perennial shrub garden while Chingy! and I continue up the park stairs to our usual stick-chasing venue at a pace befitting Chingy!'s morbid obesity. This morning, however, Caesar finished running his laps and ran to a landing on the stairs slightly above where Chingy! and I had yet ascended. I noticed him dip his head in what I identified as a classic Caesar covert food-acquiring move. However, much to my horror, it was not food he was acquiring, at least not in the not-into-scat-play circles that I run in.
Caesar brought up his magnificent head, and I saw that he was chomping on a HUGE turd. It was about the size and shape of a grown man's colon, which I suspect was its origin.
"CAESAR! DROP IT! NO! NO! NO!" I shouted. "Bad Caesar! BAD!"
To his credit, Caesar dropped it immediately as I ran up. Also to his credit, Caesar did not try to lick me upon arrival, unlike how Chingy! responded when he was caught in a similar situation. However, upon a closer visual examination of what Caesar was eating, it was most DEFINITELY human feces. Furthermore, Caesar had consumed about half of what was originally there by my rough estimation.
I am aware that all sorts of unsavory shit occurs in St. Nicholas Park under the cover of darkness. I see all kinds of used condoms and empty single-use lube packets littering the walkways there in the harsh light of morning when I walk the boys, and I am always wondering exactly what type of seedy vagrant sex scene occurs there after nightfall. One time I found a full set of clothing on the grassy knoll where I take the dogs, including socks and underwear, laid out neatly the way my mom used to put out my school uniform on my bed when I was a little kid. I am also aware that most of this is probably perpetrated by homeless people and/or drug addicts, given the accompanying empty bottles of King Cobra and occasional dirty syringe-needle set, and my own reasonable suspicions as to who actually has secretive sex in New York City parks at night. However, this clandestine lifestyle is so accepted that the folks who populate the park after hours are actually SHITTING ON THE MAIN PARK STAIRS. If it were just me strolling through the park, I'd merely frown disapprovingly and avoid stepping in it, but it's another matter when apparently both my dogs find this not revolting, but tremendously appetizing. Fuck you, park shitters.
And fuck you, Chingy!, for teaching Caesar your disgusting tricks! Caesar is supposed to be the good one!
Since Caesar is my favorite, I always blame Chingy! for spreading his evil mannerisms like a disease. I would shout at him if it would do any good, but usually Chingy! is stupid enough to be standing behind Caesar when he begins excavating his post-excretory ditch, and he ends up so covered in dirt that all I can see of him is his little pink tongue poking out of his snaggly little mouth. I can't imagine that shouting at Chingy! for teaching Caesar this trick in the first place would accomplish a damn thing. Instead I just silently curse Chingy! for being a bad influence, because Caesar never pulled this kind of crap until Chingy! waddled insolently into our lives.
Today I realized to my absolute horror that Chingy! has taught Caesar something else that is far worse. Chingy!'s taste for usually revolting shit is well-documented. Chingy! has been caught guiltily scarfing down everything from acorns to mud to cat shit to decomposing squirrel remains to homeless guy diarrhea. I always thought that the handsome, noble Caesar, a dog so intelligent he figured out how to open doors, would be above such things. I thought wrong.
Granted, Caesar has always had a penchant for finding and eating what I call "street food." If there is a chicken bone on the street, Caesar will go into stealth mode, pretend to be innocently sniffing a fire hydrant or other prospective piss target, and the next thing I know, he'll be crunching up the offending discarded bone. I understand that dogs like bones, and I've always attributed Caesar's annoying covert street bone-acquiring to his above-average dog intellect and his insatiable love for people food. I NEVER for one second anticipated he'd devolve into Chingy!-esque cacophagy.
Today, as usual, I released Caesar from the fetters of his leash when we strolled into the park. I usually do this, because off-leash dogs, while technically against the law, are nonetheless customary within the confines of the park so long as the dog is friendly, which goofy, tongue-hanging-out Caese obviously is. Since Caesar is huge, and totally obsessed with the prospect of our usual morning stick-chasing session, I let him off the leash because he pulls on it too much and it annoys me. So he gets to burn off his extra energy by doing exuberant laps of the park perennial shrub garden while Chingy! and I continue up the park stairs to our usual stick-chasing venue at a pace befitting Chingy!'s morbid obesity. This morning, however, Caesar finished running his laps and ran to a landing on the stairs slightly above where Chingy! and I had yet ascended. I noticed him dip his head in what I identified as a classic Caesar covert food-acquiring move. However, much to my horror, it was not food he was acquiring, at least not in the not-into-scat-play circles that I run in.
Caesar brought up his magnificent head, and I saw that he was chomping on a HUGE turd. It was about the size and shape of a grown man's colon, which I suspect was its origin.
"CAESAR! DROP IT! NO! NO! NO!" I shouted. "Bad Caesar! BAD!"
To his credit, Caesar dropped it immediately as I ran up. Also to his credit, Caesar did not try to lick me upon arrival, unlike how Chingy! responded when he was caught in a similar situation. However, upon a closer visual examination of what Caesar was eating, it was most DEFINITELY human feces. Furthermore, Caesar had consumed about half of what was originally there by my rough estimation.
I am aware that all sorts of unsavory shit occurs in St. Nicholas Park under the cover of darkness. I see all kinds of used condoms and empty single-use lube packets littering the walkways there in the harsh light of morning when I walk the boys, and I am always wondering exactly what type of seedy vagrant sex scene occurs there after nightfall. One time I found a full set of clothing on the grassy knoll where I take the dogs, including socks and underwear, laid out neatly the way my mom used to put out my school uniform on my bed when I was a little kid. I am also aware that most of this is probably perpetrated by homeless people and/or drug addicts, given the accompanying empty bottles of King Cobra and occasional dirty syringe-needle set, and my own reasonable suspicions as to who actually has secretive sex in New York City parks at night. However, this clandestine lifestyle is so accepted that the folks who populate the park after hours are actually SHITTING ON THE MAIN PARK STAIRS. If it were just me strolling through the park, I'd merely frown disapprovingly and avoid stepping in it, but it's another matter when apparently both my dogs find this not revolting, but tremendously appetizing. Fuck you, park shitters.
And fuck you, Chingy!, for teaching Caesar your disgusting tricks! Caesar is supposed to be the good one!
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, gross, NYC
Monday, December 11, 2006
My nuts!
So I'm on the wretched L train the other day when I play witness to a marvelous New York moment that must, by rights, be shared with ye the browsing public:
The Metropolitan G-L connection is probably the weirdest part of my day. An intersection of lives deliberately separated - the strange confluence of the tragically hipster L train and the crosstown Real Brooklyn stock. The connection proves colorful each commuting day, uniting the business-bound with the working class, the rockstar aspiring with the ghetto proper. Allows unique things to fade out of recognition. Except on this day, in line for a late train, when a crazy man spiced up the morning somethin special.
I was waiting for the errant L when I heard the man not three feet behind me more than mubling to himself. Short guy, brooding look, the low end of biz-caszhe in a button-up and slacks. I'm torn from my snotty reading only by the persistant cadence of his cursing - and of course, my morbid curiosity about the vocal wackjobs that make the train a wonder of city life.
"Fucking train, I can't fucking believe this, goodamn it! [pause] Six fucking million dollars and they can't get the fucking train to comeon time, fuck!" A longer pause follows, and I can hear him pacing a bit, so I subtly inch my way away. A random "FUCK!" comes anew. More pacing. Then, in entirely calm tones, he announces, "Ladies and gentlemen, there will be no L train service this morning. For service into Manhattan, please take the G to Hoyt Schermerhorn to connect to the A train. " Silence, and another raucous "f-bomb" to pepper the hum of fellow stalled travelers.
The L train arrives.
I was trained to commuting precision by Rack, when I moved here, to know the exact spot on the train I wanted. The train door that opened to the staircase I wanted that emptied into the portion of the street best suited to my path of travel. Armed with this, I had strategically wiggled myself to be standing right in front of the oncoming jam-packed train's doors. I scooted to allow deboarding passengers their space, as Crazy Mofucker sidled up behind me, when an untoward moment dawned on the crowd: while a usual 10-15 people hop off at this stop, only three left, leaving us a shove-or-be-shoved chance to make it to work on time.
Grace a my position, I zipped in as one of the lucky three - only to be squashed by the 7-12 incredulous folks behind me determined to make this car. My rib cage flattened against the woman in front of me so close that I could tell her shampoo, my arms were pinned down by the people next to me so hard my lunch tupperware popped open its plastic bag, as people hurled themselves into the L and the doors struggled to close against them. I finally lifted my head up to beg, "No more pushing! No more pushing, please!" and made my apologies to Herbal Essence. As I intoned my request, Crazy Man - not two feet away - saw his entry into The Narrative and hollered to a woman directly behind him.
"Watch it, lady - you hit me in the nuts!"
I turned to see the train doors still open to the crowd as she pushed to stay inside the car. Her brow furrowed and she replied, in genuine confusion, "From behind?"
"No, from the side. Watch yourself!" Crazy Man threw that last as a threat, his head turned entirely around to her, pressed full on against his back. Still confused, she asked, "Well, where are your nuts?"
At this point, her friend next to her chimed in, "On the back of his head."
My restraint lost, and I burst out laughing. Too angry to be one-upped, he made his retort, "I wish they were so I could take a leak on your head."
The train doors close and we embark for the great isle.
"For future reference, nuts don't leak," shot back the offender. A silence followed and the giggles subsided. The commuting silence resumed as everyone fought to keep their footing.
Nuts cursed under his breath with the same violence of his impatient wait for the train, and all present wished to be farther away from thisvolatile middle manager who spoke of his junk in public.
At the next stop, the group shifted to accommodate the getting on and getting off of who-the-fuck-ever. As she moved, the alleged nut-basher said, "Careful, guy, your nuts could get slapped from all sides!" She moved in closer to me and winked.
Nuts spoke not.
At First Avenue, the same, and the accused announced, "Hey, how are your nuts?" The crowdquirmed, scared to laugh in a train so full that one could not protect one's face, should fistacuffs ensure. But laugh they did, however quietly, into the backs of strangers. Nuts rolled his eyes and turned away.
At Third Avenue, as Nuts maneuvered his way out of the door. As he departed, our heroine yelled, "Have a nuts day!" On the closing of the doors for Union Square, the entire train erupted, finally able to free the loud chuckles that had festered for miles. When I hopped off, I thanked the ladies, and made my way into the elbowed streets of Manhattan. To a day less entertaining, to day where people - self included - don't just fucking say it. Six million dollars, who cares if it runs on time. Worth every fucking penny.
The Metropolitan G-L connection is probably the weirdest part of my day. An intersection of lives deliberately separated - the strange confluence of the tragically hipster L train and the crosstown Real Brooklyn stock. The connection proves colorful each commuting day, uniting the business-bound with the working class, the rockstar aspiring with the ghetto proper. Allows unique things to fade out of recognition. Except on this day, in line for a late train, when a crazy man spiced up the morning somethin special.
I was waiting for the errant L when I heard the man not three feet behind me more than mubling to himself. Short guy, brooding look, the low end of biz-caszhe in a button-up and slacks. I'm torn from my snotty reading only by the persistant cadence of his cursing - and of course, my morbid curiosity about the vocal wackjobs that make the train a wonder of city life.
"Fucking train, I can't fucking believe this, goodamn it! [pause] Six fucking million dollars and they can't get the fucking train to comeon time, fuck!" A longer pause follows, and I can hear him pacing a bit, so I subtly inch my way away. A random "FUCK!" comes anew. More pacing. Then, in entirely calm tones, he announces, "Ladies and gentlemen, there will be no L train service this morning. For service into Manhattan, please take the G to Hoyt Schermerhorn to connect to the A train. " Silence, and another raucous "f-bomb" to pepper the hum of fellow stalled travelers.
The L train arrives.
I was trained to commuting precision by Rack, when I moved here, to know the exact spot on the train I wanted. The train door that opened to the staircase I wanted that emptied into the portion of the street best suited to my path of travel. Armed with this, I had strategically wiggled myself to be standing right in front of the oncoming jam-packed train's doors. I scooted to allow deboarding passengers their space, as Crazy Mofucker sidled up behind me, when an untoward moment dawned on the crowd: while a usual 10-15 people hop off at this stop, only three left, leaving us a shove-or-be-shoved chance to make it to work on time.
Grace a my position, I zipped in as one of the lucky three - only to be squashed by the 7-12 incredulous folks behind me determined to make this car. My rib cage flattened against the woman in front of me so close that I could tell her shampoo, my arms were pinned down by the people next to me so hard my lunch tupperware popped open its plastic bag, as people hurled themselves into the L and the doors struggled to close against them. I finally lifted my head up to beg, "No more pushing! No more pushing, please!" and made my apologies to Herbal Essence. As I intoned my request, Crazy Man - not two feet away - saw his entry into The Narrative and hollered to a woman directly behind him.
"Watch it, lady - you hit me in the nuts!"
I turned to see the train doors still open to the crowd as she pushed to stay inside the car. Her brow furrowed and she replied, in genuine confusion, "From behind?"
"No, from the side. Watch yourself!" Crazy Man threw that last as a threat, his head turned entirely around to her, pressed full on against his back. Still confused, she asked, "Well, where are your nuts?"
At this point, her friend next to her chimed in, "On the back of his head."
My restraint lost, and I burst out laughing. Too angry to be one-upped, he made his retort, "I wish they were so I could take a leak on your head."
The train doors close and we embark for the great isle.
"For future reference, nuts don't leak," shot back the offender. A silence followed and the giggles subsided. The commuting silence resumed as everyone fought to keep their footing.
Nuts cursed under his breath with the same violence of his impatient wait for the train, and all present wished to be farther away from thisvolatile middle manager who spoke of his junk in public.
At the next stop, the group shifted to accommodate the getting on and getting off of who-the-fuck-ever. As she moved, the alleged nut-basher said, "Careful, guy, your nuts could get slapped from all sides!" She moved in closer to me and winked.
Nuts spoke not.
At First Avenue, the same, and the accused announced, "Hey, how are your nuts?" The crowdquirmed, scared to laugh in a train so full that one could not protect one's face, should fistacuffs ensure. But laugh they did, however quietly, into the backs of strangers. Nuts rolled his eyes and turned away.
At Third Avenue, as Nuts maneuvered his way out of the door. As he departed, our heroine yelled, "Have a nuts day!" On the closing of the doors for Union Square, the entire train erupted, finally able to free the loud chuckles that had festered for miles. When I hopped off, I thanked the ladies, and made my way into the elbowed streets of Manhattan. To a day less entertaining, to day where people - self included - don't just fucking say it. Six million dollars, who cares if it runs on time. Worth every fucking penny.
Labels: assholes, crazies, FalloniusMonk, hilarious shit, MTA, NYC
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Reggie (Get In My) Bush
Man, Reggie Bush is hot. Every Sunday, my buddies NeisMan and Js and Ps declare that they're rooting for the Pepsi Machine in those "Reggie Bush Project" commercials, and I disagree emphatically. The scenario in these commercials is that Reginald Alfred Bush II (yes, that is his real name) is competing against a Pepsi vending machine for position of starting running back for the New Orleans Saints to the soaring synthesizer riffs of Europe's "The Final Countdown." Somehow I suspect that this is implausible both because Reggie Bush's contract is larger and thus more imperative than the Pepsi machine's, and because the Pepsi machine doesn't have a Heisman on its bookshelf, but whatever. Okay, so the Pepsi machine can definitely block and tackle better than Reggie Bush, but PLEASE. Reggie Bush takes the agility drills. Furthermore, the Pepsi machine will never be able to comply with NFL official rules regarding appropriate official NFL team garb (as clarified during the Terrell Owens now-infamous "Sharpie" incident, your ass has to have everything tucked in and no markers in your socks) and second, the Pepsi machine didn't score four touchdowns last week. More importantly, ladies, who would you rather bang? The fucking Pepsi machine, or THIS guy:
I wish Reggie Bush weren't 21, hot as fuck, ultimate Fantasy keeper league running back, and most likely getting laid like Caligula at a Senate wives' party, because then I would have a modicum of hope that one day I might actually have a shot at him. However, that is not the case, so let me just wallow in passionate yet ultimately doomed adoration for a second. Reggie Bush RULES.
I wish Reggie Bush weren't 21, hot as fuck, ultimate Fantasy keeper league running back, and most likely getting laid like Caligula at a Senate wives' party, because then I would have a modicum of hope that one day I might actually have a shot at him. However, that is not the case, so let me just wallow in passionate yet ultimately doomed adoration for a second. Reggie Bush RULES.
Labels: hot dudes, I LOVE IT, NFL football, Reggie (Get In My) Bush, sex
Friday, December 08, 2006
Chemical porn
In case you missed the hottest article to hit the presses in the scintillating journal Inorganic Chemistry, "{trans-1,4-Bis[(4-pyridyl)ethenyl]benzene}(2,2'-bipyridine)ruthenium(II) Complexes and Their Supramolecular Assemblies with beta-Cyclodextrin" by Toma et al, don't worry, I've been keeping up with the literature. Well, at least El Polaco is. He was kind enough to forward on the key figure from this paper, so that we might all benefit from this group's expert molecular modeling skills:
I'm willing to bet that when whatever grad student or postdoc was preparing this figure, they didn't even for one second consider its appeal to the more prurient readers of Inorganic Chemistry, probably because they've never experienced the biological equivalent of what this figure represents. Seriously, when it comes to grad school in the sciences, those of us in the biomedical sciences look like a pack of whiskey-guzzling, leather-pant-wearing, groupie-banging rock stars compared to the types of people that seek doctorates in straight-up chemistry or physics. The only thing hard core about those programs is the mathematical skills they require you to master in order to have the faintest clue what the hell they're talking about.
Even if it has something to do with biology this structure crap eludes me most of the time. I remember my first year in grad school, the ancient little course director, who constantly wore a labcoat despite never having set foot in a lab in several millenia, told us that we would be in BIG trouble if we didn't memorize all the amino acid structures. I was like, "Uh oh," since the closest I still am to that lofty goal is knowing that cysteine and methionine contain sulfur, and lysine is what gets ubiquitinated. If someone says "biochemistry" to me, I think they're referring to lab techniques that will require some type of column, and not anything requiring three-dimensional atomic calculus, or whatever the hell it is you need to know to put these complicated molecular models together. At least I can understand the importance of biochemistry, and can see where someone coming up with a crystal structure is useful to knowing what's going on inside a cell. I totally missed the reason why I should care that this group from Brazil busted out some fancy NMR and mass`spec skills to determine that {trans-1,4-Bis[(4-pyridyl)ethenyl]benzene}(2,2'-bipyridine)ruthenium(II) is giving beta-cyclodextrin the dicking of its life.
This is, I guess, telling of how those like me who chose to eke out our meager existence studying the living world think because they're perverts who suck at math. While a chemist might look at that and think "supramolecular assembly", the first thing that jumps into my head is "reproduction." Well, more accurately, "Christmas decorations fucking," but it's the same general idea.
I'm willing to bet that when whatever grad student or postdoc was preparing this figure, they didn't even for one second consider its appeal to the more prurient readers of Inorganic Chemistry, probably because they've never experienced the biological equivalent of what this figure represents. Seriously, when it comes to grad school in the sciences, those of us in the biomedical sciences look like a pack of whiskey-guzzling, leather-pant-wearing, groupie-banging rock stars compared to the types of people that seek doctorates in straight-up chemistry or physics. The only thing hard core about those programs is the mathematical skills they require you to master in order to have the faintest clue what the hell they're talking about.
Even if it has something to do with biology this structure crap eludes me most of the time. I remember my first year in grad school, the ancient little course director, who constantly wore a labcoat despite never having set foot in a lab in several millenia, told us that we would be in BIG trouble if we didn't memorize all the amino acid structures. I was like, "Uh oh," since the closest I still am to that lofty goal is knowing that cysteine and methionine contain sulfur, and lysine is what gets ubiquitinated. If someone says "biochemistry" to me, I think they're referring to lab techniques that will require some type of column, and not anything requiring three-dimensional atomic calculus, or whatever the hell it is you need to know to put these complicated molecular models together. At least I can understand the importance of biochemistry, and can see where someone coming up with a crystal structure is useful to knowing what's going on inside a cell. I totally missed the reason why I should care that this group from Brazil busted out some fancy NMR and mass`spec skills to determine that {trans-1,4-Bis[(4-pyridyl)ethenyl]benzene}(2,2'-bipyridine)ruthenium(II) is giving beta-cyclodextrin the dicking of its life.
This is, I guess, telling of how those like me who chose to eke out our meager existence studying the living world think because they're perverts who suck at math. While a chemist might look at that and think "supramolecular assembly", the first thing that jumps into my head is "reproduction." Well, more accurately, "Christmas decorations fucking," but it's the same general idea.
Labels: perversion, porn, science, sex
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Revenge of the Werds
The doctor is back after an agonizing internets-less stint. Following a quality chat with Diane in Mexico City, the problem is half-resolved and I'm back on the grid for more bitchery.
After a week like this, I'll need to revisit the tried and true favorite of my ridicule: the Professor. He's back in action in rare form with the second-cousin to English, and I have some jewels to share:
Appraised
This is a real word, you say to yourself. Well, yes, I know that, and so does he, apparently - it simply means something different when it flops from his mouth. In Profish, it means "apprised." For example, "Keep me appraised of the situation [developments/updates/etc.]." Cuz I guaran-fuckin-tee he's not asking that I assign him with a value.
Recognaissance
While this may be oneof the most brilliant mergers to hit the English market since the contraction "y'all," it is certainly not to be found in, on, or near a Webster-Merriam. This combines the fundaments of military intelligence with the basis of pyschology into one very special bubbling cauldron of business babble. Gold star.
Periodicity
I have no fucking idea what this means. I even heard it in context and don't know. The relief came when a colleague turned and said, "Did you just say say 'periodicity'?"
Augmentationally
A hexasyllabic mishap. All I understood was the intention "to expand, increase, boost." In doubt, I search for the root. One does what one can.
Activacious
I presume this means "with fervor." It came to me as "we need to take an activatious approach." In any event, a) that seems to be the case, and b) I might question the word "need" in this instance.
More to come, methinks, but couldn't let another day/memory slot go without making these fine specimen known. For next week, copy down these definit-at-ions three times and us-ilat-e in a sentence. Exam-inatory on Thursday. Class dismiss-osit-ed.
For previous smeebery, check it out:
http://www.razzy.org/RazzyBlog/archive/2006_10_01_archive.html
10/24 "Allow me to introduce myself"
After a week like this, I'll need to revisit the tried and true favorite of my ridicule: the Professor. He's back in action in rare form with the second-cousin to English, and I have some jewels to share:
Appraised
This is a real word, you say to yourself. Well, yes, I know that, and so does he, apparently - it simply means something different when it flops from his mouth. In Profish, it means "apprised." For example, "Keep me appraised of the situation [developments/updates/etc.]." Cuz I guaran-fuckin-tee he's not asking that I assign him with a value.
Recognaissance
While this may be oneof the most brilliant mergers to hit the English market since the contraction "y'all," it is certainly not to be found in, on, or near a Webster-Merriam. This combines the fundaments of military intelligence with the basis of pyschology into one very special bubbling cauldron of business babble. Gold star.
Periodicity
I have no fucking idea what this means. I even heard it in context and don't know. The relief came when a colleague turned and said, "Did you just say say 'periodicity'?"
Augmentationally
A hexasyllabic mishap. All I understood was the intention "to expand, increase, boost." In doubt, I search for the root. One does what one can.
Activacious
I presume this means "with fervor." It came to me as "we need to take an activatious approach." In any event, a) that seems to be the case, and b) I might question the word "need" in this instance.
More to come, methinks, but couldn't let another day/memory slot go without making these fine specimen known. For next week, copy down these definit-at-ions three times and us-ilat-e in a sentence. Exam-inatory on Thursday. Class dismiss-osit-ed.
For previous smeebery, check it out:
http://www.razzy.org/RazzyBlog/archive/2006_10_01_archive.html
10/24 "Allow me to introduce myself"
Labels: Hunter S. Thompson fetish, Smeeberish
And I was trying to relax...
To get my skyrocketing blood pressure and anxiety problem under control, I've been watching LOTS of TV to ensure that I make like J-Sexy and "chillax." Tonight, I'm watching the season finale of "America's Next Top Model," which is markedly increasing my calmness quotient in spite of Tyra Banks's obscenely horrible red-and-purple, wide patent leather Santa Claus-belted, silver spaghetti-strapped sweetheart bodice tank dress. Caridee is complaining about her struggles with psoriasis, Melrose is being a fucking bitch, and all is right in the world.
However, any relaxation I gain from my "Top Model" addiction is mitigated by the overwhelmingly shiteous selection of commercials I've had to watch during breaks.
Exhibit A: An ad for a cell phone/mp3 player in which two hipster douchebags in beat-up rugby shirts and beat-up Chuck Taylors sporting boxy glasses and intentionally shaggy haircuts argue about whether or not the chorus of The Clash's classic punk indictment of the Ayatollah Khomeini's no-rock-policy following the deposition of the Shah "Rock the Casbah" is "lock the cashbox" or "stop the catbox." You dumbasses...look at the fucking title of the song on your stupid LG Chocolate or whatever! "Dumb people buy this phone/mp3 player" is what this commercial tells me. Who is in charge of that marketing department, a Rhesus macaque or a fucking howler monkey? Either way, it's some sort of shit-slinging lower primate for sure.
Exhibit B: A trailer for Eragon, a movie about a boy in the mythical world of Alagaesia who finds a dragon egg and, with the help of his mentor Brom and his CGI dragon Saphira, joins the ranks of the legendary Shur'tugal and dares to challenge evil sorcerer/tyrant/dragon abuser King Galbatorix. Okay, obviously I've betrayed the dark secret that I'm actually excited by this commercial in a positive way. I totally am ashamed to admit that I want to see Eragon. I'm even more ashamed to admit that I read the book. And I'm kill-myself-so-as-to-avoid-dishonoring-my-family ashamed that I read Eldest, the sequel to Eragon. These books were written by a homeschooled 15-year-old in Montana who may be the geekiest dude I've ever seen in my life. Despite that, I just can't keep myself from admitting that I want to see this movie. It looks kind of good. And by "kind of good," I mean fucking awesome. Whatever...I'm a nerd. I love this kind of crap:
Nonetheless, this hasn't helped me chillax because it excited me so much with all the sword-swinging, army raising, and CGI dragon-containing epic battle footage. And Jeremy Irons, John Malkovich, and--HOLY SHIT--hot-ass Djimon Hounsou (!) are in it wearing hauberks and engaging in grandiose Lord of the Rings-ish shit-talking.
Exhibit C: Heidi Klum singing "Santa Baby" in a Victoria's Secret commercial not showing any tits, probably because she just popped out another kid and her postpartum FUPA (fat upper pussy area) isn't amenable to doing Gisele-esque underwear ads. Heidi Klum CANNOT sing. She sounds like a dying cat and yet still acts like she's some sort of sexy Von Trapp crooning "Edelweiss" convincingly enough to arrange a secret escape from Nazi Germany. WRONG. There's a reason why she's a model/reality TV competition judge and not a model-slash-anything else. Heidi "The Body" Klum needs to stick to crafting her "Project Runway" bitchy one-liners and stay the hell off the Vicky S. runway while she's recovering from producing yet another of Seal's progeny.
Exhibit D: The trailer for Unaccompanied Minors. This is a film about a bunch of nine-year-olds who somehow get lost in an airport at Christmas and engage villainous adults in the style of Home Alone, except instead of terrorizing the most incompetent burglars in the world with air rifles, buckets of paint, Micro Machines, a tarantula, and the voice track of Angels with Filthy Souls, they torment stranded innocent travelers by running them over with luggage carts and wreaking havoc with the luggage-sorting system. At least Home Alone featured only ONE totally obnoxious spoiled brat acting like a shithead for ninety minutes. This film has a baker's dozen of the little monsters running around. Presumably hilarity is supposed to ensue, except by "hilarity" I mean murderous rage. Lucky for the kids they're in an airport and nobody is allowed to be walking around packing heat. The only good thing about this movie is that apparently they cause massive bodily harm via slapstick assaults on Wilmer Valderrama, but otherwise, make all the airport food vegan and put Rihanna's "Unfaithful" on the soundtrack and you're in the latest conceptualization of my personal hell. Here's the trailer, but if you dare to watch, make sure you have a nitroglycerin patch, a bottle of Bayer, a home defibrillator, and an epi-pen handy, because this will simultaneously cause anaphylactic shock and massive cardiovascular shutdown if you aren't fully prepared for its unbridled horror:
Exhibit E: An ad for Uno Spin, a game that livens up the traditional Uno (AKA Crazy Eights for Dummies) by putting the cards into a battery-powered card shuffler on a Lazy Susan that vomits cards at the players, who scream with delight. On one hand, it's good that Uno has made a game requiring more physical activity, thus combating the burgeoning hordes of fat people in the world. On the other hand, the only thing more obnoxious than some smug motherfucker shrieking "Uno!" is having them shoot another card in your face. God, my blood is at a rolling boil just thinking about it.
The only thing that has saved me from a complete psychotic meltdown based on the commercials is the fact that the Top Model judges actually made an intelligent decision for once. Melrose got sent back to the draggish slag heap she crawled out of, and Caridee ultimately became America's Seventh Next Top Model! Disaster averted yet again.
However, any relaxation I gain from my "Top Model" addiction is mitigated by the overwhelmingly shiteous selection of commercials I've had to watch during breaks.
Exhibit A: An ad for a cell phone/mp3 player in which two hipster douchebags in beat-up rugby shirts and beat-up Chuck Taylors sporting boxy glasses and intentionally shaggy haircuts argue about whether or not the chorus of The Clash's classic punk indictment of the Ayatollah Khomeini's no-rock-policy following the deposition of the Shah "Rock the Casbah" is "lock the cashbox" or "stop the catbox." You dumbasses...look at the fucking title of the song on your stupid LG Chocolate or whatever! "Dumb people buy this phone/mp3 player" is what this commercial tells me. Who is in charge of that marketing department, a Rhesus macaque or a fucking howler monkey? Either way, it's some sort of shit-slinging lower primate for sure.
Exhibit B: A trailer for Eragon, a movie about a boy in the mythical world of Alagaesia who finds a dragon egg and, with the help of his mentor Brom and his CGI dragon Saphira, joins the ranks of the legendary Shur'tugal and dares to challenge evil sorcerer/tyrant/dragon abuser King Galbatorix. Okay, obviously I've betrayed the dark secret that I'm actually excited by this commercial in a positive way. I totally am ashamed to admit that I want to see Eragon. I'm even more ashamed to admit that I read the book. And I'm kill-myself-so-as-to-avoid-dishonoring-my-family ashamed that I read Eldest, the sequel to Eragon. These books were written by a homeschooled 15-year-old in Montana who may be the geekiest dude I've ever seen in my life. Despite that, I just can't keep myself from admitting that I want to see this movie. It looks kind of good. And by "kind of good," I mean fucking awesome. Whatever...I'm a nerd. I love this kind of crap:
Nonetheless, this hasn't helped me chillax because it excited me so much with all the sword-swinging, army raising, and CGI dragon-containing epic battle footage. And Jeremy Irons, John Malkovich, and--HOLY SHIT--hot-ass Djimon Hounsou (!) are in it wearing hauberks and engaging in grandiose Lord of the Rings-ish shit-talking.
Exhibit C: Heidi Klum singing "Santa Baby" in a Victoria's Secret commercial not showing any tits, probably because she just popped out another kid and her postpartum FUPA (fat upper pussy area) isn't amenable to doing Gisele-esque underwear ads. Heidi Klum CANNOT sing. She sounds like a dying cat and yet still acts like she's some sort of sexy Von Trapp crooning "Edelweiss" convincingly enough to arrange a secret escape from Nazi Germany. WRONG. There's a reason why she's a model/reality TV competition judge and not a model-slash-anything else. Heidi "The Body" Klum needs to stick to crafting her "Project Runway" bitchy one-liners and stay the hell off the Vicky S. runway while she's recovering from producing yet another of Seal's progeny.
Exhibit D: The trailer for Unaccompanied Minors. This is a film about a bunch of nine-year-olds who somehow get lost in an airport at Christmas and engage villainous adults in the style of Home Alone, except instead of terrorizing the most incompetent burglars in the world with air rifles, buckets of paint, Micro Machines, a tarantula, and the voice track of Angels with Filthy Souls, they torment stranded innocent travelers by running them over with luggage carts and wreaking havoc with the luggage-sorting system. At least Home Alone featured only ONE totally obnoxious spoiled brat acting like a shithead for ninety minutes. This film has a baker's dozen of the little monsters running around. Presumably hilarity is supposed to ensue, except by "hilarity" I mean murderous rage. Lucky for the kids they're in an airport and nobody is allowed to be walking around packing heat. The only good thing about this movie is that apparently they cause massive bodily harm via slapstick assaults on Wilmer Valderrama, but otherwise, make all the airport food vegan and put Rihanna's "Unfaithful" on the soundtrack and you're in the latest conceptualization of my personal hell. Here's the trailer, but if you dare to watch, make sure you have a nitroglycerin patch, a bottle of Bayer, a home defibrillator, and an epi-pen handy, because this will simultaneously cause anaphylactic shock and massive cardiovascular shutdown if you aren't fully prepared for its unbridled horror:
Exhibit E: An ad for Uno Spin, a game that livens up the traditional Uno (AKA Crazy Eights for Dummies) by putting the cards into a battery-powered card shuffler on a Lazy Susan that vomits cards at the players, who scream with delight. On one hand, it's good that Uno has made a game requiring more physical activity, thus combating the burgeoning hordes of fat people in the world. On the other hand, the only thing more obnoxious than some smug motherfucker shrieking "Uno!" is having them shoot another card in your face. God, my blood is at a rolling boil just thinking about it.
The only thing that has saved me from a complete psychotic meltdown based on the commercials is the fact that the Top Model judges actually made an intelligent decision for once. Melrose got sent back to the draggish slag heap she crawled out of, and Caridee ultimately became America's Seventh Next Top Model! Disaster averted yet again.
Labels: America's Next Top Model, epic geekery, hot chicks, retard rage, TV
Nobody smiling? I am.
Today I had to figure out how to send my internet logs to the good folks investigating the identity of my Hater-in-Chief "razzysux", and this took a while because as I've stated before, I'm totally incompetent when it comes to most computer-related stuff. If, God forbid, I actually have to alter the code on my site rather than just dicking around with Blogger and GoLive, it's a lengthy and miserable process that will often take me hours. I may have a way with words, but not when those words are involved in html tags or filenames on the razzy.org directory.
Once I finally found out how to get my logs via some witheringly condescending e-mails from the tech support staff at my hosting company, I was copying them to send off, and I found that there were quite a few visits to my blog from a referrer at http://www.nobodysmiling.com.
I decided to see what this nobodysmiling.com site was all about, and realized to my delight that it's a website devoted to hip-hop-related news, videos, and opinion!
Specifically, the author of a blog entry entitled "Bill O'Reilly, Your Beef Ain't Legit! So Get Off Hip-Hop's Tip!!!" decrying Bill O'Reilly's hypocrisy concerning his condemnation of hip-hop linked to my awesome pictures of Ludacris and O'Reilly talking smack that I made for my World's Greatest Rap Beefs page. I particularly love how the title of this blog entry is quoting a Ludacris lyric from Young Buck's song "Stomp" from the album Straight Outta Cashville (although in that song, Luda was dissing T.I., and the original lyric went "please stay off the T.I.P. of my dick!"). Anyway, I was more pleased that the same week that I get called a racist on the grounds that I listen to rap music, dressed up as Lil' Kim this Halloween, and sport the blindingly white complexion consistent with my Viking-Irish genetic background, my rap-related internet Photoshop artistry rolls in a prominent place on a hip-hop website!
That's right, all you Razzy Haters can say what you want, but I'm getting love from the online hip-hop community in the form of linking, which here on the internet is the sincerest form of flattery. So Haters, as Luda says, pimp and be easy, and quit catchin' feelings. If life's a crap game, I'm rollin' sevens on the come out.
Once I finally found out how to get my logs via some witheringly condescending e-mails from the tech support staff at my hosting company, I was copying them to send off, and I found that there were quite a few visits to my blog from a referrer at http://www.nobodysmiling.com.
I decided to see what this nobodysmiling.com site was all about, and realized to my delight that it's a website devoted to hip-hop-related news, videos, and opinion!
Specifically, the author of a blog entry entitled "Bill O'Reilly, Your Beef Ain't Legit! So Get Off Hip-Hop's Tip!!!" decrying Bill O'Reilly's hypocrisy concerning his condemnation of hip-hop linked to my awesome pictures of Ludacris and O'Reilly talking smack that I made for my World's Greatest Rap Beefs page. I particularly love how the title of this blog entry is quoting a Ludacris lyric from Young Buck's song "Stomp" from the album Straight Outta Cashville (although in that song, Luda was dissing T.I., and the original lyric went "please stay off the T.I.P. of my dick!"). Anyway, I was more pleased that the same week that I get called a racist on the grounds that I listen to rap music, dressed up as Lil' Kim this Halloween, and sport the blindingly white complexion consistent with my Viking-Irish genetic background, my rap-related internet Photoshop artistry rolls in a prominent place on a hip-hop website!
Labels: computer incompetence, internet domination, Ludacris, rap, Razzy Haters
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
A match made in Razzy heaven
I've had a rough past few days, and I'm emotionally and physically exhausted. Therefore, I resolved to spend tonight doing the most relaxing, revitalizing thing I know how: eating frozen pepperoni DiGiorno, sipping on several frosty Heineken lights, and watching my absolute favorite show currently on television: "Nip/Tuck." It's the second to last episode of the season, and a metric ton of sheer orgasmic awesomeness has gone down thus far:
-Liz the lesbian anesthesiologist dumps Alanis Morrisette on the basis that she processed too much. Alanis then comes racing into the Troy/McNamara operating room to have a complete emotional breakdown and have Sean kick her crying, pathetic ass out for not being sterile
-A hallucinatory Xenu (otherwise known as the main villain from L. Ron Hubbard's theological text Dianetics) appears to Kimber. I imagine Xenu as more of the mustache-twirling, effetely cackling type of villain, but apparently that's not a very good description. He looks like pretty much what I imagine Nick Cave would look like if he were an alien.
-Gina shows up and, in classic Gina psychotic, aggressively manipulative, apopleptic -with-vicious-profanity-laden rage form, she promptly cries to get her way, brags about her antiretroviral protease and reverse transcriptase inhibitor drug cocktail, swears a blue streak and throws salads all over a restaurant when Christian refuses Gina visitation rights to his recently reclaimed not-baby Wilber.
-The nefarious James, she who once bashed a hooker's face in to prove to the doctors that she needed rhinoplasty and begged for her life in French to Vietnamese black market organ traders, blows her head off in Christian's living room after deciding not to steal organs from the aformentioned prodigal baby Wilber.
-Escobar Gallardo is back, looking like the illegitimate love child of Freddy Krueger and Pinhead/random cenobite from the long and storied tradition of Hellraiser movies, and extorting kidney harvesting services out of that chick from Alien vs. Predator who is Christian's new fiancee.
-Sean is coping with--take a wild guess here, people--insecurity issues. He tries unsuccessfully to resolve this by yelling impotently at a dissociative schizophrenic cruise ship ventriloquest and giving Matt sex tips, which brings me to the most ABSOLUTELY AWESOME THING THAT HAPPENED ON THE SHOW .
After Matt and Kimber resolve their sexual issues by making a professionally shot porn (complete with film crew) with a plot involving hilarious role-playing which fetishizes the doctor-patient relationship, they decide to do the nasty in Kimber's doctor's exam room. The doctor walks in on Matt giving her a pelvic exam with his dick, and begins to lecture them for boning during Kimber's pregnancy. At first I was wondering why the doctor looked so familiar. Then it hit me.
Oh. My. God. OH! MY! GOD! It's like the greatest TV show of the present met the greatest show ever, went on a date to a dinner of steak and mozzarella sticks, watched a shitty horror movie, drank a fifth of Johnnie Walker Black, and had the greatest sex of all time. Dr. Schwartz, Scientologist OB/GYN, is portrayed by none other than THIS man:
Yes, that James Eckhouse. As in sworn enemy/inheritance controlling trustee of Dylan McKay. As in Minneapolis native transplanted to a Spanish-style three bedroom house in Beverly Hills who later moves to Hong Kong. As in husband of Cindy and father of Brandon and Brenda. As in one of the most Janus-faced parents in the history of television. As in driving all the customers out of the Peach Pit with his cacophonous rendition of The Kinks' "Wild Thing." As in the patriarch of clan Walsh, the cornerstone of the first four seasons of the venerable and supremely brilliant "Beverly Hills, 90210"!!! Jim Walsh, M.D. and apparent OT-6 just caught Matt and Kimber porking in his stirrup chair, then informed them that their medical sex hijinks must end on account of "all the engrams that can penetrate the fetus," then implies that she's too morally bereft to be a good Scientologist.
James isn't the first Bev Niner alumnus to appear on "Nip/Tuck". In season one, Gabrielle "Andrea Zuckerman" Carteris made a guest appearance as a patient who had a pathological obsession with nose jobs to the point where she repeatedly demanded her husband break her nose with a hammer in order to feed her rhinoplasty addiction. However, that was a mere dalliance and a much less interesting or memorable performance compared to Jim Walsh the judgmental Scientologist obstetrician. If it were possible for me to shut the fuck up, I'd be speechless.
-Liz the lesbian anesthesiologist dumps Alanis Morrisette on the basis that she processed too much. Alanis then comes racing into the Troy/McNamara operating room to have a complete emotional breakdown and have Sean kick her crying, pathetic ass out for not being sterile
-A hallucinatory Xenu (otherwise known as the main villain from L. Ron Hubbard's theological text Dianetics) appears to Kimber. I imagine Xenu as more of the mustache-twirling, effetely cackling type of villain, but apparently that's not a very good description. He looks like pretty much what I imagine Nick Cave would look like if he were an alien.
-Gina shows up and, in classic Gina psychotic, aggressively manipulative, apopleptic -with-vicious-profanity-laden rage form, she promptly cries to get her way, brags about her antiretroviral protease and reverse transcriptase inhibitor drug cocktail, swears a blue streak and throws salads all over a restaurant when Christian refuses Gina visitation rights to his recently reclaimed not-baby Wilber.
-The nefarious James, she who once bashed a hooker's face in to prove to the doctors that she needed rhinoplasty and begged for her life in French to Vietnamese black market organ traders, blows her head off in Christian's living room after deciding not to steal organs from the aformentioned prodigal baby Wilber.
-Escobar Gallardo is back, looking like the illegitimate love child of Freddy Krueger and Pinhead/random cenobite from the long and storied tradition of Hellraiser movies, and extorting kidney harvesting services out of that chick from Alien vs. Predator who is Christian's new fiancee.
-Sean is coping with--take a wild guess here, people--insecurity issues. He tries unsuccessfully to resolve this by yelling impotently at a dissociative schizophrenic cruise ship ventriloquest and giving Matt sex tips, which brings me to the most ABSOLUTELY AWESOME THING THAT HAPPENED ON THE SHOW .
After Matt and Kimber resolve their sexual issues by making a professionally shot porn (complete with film crew) with a plot involving hilarious role-playing which fetishizes the doctor-patient relationship, they decide to do the nasty in Kimber's doctor's exam room. The doctor walks in on Matt giving her a pelvic exam with his dick, and begins to lecture them for boning during Kimber's pregnancy. At first I was wondering why the doctor looked so familiar. Then it hit me.
Oh. My. God. OH! MY! GOD! It's like the greatest TV show of the present met the greatest show ever, went on a date to a dinner of steak and mozzarella sticks, watched a shitty horror movie, drank a fifth of Johnnie Walker Black, and had the greatest sex of all time. Dr. Schwartz, Scientologist OB/GYN, is portrayed by none other than THIS man:
Yes, that James Eckhouse. As in sworn enemy/inheritance controlling trustee of Dylan McKay. As in Minneapolis native transplanted to a Spanish-style three bedroom house in Beverly Hills who later moves to Hong Kong. As in husband of Cindy and father of Brandon and Brenda. As in one of the most Janus-faced parents in the history of television. As in driving all the customers out of the Peach Pit with his cacophonous rendition of The Kinks' "Wild Thing." As in the patriarch of clan Walsh, the cornerstone of the first four seasons of the venerable and supremely brilliant "Beverly Hills, 90210"!!! Jim Walsh, M.D. and apparent OT-6 just caught Matt and Kimber porking in his stirrup chair, then informed them that their medical sex hijinks must end on account of "all the engrams that can penetrate the fetus," then implies that she's too morally bereft to be a good Scientologist.
James isn't the first Bev Niner alumnus to appear on "Nip/Tuck". In season one, Gabrielle "Andrea Zuckerman" Carteris made a guest appearance as a patient who had a pathological obsession with nose jobs to the point where she repeatedly demanded her husband break her nose with a hammer in order to feed her rhinoplasty addiction. However, that was a mere dalliance and a much less interesting or memorable performance compared to Jim Walsh the judgmental Scientologist obstetrician. If it were possible for me to shut the fuck up, I'd be speechless.
Labels: Bev Niner, Nip/Tuck, Razzification
Cellmates
Since "razzysux" (AKA Tej Bindra or her roommate/cellmate) is now claiming to have my social security number and implying that I have an identity theft headache coming my way unless I take the posts about Tej down, I get to file a report today with the FBI! They have a very convenient online form for doing this.
Just to reiterate that I'm not going to let criminal threats force me into submission, I figured I'd share some of KatieScarlett's artwork with you. She went to art school after Smith, and you can see here that she knows what she's doing when it comes to Photoshop. Her brilliant work is a window into the future. Sadly, I doubt that Tej's cell at the federal penitentiary will have a balcony like her current crib at Smith:
[Image removed at the request of the copyright holder, and too fucking bad, because that image was FUNNY. Don't think I've caved to any poorly conceived extortion attempts, though...I'm just not one to fuck with copyright law and I can't afford to license the shit.]
KatieScarlett rewlz and is so kewl, LOL!
Just to reiterate that I'm not going to let criminal threats force me into submission, I figured I'd share some of KatieScarlett's artwork with you. She went to art school after Smith, and you can see here that she knows what she's doing when it comes to Photoshop. Her brilliant work is a window into the future. Sadly, I doubt that Tej's cell at the federal penitentiary will have a balcony like her current crib at Smith:
[Image removed at the request of the copyright holder, and too fucking bad, because that image was FUNNY. Don't think I've caved to any poorly conceived extortion attempts, though...I'm just not one to fuck with copyright law and I can't afford to license the shit.]
KatieScarlett rewlz and is so kewl, LOL!
Labels: crime and punishment, defiance, Dumb Smith bitches, KatieScarlett, Razzy Haters, Tej Offensive
Monday, December 04, 2006
I lied
That last post wasn't my last words on this bullshit. Since everyone seems so interested in this drama, I'll keep you all apprised. I just spent my morning talking about the possibility of undergoing an especially heinous sexually-based offense with the dedicated detectives of the elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit who investigate these vicious felonies. Well, okay, they weren't SVU, just the regular detectives who happened to be at my local NYPD precinct, but they were dedicated. They also made me feel a lot better.
When I walked into the precinct, I tried to explain the whole situation to the uniformed officer who took my initial statement. She didn't really get where this all started and she kept asking me if I had a copy of the e-mail. I wasn't sure which of the numerous e-mails she was referring to: the e-mails Tej sent me, the e-mails I sent her, the e-mails that I've been getting from "razzysux" who posted the Craigslist ads, or the roughly 100 e-mails I got from dudes hoping to spank me. Finally, exasperated, she said that I couldn't file a police report without a copy of the e-mail.
"What e-mail?!" I said, bursting into tears (believe it or not, I am actually capable of getting so upset that I cry). "I have like 100 e-mails about this, and I don't care about the e-mails or about Craigslist! I don't file police reports because I get mean or suggestive e-mail! I don't even file police reports because there are unauthorized naked pictures of me on the internet! I'm here because the person who put this stuff online TRICKED ONE OF THESE MEN INTO GOING TO MY APARTMENT PRESUMABLY TO HAVE SEX WITH ME! I DON'T THINK THAT I SHOULD HAVE TO LIVE IN FEAR THAT SOMEONE WHO DIDN'T LIKE WHAT I SAID ON THE INTERNET IS TRYING TO SET ME UP TO GET RAPED!" At this point I had worked myself into a complete frenzy and was really upset that the cops didn't even seem to think this was a problem. The officer noted this, looked very worried, and said, "I think you need to speak with the detectives about this."
I was promptly ushered into the detectives' room, which totally looked just like it does on "Law and Order" except way brighter and more cheerful. The detectives were exactly like I expected them to be: they had these awesome New Yawk accents and made lots of Detective Lenny Briscoe-esque wisecracks, such as the one where my situation was compared with what "in the old days" could be accomplished by writing a girl's number in a bathroom stall and saying to call for a good time. I told them the whole story, and showed them my website, a few exemplary e-mails, the Craigslist post screen capture I took and posted, etc. The detective summarized: "so you basically just write about anything and everything under the sun, and try to be funny about fuckin' with people?" I explained the whole story to this detective, who assured me that the Craigslist stuff was aggravated harassment. However, being that the lead suspect (AKA TEJ BINDRA Smith College '07) lives in Massachusetts, it's hard to investigate without getting the Computer Crimes division of the NYPD involved. The Computer Crimes division will only get involved if they can prove that someone actually came to my door, and did so at the behest of someone unlawfully representing me, or if they appear to be threatening me. However, what the detectives can do is monitor the situation, and, if someone does come to my door, "get rough with 'em like people say we do." If that occurs, and the person at my door rolls on the person who is obviously not me that sent them there and happens to mention that they were given my address via e-mail, then something REALLY awesome happens: we get to call the FBI!
They told me that the NYPD will keep me safe in the city, but that conspiring to commit/orchestrate felony assault against someone over the internet is a federal crime. Since the FBI is VERY GOOD about tracking down where e-mails came from and things like that, it shouldn't be too hard to locate and ascertain the true identity of "razzysux" (ie: Tej Bindra, Wesley House, Smith College, Northampton, Assachusetts). That person would then be arrested and charged, and tried in FEDERAL COURT! That will, of course, be after she gets kicked out of Smith for abusing her access to alumnae personal contact information or Lexis-Nexis at Neilson Library to orchestrate sexual attacks on a woman who made a few jokes on a website that is admittedly 100% useless bullshit.
Therefore, I would advise whoever is doing this to step back and stop bothering me, because the only life you will be ruining will be your own. There is now a record of this, and all you have to do is something else to blow this up into a couple of federal agents showing up at your door to arrest you. Leave me the fuck alone.
When I walked into the precinct, I tried to explain the whole situation to the uniformed officer who took my initial statement. She didn't really get where this all started and she kept asking me if I had a copy of the e-mail. I wasn't sure which of the numerous e-mails she was referring to: the e-mails Tej sent me, the e-mails I sent her, the e-mails that I've been getting from "razzysux" who posted the Craigslist ads, or the roughly 100 e-mails I got from dudes hoping to spank me. Finally, exasperated, she said that I couldn't file a police report without a copy of the e-mail.
"What e-mail?!" I said, bursting into tears (believe it or not, I am actually capable of getting so upset that I cry). "I have like 100 e-mails about this, and I don't care about the e-mails or about Craigslist! I don't file police reports because I get mean or suggestive e-mail! I don't even file police reports because there are unauthorized naked pictures of me on the internet! I'm here because the person who put this stuff online TRICKED ONE OF THESE MEN INTO GOING TO MY APARTMENT PRESUMABLY TO HAVE SEX WITH ME! I DON'T THINK THAT I SHOULD HAVE TO LIVE IN FEAR THAT SOMEONE WHO DIDN'T LIKE WHAT I SAID ON THE INTERNET IS TRYING TO SET ME UP TO GET RAPED!" At this point I had worked myself into a complete frenzy and was really upset that the cops didn't even seem to think this was a problem. The officer noted this, looked very worried, and said, "I think you need to speak with the detectives about this."
I was promptly ushered into the detectives' room, which totally looked just like it does on "Law and Order" except way brighter and more cheerful. The detectives were exactly like I expected them to be: they had these awesome New Yawk accents and made lots of Detective Lenny Briscoe-esque wisecracks, such as the one where my situation was compared with what "in the old days" could be accomplished by writing a girl's number in a bathroom stall and saying to call for a good time. I told them the whole story, and showed them my website, a few exemplary e-mails, the Craigslist post screen capture I took and posted, etc. The detective summarized: "so you basically just write about anything and everything under the sun, and try to be funny about fuckin' with people?" I explained the whole story to this detective, who assured me that the Craigslist stuff was aggravated harassment. However, being that the lead suspect (AKA TEJ BINDRA Smith College '07) lives in Massachusetts, it's hard to investigate without getting the Computer Crimes division of the NYPD involved. The Computer Crimes division will only get involved if they can prove that someone actually came to my door, and did so at the behest of someone unlawfully representing me, or if they appear to be threatening me. However, what the detectives can do is monitor the situation, and, if someone does come to my door, "get rough with 'em like people say we do." If that occurs, and the person at my door rolls on the person who is obviously not me that sent them there and happens to mention that they were given my address via e-mail, then something REALLY awesome happens: we get to call the FBI!
They told me that the NYPD will keep me safe in the city, but that conspiring to commit/orchestrate felony assault against someone over the internet is a federal crime. Since the FBI is VERY GOOD about tracking down where e-mails came from and things like that, it shouldn't be too hard to locate and ascertain the true identity of "razzysux" (ie: Tej Bindra, Wesley House, Smith College, Northampton, Assachusetts). That person would then be arrested and charged, and tried in FEDERAL COURT! That will, of course, be after she gets kicked out of Smith for abusing her access to alumnae personal contact information or Lexis-Nexis at Neilson Library to orchestrate sexual attacks on a woman who made a few jokes on a website that is admittedly 100% useless bullshit.
Therefore, I would advise whoever is doing this to step back and stop bothering me, because the only life you will be ruining will be your own. There is now a record of this, and all you have to do is something else to blow this up into a couple of federal agents showing up at your door to arrest you. Leave me the fuck alone.
Labels: crime and punishment, defiance, Dumb Smith bitches, Law and Order, Razzy Haters, Tej Offensive
My last words on this bullshit
Unfortunately, this post isn't going to be particularly funny, unless you find people trying to get me raped hilarious. All the fallout from me making fun of girls in the Smith Alumnae Quarterly was initially very amusing to me. I have a pretty thick skin resultant from a year of publicly writing useless bullshit and having people respond to it by calling me a barrage of pejorative terms. I've had people wish herpes upon me, tell me I'm fat and/or ugly and/or a big old slut about a thousand different ways, and suggest that I'm racist/classist/fill-in-the-blank-ist, etc.
Because of this thick skin, I can deal with my boss knowing about what I do on this website, angry e-mails, and even having my cell phone number posted on Craigslist next to naked pictures of me. This information is available on the internet, and using said information is no different that what I did with Tej and every other Smith girl on the internet. You can, for example, look up Tej's name on Google and find the Alumnae Quarterly piece, and since her e-mail address is readily available on Smith's website, I didn't put anything about her that wasn't already easily accessible to anyone with an internet browser except my own personal opinion. If something is in the public domain, it's fair game. I found all of this reaction to the *terrible* crime of mocking people quite silly, albeit somewhat surprising, until last night when I got home from the bar where I was watching football.
I had several text messages and voicemails from a man who called on his way to my apartment, and then again after he had showed up at my place, buzzed me several times, and was put out when I didn't answer. I am VERY relieved that I wasn't home when this occurred, but I wanted to know how this happened. I texted this guy to tell him that I hadn't placed the Craigslist ad, and that it was unfortunate he had been misled into showing up at my home. Based on his response and the tone of his messages, I was under the impression that he genuinely thought that I had personally invited him over and given him my address. Since I did NO SUCH THING, and did not respond to any of the Craigslist people except those whose calls I happened to answer (and my response there was either to hang up or say "I didn't post that on Craigslist, quit calling me"), I can only assume that the person who originally posted the Craigslist stuff had corresponded with him. This would be easily accomplished given the Craigslist format.
For those of you not familiar with how Craigslist works, when you post something, they put an anonymous "reply-to" e-mail link so that people can respond to you without revealing your real e-mail address. Although the Craigslist posts contained my written-out Columbia e-mail, the person who posted as me on Craigslist gave their e-mail as the "reply-to" link. I know this because they stayed up all night Saturday forwarding me correspondence from dudes who had e-mailed the "reply-to" link to ensure that I didn't miss out on any of the dudes sending me pictures of their weiners and promising to do me like I allegedly wish to be done. I suspect that the person who posted these items on Craigslist replied to one of my prospective suitors and pretended to be me, expressed that I would want to meet up with him for a "casual encounter," and sent him my address. That's why I got messages from the dude saying things like, "I'm getting on the train to come to your place right now. Do you need me to pick up a six pack or anything? I should be there by halftime of the Giants-Cowboys game, and it looks like a good game. Not that we'll be spending most of our time watching football." Then I got another message saying "I'm outside your building, I've been buzzing you and there's no answer. Well, I know you're a very busy woman, and I'm not mad, just disappointed. I was really looking forward to hooking up with you." After I texted him saying that I hadn't put up the Craigslist post, he responded with an apology and opined that "nobody deserves to be pranked like that." I agree.
Calling me names on the internet is pranking. Putting my picture up on Craigslist with my home phone number and claiming that I want sex is more malicious, but since my address wasn't included on the Craigslist posts, that could still be considered pranking. A lot of voice mail and e-mail is annoying to delete, but it doesn't really put me in any type of danger. However, deliberately impersonating me, indicating to a stranger that he can expect sex when he arrives, and then sending him to my front fucking door is not a prank. It is a crime. I started to freak out to the point where I couldn't even concentrate on the Seahawks game, and went to my go-to guy in stalker situations to verify this: HotLawyer. He is a criminal defense attorney, and while he doesn't practice in New York, he knows all about what's a crime and what isn't. He informed me that pretending to be me with the intent of sending strangers to my house expecting sex is, depending on the statutes in New York, at the very least "criminal impersonation", and possibly felony accessory to attempted sexual assault. He advised me to file a police report if I was scared.
As much as I hate to admit it, I spent all last night tossing and turning, expecting my doorbell to be rung by a dude ready to ping-pong paddle my ass and stick his dick in me, thinking I have consented to it. I've seen fucking "Law and Order: Special Victims Unit" episodes in which a rape and murder was perpetrated in this very manner. I was, indeed, very scared. Unless you're a spider, it takes a LOT to scare me, but this has accomplished it. The only thing that got me a couple fitful moments of sleep was the knowledge that I have Caesar and he barks and looks intimidating. While Caese sensed that I was upset and worried and consequently went into patrol mode (where he restlessly prowls all around the apartment to secure the perimeter), I know that in reality he is a gentle giant who is afraid of thunder and fireworks, and I can't really count on him for protection. Every time I'd start to drift off, I'd be jolted awake by the slightest noise and return to lamenting the fact that handgun permits are so expensive and difficult to obtain in New York City. Therefore, since I can't sleep, I'm heading off to my local precinct to file a police report. It's at least better than trying in vain to catch some shut-eye while simultaneously anticipating being victimized.
So I'm not going to write any more about this on the blog. When I tell people to bring it on, I mean they should step to me on the comment pages or start their own blog talking about what an asshole I am. I do not mean that they should go disturbingly out of their way to teach me a lesson by setting me up to possibly be raped. Whatever I have written in the interest of being funny, and whether anyone finds it offensive or not, nobody deserves that as a punishment.
Because of this thick skin, I can deal with my boss knowing about what I do on this website, angry e-mails, and even having my cell phone number posted on Craigslist next to naked pictures of me. This information is available on the internet, and using said information is no different that what I did with Tej and every other Smith girl on the internet. You can, for example, look up Tej's name on Google and find the Alumnae Quarterly piece, and since her e-mail address is readily available on Smith's website, I didn't put anything about her that wasn't already easily accessible to anyone with an internet browser except my own personal opinion. If something is in the public domain, it's fair game. I found all of this reaction to the *terrible* crime of mocking people quite silly, albeit somewhat surprising, until last night when I got home from the bar where I was watching football.
I had several text messages and voicemails from a man who called on his way to my apartment, and then again after he had showed up at my place, buzzed me several times, and was put out when I didn't answer. I am VERY relieved that I wasn't home when this occurred, but I wanted to know how this happened. I texted this guy to tell him that I hadn't placed the Craigslist ad, and that it was unfortunate he had been misled into showing up at my home. Based on his response and the tone of his messages, I was under the impression that he genuinely thought that I had personally invited him over and given him my address. Since I did NO SUCH THING, and did not respond to any of the Craigslist people except those whose calls I happened to answer (and my response there was either to hang up or say "I didn't post that on Craigslist, quit calling me"), I can only assume that the person who originally posted the Craigslist stuff had corresponded with him. This would be easily accomplished given the Craigslist format.
For those of you not familiar with how Craigslist works, when you post something, they put an anonymous "reply-to" e-mail link so that people can respond to you without revealing your real e-mail address. Although the Craigslist posts contained my written-out Columbia e-mail, the person who posted as me on Craigslist gave their e-mail as the "reply-to" link. I know this because they stayed up all night Saturday forwarding me correspondence from dudes who had e-mailed the "reply-to" link to ensure that I didn't miss out on any of the dudes sending me pictures of their weiners and promising to do me like I allegedly wish to be done. I suspect that the person who posted these items on Craigslist replied to one of my prospective suitors and pretended to be me, expressed that I would want to meet up with him for a "casual encounter," and sent him my address. That's why I got messages from the dude saying things like, "I'm getting on the train to come to your place right now. Do you need me to pick up a six pack or anything? I should be there by halftime of the Giants-Cowboys game, and it looks like a good game. Not that we'll be spending most of our time watching football." Then I got another message saying "I'm outside your building, I've been buzzing you and there's no answer. Well, I know you're a very busy woman, and I'm not mad, just disappointed. I was really looking forward to hooking up with you." After I texted him saying that I hadn't put up the Craigslist post, he responded with an apology and opined that "nobody deserves to be pranked like that." I agree.
Calling me names on the internet is pranking. Putting my picture up on Craigslist with my home phone number and claiming that I want sex is more malicious, but since my address wasn't included on the Craigslist posts, that could still be considered pranking. A lot of voice mail and e-mail is annoying to delete, but it doesn't really put me in any type of danger. However, deliberately impersonating me, indicating to a stranger that he can expect sex when he arrives, and then sending him to my front fucking door is not a prank. It is a crime. I started to freak out to the point where I couldn't even concentrate on the Seahawks game, and went to my go-to guy in stalker situations to verify this: HotLawyer. He is a criminal defense attorney, and while he doesn't practice in New York, he knows all about what's a crime and what isn't. He informed me that pretending to be me with the intent of sending strangers to my house expecting sex is, depending on the statutes in New York, at the very least "criminal impersonation", and possibly felony accessory to attempted sexual assault. He advised me to file a police report if I was scared.
As much as I hate to admit it, I spent all last night tossing and turning, expecting my doorbell to be rung by a dude ready to ping-pong paddle my ass and stick his dick in me, thinking I have consented to it. I've seen fucking "Law and Order: Special Victims Unit" episodes in which a rape and murder was perpetrated in this very manner. I was, indeed, very scared. Unless you're a spider, it takes a LOT to scare me, but this has accomplished it. The only thing that got me a couple fitful moments of sleep was the knowledge that I have Caesar and he barks and looks intimidating. While Caese sensed that I was upset and worried and consequently went into patrol mode (where he restlessly prowls all around the apartment to secure the perimeter), I know that in reality he is a gentle giant who is afraid of thunder and fireworks, and I can't really count on him for protection. Every time I'd start to drift off, I'd be jolted awake by the slightest noise and return to lamenting the fact that handgun permits are so expensive and difficult to obtain in New York City. Therefore, since I can't sleep, I'm heading off to my local precinct to file a police report. It's at least better than trying in vain to catch some shut-eye while simultaneously anticipating being victimized.
So I'm not going to write any more about this on the blog. When I tell people to bring it on, I mean they should step to me on the comment pages or start their own blog talking about what an asshole I am. I do not mean that they should go disturbingly out of their way to teach me a lesson by setting me up to possibly be raped. Whatever I have written in the interest of being funny, and whether anyone finds it offensive or not, nobody deserves that as a punishment.
Labels: crime and punishment, defiance, Razzy Haters, Tej Offensive
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Thanks for the favor
I am amazed. Since whoever is putting me up on casual encounters placed another ad using my suggested "spank me with a ping-pong paddle and violate my anal tract" tagline, my voicemail is now full and I have about 800 e-mails to go through. Since many of these dudes sent pictures, I have an UNLIMITED assortment of possible Razzy's Rejects to choose from. Cool, or in what Dateline's "To Catch a Predator" leads me to believe is the preferred spelling employed by these internet perverts, kewl. I now can rest easy knowing that it will take me until roughly Christmas '09 to put all these creeps up on my site and make fun of them.
I suppose it's not really their fault that they wound up contacting me, but you know what? Big deal. Don't send pictures of your fucking uncut cock to strangers on the internet, especially if you're a creepy man posing in your "treasure room" full of Barbies and other toy-type shit used for luring underage kids into your den of molestation. Seriously, did you look at yourself in the mirror, dude? I mean, I'm not Gisele or anything, but come ON. I know I'm disproportionately WAY too hot to fuck this lazy-eyed ass clown:
So way to go, Dumb Motherfuckin' Ass Bitch or Tej or whoever went this route to seek retribution against me for writing useless bullshit on the internet. You just set up these not-really-very-innocent dudes up for RAZZY.org infamy when they thought they were just going to get laid. And while I'm sure your intent was to bother me or keep me awake with incessant incoming calls or whatever, I simply turned my phone off and got a good night's sleep. Now I'm going to spend the entire day watching football with Js and Ps and NeisMan, and since the bar we go to is in a basement, I don't get a cell signal there! Thus, it's business as usual here in Razzyville and you've done me a favor by sending so much Reject fodder my way. So thanks!
I suppose it's not really their fault that they wound up contacting me, but you know what? Big deal. Don't send pictures of your fucking uncut cock to strangers on the internet, especially if you're a creepy man posing in your "treasure room" full of Barbies and other toy-type shit used for luring underage kids into your den of molestation. Seriously, did you look at yourself in the mirror, dude? I mean, I'm not Gisele or anything, but come ON. I know I'm disproportionately WAY too hot to fuck this lazy-eyed ass clown:
So way to go, Dumb Motherfuckin' Ass Bitch or Tej or whoever went this route to seek retribution against me for writing useless bullshit on the internet. You just set up these not-really-very-innocent dudes up for RAZZY.org infamy when they thought they were just going to get laid. And while I'm sure your intent was to bother me or keep me awake with incessant incoming calls or whatever, I simply turned my phone off and got a good night's sleep. Now I'm going to spend the entire day watching football with Js and Ps and NeisMan, and since the bar we go to is in a basement, I don't get a cell signal there! Thus, it's business as usual here in Razzyville and you've done me a favor by sending so much Reject fodder my way. So thanks!
Labels: defiance, Dumb Smith bitches, internet domination, perversion, Razzy Haters, Tej Offensive, weiners
The best you can do is Craigslist casual encounters? Please.
So I just got home from a day which I thought was going to culminate in me having a speaker phone shouting match with a very angry woman who said that she's been waiting a long time for someone more competent at internet stalking than herself to post my personal information in a blog comment so she could call me up and tell me that I'm a dumb motherfuckin' ass bitch repeatedly. Oh, and I'm a racist, too. After that main point, she then unwisely tried to engage me in a loud-talking and interrupting competition, which anyone who knows me can tell you that I WOULD WIN. There are few people that can match me in volume and conversational aggression, and when you throw my eloquence in the mix, I'm pretty much like former Saints and Colts coach Jim Mora, Sr. in an argument. You had best just step the fuck back and shut the fuck up, because I will say meaner things than you can louder than you can, particularly when I'm fired up from a day of Bev Niner season one and pounding light beers with my bitches J-Sexy, JerseyGirl, and Rack. Anyway, the angry incompetent stalker tired me with her limited argument (apart from her reiteration of me being a "dumb motherfuckin' ass bitch", the only other cogent point of hers I understood was that I look like "a lab rat"), and my buddy Rack was ready for bed, so I hung up on her and retired to the uptown D train for my trip home.
My phone died on the way to the train while I was telling Morrissey'sHair about this crazy bitch calling me, as well as mentioning that I was walking by Jacob the Jeweler's store on 57th (in the diamond district, where my idol Lil' Kim flosses her Rolex rich shit). Since despite my asshole tendencies I'm impeccably courteous about saying "hello" and "goodbye" in phone conversations, I plugged in my phone as soon as I arrived home and took the d-o-double g's out for a neighborhood constitutional and a piss, and told Morrissey'sHair's voicemail goodbye. Immediately after hanging up, I heard my rather dated T.I. "What You Know" ringtone bragging about having keys by the three and when he chirps, shawty best chirp back, and the number was "restricted." I figured it was Dumb Motherfuckin' Ass Bitch, and answered it.
"Hello," I said in my frostiest, most bitchy tone.
"...Angie?" said a soft, creepy male voice, the sort of voice I associate with the guys on "To Catch a Predator" who tell the childlike-sounding actors entrapping them all about their intent to bring over a sixer of Bacardi O and how it won't hurt when they molest them.
"Angie's not available. This is Razzy you're talking to now, asshole. Is this about my website?" I demanded aggressively (in my real life, I'm equally unabashed, but fully embracing my internet alter-ego makes me totally tyrannical, ruthless, and ready to do some rape-the-women-and-kill-their-babies-in-front-of-them Mongol horde-style battle with morons that have nothing better to do than call me and yell at me for writing useless bullshit on my website. Angie has the tendency to be nice sometimes, so Razzy is the personality that handles all the dirty work).
"Website? Oh, yes," said Creepy Voice Guy.
"Well, spit it out. What's your problem with it? Are you going to call me a racist because I like R. Kelly? Does your fucking sister go to Smith, or what?"
There was a long pause.
"WELL?! I don't have all night!" I prompted, irritated. I was thinking, "Christ, if your sorry ass is going to tell me in the simplest language what an asshole/racist/ugly bitch I am, get on with it! I don't have the patience to put up with your fucking tortoise-esque pace. I have to get some sleep so I can get up early and watch football all day tomorrow."
"Um...Smith? Aren't you...weren't you...looking for some action?"
It was my turn to deliver a long pause. I'm always looking for some action, but not this variety. At first, I was like, great...not only people that totally hate me and wish female genital mutilation on me and advised me to carry mace in the interest of watching my dumb motherfuckin' ass bitch back (though I don't need that when I have an extremely loyal 110-lb. German Shepherd-Rottweiler named after the emperors of Rome, the lack of a criminal record necessary to easily get a semi-automatic handgun, and not a qualm in the world about getting one should I feel the need) have my phone number, but now weird creeps who want to fuck me do too. I've gotten a few e-mails from people who are like "your rejects page is funny LOLZ;p how about i cum over there and stroke ur sweet pussy call me pleeeeez!" When I get these, I just chuckle, think a couple "Are you fucking serious?" thoughts, and then try to get these guys to send me pictures of their weiners. To their credit, they're not usually THAT stupid. Initially I thought this phone call was either one of these guys jumping at the opportunity that some dumb Smith bitch posted all my personal contact info on the comment page, or some random dude that I gave my phone number to in one of many recent nights of drunken carousing. I decided that I would get to the bottom of this.
"So you're not calling to yell at me. You're actually trying to get laid, is that right?" I asked.
"Um...Craigslist said you were looking for some action. Your pictures are hot."
I see. This wasn't about directly about RAZZY.org. Since my (totally awesome) website has never been confused with Craigslist, I immediately deduced the reason for this call. Calling me a racist on my comment pages, posting my personal details, and making some pointless threats about telling on me to my not-giving-a-flying-fuck-about-my-blog PI has failed to make the haters feel satisfied that they've revenged whatever I did to offend them (pick one; my offenses are myriad). Therefore, they're playing dirty, and to prove that they spend most of what life they have hating me, they're putting my phone number and work e-mail in the "casual encounters" section of Craigslist.
"Look, dude, I have enemies, and I thought you were one of them. I was prepared to destroy you, but now I see that we've moved to more covert means of warfare than an outright guns-blazing showdown. Someone who is not me put that query on Craigslist," I explained to the creepy-sounding guy on the phone, who was presumably baffled by getting a MUCH different response than he anticipated for by being the unfortunate dude who called me first. He was totally silent in response to this. "So move on to the next casual encounter. I'm totally not going to fuck you."
"I'm so sor-" he began, but I hung up and cut him off, and immediately went to Craigslist. I had more pressing issues than listening to his apology.
I was expecting something much dirtier, like "Spank me with a ping-pong paddle while you violate my anal tract" or "Shit on me and make me your whore." Instead, I was disappointed to see that whoever thought of this stinging way to get back at me just left this lame posting:
Yeah, I'm really upset that you put me in my Halloween costume up there. I only posted that twice on my blog. I was hoping it would remain secret. And it's really embarrassing that you dug up that full-frontal picture of me from that old Kate and Camilla shoot I did months ago. Why didn't you just stick them all up there? Like this one:
Or this one, where I look especially pasty, a point that seems to be a favorite among my detractors. Also, I'm kind of fat!
I suppose that whoever did this would think that I'd be EXTREMELY upset that this was posted on Craigslist, but that whoever didn't factor in one important thing. I have NO SHAME, and my only concern is that you couldn't come up with anything more creative than "I like it NASTY", which is actually pretty accurate. And really, if anything this was helpful. I'm probably going to get all kinds of hilarious intended-to-be-enticing dick pictures in my e-mail inbox. Also, since whoever posted this probably thinks I'm ugly/have chicken legs/am otherwise physically revolting, I can now counter these arguments with the fact so far I've sent literally FIFTY calls from numbers I didn't recognize to voicemail and deleted roughly 15 "Il fuk u proper grl" text messages, and thus there's a lot of Craigslist perverts who would dispute your variations on the "your a ugly pale racist asshole" theme of badly spelled and totally boring comebacks.
If you want me to shut the fuck up about whatever I said that pissed you off, then STOP ENCOURAGING ME TO SAY MORE by doing shit like this. I will stop talking about you if I forget about you, and since I am blonde and totally self-absorbed, that will be immediately unless you continue to remind me that you exist, are stupid, and are determined to wage some petty war with me. It's like the war on drugs or terror, you assholes. You won't lose, but you sure as hell aren't going to win, either, so give it up and stop wasting everybody's time.
My phone died on the way to the train while I was telling Morrissey'sHair about this crazy bitch calling me, as well as mentioning that I was walking by Jacob the Jeweler's store on 57th (in the diamond district, where my idol Lil' Kim flosses her Rolex rich shit). Since despite my asshole tendencies I'm impeccably courteous about saying "hello" and "goodbye" in phone conversations, I plugged in my phone as soon as I arrived home and took the d-o-double g's out for a neighborhood constitutional and a piss, and told Morrissey'sHair's voicemail goodbye. Immediately after hanging up, I heard my rather dated T.I. "What You Know" ringtone bragging about having keys by the three and when he chirps, shawty best chirp back, and the number was "restricted." I figured it was Dumb Motherfuckin' Ass Bitch, and answered it.
"Hello," I said in my frostiest, most bitchy tone.
"...Angie?" said a soft, creepy male voice, the sort of voice I associate with the guys on "To Catch a Predator" who tell the childlike-sounding actors entrapping them all about their intent to bring over a sixer of Bacardi O and how it won't hurt when they molest them.
"Angie's not available. This is Razzy you're talking to now, asshole. Is this about my website?" I demanded aggressively (in my real life, I'm equally unabashed, but fully embracing my internet alter-ego makes me totally tyrannical, ruthless, and ready to do some rape-the-women-and-kill-their-babies-in-front-of-them Mongol horde-style battle with morons that have nothing better to do than call me and yell at me for writing useless bullshit on my website. Angie has the tendency to be nice sometimes, so Razzy is the personality that handles all the dirty work).
"Website? Oh, yes," said Creepy Voice Guy.
"Well, spit it out. What's your problem with it? Are you going to call me a racist because I like R. Kelly? Does your fucking sister go to Smith, or what?"
There was a long pause.
"WELL?! I don't have all night!" I prompted, irritated. I was thinking, "Christ, if your sorry ass is going to tell me in the simplest language what an asshole/racist/ugly bitch I am, get on with it! I don't have the patience to put up with your fucking tortoise-esque pace. I have to get some sleep so I can get up early and watch football all day tomorrow."
"Um...Smith? Aren't you...weren't you...looking for some action?"
It was my turn to deliver a long pause. I'm always looking for some action, but not this variety. At first, I was like, great...not only people that totally hate me and wish female genital mutilation on me and advised me to carry mace in the interest of watching my dumb motherfuckin' ass bitch back (though I don't need that when I have an extremely loyal 110-lb. German Shepherd-Rottweiler named after the emperors of Rome, the lack of a criminal record necessary to easily get a semi-automatic handgun, and not a qualm in the world about getting one should I feel the need) have my phone number, but now weird creeps who want to fuck me do too. I've gotten a few e-mails from people who are like "your rejects page is funny LOLZ;p how about i cum over there and stroke ur sweet pussy call me pleeeeez!" When I get these, I just chuckle, think a couple "Are you fucking serious?" thoughts, and then try to get these guys to send me pictures of their weiners. To their credit, they're not usually THAT stupid. Initially I thought this phone call was either one of these guys jumping at the opportunity that some dumb Smith bitch posted all my personal contact info on the comment page, or some random dude that I gave my phone number to in one of many recent nights of drunken carousing. I decided that I would get to the bottom of this.
"So you're not calling to yell at me. You're actually trying to get laid, is that right?" I asked.
"Um...Craigslist said you were looking for some action. Your pictures are hot."
I see. This wasn't about directly about RAZZY.org. Since my (totally awesome) website has never been confused with Craigslist, I immediately deduced the reason for this call. Calling me a racist on my comment pages, posting my personal details, and making some pointless threats about telling on me to my not-giving-a-flying-fuck-about-my-blog PI has failed to make the haters feel satisfied that they've revenged whatever I did to offend them (pick one; my offenses are myriad). Therefore, they're playing dirty, and to prove that they spend most of what life they have hating me, they're putting my phone number and work e-mail in the "casual encounters" section of Craigslist.
"Look, dude, I have enemies, and I thought you were one of them. I was prepared to destroy you, but now I see that we've moved to more covert means of warfare than an outright guns-blazing showdown. Someone who is not me put that query on Craigslist," I explained to the creepy-sounding guy on the phone, who was presumably baffled by getting a MUCH different response than he anticipated for by being the unfortunate dude who called me first. He was totally silent in response to this. "So move on to the next casual encounter. I'm totally not going to fuck you."
"I'm so sor-" he began, but I hung up and cut him off, and immediately went to Craigslist. I had more pressing issues than listening to his apology.
I was expecting something much dirtier, like "Spank me with a ping-pong paddle while you violate my anal tract" or "Shit on me and make me your whore." Instead, I was disappointed to see that whoever thought of this stinging way to get back at me just left this lame posting:
Yeah, I'm really upset that you put me in my Halloween costume up there. I only posted that twice on my blog. I was hoping it would remain secret. And it's really embarrassing that you dug up that full-frontal picture of me from that old Kate and Camilla shoot I did months ago. Why didn't you just stick them all up there? Like this one:
Or this one, where I look especially pasty, a point that seems to be a favorite among my detractors. Also, I'm kind of fat!
I suppose that whoever did this would think that I'd be EXTREMELY upset that this was posted on Craigslist, but that whoever didn't factor in one important thing. I have NO SHAME, and my only concern is that you couldn't come up with anything more creative than "I like it NASTY", which is actually pretty accurate. And really, if anything this was helpful. I'm probably going to get all kinds of hilarious intended-to-be-enticing dick pictures in my e-mail inbox. Also, since whoever posted this probably thinks I'm ugly/have chicken legs/am otherwise physically revolting, I can now counter these arguments with the fact so far I've sent literally FIFTY calls from numbers I didn't recognize to voicemail and deleted roughly 15 "Il fuk u proper grl" text messages, and thus there's a lot of Craigslist perverts who would dispute your variations on the "your a ugly pale racist asshole" theme of badly spelled and totally boring comebacks.
If you want me to shut the fuck up about whatever I said that pissed you off, then STOP ENCOURAGING ME TO SAY MORE by doing shit like this. I will stop talking about you if I forget about you, and since I am blonde and totally self-absorbed, that will be immediately unless you continue to remind me that you exist, are stupid, and are determined to wage some petty war with me. It's like the war on drugs or terror, you assholes. You won't lose, but you sure as hell aren't going to win, either, so give it up and stop wasting everybody's time.
Labels: defiance, Dumb Smith bitches, nudity, perversion, Razzy Haters, Tej Offensive, weiners
Friday, December 01, 2006
I ain't skerred
Yes, I know that "scared" was spelled phonetically in the style of modern rap music, but don't take that to mean that I am at all worried about the voicemail I got tonight, or that I'm a Grand Wizard in the Klan's Sugar Hill chapter.
Some small penis-sounding dude (Tej's brother? or high school ex? or Smith F2M tranny?) just left me a message on my phone implying that he was going to call my boss, or PI as we call it here inhell grad school. This person smugly wondered what my PI would say when he gets wind of my "extracurricular activities," and heavily implied that he was going to, for lack of a better term, tattle on me for being mean on the internet.
Let me first say that this is not the first time RazzyBlog is under fire with the administrative officials in my department. Earlier this June, I wrote about this dude who refused to provide me with head as a result of my own poor planning (ie: not purchasing condoms while I was drunk at 4 a.m. and buying cigarettes at some random West Village deli, but why is the condom purchase my job when I wasn't even sure I had closed the deal?) I wrote about this fucktard and didn't even mention his name, but he flipped out, threatened me with physical harm, and when that didn't compel me to remove the story of my sexual escapades with him, he sent my PI an e-mail. I promptly responded by asking my PI for a meeting.
In said meeting, I first explained what the whole hullabaloo was about: that this dude refused to go down on me. I was completely frank with him and didn't leave anything out, and he was very understanding. He told me that one of the reasons he chose an academic career was the fringe benefit of free speech. He told me that even if I wrote this asshole's full name, mentioned what lab he was in, and mocked his geek-journal bibliography (not that mine is so awesome), I still had the right to free speech, and it in no way affects what I do in the lab. I don't think he likes my blog, but he is an extremely smart man who doesn't give a rat's ass if people on the internet don't like me for any reason. So you can go on with your bad self, call him, and tell him all about his student Razzy's extracurricular activities. I've already told him that I blogged about and embarrassed a psychotic asshole in my own department, on the grounds that he wouldn't eat my pussy. I don't think he's going to care.
Some small penis-sounding dude (Tej's brother? or high school ex? or Smith F2M tranny?) just left me a message on my phone implying that he was going to call my boss, or PI as we call it here in
Let me first say that this is not the first time RazzyBlog is under fire with the administrative officials in my department. Earlier this June, I wrote about this dude who refused to provide me with head as a result of my own poor planning (ie: not purchasing condoms while I was drunk at 4 a.m. and buying cigarettes at some random West Village deli, but why is the condom purchase my job when I wasn't even sure I had closed the deal?) I wrote about this fucktard and didn't even mention his name, but he flipped out, threatened me with physical harm, and when that didn't compel me to remove the story of my sexual escapades with him, he sent my PI an e-mail. I promptly responded by asking my PI for a meeting.
In said meeting, I first explained what the whole hullabaloo was about: that this dude refused to go down on me. I was completely frank with him and didn't leave anything out, and he was very understanding. He told me that one of the reasons he chose an academic career was the fringe benefit of free speech. He told me that even if I wrote this asshole's full name, mentioned what lab he was in, and mocked his geek-journal bibliography (not that mine is so awesome), I still had the right to free speech, and it in no way affects what I do in the lab. I don't think he likes my blog, but he is an extremely smart man who doesn't give a rat's ass if people on the internet don't like me for any reason. So you can go on with your bad self, call him, and tell him all about his student Razzy's extracurricular activities. I've already told him that I blogged about and embarrassed a psychotic asshole in my own department, on the grounds that he wouldn't eat my pussy. I don't think he's going to care.
Labels: defiance, Dumb Smith bitches, Razzy Haters, Tej Offensive, threats
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