Wednesday, January 31, 2007
A more appropriate title
She may be out of the running for Miss USA 2007, but the now-deposed drunken lesbian and exhibitionist former Miss Nevada Katie Rees hasn't let that stop her from winning pageants. She was just named Miss JET Las Vegas, beating out the competition to become the reigning queen of the JET nightclub at the Mirage in Vegas.
Tara Conner should take note, because this is a much better way to bounce back from liquored-up disgrace on the Miss USA circuit than talking shit about alcohol. Granted, Tara Conner only had to contend with a few tawdry blurbs on Page Six and not a comprehensive photo spread of her baring her tits and ass, simulating oral sex on fellow revelers of both genders, making out with everyone in sight, and licking her friends' nipples at some party in Tampa she took her fake knockers to. However, I applaud Katie Rees for taking her disgrace and capitalizing on it in the most positive way imaginable: a spokesperson gig for a Vegas nightclub. Besides, I'm sure that she was pleased that Vegas has a reputation for respecting one's privacy, as there obviously was no "What happens in Tampa stays in Tampa" clause in the past preventing her shenanigans from coming back to haunt her in the form of damning photos. For example, I heard that right after she was crowned Queen of the Nightclub, she started pawing at the crotches of the Baby Spice and Hilary Duff impersonators behind her in celebration of her title, but you don't see any pictures of that! Vegas's great dining is her alibi. No wonder she lives there.
Labels: beauty queens, sluts
Looking good, Harry!
I don't pay attention to what's hot at the theatre but maybe I should. Apparently in London they are reviving this play Equus, which is about some kid who needs therapy because he's obsessed with horses. It's starring Daniel Radcliffe, better known as Harry Potter, and while I was initially taken aback because it requires him to drop trou and go full nude onstage, I have to say that after seeing the promotional pictures, this plan gets my full approval.
Obviously, dude has not been sitting on his laurels in between the filming of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, because DAAAMN! Harry Potter's got himself some abs! Certainly he looks hotter in his role as naked equine enthusiast than in his Gryffindor wizarding robes. I'd say that I'd hit that if he weren't seventeen and thus my wanting to hit that would make me a perverted creep. (However, being that I'm getting all steamed up over a picture of a minor who presumably is going to commit what would be a crime in the P-N-Dub with the above nag, that ship may have already sailed.)
A reader pointed out to me via e-mail that it was a "major oversight" on my part having excluded young master Radcliffe from the Hot Jews list. At first I thought, "Oh, he's Jewish?" Then I thought, "Naaah, he's like a little kid. Kids don't go on any list of mine unless it's the 'to kill' list." Now, however, I'm thinking of making an exception for Harry Potter here, because he is a slice of some barely illegal hotness. According to IMDB, he turns 18 in July. Maybe a summer vacay in the UK is in order...
A reader pointed out to me via e-mail that it was a "major oversight" on my part having excluded young master Radcliffe from the Hot Jews list. At first I thought, "Oh, he's Jewish?" Then I thought, "Naaah, he's like a little kid. Kids don't go on any list of mine unless it's the 'to kill' list." Now, however, I'm thinking of making an exception for Harry Potter here, because he is a slice of some barely illegal hotness. According to IMDB, he turns 18 in July. Maybe a summer vacay in the UK is in order...
Labels: bestiality, celebrities, Harry Potter, hot dudes, kewlness, perversion, sex
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Here she is...
Last night I was flipping back and forth between the perennially awesome "I Love New York" and the 2007 Miss America Pageant. I didn't see all of Miss America, because it took me forever to find which channel CMT was, and because I couldn't stand watching the stank talent competition where every chick sang some horrible rendition of "A Whole New World", "A Moment Like This", and cheesy crap of that ilk. Although Miss Tennessee Blaire Ashley Pancake didn't make it to the semi-finals, Miss Washington did, only to be unceremoniously canned after the evening wear competition. In fairness, her gown looked like a cross between the Exxon Valdez oil spill and that getup Scarlett O'Hara made out of the parlor curtains at Tara, and her face looks like a fucking cat, so I didn't think she was going to go the distance anyway. On the plus side, though, the judges included "America's Next Top Model" judge and (per Tyra Banks) "noted fashion photographer" Nigel Barker and Chris Matthews, and they sat there making only barely concealed lewd commentary about the contestants with host A.C. Slater, I mean Mario Lopez. It was exceptionally awesome to watch Chris Matthews play "Hardball" with the contestants, asking them about the government's response to Hurricane Katrina (which Miss Mississippi turned into an opportunity to rhapsodize her sanguine love for Haley Barbour) and about how the situation in Darfur should be handled (Miss Alabama's response was "genocide is really bad and we need to get together with the world and try to keep that from occurrin'".) I spent most of the evening texting LL Cool Jew with my pageant commentary, including "the music is hilarious, like a combo of late 70s porn sndtrk, andean pipe flautists, and sisqo's thong song" and "i hate miss utah, her mormon coverall bathing suit is loathsome."
What is annoying is that the winner turned out to be Miss Oklahoma. Once Miss Washington got her one-way ticket back to Kitsap County, I was rooting for Miss Mississippi only because I wouldn't be watching this shitshow if not for the encouragement of Mississippi resident and intrepid reporter LL Cool Jew. Besides, she wasn't bad looking and she played the piano for her talent (sadly not Chopin, though). LL Cool Jew e-mailed me immediately after the pageant was over to opine about Miss Okie taking the crown:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
Subject: boooring
THIS dumb broad won miss america. ms texas was the runnerup, followed by georgia, mississippi, and alabama.
check out her craptastic platform...
Be NetSmart? Does that mean she goes online and entraps pedophiles, like on "To Catch a Predator"? Because it would actually be pretty sweet to watch an episode of Dateline in which Miss America assumes a clever IM handle and gets dirty with the pervs in the kiddie chat rooms:
15inches4yunggurls: so r u a virgin?
jonbenet69: lol lol ya!
15inches4yunggurls: i can fix that lol
jonbenet69: send me ur pics lol!
15inches4yunggurls: so r un in a beaty pagint?
jonbenet69: u wouldn't believe it if i told u lol!
15inches4yunggurls: try me lol i'm very gulibal
jonbenet69: used to be but then decided i'd rather have sex
jonbenet69: with fat, ugly, balding, short, older men lol!
15inches4yunggurls: so u quit?
jonbenet69: duh, i'd rather im with u! so do u have a web cam?
jonbenet69: y don't u cum over? that would be kewl.
jonbenet69: chris hanson is waiting lol!
15inches4yunggurls: kewl
15inches4yunggurls: on my way princess ;-*
That would be an AWESOME platform. However, I suspect that embracing the Be NetSmart cause more likely involves much dumber activities, like speaking to grade school kids about the dangers and pitfalls of MySpace (as Paula James can attest, kids could find MY awesome website there and be exposed to unnecessary f-bombs and titty pictures). That's truly a shame, because I think impersonating a tween seeking molestation online would be much more useful, both to society and to Miss Okie's dream of attaining a Master's in Musical Theatre from the University of Central Oklahoma and subsequently hitting it big on the Great White Way. Certainly her skills as a thespian would benefit from such stealthy instant messenger work, and the improvisational experience would undoubtedly come in handy when she's preparing to sing some soaring chorus about AIDS at a matinee of "Rent".
If she's not going to catch predators, I think Miss Okie should have chosen a different platform altogether. During the "grueling" backstage, pre-pageant interviews, she wouldn't shut up about what a diverse and wonderful place Oklahoma is, so she should have done something to rep her own state more honestly. How about, for example, taking on the plight of all the cows that get anthrax there? Granted, probably only me and a handful of livestock and agricultural microbiologists give a shit about that one, but that's probably because most other people haven't seen as many heinous pictures of cutaneous anthrax lesions as I have and care as much as I do about the price of beef. Or she could get her historical consciousness on and try to right the wrong known as the Trail of Tears. You never hear anyone at Miss America saying a fucking word about how Native Americans got screwed over while they're busy faking knowledge of Darfur ("all those tribes, all that war, all those people dying...genocide is, like, really awful"). Or, better yet, she could further her state's great literary legacy by supporting the "We's Joads...we's proud" platform. I'm not sure that exists, but The Grapes of Wrath won the damn Nobel prize and it did start out with Tom, Ma, Rose of Sharon, etc. migrating from Oklahoma, so it would at least show a greater appreciation for the finer aspects of American culture than telling kids to steer clear of internet porn. Kids probably know way more about internet porn than the Dust Bowl drought or the Great Depression anyway, so it would probably benefit society more if she just spent the next year teaching them Steinbeck instead of helpful tips about avoiding online predation.
Miss Okie's victory just goes to show how fucking lame the Miss America pageant is, especially compared to the skanks over at Miss USA. The freshly crowned Miss USA probably would have celebrated her victory by taking a couple bumps onstage and going to third base with her second runner-up. Miss Okie/America just cried, squealed, and hugged all the losers, whose true "I hate you until I die, bitch!" feelings toward the victor were more than apparent behind their aggressive congratulatory smiles/teeth baring. SNORE. When the hell is the Miss USA pageant?
What is annoying is that the winner turned out to be Miss Oklahoma. Once Miss Washington got her one-way ticket back to Kitsap County, I was rooting for Miss Mississippi only because I wouldn't be watching this shitshow if not for the encouragement of Mississippi resident and intrepid reporter LL Cool Jew. Besides, she wasn't bad looking and she played the piano for her talent (sadly not Chopin, though). LL Cool Jew e-mailed me immediately after the pageant was over to opine about Miss Okie taking the crown:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
Subject: boooring
THIS dumb broad won miss america. ms texas was the runnerup, followed by georgia, mississippi, and alabama.
check out her craptastic platform...
Be NetSmart? Does that mean she goes online and entraps pedophiles, like on "To Catch a Predator"? Because it would actually be pretty sweet to watch an episode of Dateline in which Miss America assumes a clever IM handle and gets dirty with the pervs in the kiddie chat rooms:
15inches4yunggurls: so r u a virgin?
jonbenet69: lol lol ya!
15inches4yunggurls: i can fix that lol
jonbenet69: send me ur pics lol!
15inches4yunggurls: so r un in a beaty pagint?
jonbenet69: u wouldn't believe it if i told u lol!
15inches4yunggurls: try me lol i'm very gulibal
jonbenet69: used to be but then decided i'd rather have sex
jonbenet69: with fat, ugly, balding, short, older men lol!
15inches4yunggurls: so u quit?
jonbenet69: duh, i'd rather im with u! so do u have a web cam?
jonbenet69: y don't u cum over? that would be kewl.
jonbenet69: chris hanson is waiting lol!
15inches4yunggurls: kewl
15inches4yunggurls: on my way princess ;-*
That would be an AWESOME platform. However, I suspect that embracing the Be NetSmart cause more likely involves much dumber activities, like speaking to grade school kids about the dangers and pitfalls of MySpace (as Paula James can attest, kids could find MY awesome website there and be exposed to unnecessary f-bombs and titty pictures). That's truly a shame, because I think impersonating a tween seeking molestation online would be much more useful, both to society and to Miss Okie's dream of attaining a Master's in Musical Theatre from the University of Central Oklahoma and subsequently hitting it big on the Great White Way. Certainly her skills as a thespian would benefit from such stealthy instant messenger work, and the improvisational experience would undoubtedly come in handy when she's preparing to sing some soaring chorus about AIDS at a matinee of "Rent".
If she's not going to catch predators, I think Miss Okie should have chosen a different platform altogether. During the "grueling" backstage, pre-pageant interviews, she wouldn't shut up about what a diverse and wonderful place Oklahoma is, so she should have done something to rep her own state more honestly. How about, for example, taking on the plight of all the cows that get anthrax there? Granted, probably only me and a handful of livestock and agricultural microbiologists give a shit about that one, but that's probably because most other people haven't seen as many heinous pictures of cutaneous anthrax lesions as I have and care as much as I do about the price of beef. Or she could get her historical consciousness on and try to right the wrong known as the Trail of Tears. You never hear anyone at Miss America saying a fucking word about how Native Americans got screwed over while they're busy faking knowledge of Darfur ("all those tribes, all that war, all those people dying...genocide is, like, really awful"). Or, better yet, she could further her state's great literary legacy by supporting the "We's Joads...we's proud" platform. I'm not sure that exists, but The Grapes of Wrath won the damn Nobel prize and it did start out with Tom, Ma, Rose of Sharon, etc. migrating from Oklahoma, so it would at least show a greater appreciation for the finer aspects of American culture than telling kids to steer clear of internet porn. Kids probably know way more about internet porn than the Dust Bowl drought or the Great Depression anyway, so it would probably benefit society more if she just spent the next year teaching them Steinbeck instead of helpful tips about avoiding online predation.
Miss Okie's victory just goes to show how fucking lame the Miss America pageant is, especially compared to the skanks over at Miss USA. The freshly crowned Miss USA probably would have celebrated her victory by taking a couple bumps onstage and going to third base with her second runner-up. Miss Okie/America just cried, squealed, and hugged all the losers, whose true "I hate you until I die, bitch!" feelings toward the victor were more than apparent behind their aggressive congratulatory smiles/teeth baring. SNORE. When the hell is the Miss USA pageant?
Labels: beauty queens, kewlness, LL Cool Jew, retard rage, sluts, TV
Monday, January 29, 2007
Switching up the Wild Turkey for some Haterade
Last week, the reigning Miss USA Tara Conner got out of rehab for her respective boozing and excessive trips to the ladies powder room at Bungalow 8. Her first order of business was to do a stupid photo shoot of her clutching a teddy bear and making a bunch of wistful facial expressions. It's a far cry from the hard-livin', moonshine-swillin' ways of the Tara Conner of old, a staggering drunk, occasional lesbian, and ruthless competitor on the Kentucky pageant circuit. New Tara Conner is burdened by remorse and addiction, and has surrounded herself in peaceful earth tones and cozy UGG boots to better facilitate a grounded state of mind suitable for recovery. Old Tara Conner applied her Herbal Essences highlights with a pasta fork in the kitchen sink of her double-wide after she cleaned out the Russell Springs, KY Wal-Mart's supply of slutty elastic pirate wench shirts. New Tara Conner is contrite, thoughtful, and wallowing in reflection and self-analysis. Old Tara Conner (and, I might add, pre-rhinoplasty Tara Conner) invested her $50 second runner-up prize in the 2001 Miss Teen Kentucky competition in a jug of Old Crow and a bag of meth.
Of her triumphant return to society as a much, much more boring character, she had this to say:
Specifically, I am an alcoholic, and I'm not in the least bit unhappy about that. Lots of cool people were alcoholics (ie: my boyfriend Ernest Hemingway), and I'm fine with the prospect of destroying my liver. I'm a scientific genius, so once the old hepatocytes start getting exceptionally cirrhotic, I'll just figure out a way to grow a new one in the lab. No problem. Alcoholism rules, and I'm not about to let this dumb 20-year-old run around educating people otherwise. And as far as the "severity of this disease and what it [does] to people", her drinking led to nothing more than some hot girl-on-girl action with Miss Teen USA, which I would classify as a very positive outcome. I think almost everyone can agree that the wasted, slutty Tara Conner in the middle panel was far more intriguing than the mirror gazer and stuffed animal enthusiast she has transformed into:
I am not the least bit interested in Tara Conner lecturing me disingenuously about the dangers of drinking, or telling me about her feelings, or whining about her sobriety, or reinventing herself as a role model for repentant underage drinking bisexuals, or doing ANYTHING besides getting shitfaced and hooking up with Miss Teen USA. Tara Conner's embracing sobriety is a slap in the face to white trash boozehounds everywhere, and I want no part of that. Fortunately, I suspect that her rejection of her roots and new bland persona will result in the media collectively forgetting she ever existed. If she wants staying power, girlfriend should lose the boucle hoodie and get her ass back into the club and onto Page Six. So what if she loses her title? She'll have lost the battle, but won the war.
Of her triumphant return to society as a much, much more boring character, she had this to say:
"My life has completely changed. I'm a completely different person out of rehab. Before I entered rehab I hardly knew who I was. I felt like I was floating and I just needed someone to pull me down. I didn't think I had any kind of issue going into rehab. I even said, 'I'll get some free therapy,' or something like that - and that was so ridiculous. But I've realized I do have an issue. I suffer from the disease of alcoholism and addiction. And if there's anything that I want people to know it's the severity of this disease and what it can do to people."Well, now I'm done with you, Tara Conner. If you have to go to rehab, cry at a press conference, and fellate Donald Trump's undoubtedly flaccid penis to keep your job, fine. It's obvious that you were initially insincere about your intention of really cleaning up at rehab, and simply gave us your best pageant alligator tears to stave off the (disgraced Miss Nevada) Katie Rees treatment. Now, however, that you've gotten your "free therapy", you are making the most out of your bad publicity and talking trash about MY lifestyle.
Specifically, I am an alcoholic, and I'm not in the least bit unhappy about that. Lots of cool people were alcoholics (ie: my boyfriend Ernest Hemingway), and I'm fine with the prospect of destroying my liver. I'm a scientific genius, so once the old hepatocytes start getting exceptionally cirrhotic, I'll just figure out a way to grow a new one in the lab. No problem. Alcoholism rules, and I'm not about to let this dumb 20-year-old run around educating people otherwise. And as far as the "severity of this disease and what it [does] to people", her drinking led to nothing more than some hot girl-on-girl action with Miss Teen USA, which I would classify as a very positive outcome. I think almost everyone can agree that the wasted, slutty Tara Conner in the middle panel was far more intriguing than the mirror gazer and stuffed animal enthusiast she has transformed into:
Labels: alcoholism, beauty queens, PWT, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts
Saturday, January 27, 2007
An open letter to Lil' Kim
Dear Lil' Kim,
Let me start off by saying that I have loved and admired you for well over a decade. Ever since I first heard your magnum opus Hard Core when I was a dewy-eyed radical feminist fresh on the campus of Smith College, and my dorm neighbor Ashley played your CD for me, you have brought me nothing but joy. I threw out my Birkenstock clog and fleece pullover collection partly because of your unabashed brand of slutty feminism. I've supported you through all your plastic surgeries, your less-than-spectacular musical projects shamelessly capitalizing on your past affair with the late Christopher Wallace (ie: The Notorious KIM), and your beef with Inga "Foxy Brown" Marchand. I defended your honor when you were in prison and haters decried you and maligned your character. I put up with your disparaging the integrity and mores of my boyfriend Curtis Jackson. I even dressed up as you this past Halloween, a tribute I reserve for the figures most sacred to me, placing you in the revered company of such luminaries as King Slut, a valkyrie, Britney Spears, Satan, Darryl Hannah from Clan of the Cave Bear, and the St. Pauli Girl. You are a beacon of hope and a font of inspiration to me, and I won't forget that.
However, that said, I was extraordinarily disappointed with what I saw the other day. Instead of doing something constructive, like working off that penitentiary weight with the exercise regimen you once touted (jog five miles a day then hit the sauna, rock Chanels and smoke mad marijuana), you went on TV and announced that are an integral part of what will undoubtedly be a very regrettable creative project. You are going to be a judge on the CW Network's new reality competition, "Pussycat Dolls Present: Search for the Next Doll." I am consoled only by the fact that you look as unhappy about this prospect as I am:
As if it weren't bad enough that you're doing this, Kim, I have to tell you that you aren't looking so hot these days. You should have spent your leisure time at the gym instead of getting your lips stuffed with Restalyne to the point where they're the size of Jay-Z's. Your wig looks like a hand-me-down from the closet at Whitney Houston's crackhouse, and I don't know what is going on with your left breast. It looks like you didn't get that leaking implant repaired. I would suggest shying away from shapeless blousey tops reminiscent of a flour sack in the future until you get your tits in order. The only thing that makes you look slightly appealing is the fact that you're sitting next to that stringy hooker Robin Antin, the choreographer who masterminded the Pussycat Dolls, and she looks like she rose from her grave, got some cheap extensions, and went looking for some brains to eat. It's not good that the best thing I can say about you is that at least you don't look like the tranny undead.
Are you that desperate for money, Kim? Because the only other explanation I can think of for why you would affiliate yourself with the Pussycat Dolls is that you read their name wrong and mistakenly thought they were called the Pussyeat Dolls. Being that I am very familiar with your music, I know that a prevalent theme of your music is the unending quest for receiving oral, and I can see how such a misinterpretation of the Pussycat Dolls' name could confuse and mislead you.
Also, why is another Pussycat Doll even needed? There are already six of them, and in my view that's six too many. They already have, from left to right, a chick who just came from an audition for "Red Shoe Diaries", a woman who appears not to have gotten over the fact that she isn't in junior high anymore, a wannabe goth vampire chick trying to look like the lead singer of Evanescence, an obvious fan of overusing self-tanner, a faux punk lesbian with entirely too much eye makeup, and an elderly M2F transgendered person. Is there some other variety of sorely needed costume-wearing slut that would truly improve this ensemble?
Furthermore, Kim, what are your qualifications for judging prospective Pussycat Dolls? Apart from your shared love for extraordinarily tacky, body-baring costumes and low budget hairpieces, you have little in common. Whereas you've directly addressed and revelled in your trampy ways, the Pussycat Dolls try to keep it under wraps. I went to their website today, and after the mind-numbingly painful experience of reading the girls' blogs, I realized that they are so concerned about avoiding profanity that they can't even write "grass", "competition", or "hello"without some well-placed asterisks to disguise the vulgarities within those seemingly innocuous words. They might include the odd sexual innuendo in their lyrics about pushing buttons and men looking at their "beeps", but I guarantee they never have and never will write shit like "somethin' I wanted, but I never was pushy, the motherfucker never ate my pussy", "I dug him, so I fucked him, it wasn't nothin'...he wanted me to suck him but I didn't, I ain't frontin," or "I ain't out shoppin' spendin' dudes' C-notes...I'm in the crib giving niggas deep throat." Your lyrical style is so inherently different that I can't see how you would possibly judge a Pussycat Dolls' song on the basis of lyrical content. Also, you are not the world's greatest singer. You are certainly capable of spitting lines concerning your "hard core flow that keep a nigga dick rock", but you can't carry a tune to save your life. God, there's one song on Hard Core where you can't even execute a sort-of singing imitation of Buddhist chanting. Although the existing Pussycat Dolls aren't exactly on par with, say the soprano performing in the Met's production of Die Walkure, they can at least butcher their bastardization of Sir Mix-a-Lot's classic "Swass" hook on key. What sort of experience (excluding that of the sexual variety) can you draw upon when selecting the next Pussycat Doll? It's not like you're Tommy Mottolla or Clive Davis or something. Christ, even when Diddy tried to do this the best he could produce was the caterwauling abortion known as Danity Kane. You're out of your league here, girl.
I know that you probably get letters such as this one regularly, so I'm sure this is not the first time a fan has questioned your career choices. Therefore I implore you to PLEASE drop out of this project immediately, hit the gym, cancel any appointments you might have with Michael Jackson's plastic surgeon (trust me, you DON'T need any more work done), get into the studio, and write more songs about your heroic quest for cunnilingus. If you insist on getting involved with a television project, then ask BET if they'll let you do another awesome reality show. RUN, don't walk away from anything having to do with these stank vagina-having drag queen whores. If you won't do it for yourself, do it for your fans, because it's going to be very difficult indeed to support you when you have a shitshow like this on your CV. I beg you to save yourself.
Skoal,
Razzy
Let me start off by saying that I have loved and admired you for well over a decade. Ever since I first heard your magnum opus Hard Core when I was a dewy-eyed radical feminist fresh on the campus of Smith College, and my dorm neighbor Ashley played your CD for me, you have brought me nothing but joy. I threw out my Birkenstock clog and fleece pullover collection partly because of your unabashed brand of slutty feminism. I've supported you through all your plastic surgeries, your less-than-spectacular musical projects shamelessly capitalizing on your past affair with the late Christopher Wallace (ie: The Notorious KIM), and your beef with Inga "Foxy Brown" Marchand. I defended your honor when you were in prison and haters decried you and maligned your character. I put up with your disparaging the integrity and mores of my boyfriend Curtis Jackson. I even dressed up as you this past Halloween, a tribute I reserve for the figures most sacred to me, placing you in the revered company of such luminaries as King Slut, a valkyrie, Britney Spears, Satan, Darryl Hannah from Clan of the Cave Bear, and the St. Pauli Girl. You are a beacon of hope and a font of inspiration to me, and I won't forget that.
However, that said, I was extraordinarily disappointed with what I saw the other day. Instead of doing something constructive, like working off that penitentiary weight with the exercise regimen you once touted (jog five miles a day then hit the sauna, rock Chanels and smoke mad marijuana), you went on TV and announced that are an integral part of what will undoubtedly be a very regrettable creative project. You are going to be a judge on the CW Network's new reality competition, "Pussycat Dolls Present: Search for the Next Doll." I am consoled only by the fact that you look as unhappy about this prospect as I am:
As if it weren't bad enough that you're doing this, Kim, I have to tell you that you aren't looking so hot these days. You should have spent your leisure time at the gym instead of getting your lips stuffed with Restalyne to the point where they're the size of Jay-Z's. Your wig looks like a hand-me-down from the closet at Whitney Houston's crackhouse, and I don't know what is going on with your left breast. It looks like you didn't get that leaking implant repaired. I would suggest shying away from shapeless blousey tops reminiscent of a flour sack in the future until you get your tits in order. The only thing that makes you look slightly appealing is the fact that you're sitting next to that stringy hooker Robin Antin, the choreographer who masterminded the Pussycat Dolls, and she looks like she rose from her grave, got some cheap extensions, and went looking for some brains to eat. It's not good that the best thing I can say about you is that at least you don't look like the tranny undead.
Are you that desperate for money, Kim? Because the only other explanation I can think of for why you would affiliate yourself with the Pussycat Dolls is that you read their name wrong and mistakenly thought they were called the Pussyeat Dolls. Being that I am very familiar with your music, I know that a prevalent theme of your music is the unending quest for receiving oral, and I can see how such a misinterpretation of the Pussycat Dolls' name could confuse and mislead you.
Also, why is another Pussycat Doll even needed? There are already six of them, and in my view that's six too many. They already have, from left to right, a chick who just came from an audition for "Red Shoe Diaries", a woman who appears not to have gotten over the fact that she isn't in junior high anymore, a wannabe goth vampire chick trying to look like the lead singer of Evanescence, an obvious fan of overusing self-tanner, a faux punk lesbian with entirely too much eye makeup, and an elderly M2F transgendered person. Is there some other variety of sorely needed costume-wearing slut that would truly improve this ensemble?
Furthermore, Kim, what are your qualifications for judging prospective Pussycat Dolls? Apart from your shared love for extraordinarily tacky, body-baring costumes and low budget hairpieces, you have little in common. Whereas you've directly addressed and revelled in your trampy ways, the Pussycat Dolls try to keep it under wraps. I went to their website today, and after the mind-numbingly painful experience of reading the girls' blogs, I realized that they are so concerned about avoiding profanity that they can't even write "grass", "competition", or "hello"without some well-placed asterisks to disguise the vulgarities within those seemingly innocuous words. They might include the odd sexual innuendo in their lyrics about pushing buttons and men looking at their "beeps", but I guarantee they never have and never will write shit like "somethin' I wanted, but I never was pushy, the motherfucker never ate my pussy", "I dug him, so I fucked him, it wasn't nothin'...he wanted me to suck him but I didn't, I ain't frontin," or "I ain't out shoppin' spendin' dudes' C-notes...I'm in the crib giving niggas deep throat." Your lyrical style is so inherently different that I can't see how you would possibly judge a Pussycat Dolls' song on the basis of lyrical content. Also, you are not the world's greatest singer. You are certainly capable of spitting lines concerning your "hard core flow that keep a nigga dick rock", but you can't carry a tune to save your life. God, there's one song on Hard Core where you can't even execute a sort-of singing imitation of Buddhist chanting. Although the existing Pussycat Dolls aren't exactly on par with, say the soprano performing in the Met's production of Die Walkure, they can at least butcher their bastardization of Sir Mix-a-Lot's classic "Swass" hook on key. What sort of experience (excluding that of the sexual variety) can you draw upon when selecting the next Pussycat Doll? It's not like you're Tommy Mottolla or Clive Davis or something. Christ, even when Diddy tried to do this the best he could produce was the caterwauling abortion known as Danity Kane. You're out of your league here, girl.
I know that you probably get letters such as this one regularly, so I'm sure this is not the first time a fan has questioned your career choices. Therefore I implore you to PLEASE drop out of this project immediately, hit the gym, cancel any appointments you might have with Michael Jackson's plastic surgeon (trust me, you DON'T need any more work done), get into the studio, and write more songs about your heroic quest for cunnilingus. If you insist on getting involved with a television project, then ask BET if they'll let you do another awesome reality show. RUN, don't walk away from anything having to do with these stank vagina-having drag queen whores. If you won't do it for yourself, do it for your fans, because it's going to be very difficult indeed to support you when you have a shitshow like this on your CV. I beg you to save yourself.
Skoal,
Razzy
Labels: celebrities, Lil' Kim, plastic surgery, rap, retard rage, ridiculous absurdity, TV, you're ugly
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Something the world could do without
There is this new show on FX called "Dirt" that's on during ""Nip/Tuck"'s old Tuesdays at 10 timeslot that I didn't get a chance to see until last night. I was shocked by what I saw, and not in a good way. FX is really going downhill, and they have been for several years now. First, they replaced their four reruns of "90210" a day with episodes of "M*A*S*H", thus forever eliciting my scorn and contempt. Then, they seemed to decide as a network that it would be a good idea to rerun Rob Schneider movies six nights a week, and make it such an event that it's hosted by failed MTV VJ Dave Holmes. If watching The Hot Chick or The Animal weren't torture enough already, Holmes and his bimbo sidekick then show all the special features and extras from the DVDs and make inane commentary on it. I and oh, say, EVERYONE ELSE IN THE WORLD does not care how the special effects in Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo were executed. Now they have this shitshow "Dirt", and if it weren't for "Nip/Tuck", I would never watch the FX network again.
I've heard about this "Dirt" show because Perez Hilton won't shut up about it, on account that he gets to make a guest appearance in some upcoming episode. Also, allegedly Jennifer Aniston, the pathetically jilted ex-Mrs. Pitt and the fugliest celebrity in Hollywood, is guest-starring in the season finale as a lesbian and she's going to make out with the show's star, fellow "Friends" alumna Courteney Cox. Who fucking cares about that? "Friends" is one of my all time most-despised shows, and any type of televised cast reunion is tantamount to an act of war. The fact that "Friends" managed to pollute TVs everywhere for 10 years (and more, thanks to syndication) is a disgrace and a shameful statement about humanity. The quickest way to get me to NOT watch some other show is to try to simultaneously relive the old "Friends" magic and be edgy by getting Monica and Rachel to say "shit" a few times and then share what I anticipate will be an awkward and completely nonsexual kiss. If they hired a baseball mitt to make out with an empty beer bottle it would be more sensually enticing.
Anyway, this stupid waste of premiere network cable TV-MA LSV time is about Courteney Cox, who is a stressed out, hardassed tabloid magazine editor named Lucy Spiller (and that's supposed to be her real name...how do you grow up to be anything BUT a tabloid magazine editor with a name like Lucy Spiller? That's like naming your kid Mack Strong and expecting him to be anything but a NFL fullback). She's a raging bitch who fires people for petty shit like getting married or calling her a bitch via BlackBerry text messages or generally being inferior at their jobs (ie: "the point is not that he was having sex with a hooker, but that he wanted her to bang him with a strap-on! THAT'S YOUR LEAD!") There's all these sideplots about her head paparazzo being a schizophrenic off his meds, and some blonde chick who lost her acting job because she's a coked-up loser, and some R&B singer whose Irv Gotti-esque record label president cut off his head and stored it in a wine cellar, and I was not intrigued. In fact, I grew bored and contemplated changing the channel. However, I snapped immediately to attention when I saw Courteney Cox whip out her vibrator and start unconvincingly faking an orgasm.
I was unsuccessful in finding the scene from last night's episode on YouTube, but I did find this other one, which suggests that this was not an isolated incident. Apparently, Courteney Cox rubs one off for all the viewers to see in every episode. As if I needed any more incentive NOT to watch this show:
Sweet Jesus Christ on the cross. Who on earth wants to watch this stringy old succubus masturbate to her own magazine? The only people I would think enjoy this are the blind, because at least they don't have to suffer the visual image of Courteney Cox pleasuring herself. They can imagine that all that overdone oohing and aahing is issuing from the mouth of some actually attractive woman, and not the heavily Botoxed wife of David Arquette. If this is the show's trademark, akin to Drs. Troy and McNamara saying their signature "tell me what you don't like about yourself" line at the beginning of every episode, then count me out of the "Dirt" fan club. One thing I can say that I assuredly do NOT want from TV is a weekly date with Courteney Cox and her bedside table drawer.
I would, however, be remiss if I didn't point out that, in spite of all of "Dirt"'s shiteous qualities, there are two awesome things about the show. First, Rick Fox plays a basketball player who likes to take it up the butt and is constantly being blackmailed for other skeletons in his closet by Courteney Cox because his reputation would be permanently destroyed if his anal fetish ever gets discovered. The show is worth watching just to see Rick Fox attempt poorly to feign concern and alarm while saying things like, "I have a family to support! I'm in the NBA! If it ever gets out that I like to receive anal, my career is over!" The other awesome thing is that, as revolting as Courteney Cox doing herself is, I got to see something truly amazing. Grant Show, AKA the super-virile motorcycle repairman and Shooters proprietor Jake Hanson from "Melrose Place", plays a macho Republican action movie star and closeted gay dude, and gives a dude a very strongly implied poolside blowjob. Thank God YouTube had footage of this, because it's like finding a diamond ring in a mountain of dogshit. Behold, the only thing that MIGHT lead to me tolerating another future episode of "Dirt":
From now on, "Dirt" producers, I want more hilarious gay romance Grant Show the Head Doctor and Rick Fox the Anal Queen scenes. Leave the Courteney Cox vibrator footage on the cutting room floor!
I've heard about this "Dirt" show because Perez Hilton won't shut up about it, on account that he gets to make a guest appearance in some upcoming episode. Also, allegedly Jennifer Aniston, the pathetically jilted ex-Mrs. Pitt and the fugliest celebrity in Hollywood, is guest-starring in the season finale as a lesbian and she's going to make out with the show's star, fellow "Friends" alumna Courteney Cox. Who fucking cares about that? "Friends" is one of my all time most-despised shows, and any type of televised cast reunion is tantamount to an act of war. The fact that "Friends" managed to pollute TVs everywhere for 10 years (and more, thanks to syndication) is a disgrace and a shameful statement about humanity. The quickest way to get me to NOT watch some other show is to try to simultaneously relive the old "Friends" magic and be edgy by getting Monica and Rachel to say "shit" a few times and then share what I anticipate will be an awkward and completely nonsexual kiss. If they hired a baseball mitt to make out with an empty beer bottle it would be more sensually enticing.
Anyway, this stupid waste of premiere network cable TV-MA LSV time is about Courteney Cox, who is a stressed out, hardassed tabloid magazine editor named Lucy Spiller (and that's supposed to be her real name...how do you grow up to be anything BUT a tabloid magazine editor with a name like Lucy Spiller? That's like naming your kid Mack Strong and expecting him to be anything but a NFL fullback). She's a raging bitch who fires people for petty shit like getting married or calling her a bitch via BlackBerry text messages or generally being inferior at their jobs (ie: "the point is not that he was having sex with a hooker, but that he wanted her to bang him with a strap-on! THAT'S YOUR LEAD!") There's all these sideplots about her head paparazzo being a schizophrenic off his meds, and some blonde chick who lost her acting job because she's a coked-up loser, and some R&B singer whose Irv Gotti-esque record label president cut off his head and stored it in a wine cellar, and I was not intrigued. In fact, I grew bored and contemplated changing the channel. However, I snapped immediately to attention when I saw Courteney Cox whip out her vibrator and start unconvincingly faking an orgasm.
I was unsuccessful in finding the scene from last night's episode on YouTube, but I did find this other one, which suggests that this was not an isolated incident. Apparently, Courteney Cox rubs one off for all the viewers to see in every episode. As if I needed any more incentive NOT to watch this show:
Sweet Jesus Christ on the cross. Who on earth wants to watch this stringy old succubus masturbate to her own magazine? The only people I would think enjoy this are the blind, because at least they don't have to suffer the visual image of Courteney Cox pleasuring herself. They can imagine that all that overdone oohing and aahing is issuing from the mouth of some actually attractive woman, and not the heavily Botoxed wife of David Arquette. If this is the show's trademark, akin to Drs. Troy and McNamara saying their signature "tell me what you don't like about yourself" line at the beginning of every episode, then count me out of the "Dirt" fan club. One thing I can say that I assuredly do NOT want from TV is a weekly date with Courteney Cox and her bedside table drawer.
I would, however, be remiss if I didn't point out that, in spite of all of "Dirt"'s shiteous qualities, there are two awesome things about the show. First, Rick Fox plays a basketball player who likes to take it up the butt and is constantly being blackmailed for other skeletons in his closet by Courteney Cox because his reputation would be permanently destroyed if his anal fetish ever gets discovered. The show is worth watching just to see Rick Fox attempt poorly to feign concern and alarm while saying things like, "I have a family to support! I'm in the NBA! If it ever gets out that I like to receive anal, my career is over!" The other awesome thing is that, as revolting as Courteney Cox doing herself is, I got to see something truly amazing. Grant Show, AKA the super-virile motorcycle repairman and Shooters proprietor Jake Hanson from "Melrose Place", plays a macho Republican action movie star and closeted gay dude, and gives a dude a very strongly implied poolside blowjob. Thank God YouTube had footage of this, because it's like finding a diamond ring in a mountain of dogshit. Behold, the only thing that MIGHT lead to me tolerating another future episode of "Dirt":
From now on, "Dirt" producers, I want more hilarious gay romance Grant Show the Head Doctor and Rick Fox the Anal Queen scenes. Leave the Courteney Cox vibrator footage on the cutting room floor!
Labels: celebrities, gross, masturbation, Nip/Tuck, oh the horror, ranting, TV, vulgar display of faggotry
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
My Aunt Jesus's dream guy
Today Rack sent me a link to this post by Dan Savage on The Stranger's blog, featuring this simultaneously hysterically funny and utterly horrifying music video by a group called Donnie Davies and the Evening Service. Although the song boasts the seemingly innocuous title "The Bible Says", it's more readily identifiable by its soaring chorus of "God Hates a Fag."
I particularly enjoy watching this fundamentalist homo joining in a prayer circle with all his fellow self-loathing butt buddies, clutching one another's hands and praying desperately for Christ to mitigate their sinful urges to turn their Bible study into a giant Sodomite orgy. After asking Jesus to "fill [him] with His love" and declaring JC the "only man for me", the pink shirt-clad youth minister/troubadour reminds all the "filthy sinners" that "God hates a fag." According to his website and his MySpace page, Davies is a "reformed homosexual", and this is all part of a plan he calls C.H.O.P. (Changing Homosexuals [into] Ordinary People). Unbelievably, he bases his mission to convert the gays on his love for his hero...OSCAR WILDE, one of history's most famous fags. He actually suggests that gays should likewise be prosecuted and jailed for buggery, because it would do them good as it had done Wilde, who he claims converted to Christianity while imprisoned and publicly renounced his homosexuality. Whatever biography of Oscar Wilde he read, I think he ought to give it another look, because he's either making shit up or confusing Wilde with his boyfriend Bosie. Oscar Wilde's tombstone has a giant weiner on it, for God's sake!
One of the funny things about these fundamentalist wack-jobs is that, despite their tendency to quote obscure passages from Leviticus and Paul's letters verbatim, they totally ignore other major salient points in the Good Book. For example, that whole because God so loved us that he sent us His only son to die for our sins thing. And since we're all a bunch of filthy sinners, doesn't that mean that God loves everyone, fags or not? Also, why would Jesus be hanging out with the whores and tax collectors and just decide arbitrarily to be okay with them, but reserve hatred for the queers alone?
While this kind of logic makes no sense to me, it's the kind of Jesus-hates-everyone-but-me attitude that my Aunt Jesus has wholeheartedly embraced. She's so sure she's right (and righteous) about her shit that I wouldn't be surprised if she's stuck one of those "In case of rapture, this car will be unmanned" stickers on the bumper of her car (which, ironically, is the ultimate dykemobile...a Subaru). She also hasn't spoken to me or, apparently, forgiven me for calling her out on my website a year ago. Not that I mind being off the you're-going-to-hell, you're-a-disgrace-to-the-family e-mail list, but I can't resist pointing out that she's not exactly following JC's mandate about showing mercy and forgiveness to one's enemies.
I attribute both Aunt Jesus's indomitable sense of self-righteousness and delight in informing the few remaining people tolerant of her bullshit that they are condemned to an eternity of fiery torment to the fact that she is one miserable-ass bitch. Not only is she VERY single, she probably hasn't gotten laid in going on thirty years since her deadbeat husband dumped her, and given her eagerness to lecture everyone about perversion, I'm pretty sure she's not a regular masturbator. Therefore, I see this as a match made in heaven. After a whirlwind courtship, I picture their wedding going down (no pun intended) like so:
NOTHING says "romantic" like a good old-fashioned God Hates Fags rally! But as content as this prospective loving couple appears above, I'd caution my Aunt Jesus to keep an eye on him no matter what he says about his "reformed" ways. You never know what kind of untoward shit goes on at those men-only Promise Keepers rallies. I suspect it might be the evangelical freak show equivalent of "poker night" in secular down-low circles.
I particularly enjoy watching this fundamentalist homo joining in a prayer circle with all his fellow self-loathing butt buddies, clutching one another's hands and praying desperately for Christ to mitigate their sinful urges to turn their Bible study into a giant Sodomite orgy. After asking Jesus to "fill [him] with His love" and declaring JC the "only man for me", the pink shirt-clad youth minister/troubadour reminds all the "filthy sinners" that "God hates a fag." According to his website and his MySpace page, Davies is a "reformed homosexual", and this is all part of a plan he calls C.H.O.P. (Changing Homosexuals [into] Ordinary People). Unbelievably, he bases his mission to convert the gays on his love for his hero...OSCAR WILDE, one of history's most famous fags. He actually suggests that gays should likewise be prosecuted and jailed for buggery, because it would do them good as it had done Wilde, who he claims converted to Christianity while imprisoned and publicly renounced his homosexuality. Whatever biography of Oscar Wilde he read, I think he ought to give it another look, because he's either making shit up or confusing Wilde with his boyfriend Bosie. Oscar Wilde's tombstone has a giant weiner on it, for God's sake!
One of the funny things about these fundamentalist wack-jobs is that, despite their tendency to quote obscure passages from Leviticus and Paul's letters verbatim, they totally ignore other major salient points in the Good Book. For example, that whole because God so loved us that he sent us His only son to die for our sins thing. And since we're all a bunch of filthy sinners, doesn't that mean that God loves everyone, fags or not? Also, why would Jesus be hanging out with the whores and tax collectors and just decide arbitrarily to be okay with them, but reserve hatred for the queers alone?
While this kind of logic makes no sense to me, it's the kind of Jesus-hates-everyone-but-me attitude that my Aunt Jesus has wholeheartedly embraced. She's so sure she's right (and righteous) about her shit that I wouldn't be surprised if she's stuck one of those "In case of rapture, this car will be unmanned" stickers on the bumper of her car (which, ironically, is the ultimate dykemobile...a Subaru). She also hasn't spoken to me or, apparently, forgiven me for calling her out on my website a year ago. Not that I mind being off the you're-going-to-hell, you're-a-disgrace-to-the-family e-mail list, but I can't resist pointing out that she's not exactly following JC's mandate about showing mercy and forgiveness to one's enemies.
I attribute both Aunt Jesus's indomitable sense of self-righteousness and delight in informing the few remaining people tolerant of her bullshit that they are condemned to an eternity of fiery torment to the fact that she is one miserable-ass bitch. Not only is she VERY single, she probably hasn't gotten laid in going on thirty years since her deadbeat husband dumped her, and given her eagerness to lecture everyone about perversion, I'm pretty sure she's not a regular masturbator. Therefore, I see this as a match made in heaven. After a whirlwind courtship, I picture their wedding going down (no pun intended) like so:
NOTHING says "romantic" like a good old-fashioned God Hates Fags rally! But as content as this prospective loving couple appears above, I'd caution my Aunt Jesus to keep an eye on him no matter what he says about his "reformed" ways. You never know what kind of untoward shit goes on at those men-only Promise Keepers rallies. I suspect it might be the evangelical freak show equivalent of "poker night" in secular down-low circles.
Labels: assholes, Aunt Jesus, crazies, Dear God, hilarious shit, oh the horror, ridiculous absurdity, vulgar display of faggotry
Disgorge and shine
I woke up this morning to discover that Chingy!, bewitching creature that he is, vomited all over my bed at some point during the night. Since I've been so sleep deprived as of late, I was in a comatose state comparable to that princess bitch who pricked her finger on a spinning needle and fell into an enchanted slumber, and thus did not stir when he was apparently puking. Unlike Sleeping Beauty, however, I did not wake to the tender kiss of Prince Charming, but to a puddle of regurgitated Beneful Healthy Weight in front of a peacefully snoring pug. Man, Chingy! is adorable.
Every time some person sees me walking Chingy! down the street and squeals, "That dog is SO CUTE!", I respond with a delightful story about the many charms of Chingy!. This includes stories about him stamping poop starfishes on people's pants, avidly consuming used tampons, getting yeast infections in his ears, ejaculating on my apartment floor, and lapping up the diarrhea of the indigent. Now I can add "vomits on my sheets" to the annals of Chingy! anecdotes.
With a morning that starts out like this, with not only dog vomit but also housework (both are right up there with raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens in the pantheon of favorite things), how can my day NOT be totally awesome?
UPDATE: While I was waiting for this to publish, Chingy! woke up, ate some of his own puke, apparently didn't like it (imagine that), and sneezed haughtily at it. Then he jumped off the bed and came up to me, giving me a look that plainly stated, "Would you change the fucking sheets already? There's vomit onyour my bed." I'm getting to it right now, asshole! CHONGAY CHONG yourself, you rePUGnant little beast!
Every time some person sees me walking Chingy! down the street and squeals, "That dog is SO CUTE!", I respond with a delightful story about the many charms of Chingy!. This includes stories about him stamping poop starfishes on people's pants, avidly consuming used tampons, getting yeast infections in his ears, ejaculating on my apartment floor, and lapping up the diarrhea of the indigent. Now I can add "vomits on my sheets" to the annals of Chingy! anecdotes.
With a morning that starts out like this, with not only dog vomit but also housework (both are right up there with raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens in the pantheon of favorite things), how can my day NOT be totally awesome?
UPDATE: While I was waiting for this to publish, Chingy! woke up, ate some of his own puke, apparently didn't like it (imagine that), and sneezed haughtily at it. Then he jumped off the bed and came up to me, giving me a look that plainly stated, "Would you change the fucking sheets already? There's vomit on
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, gross, oh the horror
Monday, January 22, 2007
George revealed
I still haven't heard back from Not-Shy George the male stripper/voyeuristic pleasure provider about his availability for LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party, but I think nonetheless I've identified him. You may recall that George, in his e-mail to Wmania, claimed to hail from the Boston area. While watching "I Love New York" tonight, I was watching the contestant called Mr. Boston give New York a hilariously inept but sincerely enthusiastic lap dance, and experienced an epiphany. Holy shit! Aye caramba! Yahtzee! THAT'S GEORGE!
The taping for "I Love New York" is now over, and while she's "feeling him" on the episodes currently being aired, I don't believe that Mr. Boston is going to win, and by "win" I mean "lose horribly," since the prize is a relationship with the certifiably insane Tiffany "New York" Patterson and her even crazier mother. I think Mr. Boston will go a long way, but will get the axe in the home stretch, after the producers run out of ideas for indignities they can trick him into willingly and fervently self-inflicting.
After thinking about the chronology of when Mr. Boston was taping "I Love New York", and the fact that his weekly shenanigans on Vh1 have ensured that he'll never be taken seriously by any employer ever again (not that his braying whine of a voice wouldn't have already disqualified him from any job involving verbal communication of any sort), I realized that the time is ripe for Mr. Boston to get off his unappealingly flat ass and pursue more unconventional career opportunities. Heartened by his success (as measured by New York's sometimes unintelligible praise) in stripping down to his skivvies and making jerky movements previously mastered only by those with cerebral palsy, Mr. Boston adopted the moniker "George" and started testing the waters of the Beantown Chippendale's reject market. Hence, subtly creepy cold call e-mails to members of our LL Cool Jew Bachelorette Party Planning group hinting about how he's had "his own share" of keeping drunk bitches entertained and presumably tittilated by his painfully awkward pelvic gyrations. Mr. Boston IS George.
Okay, so this hypothesis might be a little farfetched. However, I think it should not be immediately discounted. Until George sends me a picture, it can't be tested, so I'm just going to roll with it. And when he does send me a picture and it turns out to be of Mr. Boston, I am going to revel in the fact that I totally called it.
The taping for "I Love New York" is now over, and while she's "feeling him" on the episodes currently being aired, I don't believe that Mr. Boston is going to win, and by "win" I mean "lose horribly," since the prize is a relationship with the certifiably insane Tiffany "New York" Patterson and her even crazier mother. I think Mr. Boston will go a long way, but will get the axe in the home stretch, after the producers run out of ideas for indignities they can trick him into willingly and fervently self-inflicting.
After thinking about the chronology of when Mr. Boston was taping "I Love New York", and the fact that his weekly shenanigans on Vh1 have ensured that he'll never be taken seriously by any employer ever again (not that his braying whine of a voice wouldn't have already disqualified him from any job involving verbal communication of any sort), I realized that the time is ripe for Mr. Boston to get off his unappealingly flat ass and pursue more unconventional career opportunities. Heartened by his success (as measured by New York's sometimes unintelligible praise) in stripping down to his skivvies and making jerky movements previously mastered only by those with cerebral palsy, Mr. Boston adopted the moniker "George" and started testing the waters of the Beantown Chippendale's reject market. Hence, subtly creepy cold call e-mails to members of our LL Cool Jew Bachelorette Party Planning group hinting about how he's had "his own share" of keeping drunk bitches entertained and presumably tittilated by his painfully awkward pelvic gyrations. Mr. Boston IS George.
Okay, so this hypothesis might be a little farfetched. However, I think it should not be immediately discounted. Until George sends me a picture, it can't be tested, so I'm just going to roll with it. And when he does send me a picture and it turns out to be of Mr. Boston, I am going to revel in the fact that I totally called it.
Labels: hilarious shit, I Love New York, intentional buffoonery, LL Cool Jew, nudity, TV, Vh1
Don't YOU be shy, George
Wmania, Motherbucker, and myself are all busily planning LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party. While I can't divulge the details because it's a surprise for the bride-to-be, it's going to be OFF THE FUCKING CHAIN in terms of total awesomeness. To keep all of LL Cool Jew's pals/drunken carousers abreast of the plans, Motherbucker assiduously started up a Yahoo group. Supposedly this group is private, but that didn't get in the way of some random internet pervert getting wind of Wmania's e-mail address. She was kind enough to forward on his correspondence:
From: Wmania (wmania@bighugecorporatePRfirm.com)
To: Fallonius Monk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com), LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com), Motherbucker (motherbucker@somecampaignofficeoranother.org), Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
oh. my. god.
---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: George <geo4sparks@yahoo.com>
Date: Jan 22, 2007 6:57 AM
Subject: I came across your LL Cool Jews bachelorette party planning group
Being a Boston area male who has stripped for groups of women before, I
applaud your efforts and those organizing the event to give the lady a
night filled with entertainment and voyeuristic pleasure.
Wishing you all a fun filled night from a stranger who chanced by your
group and has his own share of entertaining in hen nights. The only
advice I can give is be your fun loving selves, don't be shy to touch
and enjoy the night.
George
You hear that, LL Cool Jew? I'm sure that Gorgeous George would be the perfect purveyor of "voyeuristic pleasure" for your "hen night." For starters, unlike many strippers he appears to eschew the "no touching" rule that will get you kicked out of most reputable nudie bars. Furthermore, I know we could all benefit from his sage wisdom about how to best be our "fun loving selves." Rather than the night of presently classified debauchery and wildness we have planned for the soon-to-be Mrs. BigBagel, I'm sure LL Cool Jew would much rather have George wiggling his (probably slender) package in her face, sweating Mystic Tan all over her, and allowing her to touch what I imagine is his copious upper arm and back hair. To ensure that LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party is accordingly a magical and special night, I took it upon myself to send this e-mail:
To: George (geo4sparks@yahoo.com)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Hi George,
I'm one of the planners for LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party, and I wanted to thank you for your advice. It was most fortuitous that you stumbled upon our group, because we're currently in the market for a male stripper who might be able to perform for the bride-to-be before or after we go out on the town. Would you be interested in participating? It sounds as though you have some experience in this arena, and we'd like a man who knows how to work a bachelorette party.
If you are interested, please send a picture or a link to your website (if you have one), so that we might consider it.
Cheers,
Razzy
Poor schmuck. If and when he sends me his picture, it will be a day that, for him, will live in infamy.
From: Wmania (wmania@bighugecorporatePRfirm.com)
To: Fallonius Monk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com), LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com), Motherbucker (motherbucker@somecampaignofficeoranother.org), Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
oh. my. god.
---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: George <geo4sparks@yahoo.com>
Date: Jan 22, 2007 6:57 AM
Subject: I came across your LL Cool Jews bachelorette party planning group
Being a Boston area male who has stripped for groups of women before, I
applaud your efforts and those organizing the event to give the lady a
night filled with entertainment and voyeuristic pleasure.
Wishing you all a fun filled night from a stranger who chanced by your
group and has his own share of entertaining in hen nights. The only
advice I can give is be your fun loving selves, don't be shy to touch
and enjoy the night.
George
You hear that, LL Cool Jew? I'm sure that Gorgeous George would be the perfect purveyor of "voyeuristic pleasure" for your "hen night." For starters, unlike many strippers he appears to eschew the "no touching" rule that will get you kicked out of most reputable nudie bars. Furthermore, I know we could all benefit from his sage wisdom about how to best be our "fun loving selves." Rather than the night of presently classified debauchery and wildness we have planned for the soon-to-be Mrs. BigBagel, I'm sure LL Cool Jew would much rather have George wiggling his (probably slender) package in her face, sweating Mystic Tan all over her, and allowing her to touch what I imagine is his copious upper arm and back hair. To ensure that LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party is accordingly a magical and special night, I took it upon myself to send this e-mail:
To: George (geo4sparks@yahoo.com)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Hi George,
I'm one of the planners for LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party, and I wanted to thank you for your advice. It was most fortuitous that you stumbled upon our group, because we're currently in the market for a male stripper who might be able to perform for the bride-to-be before or after we go out on the town. Would you be interested in participating? It sounds as though you have some experience in this arena, and we'd like a man who knows how to work a bachelorette party.
If you are interested, please send a picture or a link to your website (if you have one), so that we might consider it.
Cheers,
Razzy
Poor schmuck. If and when he sends me his picture, it will be a day that, for him, will live in infamy.
Labels: correspondence, gross, LL Cool Jew, nudity, oh the horror, overcompensation, real-life rejects, small penises
Sunday, January 21, 2007
New look=Razzy sucks
Well, I suck at website administration anyway. After my hosting company sent some vaguely apologetic e-mails about their technical problems and my site was back online, I realized that somehow I'd fucked up my blog template. I had been dicking around with it and somehow managed to screw up the formatting. Therefore, rather than fix what was probably one line or less of offending code, I replaced it with another template and spent about two hours changing the color scheme to be the official red, black, and gray that is the chromatic basis for my site.
Yesterday I was bitching about this to my friend Neo, who does some sort of Linux thing or another as part of her graduate work, and explained that I was late getting over to her house to hang out because I had to mess around with the template code. "It takes me forever," I told her.
"Changing code is easy," she said disdainfully.
"For you, maybe," I said. "Just like you think integrals, calculus, and quantum physics are easy. But fixing code for me is the equivalent of what doing primary cell culture or flow cytometry would be for you. It's fucking hard and not something I'm used to or good at."
"It's just HTML," she said. "HTML is easy."
"HTML I can deal with," I said. "It's the combination of HTML and CSS that fucks me up. I get completely confused as to what the CSS tags represent. Like, what the fuck does that money sign mean? And it's killing me that I can't figure out how to make my 'RazzyBlog' header white when you open the permalinks for individual blog entries. It's white on the main page, but not on individual post pages, where it's the same color as the background. I've been trying to figure this shit out for like a year without success so far. Do you know CSS?"
"Hey, I got ATL on Netflix. Want to watch it?" Neo replied, artfully sidestepping my query.
"Totally," I responded, glad to change the subject, as discussing the ins and outs of coding my blog template is a topic that sends me into a state of feeling helpless and confused. I was eager to stop talking about it and instead watch T.I. try to keep his little brother from becoming one of Big Boi from Outkast's dope boys, deal with the fact that his girlfriend New-New is actually rich and not from Mechanicsville, GA but still has the heart of a ghetto girl despite her country club upbringing, and compete in vicious roller skating battles with his crew Brooklyn, Teddy, and Esquire. ATL was fucking hilarious, and made me forget, just for a moment, about being the worst webmaster ever.
Anyway, you may have noticed that the look of the blog is just a little different. The sidebar is on the left side instead of the right, there are a few changes in the style of font and colors being used, etc. Once again, I attribute this solely to me being the most inept website administrator on the face of the planet. Barring any technical issues in the near future, however, I'm done doing my piss-poor brand of troubleshooting and back to writing useless bullshit in this new and subtly different format. Hope you all like it!
P.S. And if anyone (and by anyone, I mean you, Mullah AntoniHo, the genius who informed me about the awesomeness known as target="_blank") knows how to fix the issue with my blog header being the same color as the background instead of white like it's supposed to be, holler at your girl. This galls me like you wouldn't believe.
Yesterday I was bitching about this to my friend Neo, who does some sort of Linux thing or another as part of her graduate work, and explained that I was late getting over to her house to hang out because I had to mess around with the template code. "It takes me forever," I told her.
"Changing code is easy," she said disdainfully.
"For you, maybe," I said. "Just like you think integrals, calculus, and quantum physics are easy. But fixing code for me is the equivalent of what doing primary cell culture or flow cytometry would be for you. It's fucking hard and not something I'm used to or good at."
"It's just HTML," she said. "HTML is easy."
"HTML I can deal with," I said. "It's the combination of HTML and CSS that fucks me up. I get completely confused as to what the CSS tags represent. Like, what the fuck does that money sign mean? And it's killing me that I can't figure out how to make my 'RazzyBlog' header white when you open the permalinks for individual blog entries. It's white on the main page, but not on individual post pages, where it's the same color as the background. I've been trying to figure this shit out for like a year without success so far. Do you know CSS?"
"Hey, I got ATL on Netflix. Want to watch it?" Neo replied, artfully sidestepping my query.
"Totally," I responded, glad to change the subject, as discussing the ins and outs of coding my blog template is a topic that sends me into a state of feeling helpless and confused. I was eager to stop talking about it and instead watch T.I. try to keep his little brother from becoming one of Big Boi from Outkast's dope boys, deal with the fact that his girlfriend New-New is actually rich and not from Mechanicsville, GA but still has the heart of a ghetto girl despite her country club upbringing, and compete in vicious roller skating battles with his crew Brooklyn, Teddy, and Esquire. ATL was fucking hilarious, and made me forget, just for a moment, about being the worst webmaster ever.
Anyway, you may have noticed that the look of the blog is just a little different. The sidebar is on the left side instead of the right, there are a few changes in the style of font and colors being used, etc. Once again, I attribute this solely to me being the most inept website administrator on the face of the planet. Barring any technical issues in the near future, however, I'm done doing my piss-poor brand of troubleshooting and back to writing useless bullshit in this new and subtly different format. Hope you all like it!
P.S. And if anyone (and by anyone, I mean you, Mullah AntoniHo, the genius who informed me about the awesomeness known as target="_blank") knows how to fix the issue with my blog header being the same color as the background instead of white like it's supposed to be, holler at your girl. This galls me like you wouldn't believe.
Labels: computer incompetence, internet domination
Friday, January 19, 2007
Stand by
My site has been down because my hosting company's servers are cheap and shitty. If, on some random chance, you actually get to connect to the site and read this, rest assured that I'm currently working on the problem (by "working on" I mean sending hostile e-mails to Website Source threatening to move my site to some other $6 per month hosting company, because we all know that the only type of computer-based "work" I'm capable of is typing bitchy useless bullshit.)
Hopefully, I will have sufficiently frightened the Website Source tech support staff with my righteous outrage and inspired them to drop their usual activity of sitting around sending condescending and only marginally helpful e-mails and fix my fucking FTP server or whatever the hell is wrong with my site. Obviously, civilization will fall to pieces if deprived of RAZZY.org too long, so I expect this to be rectified by tonight at the latest.
Hopefully, I will have sufficiently frightened the Website Source tech support staff with my righteous outrage and inspired them to drop their usual activity of sitting around sending condescending and only marginally helpful e-mails and fix my fucking FTP server or whatever the hell is wrong with my site. Obviously, civilization will fall to pieces if deprived of RAZZY.org too long, so I expect this to be rectified by tonight at the latest.
Labels: computer incompetence, internet domination, tragedy
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Gay's Shitnatomy
Every time I spend a Saturday kicking it with my buddies Rack and JerseyGirl watching "Beverly Hills, 90210", invariably the subject of other TV shows will come up. Without fail, a conversation along the lines of "I LOVE 'Grey's Anatomy'! It's my favorite show and I never miss it! Who do you think that slut Meredith Grey will bone this week?"
I usually respond by rolling my eyes and making some choice comment about the myriad things I hate about "Grey's Anatomy." It's like a chick flick set in a surgery ward, and there's a lot of detestable qualities to choose from.
First, I generally hate hospital shows, and I generally hate shows about self-involved retards who spend 99% of their time talking about their relationships. "Grey's Anatomy" is guilty on both counts. "Nip/Tuck", the only medical show I like, is mainly about perverts and over-the-top weirdness, not a lot of pompous dipshits who blabber on officiously about saving lives in between having implied sex with each other and gossiping about it like a bunch of seventh grade girls. On any given episode of "Nip/Tuck", Sean will hallucinate and have self-loathing sex with either a porn star or a lunatic nanny, Christian will be anally raped and cope by banging two female family members at the same time, Matt will become either a Nazi or a Scientologist and possibly have a threesome with lesbian cheerleaders, Julia will throw stuff, Annie will go crazy and cut up all her dolls, Kimber will have kinky multi-positional sex with any other member of the cast, Liz will have some hilarious tete-a-tete with Christian about the sex toys she prefers and teach a patient how to masturbate, organ harvesting gangsters and/or Colombian drug lords will wreak havoc, and they might get around to doing a tit job or repairing a botched sex change. On any given episode of "Grey's Anatomy", the characters will all sit around processing, drinking coffee, bicker about their sex lives because they're all supposedly having boring missionary position sex with each other, read Seattle magazine, process some more, do some sort of bizarre yet bloodless surgery, and then congratulate each other for saving lives. Jesus, it's not even a contest...which show you rather watch?
Second, I take issue with the assertion that the dialogue on "Grey's Anatomy" is hilarious and witty. From what I've observed, this deft scriptwriting is primarily comprised of the bitches (and their fag tag-alongs) on the show nicknaming Patrick Dempsey's character "Dr. McDreamy" and Eric Dane's character "Dr. McSteamy." If I were a patient at Seattle Grace Hospital (which people needing surgery everywhere thank Christ is a fictional institution), I would not want these fucktards getting anywhere near me with their lame jokes or a scalpel, since they seem to spend far more time crafting the former than actually doing any surgery at all. Most of the time, the surgeons on this show are dicking around in the break room or at the bar, and when they do any medicine at all, it usually involves playing Scrabble with their patients and then killing them by accident. When they kill someone, they get a slap on the wrist, the other surgeons make up a pejorative nickname for them, and they're back scrubbing in by the next episode. The malpractice premiums at Seattle Grace must be astronomically high.
Fans of the show also think the characters are very deep and are bringing unique issues to the forefront of social consciousness, like the lead character's mother, a formerly successful surgeon and negligent adulterous whore of a parent, who now is in a home because she has Alzheimer's. I was unaware that parents, much less parents who are doctors, could actually get terminal, debilitating illnesses themselves, so thanks, "Grey's Anatomy," for opening my eyes to this stark reality. Also, there are...(gasp)...interracial relationships on the show! The main black dude is boning that Asian chick who was in Sideways, the short gay dude was boning the fat Latina orthopedist, but they apparently broke up, and way back when, Dr. Alzheimer was doing the married black chief of surgery. He's struggling with the fact that he still wants to do her even though she can't remember who he is half the time. That's SO groundbreaking. I didn't know that people of different ethnic backgrounds could fuck each other or have actual relationships with each other. Oh wait, yes I did...I just forgot about my entire sexual history for a second.
My biggest problem with the show, however, is that all the characters are supposed to be attractive. There are the dueling head-old guys-in-charge, Drs. McDreamy and McSteamy.
How did everyone forget that McDreamy is PATRICK DEMPSEY? Since when was he "dreamy" in any way, except when making an appearance in a strange nicotine patch-induced nightmare? His past acting roles have involved him playing a male prostitute/pizza delivery man who porked Kirstie Alley for free and a monkey-loving vagrant who died of Ebola. Putting him in a pair of scrubs and telling us all he's a neurosurgeon now that he's old does not make him hot. McSteamy, meanwhile, is sort-of hot if you squint at him from the right angle in dim light and if you're into guys who were either silent movie villains or the Count of Monte Cristo in their former lives. Take off his lab coat, wax up the ends of his mustache, and dress him in a cape and plumed hat and he'd be right at home either cackling while tying some helpless maiden to a railroad track or brandishing a rapier with a practiced flourish and a shout of "en garde!"
As far as the women go, they are even more of a shitshow, starting with the lead chick, Meredith Grey, who is played by the anorexic fifty-year-old Ellen Pompeo. If you have ever wondered why airbrushing is necessary for some women in addition to makeup, Ellen Pompeo is the case in point. On the left, you see Ellen in character, with a smooth, unlined face courtesy of Adobe Photoshop. On the right, you can see that applying approximately three bottles of foundation can only do so much to disguise the fact that her chin looks like the Western front from World War I thanks to the ravages of time. I guess her chest learned its lesson from the first World War on her face, because the Maginot Line is where her sternum should be. NOT HOT.
Then there are the lesser characters:
The ugly black guy, who cleverly distracts people from his ugliness by wearing the most hideous patterned surgical do-rags in the history of medicine.
Sandra Oh (No, You are Not Hot), who has now replaced Celine Dion in my standard "(Insert horse-faced celebrity name here) walked into a bar, bartender says 'Why the long face?'" joke. Color me totally unsurprised that her character supposedly went to Fugly Bitch U, aka Smith College.
The guy who would be kind-of hot if he weren't obviously three feet tall. His face isn't bad looking, but my innate sense of astute penis size prediction is screaming "PENCIL DICK ALERT!".
The post-op transsexual who, ironically, plays a doctor specializing in women's reproductive organ surgeries.
T.R. Knight, the guy who looks like he's twelve and whose charm is being a simpering pussy crybaby and "one of the girls" all the time.
The fat, ugly, insufferable know-it-all chick who bosses everyone around because she secretly loves them like a mother. She's the type who, if she babysat you when you were little, would force you to eat shit you didn't like and then make you thank her for looking out for your best interest. I totally love watching people like that in action almost as much as I like them telling me what to do.
The fat chick who they always show from the tits up, to make it seem like she just has big boobs instead of being generally obese.
Note that I didn't call out the one member of the cast who is actually attractive and who I would consider a viable option for some type of sexual activity. Katherine Heigl, late of "Roswell" and a variety of SciFi original movies about killer mutant insects, is indeed hot, and is rocking a pretty bangin' body to boot.
Unfortunately, Katherine Heigl is a pain in the ass in real life, as is most of the rest of the "Grey's Anatomy" cast. For those of you not addicted to internet gossip website, the big to-do as of late has been the fact that Isaiah Washington (ugly black guy) called T.R. Knight (simpering pussy) a "faggot" while he was having a girl-fight with Patrick Dempsey on set last October. At some Golden Globes press conference, a reporter asked about this, and Washington responded with "I didn't call T.R. a faggot," because he's a dumbass and a backpedaling pussy who can't stand by his name-calling. Then Katherine Heigl got all Smith girl on his ass and started saying shit like "I'm so not okay with that, that's so wrong!" or something similarly pointless to the assembled reporters. Way to celebrate that Golden Globe win, guys! Then, T.R. Knight, who is gay in real life (and was essentially forced out of the closet when Washington called him a faggot last fall), went on Ellen Degeneres's show and outright called Washington a liar, then wove a boring tale of personal triumph over adversity related to being called a faggot for the first time ever. That was the first time anyone called him a faggot? He should consider himself fortunate; many other gay people don't wait until being successfully employed on a hit TV show before ending up on the wrong end of a homophobic slur.
Don't get me wrong, because I'm not promoting co-workers routinely calling each other faggots in a derogatory way, but who gives a rat's ass? I don't care who T.R. Knight is fucking so long as it's not me, and it's irrelevant whether or not he's a cocksmoking butt pirate. The last thing I want to see on my celebrity gossip pages is a debate about this word and whether it's okay to use it affectionately (ie: "let's go dancing, you silly, fabulous little fag") when people are using it in the threatening drunken frat boy context (ie: "I'll beat your ass, you fuckin' faggot.") Perez Hilton, who routinely declares things "fagulous", outs people (ie: Lance Bass) constantly, and calls everyone under the sun "fags", has already cried for Isaiah Washington's ouster from the cast of "Grey's Anatomy." I'm not down with homophobia, and I think that all my friends hitting the same-sex tip (and myself, on occasion) should get to do so without having to suffer hateful attacks, but this "oh, that's SO wrong" type of debate is pointless and annoying. It doesn't do anything to change the minds of people who use the term in a demeaning way (and trust me, I have MANY relatives who do so, and halfassed media disapproval of some Hollywood asshole isn't going to change their minds or stop them from doing so), and it only enhances the bullshit climate of political correctness that is pervasive in our society. Even worse, it causes the larger issues (harassment and hatred of gay people) to get lost in a nebulous debate about semantics. I don't think Isaiah Washington or anyone else should get any sort of sympathy or respect for being a slur-slinging dickhead, but I don't need to hear Katherine Heigl or anyone else at a Golden Globes press conference acting like a self-righteous victim's studies major in a Smith College gender politics class telling us about her personal reasons for finding something offensive in a "like, oh my God, that makes me feel so mad because I totally know gay people and this, like, hurts their feelings and I'm a really good friend so it hurts my feelings too. Let's talk about feelings some more, because that's like, totally SUCH a productive means of finding solutions to larger social problems." Go back to being ridiculous fake TV doctors and SHUT THE FUCK UP, you morons!
So, if there weren't enough reasons to hate "Grey's Anatomy" based on the content of the actual show, now there is empirical evidence that most of the cast, gay or straight, are idiotic tools in real life. I guess that makes them more believable as the equally stupid characters they play, which is why they won the Golden Globe for "Best Shitty TV Show that Every Chick on the Planet Except Me Watches" or whatever. I never thought I would hearken fondly back to the days when the shiteous "CSI" was the most-watched show on television, but it just goes to show that you should never say never. Or faggot.
I usually respond by rolling my eyes and making some choice comment about the myriad things I hate about "Grey's Anatomy." It's like a chick flick set in a surgery ward, and there's a lot of detestable qualities to choose from.
First, I generally hate hospital shows, and I generally hate shows about self-involved retards who spend 99% of their time talking about their relationships. "Grey's Anatomy" is guilty on both counts. "Nip/Tuck", the only medical show I like, is mainly about perverts and over-the-top weirdness, not a lot of pompous dipshits who blabber on officiously about saving lives in between having implied sex with each other and gossiping about it like a bunch of seventh grade girls. On any given episode of "Nip/Tuck", Sean will hallucinate and have self-loathing sex with either a porn star or a lunatic nanny, Christian will be anally raped and cope by banging two female family members at the same time, Matt will become either a Nazi or a Scientologist and possibly have a threesome with lesbian cheerleaders, Julia will throw stuff, Annie will go crazy and cut up all her dolls, Kimber will have kinky multi-positional sex with any other member of the cast, Liz will have some hilarious tete-a-tete with Christian about the sex toys she prefers and teach a patient how to masturbate, organ harvesting gangsters and/or Colombian drug lords will wreak havoc, and they might get around to doing a tit job or repairing a botched sex change. On any given episode of "Grey's Anatomy", the characters will all sit around processing, drinking coffee, bicker about their sex lives because they're all supposedly having boring missionary position sex with each other, read Seattle magazine, process some more, do some sort of bizarre yet bloodless surgery, and then congratulate each other for saving lives. Jesus, it's not even a contest...which show you rather watch?
Second, I take issue with the assertion that the dialogue on "Grey's Anatomy" is hilarious and witty. From what I've observed, this deft scriptwriting is primarily comprised of the bitches (and their fag tag-alongs) on the show nicknaming Patrick Dempsey's character "Dr. McDreamy" and Eric Dane's character "Dr. McSteamy." If I were a patient at Seattle Grace Hospital (which people needing surgery everywhere thank Christ is a fictional institution), I would not want these fucktards getting anywhere near me with their lame jokes or a scalpel, since they seem to spend far more time crafting the former than actually doing any surgery at all. Most of the time, the surgeons on this show are dicking around in the break room or at the bar, and when they do any medicine at all, it usually involves playing Scrabble with their patients and then killing them by accident. When they kill someone, they get a slap on the wrist, the other surgeons make up a pejorative nickname for them, and they're back scrubbing in by the next episode. The malpractice premiums at Seattle Grace must be astronomically high.
Fans of the show also think the characters are very deep and are bringing unique issues to the forefront of social consciousness, like the lead character's mother, a formerly successful surgeon and negligent adulterous whore of a parent, who now is in a home because she has Alzheimer's. I was unaware that parents, much less parents who are doctors, could actually get terminal, debilitating illnesses themselves, so thanks, "Grey's Anatomy," for opening my eyes to this stark reality. Also, there are...(gasp)...interracial relationships on the show! The main black dude is boning that Asian chick who was in Sideways, the short gay dude was boning the fat Latina orthopedist, but they apparently broke up, and way back when, Dr. Alzheimer was doing the married black chief of surgery. He's struggling with the fact that he still wants to do her even though she can't remember who he is half the time. That's SO groundbreaking. I didn't know that people of different ethnic backgrounds could fuck each other or have actual relationships with each other. Oh wait, yes I did...I just forgot about my entire sexual history for a second.
My biggest problem with the show, however, is that all the characters are supposed to be attractive. There are the dueling head-old guys-in-charge, Drs. McDreamy and McSteamy.
How did everyone forget that McDreamy is PATRICK DEMPSEY? Since when was he "dreamy" in any way, except when making an appearance in a strange nicotine patch-induced nightmare? His past acting roles have involved him playing a male prostitute/pizza delivery man who porked Kirstie Alley for free and a monkey-loving vagrant who died of Ebola. Putting him in a pair of scrubs and telling us all he's a neurosurgeon now that he's old does not make him hot. McSteamy, meanwhile, is sort-of hot if you squint at him from the right angle in dim light and if you're into guys who were either silent movie villains or the Count of Monte Cristo in their former lives. Take off his lab coat, wax up the ends of his mustache, and dress him in a cape and plumed hat and he'd be right at home either cackling while tying some helpless maiden to a railroad track or brandishing a rapier with a practiced flourish and a shout of "en garde!"
As far as the women go, they are even more of a shitshow, starting with the lead chick, Meredith Grey, who is played by the anorexic fifty-year-old Ellen Pompeo. If you have ever wondered why airbrushing is necessary for some women in addition to makeup, Ellen Pompeo is the case in point. On the left, you see Ellen in character, with a smooth, unlined face courtesy of Adobe Photoshop. On the right, you can see that applying approximately three bottles of foundation can only do so much to disguise the fact that her chin looks like the Western front from World War I thanks to the ravages of time. I guess her chest learned its lesson from the first World War on her face, because the Maginot Line is where her sternum should be. NOT HOT.
Then there are the lesser characters:
The ugly black guy, who cleverly distracts people from his ugliness by wearing the most hideous patterned surgical do-rags in the history of medicine.
Sandra Oh (No, You are Not Hot), who has now replaced Celine Dion in my standard "(Insert horse-faced celebrity name here) walked into a bar, bartender says 'Why the long face?'" joke. Color me totally unsurprised that her character supposedly went to Fugly Bitch U, aka Smith College.
The guy who would be kind-of hot if he weren't obviously three feet tall. His face isn't bad looking, but my innate sense of astute penis size prediction is screaming "PENCIL DICK ALERT!".
The post-op transsexual who, ironically, plays a doctor specializing in women's reproductive organ surgeries.
T.R. Knight, the guy who looks like he's twelve and whose charm is being a simpering pussy crybaby and "one of the girls" all the time.
The fat, ugly, insufferable know-it-all chick who bosses everyone around because she secretly loves them like a mother. She's the type who, if she babysat you when you were little, would force you to eat shit you didn't like and then make you thank her for looking out for your best interest. I totally love watching people like that in action almost as much as I like them telling me what to do.
The fat chick who they always show from the tits up, to make it seem like she just has big boobs instead of being generally obese.
Note that I didn't call out the one member of the cast who is actually attractive and who I would consider a viable option for some type of sexual activity. Katherine Heigl, late of "Roswell" and a variety of SciFi original movies about killer mutant insects, is indeed hot, and is rocking a pretty bangin' body to boot.
Unfortunately, Katherine Heigl is a pain in the ass in real life, as is most of the rest of the "Grey's Anatomy" cast. For those of you not addicted to internet gossip website, the big to-do as of late has been the fact that Isaiah Washington (ugly black guy) called T.R. Knight (simpering pussy) a "faggot" while he was having a girl-fight with Patrick Dempsey on set last October. At some Golden Globes press conference, a reporter asked about this, and Washington responded with "I didn't call T.R. a faggot," because he's a dumbass and a backpedaling pussy who can't stand by his name-calling. Then Katherine Heigl got all Smith girl on his ass and started saying shit like "I'm so not okay with that, that's so wrong!" or something similarly pointless to the assembled reporters. Way to celebrate that Golden Globe win, guys! Then, T.R. Knight, who is gay in real life (and was essentially forced out of the closet when Washington called him a faggot last fall), went on Ellen Degeneres's show and outright called Washington a liar, then wove a boring tale of personal triumph over adversity related to being called a faggot for the first time ever. That was the first time anyone called him a faggot? He should consider himself fortunate; many other gay people don't wait until being successfully employed on a hit TV show before ending up on the wrong end of a homophobic slur.
Don't get me wrong, because I'm not promoting co-workers routinely calling each other faggots in a derogatory way, but who gives a rat's ass? I don't care who T.R. Knight is fucking so long as it's not me, and it's irrelevant whether or not he's a cocksmoking butt pirate. The last thing I want to see on my celebrity gossip pages is a debate about this word and whether it's okay to use it affectionately (ie: "let's go dancing, you silly, fabulous little fag") when people are using it in the threatening drunken frat boy context (ie: "I'll beat your ass, you fuckin' faggot.") Perez Hilton, who routinely declares things "fagulous", outs people (ie: Lance Bass) constantly, and calls everyone under the sun "fags", has already cried for Isaiah Washington's ouster from the cast of "Grey's Anatomy." I'm not down with homophobia, and I think that all my friends hitting the same-sex tip (and myself, on occasion) should get to do so without having to suffer hateful attacks, but this "oh, that's SO wrong" type of debate is pointless and annoying. It doesn't do anything to change the minds of people who use the term in a demeaning way (and trust me, I have MANY relatives who do so, and halfassed media disapproval of some Hollywood asshole isn't going to change their minds or stop them from doing so), and it only enhances the bullshit climate of political correctness that is pervasive in our society. Even worse, it causes the larger issues (harassment and hatred of gay people) to get lost in a nebulous debate about semantics. I don't think Isaiah Washington or anyone else should get any sort of sympathy or respect for being a slur-slinging dickhead, but I don't need to hear Katherine Heigl or anyone else at a Golden Globes press conference acting like a self-righteous victim's studies major in a Smith College gender politics class telling us about her personal reasons for finding something offensive in a "like, oh my God, that makes me feel so mad because I totally know gay people and this, like, hurts their feelings and I'm a really good friend so it hurts my feelings too. Let's talk about feelings some more, because that's like, totally SUCH a productive means of finding solutions to larger social problems." Go back to being ridiculous fake TV doctors and SHUT THE FUCK UP, you morons!
So, if there weren't enough reasons to hate "Grey's Anatomy" based on the content of the actual show, now there is empirical evidence that most of the cast, gay or straight, are idiotic tools in real life. I guess that makes them more believable as the equally stupid characters they play, which is why they won the Golden Globe for "Best Shitty TV Show that Every Chick on the Planet Except Me Watches" or whatever. I never thought I would hearken fondly back to the days when the shiteous "CSI" was the most-watched show on television, but it just goes to show that you should never say never. Or faggot.
Labels: celebrities, Grey's Anatomy, Nip/Tuck, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, TV, vulgar display of faggotry, you're ugly
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
What an inspiration
I love Jay "Young Jeezy" Jenkins almost as much as pepperoni pizza. In fact, I love Young Jeezy so much that when I was making a flyer for the Grad Student Organization party we threw a while back I was about THIS close to putting the angry snowman logo from his high fashion "Trap or Die" shirts on it.
It seems that Young Jeezy is not satisfied being the undisputed king of the cocaine market in his neck of the woods, and wants to give back to his community. Specifically, he would like to inspire the youth of Metro Atlanta to reach for their academic dreams, by acting as some type of role model. Therefore, he is sponsoring an ESSAY CONTEST:
Here are some instances of the excellent and inspiring example Young Jeezy is setting for the high school seniors of Hotlanta in his own words:
On mixing business with pleasure: "Jeezy like to drink, Jeezy like to smoke, Jeezy like to mix Arm and Hammer with his coke. Jeezy at the trap, Jeezy like to grind, Jeezy bout his paper, cause Jeezy like to shine"
On maintaining relationships with women: "I need a hoodie hoodie hood rat, she know where the cheese at, she bring it home to daddy, 'cause she know I needs it."
On plagiarism: "That's why these rap niggas take notes, recite my ad libs, borrow my quotes. Make me wanna IHOP a nigga, serve 'em with toast."
On success: "Trap all day, play all night, this is the life of a go getta."
On academic achievement: "No high school diploma, but I know math."
To demonstrate his mathematical prowess by solving probability equations: "Chances of gettin' rich like one in a million--nahh--more like two in a billion."
On chemistry: "Might cook it in the stove, might cook it in the microwave, either way it's gonna sell, I still weigh it on the scale."
Oh his masculinity: "I have a huge penis...jeah!"
On the birds and the bees: "Born in the field, I was raised in Atlanta. Pop bust a nut here so I was made in Atlanta."
On staying true to yourself in the face of adversity: "I'm-a stay thuggin' 'til the Feds come get me."
Don't get me wrong, because I'm absolutely not hating on Young Jeezy, and I completely enjoy his music and wish for his continued success (on a totally unrelated aside, I fully support what has obviously been a Herculean effort in the gym on his part; that motherfucker now actually has visible muscles as opposed to forearms that resemble fatty lamb shanks). I also acknowledge that I'm getting my Ph.D at an Ivy League school, and I'm a complete narcissist with super supportive parents who went to private school all my life with the exception of the gifted program I attended once a week in grade school, so I can't say I ever looked to the music industry for anything but entertainment. Not everyone is from such a privileged background as myself, however, and though I applaud Young Jeezy's efforts to encourage kids who like his music to focus their writing on their inspirations, I have to say that he's not exactly who I would want a high school kid to turn to when thinking about colleges or careers or even graduating high school at all. While Young Jeezy's lyrics are undoubtedly a superb primer for kids aspiring to be a former-cocaine-dealer-turned-overnight-millionaire-rapper, I don't think that the high school guidance counselors of the greater Atlanta metropolitan area would be terrifically psyched that he's marketing himself as some type of mentor.
Furthermore, I would like to know who is judging this essay contest, and I pray that it's not Young Jeezy himself. My boy Mr. 17.5 possesses a command of the English language that is at best idiomatic and at worst completely fucked-up and unintelligible. For example, one of his trademarks is his tendency to "ad lib." Usually most people think "ad libbing" refers to making a clever and unexpected, unscripted quip. Jeezy thinks this means saying "Ayyyyy," "Jeah!", "Dayummm," or "That's riiiiiight" when there is a pause between his lyrics. Also, as much as I appreciate the urban colloquialisms employed by Young Jeezy, try getting a job when you walk into the interview and ask your prospective employer "What it do? What the business is?" Sometimes in lab and we're listening to either Let's Get It!:Thug Motivation 101 or The Inspiration (a frequent occurrence), I'll intersperse talking about killing mice or running gels or whatever with a query to my platonic life partner like, "Yo, J-Sexy, can I get a ad lib?", and she'll just roll her eyes and say something like, "Oh, that silly fat man, he doesn't make any sense." Then, for good measure, she'll usually add, "And neither do you, Razzy."
Furthermore, if his song titles or MySpace blog entries are any indication, Jeezy can't spell the word "love" correctly (ie: "I luv it"), nor does he understand the concept of an acronym. His song "J.E.E.Z.Y." in no way explains what J.E.E.Z.Y. stands for, and I have the feeling Young Jeezy titled it as such because he liked the way that looked better than simply "Jeezy" or "JEEZY". And don't get me started on his claims about being "the realist." At first I thought this meant he had an astute, prudent, pragmatic worldview. After listening to him say, "They lies, they phonies, they fakes...these niggaz never sold their weight, I'm the motherfuckin' realist," I realized that he actually means "realest", an invented word meaning "the most real" in terms of drug dealing street credibility. I can only hope that the winner of this contest was able to string at least one sentence of coherent English together.
It's great that the winner gets a $2500 college scholarship and a pizza party for their class, but...an essay contest?! Keep worrying about the red dogs in your trap, Jeezy, and leave the scholarly philanthropy to people who use their public platform to discuss something besides their ability to cook, grind, and sell crack, and whose academic credentials include things beside being able to count 200 grand in crumpled-up ones.
It seems that Young Jeezy is not satisfied being the undisputed king of the cocaine market in his neck of the woods, and wants to give back to his community. Specifically, he would like to inspire the youth of Metro Atlanta to reach for their academic dreams, by acting as some type of role model. Therefore, he is sponsoring an ESSAY CONTEST:
Here are some instances of the excellent and inspiring example Young Jeezy is setting for the high school seniors of Hotlanta in his own words:
On mixing business with pleasure: "Jeezy like to drink, Jeezy like to smoke, Jeezy like to mix Arm and Hammer with his coke. Jeezy at the trap, Jeezy like to grind, Jeezy bout his paper, cause Jeezy like to shine"
On maintaining relationships with women: "I need a hoodie hoodie hood rat, she know where the cheese at, she bring it home to daddy, 'cause she know I needs it."
On plagiarism: "That's why these rap niggas take notes, recite my ad libs, borrow my quotes. Make me wanna IHOP a nigga, serve 'em with toast."
On success: "Trap all day, play all night, this is the life of a go getta."
On academic achievement: "No high school diploma, but I know math."
To demonstrate his mathematical prowess by solving probability equations: "Chances of gettin' rich like one in a million--nahh--more like two in a billion."
On chemistry: "Might cook it in the stove, might cook it in the microwave, either way it's gonna sell, I still weigh it on the scale."
Oh his masculinity: "I have a huge penis...jeah!"
On the birds and the bees: "Born in the field, I was raised in Atlanta. Pop bust a nut here so I was made in Atlanta."
On staying true to yourself in the face of adversity: "I'm-a stay thuggin' 'til the Feds come get me."
Don't get me wrong, because I'm absolutely not hating on Young Jeezy, and I completely enjoy his music and wish for his continued success (on a totally unrelated aside, I fully support what has obviously been a Herculean effort in the gym on his part; that motherfucker now actually has visible muscles as opposed to forearms that resemble fatty lamb shanks). I also acknowledge that I'm getting my Ph.D at an Ivy League school, and I'm a complete narcissist with super supportive parents who went to private school all my life with the exception of the gifted program I attended once a week in grade school, so I can't say I ever looked to the music industry for anything but entertainment. Not everyone is from such a privileged background as myself, however, and though I applaud Young Jeezy's efforts to encourage kids who like his music to focus their writing on their inspirations, I have to say that he's not exactly who I would want a high school kid to turn to when thinking about colleges or careers or even graduating high school at all. While Young Jeezy's lyrics are undoubtedly a superb primer for kids aspiring to be a former-cocaine-dealer-turned-overnight-millionaire-rapper, I don't think that the high school guidance counselors of the greater Atlanta metropolitan area would be terrifically psyched that he's marketing himself as some type of mentor.
Furthermore, I would like to know who is judging this essay contest, and I pray that it's not Young Jeezy himself. My boy Mr. 17.5 possesses a command of the English language that is at best idiomatic and at worst completely fucked-up and unintelligible. For example, one of his trademarks is his tendency to "ad lib." Usually most people think "ad libbing" refers to making a clever and unexpected, unscripted quip. Jeezy thinks this means saying "Ayyyyy," "Jeah!", "Dayummm," or "That's riiiiiight" when there is a pause between his lyrics. Also, as much as I appreciate the urban colloquialisms employed by Young Jeezy, try getting a job when you walk into the interview and ask your prospective employer "What it do? What the business is?" Sometimes in lab and we're listening to either Let's Get It!:Thug Motivation 101 or The Inspiration (a frequent occurrence), I'll intersperse talking about killing mice or running gels or whatever with a query to my platonic life partner like, "Yo, J-Sexy, can I get a ad lib?", and she'll just roll her eyes and say something like, "Oh, that silly fat man, he doesn't make any sense." Then, for good measure, she'll usually add, "And neither do you, Razzy."
Furthermore, if his song titles or MySpace blog entries are any indication, Jeezy can't spell the word "love" correctly (ie: "I luv it"), nor does he understand the concept of an acronym. His song "J.E.E.Z.Y." in no way explains what J.E.E.Z.Y. stands for, and I have the feeling Young Jeezy titled it as such because he liked the way that looked better than simply "Jeezy" or "JEEZY". And don't get me started on his claims about being "the realist." At first I thought this meant he had an astute, prudent, pragmatic worldview. After listening to him say, "They lies, they phonies, they fakes...these niggaz never sold their weight, I'm the motherfuckin' realist," I realized that he actually means "realest", an invented word meaning "the most real" in terms of drug dealing street credibility. I can only hope that the winner of this contest was able to string at least one sentence of coherent English together.
It's great that the winner gets a $2500 college scholarship and a pizza party for their class, but...an essay contest?! Keep worrying about the red dogs in your trap, Jeezy, and leave the scholarly philanthropy to people who use their public platform to discuss something besides their ability to cook, grind, and sell crack, and whose academic credentials include things beside being able to count 200 grand in crumpled-up ones.
Labels: celebrities, grammar gestapo, hilarious shit, oh the horror, rap, ridiculous absurdity, Young Jeezy
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Fucking awesome
As I've hinted at before, I'm a whore for website traffic. I was thrilled when last year I realized that I was getting around 100-150 unique hits a day at RAZZY.org, and specifically at this blog. I hadn't checked my stats for a few days, and since there has been a serious famine of opinion on the comment pages, I decided to do so. I mean, did everyone take a vow of e-silence for their New Year's resolution? Or maybe everyone was too busy doing lame shit like working or looking at pictures of Britney's stank vadge and stanker outfits or worrying about when Barack Obama is going to declare his candidacy for the ought-eight Oval Office race to read my blog. As it turns out, that's not the case. I was delighted to see that my traffic has skyrocketed, and even more delighted that it skyrocketed to the point where I get to gloat about it!
Holy shit! I've gotten up to >500 unique hits per diem! I know, I know...in comparison to some other websites, it's still pretty pathetic. However, since all of a sudden it's consistently at least 100 unique visitors above my Q4 2006 average, I'll not only take it, I'll celebrate it publicly. Looks like tonight I'm drinking Coors Light OUT OF A BOTTLE. Nothing but the good stuff for such a special occasion.
And to all you new Razzyphiles (and Haters)...velkommen!
Holy shit! I've gotten up to >500 unique hits per diem! I know, I know...in comparison to some other websites, it's still pretty pathetic. However, since all of a sudden it's consistently at least 100 unique visitors above my Q4 2006 average, I'll not only take it, I'll celebrate it publicly. Looks like tonight I'm drinking Coors Light OUT OF A BOTTLE. Nothing but the good stuff for such a special occasion.
And to all you new Razzyphiles (and Haters)...velkommen!
Labels: I LOVE IT, internet domination, Razzification
The Queen of incestuous group sex
Anyone who saw last night's Golden Globes knows that Helen Mirren totally cleaned up, getting a shiny orb for portraying not one but two Queen Elizabeths. Her co-stars and colleagues said very nice things about her. Jeremy Irons, when getting his award for his supporting actor role in Elizabeth I, said "If you can't support Helen Mirren, you can't do anything." Some other dude--I think it was the guy who wrote The Queen--called her "everybody's queen."
Dame Helen Mirren might be all high-falutin' and respected now for her skills as a thespian, and she might be set to win an Oscar and all that, but I remember where she came from. This is not the first time she has played royalty, although her most memorable past role was not royalty of the stiff upper-lipped British type. If you've ever seen Bob Guccione's Penthouse production of Caligula (which you should, because it's not only porn, there's this awesome decapitating lawnmower in it that Caligula uses to dispatch enemies whose wives he wants to bone), you may remember the then pre-damehood Helen Mirren playing "the most promiscuous woman in Rome" and the Emperor Gaius Germanicus "Little Boots" Caesar's wife Caesonia.
And if you were really paying attention when you watched that movie (which you should have been...it's been called "the Ben-Hur of porn" and "Deep Throat meets David Lynch's Dune by way of Fellini having an off day), you might remember that Dame Helen Mirren honed her craft by having a threesome with the guy from A Clockwork Orange who played Caligula and HIS SISTER. That's her with the long red hair:
I'm all for giving bitches awards for this type of artistic work. It's just too bad Dame Helen didn't take home the Globe for what she called "an exhibition of art and genitals" instead of for her roles as the uptight, sexually-repressed cunts from the House of Windsor. I mean, come on, that's some quality acting right there! If she doesn't get some type of lifetime achievement award for it at an awards show in the next few years, she will have been robbed.
Dame Helen Mirren might be all high-falutin' and respected now for her skills as a thespian, and she might be set to win an Oscar and all that, but I remember where she came from. This is not the first time she has played royalty, although her most memorable past role was not royalty of the stiff upper-lipped British type. If you've ever seen Bob Guccione's Penthouse production of Caligula (which you should, because it's not only porn, there's this awesome decapitating lawnmower in it that Caligula uses to dispatch enemies whose wives he wants to bone), you may remember the then pre-damehood Helen Mirren playing "the most promiscuous woman in Rome" and the Emperor Gaius Germanicus "Little Boots" Caesar's wife Caesonia.
And if you were really paying attention when you watched that movie (which you should have been...it's been called "the Ben-Hur of porn" and "Deep Throat meets David Lynch's Dune by way of Fellini having an off day), you might remember that Dame Helen Mirren honed her craft by having a threesome with the guy from A Clockwork Orange who played Caligula and HIS SISTER. That's her with the long red hair:
I'm all for giving bitches awards for this type of artistic work. It's just too bad Dame Helen didn't take home the Globe for what she called "an exhibition of art and genitals" instead of for her roles as the uptight, sexually-repressed cunts from the House of Windsor. I mean, come on, that's some quality acting right there! If she doesn't get some type of lifetime achievement award for it at an awards show in the next few years, she will have been robbed.
Labels: celebrities, movies, perversion, porn, sex, sluts
Monday, January 15, 2007
Another one bites the dust
Yet again, the Miss USA pageant is no longer an option for a fallen beauty queen. This time it's Miss New Jersey, Ashley (Fuck Me) Harder, who has voluntarily resigned her crown and thus her dream of competing for the title of Miss USA. Miss New Jersey is not leaving because she's jumped on the (totally awesome) Tara Conner/Katie Rees drunken coked-up exhibitionist lesbian bandwagon, but for a much less tittilating reason: her boyfriend knocked her ass up, and apparently it's against Miss USA pageant rules to compete when you're pregs.
I think that's a wise policy, because nobody wants to see some bitch running around in the swimsuit competition with stretch marks and varicose veins. However, I'm disappointed that her competitive spirit is so cowed that she wasn't willing to have an abortion to preserve her shot at the Miss USA title. I mean, that's probably also against pageant rules, but what Donald Trump doesn't know won't hurt him. He's too busy trying to sue Rosie O'Donnell and Barbara Walters to notice aspiring pageant winners going to the local Planned Parenthood to take care of business after they have unprotected sex. But alas, Ashley (Fuck Me) Harder would rather be just another 20-year-old single mom (albeit one with exceptionally large dental veneers) than Miss USA.
What a loser! And a slut!
I think that's a wise policy, because nobody wants to see some bitch running around in the swimsuit competition with stretch marks and varicose veins. However, I'm disappointed that her competitive spirit is so cowed that she wasn't willing to have an abortion to preserve her shot at the Miss USA title. I mean, that's probably also against pageant rules, but what Donald Trump doesn't know won't hurt him. He's too busy trying to sue Rosie O'Donnell and Barbara Walters to notice aspiring pageant winners going to the local Planned Parenthood to take care of business after they have unprotected sex. But alas, Ashley (Fuck Me) Harder would rather be just another 20-year-old single mom (albeit one with exceptionally large dental veneers) than Miss USA.
Labels: beauty queens, sex, sluts
Bringing the noise
My neighbor upstairs is a jazz musician, and I hear him at all hours of the night jamming. I'm not the world's biggest jazz fan, as it often sounds the same to me. Jazz is fine background music for bars and coffee houses, because it's meandering and unintrusive, but I don't typically opt for jazz when I'm massacring rodents in lab or kicking it at my crib. Even more to my distaste is the type of jazz my upstairs neighbor composes. He likes that hippie sort of jazz that is basically one interminable organ jam session. It's like listening to the full-length "Inna Gadda Da Vida," except instead of appealing to Dazed and Confused-esque 70s rockers, it appeals to white people with dreadlocks, backless shirts, and a disdain for personal hygiene who fund their nitrous habit by selling grilled cheeses made on their VW bus engine blocks. It sounds like a fucking Widespread Panic concert above me every night, and it would drive me crazy if I weren't used to living in New York. In the caliber of apartment that my salary allows (poorly constructed and only slightly larger than a veal-fattening pen), I hear everything: my neighbor's TVs, their music, their domestic squabbles, their dogs barking, etc. If I complained about every unwanted noise that filtered into my grossly overpriced living space/vermin condominium, I wouldn't have time to grouse about everything else in the world. I just learn to tune out the other noises, like in yoga class: observe without reaction or judgment.
My neighbor has clearly never taken yoga. Every time I happen to turn on my stereo, he starts pounding on his floor. At first, I thought he was just dropping heavy objects coincident with my morning Dirrty Dirrty ass rap get-psyched-for-the-day routine. However, over time his floor pounding became louder and more insistent, and I realized this was his way of telling me to turn my music down. In fact, he somehow has managed to make thumping sound downright bitchy. I dislike this passive-aggressive tactic for telling me to shut up, and furthermore, I think that if I have to put up with his neverending jam session, he can tolerate twenty minutes of Young Jeezy on low volume. At one point, we crossed paths while getting our mail, and he said something to me about it. He first gave a half-assed apology for thumping, but then immediately disqualified any sort of contrition by saying that because he's up all night composing his shitty music, he needs to sleep in the morning and the faint sounds of a bass line at 9 a.m. bother him. I said, "Well, sorry, but I watch NY1 while I wake up, then I listen to Southern rap while I'm getting dressed. It's part of my morning routine. I'll try to keep the volume down." He was not pleased, as clearly he expected me to be like, "Oh, so sorry, I will immediately amend my life to accomodate your vampiric music composing schedule and need for subsequent sleep during the day." I was annoyed with him, but resolved to continue living my life the way I have. I pay rent to live here, too, so kiss my fine voluptuous ass, hippie. I'm diurnal, and it's not my problem that you work the graveyard shift at home.
A few months ago, he started pounding at 7 p.m. on a Saturday. I was listening to Destiny's Child (and NOT ashamed of that) and puttering around the apartment, and this motherfucker starts stomping at me. I ignored it, but turned off the music and took the dogs out for their evening constitutional. He was coming down the stairs as the boys and I waited for the elevator, and decided to mention to me that sometimes my music makes it hard for him to work. He was like, "Yeah, it's just hard to think about the music I'm writing when all I hear is your music." Why is that my problem? If you need a soundproof environment, go to a fucking recording studio or something. Besides, being that MANY of our other neighbors are blasting rap, reggaeton, and/or R&B music on the regular, I'm hardly the only person listening to audible music that interferes with crafting perfect horrible hippie jazz. This guy is acting like a damn Smith girl, thinking that because he and his job are so fucking important, everyone around him should alter their lifestyles to accommodate his preferences. Additionally, I was pissed because he wouldn't just man up and clearly state his intent (turn down the fucking "Say My Name" and "Bugaboo"), choosing to instead imply that I should give a shit about how he doesn't like my music and act accordingly. I was annoyed because he was trying to be a manipulative pussy instead of stating his objective, so I just said, "Okay, whatever. Later." Then I took the dogs out and dismissed him.
Yesterday, he upped his passive-aggressive tactics to a new level by slipping a note under my door, while I was fucking asleep and thus not making any noise at all. The note irritated the shit out of me, partly because it was so bitchy and partly because he's a grown man (at least 10 years older than me) and he hasn't yet realized that "a lot" is two words:
I'm sorry to be so rude, from 6E. Better to just say something after all this time, than keep getting mad and banging on the floor.
I get woken up by a door slamming, something heavy hitting the floor, or both too many mornings (7:00-7:30). It's almost predictable.
These apartments have no sound proofing, sound carries alot. Whatever it is rattles my dishes, shakes the floor, wakes me. I need as much sleep as I can get these days working so much. I appreciate you being a good neighbor, which you are--maybe you're not aware of it. It's not easy for all these people crammed into these cubicles like sardines.
I know you've really made an effort with your music and it's much appreciated.
Again--sorry to get so pissed off. When I'm woke, when I have to work all day--it's tough. I don't hardly hear you except early morning.
Anyway--there it is. Healthier to say something than to let it go on. Please let me know if there's anything I do that bothers you. I really try to be quiet knowing these floors are like amplifiers. Thanks Again!
I have no idea what "slamming" sound he is talking about since at 7:00-7:30, I am usually either just waking up or still hitting the snooze button on my alarm clock. I suspect it may be one of my neighbors, either the chick who lives next door to me and always arrives home around this time (and slams her door), or the elderly woman on the other side who gets up at the ass crack of dawn to either fight with her man in loud Spanish or clean/rearrange her apartment with the door open in her underwear. Furthermore, I don't give a rat's ass about the quality of sleep he is getting. Therefore, today I slipped this note under the fucker's door:
Dear 6E,
I received your note and was mystified as to what sound you are talking about, as I am typically still in a state of semi-consciousness and in bed at the times you mentioned. As you astutely pointed out, these apartments are not soundproof, and it's quite possible you are hearing one of my or your neighbors making this slamming/banging noise. While I have tried to keep my music at an appropriate volume early in the morning or late at night, you rarely show me the same consideration. I frequently hear your music at all hours of the day, as well as what often sounds like moving furniture around in your apartment. I would complain, but I remind myself that this is New York City, and there is a certain amount of ambient noise inherent in living here, especially in a cheap-ass apartment building like this one. I hear my other neighbors going about their daily lives as well, and it would be foolish and inconsiderate to ask everyone around me to treat their apartments as if they were libraries and be silent to accommodate my schedule. I also work hard, and also am sometimes woken up by you and my other neighbors listening to music, slamming doors, speaking loudly, or generally making noise. I cope with this. I suggest you do the same.
Sincerely,
5E
P.S. Foam earplugs cost less than $5. You may wish to invest in a pair, as they are a more cost-effective means of accomplishing your need for undisturbed sleep than demanding that your neighbors change their lifestyles to accommodate yours.
He has yet to respond, but I've now realized that I am pissed to the point of not getting over it. I want to go up there and yell at him, but that would accomplish nothing except making me look like a fucking lunatic. Therefore, I decided to let him know exactly how concerned I was about my music, and any other noise I make, bothering him so he can get his beauty sleep (except by "beauty" I mean "ugly"; the man is a troll). I made an iTunes playlist dedicated to pissing him off.
All the music I listen to is what Vh1 would categorize as "awesomely bad." I like rap music, but not the preachy, serious stuff, like Mos Def or Talib Kweli or Common. I like rap with good beats and hilarious lyrics concerning the ins and outs of financial success at the trap, overspending at "designer malls," getting in some overweight ho's guts, customizing cars to look like crayons, opening the trunk to retrieve your Mac-10, keeping at least 6 women up in the bed, slizzin on the sizzurp/Hp-n-Hennessey/Goose, etc. Similarly, I like R&B that elicits more chuckles than the desire to make sweet love (ie: lyrics implying that "I'm butt naked in sweat socks and house shoes" is a viable seduction line), a genre mastered by the incomparable R-uh in R&B, my man Robert Sylvester Kelly. I also like some reggae, but not "Three Little Birds" or that sort of thing. I like to hear Vybz Kartel exhorting a woman to "tek buddy" (penis) because he bought her a gold-plated doorknob and paid her U.S. entry visa fee, or cautioning the young schoolgirls of Kingston to protect their virtue until they get to an an age where slutting it up in the dancehall is appropriate ("don't take feel up inna the school bus.") As far as rock goes, I'm WAY more into the Tolkien-inspired ragings of Ronnie James Dio, the soaring synthesizer riffs of Journey, and the thrashing speed guitars of "Master of Puppets"-era Metallica than John Mayer or James Blunt or whatever folksy therapy journal crap by slim penised men people listen to these days and call "rock" music. With the exception of my Chopin and Liszt fetishes, I seem to favor music that most other people find funny, ridiculous, cheesy, or just plain bad. Since everyone is entitled to their own likes and dislikes, I really don't give a fuck. My upstairs neighbor doesn't like my music, and I don't like his, so we're even. However, if he thinks that I'm going to succumb to his demands that I favor his music or need to exist comfortably over mine, in the words of Judas Priest, he's got another thing comin'.
Therefore, I decided to make a playlist on my iTunes dedicated to pissing off my neighbor. It's called the "Fuck You, Upstairs Guy" playlist. Not only do I resent his attitude that his music is a more worthy form of noise pollution than mine, I intend to let him know PRECISELY how much I care about his ability to play his shitty organ in peace. I chose the songs on this list because they represent all the kinds of music I listen to in addition to fitting several important criteria:
1. Bass, and plenty of it, ensuring that the music thunders up the walls, to counteract his floor pounding.
2. Ridiculous and/or brazenly offensive lyrics intended to distract him from whatever deep thoughts he's having about his music.
3. Incorporation of shouting, castigation, and/or screaming, to convey my frustration at his sense of entitlement to a silent apartment building in which he's the only person allowed to make noise.
4. (optional) Most people in the world except me hate the song.
Here are the songs, many of which have been featured on a Vh1 countdown about ridiculous or sucky stuff.
"I Smoke, I Drank" by Body Head Bangerz and the YoungBloodz
Upstairs guy HATES this song. Every time I turn it on, he almost immediately starts pounding. I'd advise him to follow the lyrics of this song and relax by keeping a stack-a that funny smellin' tobacca (which would certainly be consistent with his hippie leanings) and calm his nerves by getting head in the 'Burb consequent to being a fool with dem womens, but since the BHB'z and YB'z say it so much more eloquently than myself I'll defer to their masterful means of persuasion. Besides, lyrics like "I smoke, I drank, I'm supposed to stop but I can't, I'm a dog, I love hoes, and I'm addicted to money, cars, and clothes" pretty much sum up my general attitude about life. Well, except for the cars part...my money addiction has been relatively unfed as of late, thus standing in the way of my ability to satiate my need for tricked-out Lambos.
"Bills, Bills, Bills" by Destiny's Child
This song is a little off-topic, as it features Beyonce et al breaking it down to a loser boyfriend for being a broke parasite, but I like the chorus which calls him "a trifling, good-for-nothin' type of brother." That's exactly how I feel up Upstairs Guy, despite the fact that he's never been maxing out my credit card to go on shopping sprees at the mall, "perpetratin' to his friends that he be ballin'" (I can do that all on my own).
"Rock You Like a Hurricane" by the Scorpions
Because that's what Klaus Meine and his cohort of Teutonic rockers are going to do to Upstairs Guy.
"Stomp" by Young Buck, The Game, and Ludacris
This song says "Keep talkin' and you 'bout to get that ass stomped." Since Upstairs Guy is always stomping on the floor, this is my way of stomping back.
"Why We Thugs" by Ice Cube
Upstairs Guy has a particular hatred for O'Shea Jackson's classic album The Predator, and this is his new jam. Despite Cube's recent forays into mainstream kid-friendly cinema (Are We There Yet? I hope they paid him well for that.), this song's beat is guaranteed to drive Upstairs Guy crazy, and lyrics like "stop trippin' on it" and "when niggaz get tribal, it's all about survival, nobody liable." I want him to know that I will absolutely get tribal on his ass.
"Tek Buddy" by Vybz Kartel
In addition to saying things like "fuck me like Matrix inna 3-D, for the TV, DVD", Vybz is always shouting "bi-a-bi", which, if you're not into ridiculous dancehall reggae, will drive you fucking insane. I also laugh every time I hear the unforgettable lyric "I even pay your visa fee, so grab me cocky and sing on it like Alicia Keys."
"The Final Countdown" by Europe
It's sort of embarrassing that I have this mp3, because songs combining brain-melting synth riffs with lyrics about travelling through space to Venus are a bit much even for me. However, since this may be the most annoying song ever written, I have no doubt that it will stick in Upstairs Guy's craw.
"Turn Me On" by Kevin Lyttle and Madzart
As long as we're on the topic of annoying songs, this pop reggae masterpiece may be in a different genre, but it's absolutely in Europe's league. Between Kevin Lyttle's Caribbean-tinged I-just-sucked-helium falsetto and Madzart's (note: that's Madzart--not to be confused with a certain Wolfgang Amadeus) unintelligible dancehall rapping, "Turn Me On" is one of those songs where you can't decide if you should bust out your best dutty wine or pour gasoline on yourself and strike a match. With Upstairs Guy, it's likely to be the latter.
"I Like Dem Girlz" by Tyrese
I figured I may as well go for the irritating song trifecta. I like cheesy, ridiculous R&B, but "I Like Dem Girlz" by Guess model/singer/actor Tyrese is right at the edge of my tolerance envelope. Not even silly lyrical content about Tyrese's preference for gold-digging whores and/or rap video vixens ("I like dem girlz between the sheets, I like dem girlz iced up like me, I like dem girlz in the fly Gucci, rolling deep in the 6, Cartier on the wrist") makes me willingly listen to this song. However, if it bugs me this much, it will definitely send Upstairs Guy into an open mouth-insert shotgun mode.
"Under the Influence" by D12
Lyrics like "you can suck my dick if you don't like my shit" pretty much sum up my feelings regarding this situation.
I'm going to come up with some more, since I have approximately 8 days worth of music on my iTunes. I plan to determine experimentally which songs piss him off the most. The other day he started banging in response to Beethoven's Pastoral symphony, for God's sake, so I'm sure there's ample material from numerous genres in my music library to actually drive his scraggly Trey Anastacio-wannabe ass to into an inpatient treatment facility and/or out of the building permanently. Upstairs Guy wrote a bitchy note to the wrong fucking bitch. This means WAR.
My neighbor has clearly never taken yoga. Every time I happen to turn on my stereo, he starts pounding on his floor. At first, I thought he was just dropping heavy objects coincident with my morning Dirrty Dirrty ass rap get-psyched-for-the-day routine. However, over time his floor pounding became louder and more insistent, and I realized this was his way of telling me to turn my music down. In fact, he somehow has managed to make thumping sound downright bitchy. I dislike this passive-aggressive tactic for telling me to shut up, and furthermore, I think that if I have to put up with his neverending jam session, he can tolerate twenty minutes of Young Jeezy on low volume. At one point, we crossed paths while getting our mail, and he said something to me about it. He first gave a half-assed apology for thumping, but then immediately disqualified any sort of contrition by saying that because he's up all night composing his shitty music, he needs to sleep in the morning and the faint sounds of a bass line at 9 a.m. bother him. I said, "Well, sorry, but I watch NY1 while I wake up, then I listen to Southern rap while I'm getting dressed. It's part of my morning routine. I'll try to keep the volume down." He was not pleased, as clearly he expected me to be like, "Oh, so sorry, I will immediately amend my life to accomodate your vampiric music composing schedule and need for subsequent sleep during the day." I was annoyed with him, but resolved to continue living my life the way I have. I pay rent to live here, too, so kiss my fine voluptuous ass, hippie. I'm diurnal, and it's not my problem that you work the graveyard shift at home.
A few months ago, he started pounding at 7 p.m. on a Saturday. I was listening to Destiny's Child (and NOT ashamed of that) and puttering around the apartment, and this motherfucker starts stomping at me. I ignored it, but turned off the music and took the dogs out for their evening constitutional. He was coming down the stairs as the boys and I waited for the elevator, and decided to mention to me that sometimes my music makes it hard for him to work. He was like, "Yeah, it's just hard to think about the music I'm writing when all I hear is your music." Why is that my problem? If you need a soundproof environment, go to a fucking recording studio or something. Besides, being that MANY of our other neighbors are blasting rap, reggaeton, and/or R&B music on the regular, I'm hardly the only person listening to audible music that interferes with crafting perfect horrible hippie jazz. This guy is acting like a damn Smith girl, thinking that because he and his job are so fucking important, everyone around him should alter their lifestyles to accommodate his preferences. Additionally, I was pissed because he wouldn't just man up and clearly state his intent (turn down the fucking "Say My Name" and "Bugaboo"), choosing to instead imply that I should give a shit about how he doesn't like my music and act accordingly. I was annoyed because he was trying to be a manipulative pussy instead of stating his objective, so I just said, "Okay, whatever. Later." Then I took the dogs out and dismissed him.
Yesterday, he upped his passive-aggressive tactics to a new level by slipping a note under my door, while I was fucking asleep and thus not making any noise at all. The note irritated the shit out of me, partly because it was so bitchy and partly because he's a grown man (at least 10 years older than me) and he hasn't yet realized that "a lot" is two words:
I'm sorry to be so rude, from 6E. Better to just say something after all this time, than keep getting mad and banging on the floor.
I get woken up by a door slamming, something heavy hitting the floor, or both too many mornings (7:00-7:30). It's almost predictable.
These apartments have no sound proofing, sound carries alot. Whatever it is rattles my dishes, shakes the floor, wakes me. I need as much sleep as I can get these days working so much. I appreciate you being a good neighbor, which you are--maybe you're not aware of it. It's not easy for all these people crammed into these cubicles like sardines.
I know you've really made an effort with your music and it's much appreciated.
Again--sorry to get so pissed off. When I'm woke, when I have to work all day--it's tough. I don't hardly hear you except early morning.
Anyway--there it is. Healthier to say something than to let it go on. Please let me know if there's anything I do that bothers you. I really try to be quiet knowing these floors are like amplifiers. Thanks Again!
I have no idea what "slamming" sound he is talking about since at 7:00-7:30, I am usually either just waking up or still hitting the snooze button on my alarm clock. I suspect it may be one of my neighbors, either the chick who lives next door to me and always arrives home around this time (and slams her door), or the elderly woman on the other side who gets up at the ass crack of dawn to either fight with her man in loud Spanish or clean/rearrange her apartment with the door open in her underwear. Furthermore, I don't give a rat's ass about the quality of sleep he is getting. Therefore, today I slipped this note under the fucker's door:
Dear 6E,
I received your note and was mystified as to what sound you are talking about, as I am typically still in a state of semi-consciousness and in bed at the times you mentioned. As you astutely pointed out, these apartments are not soundproof, and it's quite possible you are hearing one of my or your neighbors making this slamming/banging noise. While I have tried to keep my music at an appropriate volume early in the morning or late at night, you rarely show me the same consideration. I frequently hear your music at all hours of the day, as well as what often sounds like moving furniture around in your apartment. I would complain, but I remind myself that this is New York City, and there is a certain amount of ambient noise inherent in living here, especially in a cheap-ass apartment building like this one. I hear my other neighbors going about their daily lives as well, and it would be foolish and inconsiderate to ask everyone around me to treat their apartments as if they were libraries and be silent to accommodate my schedule. I also work hard, and also am sometimes woken up by you and my other neighbors listening to music, slamming doors, speaking loudly, or generally making noise. I cope with this. I suggest you do the same.
Sincerely,
5E
P.S. Foam earplugs cost less than $5. You may wish to invest in a pair, as they are a more cost-effective means of accomplishing your need for undisturbed sleep than demanding that your neighbors change their lifestyles to accommodate yours.
He has yet to respond, but I've now realized that I am pissed to the point of not getting over it. I want to go up there and yell at him, but that would accomplish nothing except making me look like a fucking lunatic. Therefore, I decided to let him know exactly how concerned I was about my music, and any other noise I make, bothering him so he can get his beauty sleep (except by "beauty" I mean "ugly"; the man is a troll). I made an iTunes playlist dedicated to pissing him off.
All the music I listen to is what Vh1 would categorize as "awesomely bad." I like rap music, but not the preachy, serious stuff, like Mos Def or Talib Kweli or Common. I like rap with good beats and hilarious lyrics concerning the ins and outs of financial success at the trap, overspending at "designer malls," getting in some overweight ho's guts, customizing cars to look like crayons, opening the trunk to retrieve your Mac-10, keeping at least 6 women up in the bed, slizzin on the sizzurp/Hp-n-Hennessey/Goose, etc. Similarly, I like R&B that elicits more chuckles than the desire to make sweet love (ie: lyrics implying that "I'm butt naked in sweat socks and house shoes" is a viable seduction line), a genre mastered by the incomparable R-uh in R&B, my man Robert Sylvester Kelly. I also like some reggae, but not "Three Little Birds" or that sort of thing. I like to hear Vybz Kartel exhorting a woman to "tek buddy" (penis) because he bought her a gold-plated doorknob and paid her U.S. entry visa fee, or cautioning the young schoolgirls of Kingston to protect their virtue until they get to an an age where slutting it up in the dancehall is appropriate ("don't take feel up inna the school bus.") As far as rock goes, I'm WAY more into the Tolkien-inspired ragings of Ronnie James Dio, the soaring synthesizer riffs of Journey, and the thrashing speed guitars of "Master of Puppets"-era Metallica than John Mayer or James Blunt or whatever folksy therapy journal crap by slim penised men people listen to these days and call "rock" music. With the exception of my Chopin and Liszt fetishes, I seem to favor music that most other people find funny, ridiculous, cheesy, or just plain bad. Since everyone is entitled to their own likes and dislikes, I really don't give a fuck. My upstairs neighbor doesn't like my music, and I don't like his, so we're even. However, if he thinks that I'm going to succumb to his demands that I favor his music or need to exist comfortably over mine, in the words of Judas Priest, he's got another thing comin'.
Therefore, I decided to make a playlist on my iTunes dedicated to pissing off my neighbor. It's called the "Fuck You, Upstairs Guy" playlist. Not only do I resent his attitude that his music is a more worthy form of noise pollution than mine, I intend to let him know PRECISELY how much I care about his ability to play his shitty organ in peace. I chose the songs on this list because they represent all the kinds of music I listen to in addition to fitting several important criteria:
1. Bass, and plenty of it, ensuring that the music thunders up the walls, to counteract his floor pounding.
2. Ridiculous and/or brazenly offensive lyrics intended to distract him from whatever deep thoughts he's having about his music.
3. Incorporation of shouting, castigation, and/or screaming, to convey my frustration at his sense of entitlement to a silent apartment building in which he's the only person allowed to make noise.
4. (optional) Most people in the world except me hate the song.
Here are the songs, many of which have been featured on a Vh1 countdown about ridiculous or sucky stuff.
"I Smoke, I Drank" by Body Head Bangerz and the YoungBloodz
Upstairs guy HATES this song. Every time I turn it on, he almost immediately starts pounding. I'd advise him to follow the lyrics of this song and relax by keeping a stack-a that funny smellin' tobacca (which would certainly be consistent with his hippie leanings) and calm his nerves by getting head in the 'Burb consequent to being a fool with dem womens, but since the BHB'z and YB'z say it so much more eloquently than myself I'll defer to their masterful means of persuasion. Besides, lyrics like "I smoke, I drank, I'm supposed to stop but I can't, I'm a dog, I love hoes, and I'm addicted to money, cars, and clothes" pretty much sum up my general attitude about life. Well, except for the cars part...my money addiction has been relatively unfed as of late, thus standing in the way of my ability to satiate my need for tricked-out Lambos.
"Bills, Bills, Bills" by Destiny's Child
This song is a little off-topic, as it features Beyonce et al breaking it down to a loser boyfriend for being a broke parasite, but I like the chorus which calls him "a trifling, good-for-nothin' type of brother." That's exactly how I feel up Upstairs Guy, despite the fact that he's never been maxing out my credit card to go on shopping sprees at the mall, "perpetratin' to his friends that he be ballin'" (I can do that all on my own).
"Rock You Like a Hurricane" by the Scorpions
Because that's what Klaus Meine and his cohort of Teutonic rockers are going to do to Upstairs Guy.
"Stomp" by Young Buck, The Game, and Ludacris
This song says "Keep talkin' and you 'bout to get that ass stomped." Since Upstairs Guy is always stomping on the floor, this is my way of stomping back.
"Why We Thugs" by Ice Cube
Upstairs Guy has a particular hatred for O'Shea Jackson's classic album The Predator, and this is his new jam. Despite Cube's recent forays into mainstream kid-friendly cinema (Are We There Yet? I hope they paid him well for that.), this song's beat is guaranteed to drive Upstairs Guy crazy, and lyrics like "stop trippin' on it" and "when niggaz get tribal, it's all about survival, nobody liable." I want him to know that I will absolutely get tribal on his ass.
"Tek Buddy" by Vybz Kartel
In addition to saying things like "fuck me like Matrix inna 3-D, for the TV, DVD", Vybz is always shouting "bi-a-bi", which, if you're not into ridiculous dancehall reggae, will drive you fucking insane. I also laugh every time I hear the unforgettable lyric "I even pay your visa fee, so grab me cocky and sing on it like Alicia Keys."
"The Final Countdown" by Europe
It's sort of embarrassing that I have this mp3, because songs combining brain-melting synth riffs with lyrics about travelling through space to Venus are a bit much even for me. However, since this may be the most annoying song ever written, I have no doubt that it will stick in Upstairs Guy's craw.
"Turn Me On" by Kevin Lyttle and Madzart
As long as we're on the topic of annoying songs, this pop reggae masterpiece may be in a different genre, but it's absolutely in Europe's league. Between Kevin Lyttle's Caribbean-tinged I-just-sucked-helium falsetto and Madzart's (note: that's Madzart--not to be confused with a certain Wolfgang Amadeus) unintelligible dancehall rapping, "Turn Me On" is one of those songs where you can't decide if you should bust out your best dutty wine or pour gasoline on yourself and strike a match. With Upstairs Guy, it's likely to be the latter.
"I Like Dem Girlz" by Tyrese
I figured I may as well go for the irritating song trifecta. I like cheesy, ridiculous R&B, but "I Like Dem Girlz" by Guess model/singer/actor Tyrese is right at the edge of my tolerance envelope. Not even silly lyrical content about Tyrese's preference for gold-digging whores and/or rap video vixens ("I like dem girlz between the sheets, I like dem girlz iced up like me, I like dem girlz in the fly Gucci, rolling deep in the 6, Cartier on the wrist") makes me willingly listen to this song. However, if it bugs me this much, it will definitely send Upstairs Guy into an open mouth-insert shotgun mode.
"Under the Influence" by D12
Lyrics like "you can suck my dick if you don't like my shit" pretty much sum up my feelings regarding this situation.
I'm going to come up with some more, since I have approximately 8 days worth of music on my iTunes. I plan to determine experimentally which songs piss him off the most. The other day he started banging in response to Beethoven's Pastoral symphony, for God's sake, so I'm sure there's ample material from numerous genres in my music library to actually drive his scraggly Trey Anastacio-wannabe ass to into an inpatient treatment facility and/or out of the building permanently. Upstairs Guy wrote a bitchy note to the wrong fucking bitch. This means WAR.
Labels: comeuppance, Harlem world, ranting, retard rage, vengeance is sweet
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Mourning
I cannot speak of what happened during overtime in the Seahawks game today, but I will say this:
GO SAINTS! Please please please knock the piss out of Rex Grossman and those asshole Bears next week during the NFC Championship game. And make sure Reggie (Get in My) Bush is featured prominently during the game, too.
GO SAINTS! Please please please knock the piss out of Rex Grossman and those asshole Bears next week during the NFC Championship game. And make sure Reggie (Get in My) Bush is featured prominently during the game, too.
Labels: NFL football, Seahawks, tragedy
1986 is OVER
Let us, for just a moment, forget this. It will never be forgotten, and I'll take this grudge to my grave, but just for today, let's forget this ever happened:
I can let it go for right now, because the Shitsburgh Stealers didn't even make the playoffs. That's their karmic reward for fixing Super Bowl XL AKA the greatest travesty of officiating in the HISTORY of the National Football League. As much as I'd love to rub it in that the Stealers got their deserved comeuppance, I won't stray from the far more important topic at hand: the Seattle Seahawks.
Last week, I was deeply concerned that our playoff dreams were about to fall with a simple, short Dallas field goal at the end of the fourth quarter. I was gulping down scotch, prepared for the inevitability of the Hawks returning to the P-N-Dub with heavy hearts and optimistic words about next season. Then, God chose to intervene in the form of bitch-ass Tony Romo fumbling the snap and making a desperate and ultimately futile path for the goal line. Romo wept, and is probably seeking solace in the arms of his alleged (busted) girlfriend, "American Idol" winner and Hershey's chocolate spokeswoman Carrie Underwood.
Romo made like Justin Timberlake and cried me a river, and I celebrated jubilantly with SoCo shots. This weekend, reality has set in, and we are playing the Chicago Bears, who destroyed us 37-6 during the regular season. The bar that I go to for football is a Bears bar. Normally this doesn't cause a problem, because the Bears fans all stick to one corner of the bar, and don't do much in the way of being obnoxious besides ringing this huge iron bell every time the Bears make a big play. However, I'm already prepared to be the only 12th man in the bar, and I'm not going to sit around quietly and let the Bears fans run the show. I'm going to get there an hour early and make sure I'm sufficiently liquored up before the game even starts, so I can get LOUD (moreso than usual) and belligerent with the Bears fans. I predict that the game MIGHT end with me throwing an entire pitcher of light American lager all over some asshole's Payton or Sayers retro jersey. There will be no more fond flashing back to the '85 Bears, no pleasant reminiscing about Jim McMahon's sunglasses or how he mooned New Orleans and called their women "sluts", no misty-eyed tales of Refrigerator Perry doing the Super Bowl shuffle, no deification of Coach Ditka. This is 2007, and the Bears are now a team led by the easily frightened Rex Grossman (and on an aside to everyone who has ever e-mailed me demanding his removal from my Hot Jews list, I know he's not Jewish, and I'll be more inclined to remember to take his ass off the list if the Bears win today). The Seahawks, if they decide to bring it today, have a fighting chance to see my new object of lust, Reggie (Get in my Bush), and the New Orleans Saints in the NFC Championship game next week.
So GO SEAHAWKS!
And I'd be remiss and a disgrace to the south Sound if I didn't rep the 253 by including a picture of the Tacoma Dome flying the 12th man flag (backwards, as is fitting for Tacoma). Again, GO SEAHAWKS!
Last week, I was deeply concerned that our playoff dreams were about to fall with a simple, short Dallas field goal at the end of the fourth quarter. I was gulping down scotch, prepared for the inevitability of the Hawks returning to the P-N-Dub with heavy hearts and optimistic words about next season. Then, God chose to intervene in the form of bitch-ass Tony Romo fumbling the snap and making a desperate and ultimately futile path for the goal line. Romo wept, and is probably seeking solace in the arms of his alleged (busted) girlfriend, "American Idol" winner and Hershey's chocolate spokeswoman Carrie Underwood.
Romo made like Justin Timberlake and cried me a river, and I celebrated jubilantly with SoCo shots. This weekend, reality has set in, and we are playing the Chicago Bears, who destroyed us 37-6 during the regular season. The bar that I go to for football is a Bears bar. Normally this doesn't cause a problem, because the Bears fans all stick to one corner of the bar, and don't do much in the way of being obnoxious besides ringing this huge iron bell every time the Bears make a big play. However, I'm already prepared to be the only 12th man in the bar, and I'm not going to sit around quietly and let the Bears fans run the show. I'm going to get there an hour early and make sure I'm sufficiently liquored up before the game even starts, so I can get LOUD (moreso than usual) and belligerent with the Bears fans. I predict that the game MIGHT end with me throwing an entire pitcher of light American lager all over some asshole's Payton or Sayers retro jersey. There will be no more fond flashing back to the '85 Bears, no pleasant reminiscing about Jim McMahon's sunglasses or how he mooned New Orleans and called their women "sluts", no misty-eyed tales of Refrigerator Perry doing the Super Bowl shuffle, no deification of Coach Ditka. This is 2007, and the Bears are now a team led by the easily frightened Rex Grossman (and on an aside to everyone who has ever e-mailed me demanding his removal from my Hot Jews list, I know he's not Jewish, and I'll be more inclined to remember to take his ass off the list if the Bears win today). The Seahawks, if they decide to bring it today, have a fighting chance to see my new object of lust, Reggie (Get in my Bush), and the New Orleans Saints in the NFC Championship game next week.
So GO SEAHAWKS!
And I'd be remiss and a disgrace to the south Sound if I didn't rep the 253 by including a picture of the Tacoma Dome flying the 12th man flag (backwards, as is fitting for Tacoma). Again, GO SEAHAWKS!
Labels: NFL football, P-N-Dub, Reggie (Get In My) Bush, Seahawks
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Straight up, now tell me anything coherent
My friend MillerTime back in the P-N-Dub always watches this morning show called "Mornings Live on Q", on Q13, Seattle's FOX affiliate. She used to watch it because she thought weatherman Walter Kelly was cute (to digress, I almost once mowed Walter Kelly down with my trusty Honda Civic as he emerged from the Starbucks down the street from my old office). Even after Walter Kelly was moved to the 11:00 news, she kept watching "Mornings Live on Q" because she likes the cheesy features they have, like showing pictures of dogs wearing stupid outfits and going "awwwwwww".
Since MillerTime takes roughly three hours to get ready for work in the morning, she gets to watch most of the show. Therefore, she MUST have seen this interview from a couple of days ago, which proves that Paula Abdul is certifiably insane and apparently self-medicating with a combination of Wild Turkey, Quaaludes, and good old-fashioned crack cocaine. Paula's eyes are rolling all over the place, she constantly sways her head from side to side, and all of what can be debatably be called speech that issues from her mouth sounds like someone failing a field sobriety test in an episode of "Cops." It's hardly the peppy "hey, you guys should watch the premiere of AmericanShitshow Idol" that was presumably the reason for her doing this interview in the first place. Behold, proof that Paula Abdul has just dethroned Whitney Houston as the most drugged-out has-been pop singer:
Supposedly Paula Abdul doesn't drink and has NEVER drank a drop in her life. Sha right. Given the above damning video evidence, I've determined that she is straight up LYING about her membership in the temperance league. I know also from my encyclopedic knowledge of E! True Hollywood Stories that she suffers from some rare chronic pain disorder. Obviously, she's still working that to the max in order to maintain a hefty Oxycontin prescription. If ever there was a human being easily associated with those old anti-drug commercials where they fry an egg and declare it "your brain on drugs", it's Paula Abdul.
My favorite quote is after Paula Abdul agrees with Simon Cowell and disses the caliber of singers from Seattle, thus prompting some feeble protests from the interviewers. Paula advises them that there's no such thing as bad publicity (famous last words), and that they should "eat it up" and proclaim that "Seattle has the best delusional people." Takes one to know one, Paula.
Since MillerTime takes roughly three hours to get ready for work in the morning, she gets to watch most of the show. Therefore, she MUST have seen this interview from a couple of days ago, which proves that Paula Abdul is certifiably insane and apparently self-medicating with a combination of Wild Turkey, Quaaludes, and good old-fashioned crack cocaine. Paula's eyes are rolling all over the place, she constantly sways her head from side to side, and all of what can be debatably be called speech that issues from her mouth sounds like someone failing a field sobriety test in an episode of "Cops." It's hardly the peppy "hey, you guys should watch the premiere of American
Supposedly Paula Abdul doesn't drink and has NEVER drank a drop in her life. Sha right. Given the above damning video evidence, I've determined that she is straight up LYING about her membership in the temperance league. I know also from my encyclopedic knowledge of E! True Hollywood Stories that she suffers from some rare chronic pain disorder. Obviously, she's still working that to the max in order to maintain a hefty Oxycontin prescription. If ever there was a human being easily associated with those old anti-drug commercials where they fry an egg and declare it "your brain on drugs", it's Paula Abdul.
My favorite quote is after Paula Abdul agrees with Simon Cowell and disses the caliber of singers from Seattle, thus prompting some feeble protests from the interviewers. Paula advises them that there's no such thing as bad publicity (famous last words), and that they should "eat it up" and proclaim that "Seattle has the best delusional people." Takes one to know one, Paula.
Labels: American Idol, celebrities, crazies, drugs, MillerTime, P-N-Dub, ridiculous absurdity
Friday, January 12, 2007
Double the pleasure, double the fun
You might not think I'm the poetry-reading type, but there's nothing I love more than a well-crafted piece of verse. I'm not talking about any of that Shakespeare or T.S. Eliot doggerel; that stuff that literary types study is usually shit. No, I am talking about masterpieces of rhyme such as the one below:
I love playing two-hand touch
Eating way too much
Watching my team win...
With the twins!
I love quarterbacks eating dirt
Pom-poms and short skirts
Fans who won't quit...
And those twins!
I love watching football on TV
Shots of Gena Lee
Hanging with my friends...
And twins!
I love burritos at 4 a.m.
Parties that never end
Dogs that love cats...
And...and TWINS!
Okay, so that wasn't really a poem so much as it was a Coors Light commercial from 2003, but as far as I'm concerned, it's a stunning achievement of balladry. Obviously the people behind the current Jim Mora, Sr. "Playoffs?!" commercial this year are fucking geniuses, and it's thus no surprise that they're currently ruling the world of awesome football-related beer commercials. They really captured something special with those old twins commercials. Who doesn't love twins? Twins have been lauded for their great achievements throughout history. In Greek mythology, Prometheus brought fire to mankind (although his brother Epimetheus was a tool and boned the incredibly stupid Pandora--she of the reviled box--thus balancing out Prometheus's contribution), and Apollo and Artemis were two of the hottest immortals to hit the Olympian nectar-and-ambrosia circuit. More recently, Mary-Kate and Ashley became the entertainment industry's first teenage billionaires and brought hideous sack-like clothing into fashion, and Jenna and Barbara Bush, with their wild, underage tequila-drinking ways, are the only remotely cool thing about our current presidential administration. Without twins, Wrigley would never have cornered the lucrative gum market, and after he hops on his Schwinn and tells the homies "Aight, then", Warren G would have nobody to cite when requiring validation for making them ends. Twins are a cornerstone of our society.
Twins have always played an important role in my life, including the Coors Light twins, who I saw battle each other in a pillow fight at Wrestlemania XIX in Seattle several years ago. In my personal life, I am the honorary "third twin" of my high school best friend G-Boner and her sister M-Boner, and I still attend many of their family affairs when I'm home in the P-N-Dub. And every time I get into some sort of trouble a la threats of litigation from Paula James, menacing by Ja-Fake-Ans who don't eat pussy, or attempts by accomplices of Tej Bindra to get me assaulted via Craigslist, I promptly call up RAZZY.org's original and platinum-elite status Razzyphiles HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair, who are identical twins as well as my providers of free legal counsel. Plus, they're all dark and swarthy, and that's so how I roll. And thanks to them, I now have a picture of me doing what everyone in the world secretly wants to do and tapped into the cultural zeitgeist captured by the aforementioned Coors Light commercials: act the fool up in the Puyallup house party with a twin on each arm. I couldn't have rang in the New Year any better.
I AM the American dream, bitches!
I love playing two-hand touch
Eating way too much
Watching my team win...
With the twins!
I love quarterbacks eating dirt
Pom-poms and short skirts
Fans who won't quit...
And those twins!
I love watching football on TV
Shots of Gena Lee
Hanging with my friends...
And twins!
I love burritos at 4 a.m.
Parties that never end
Dogs that love cats...
And...and TWINS!
Okay, so that wasn't really a poem so much as it was a Coors Light commercial from 2003, but as far as I'm concerned, it's a stunning achievement of balladry. Obviously the people behind the current Jim Mora, Sr. "Playoffs?!" commercial this year are fucking geniuses, and it's thus no surprise that they're currently ruling the world of awesome football-related beer commercials. They really captured something special with those old twins commercials. Who doesn't love twins? Twins have been lauded for their great achievements throughout history. In Greek mythology, Prometheus brought fire to mankind (although his brother Epimetheus was a tool and boned the incredibly stupid Pandora--she of the reviled box--thus balancing out Prometheus's contribution), and Apollo and Artemis were two of the hottest immortals to hit the Olympian nectar-and-ambrosia circuit. More recently, Mary-Kate and Ashley became the entertainment industry's first teenage billionaires and brought hideous sack-like clothing into fashion, and Jenna and Barbara Bush, with their wild, underage tequila-drinking ways, are the only remotely cool thing about our current presidential administration. Without twins, Wrigley would never have cornered the lucrative gum market, and after he hops on his Schwinn and tells the homies "Aight, then", Warren G would have nobody to cite when requiring validation for making them ends. Twins are a cornerstone of our society.
Twins have always played an important role in my life, including the Coors Light twins, who I saw battle each other in a pillow fight at Wrestlemania XIX in Seattle several years ago. In my personal life, I am the honorary "third twin" of my high school best friend G-Boner and her sister M-Boner, and I still attend many of their family affairs when I'm home in the P-N-Dub. And every time I get into some sort of trouble a la threats of litigation from Paula James, menacing by Ja-Fake-Ans who don't eat pussy, or attempts by accomplices of Tej Bindra to get me assaulted via Craigslist, I promptly call up RAZZY.org's original and platinum-elite status Razzyphiles HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair, who are identical twins as well as my providers of free legal counsel. Plus, they're all dark and swarthy, and that's so how I roll. And thanks to them, I now have a picture of me doing what everyone in the world secretly wants to do and tapped into the cultural zeitgeist captured by the aforementioned Coors Light commercials: act the fool up in the Puyallup house party with a twin on each arm. I couldn't have rang in the New Year any better.
I AM the American dream, bitches!
Labels: G-Boner, hot dudes, HotLawyer, I LOVE IT, M-Boner, Morrissey'sHair, Razzification, Razzyphiles
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Stuntin' WITH your daddy
In case you are unfamiliar with Dwayne "Lil' Wayne AKA Weezy" Michael Carter, he is a slender, petite rapper from New Orleans, and is one of the few 'Nolia project natives not beefing with Cash Money Records. In fact, he is the sort-of adopted son of Brian "Baby/Birdman" Williams, who owns the record label and has made a living rapping about the cocaine trade and selling Lugz boots. Their new duet, "Stuntin' Like My Daddy", is an emotional reflection on the dynamics of their father-son relationship. However, I wonder whether their happy little family isn't just a little screwed up.
On my last visit to the P-N-Dub, I was hanging with the R-uh and we were talking about the best Southern rappers, and after a brief detour in which the R-uh rhapsodized about Juvenile's song "Huh", we got on the topic of the remaining Cash Money Records loyalists. The R-uh opined that Birdman was a stand-up guy, but Lil' Wayne was a scrawny little bitch. I concurred with his assessment of Lil' Wayne, but mentioned that I felt Birdman was less of a "stand-up" guy than a down-low guy.
"Haven't you ever seen that picture of Lil' Wayne and Baby making out?" I asked.
"What picture of them making out?" he responded.
THIS picture of them making out:
Okay, so they're not really making out as much as giving each other a friendly peck...ON THE LIPS. You can see how this is going over with the dudes witnessing this public display of affection, and, judging by the look on the faces of the three onlookers behind them and to their right, it isn't being interpreted as a touching father-son moment. I particularly love the expression of incredulity and disgust the fat man in the white shirt and white headband is sporting; you can almost hear him saying, "Aw, HELL no!" Meanwhile, the guy on the right who looks like a thugged-out cross between Lorenzo Lamas and Rick Fox looks somewhat titillated by the proceedings, swirling his champagne flute and thinking, "Oooo, damn, that's hot."
Although some blog pundits have raised questions about the veracity of this image, G-Unit South rapper Young Buck decried accusations that this picture was Photoshopped, as he eloquently attested in an interview several months ago. Although I don't see Young Buck anywhere in the above photo, he claims he was present and offers his eyewitness account: "I seen that shit go down. I ain't gonna sit here and fuckin' lie...That is just some gay ass shit!"
Correction, Buck. That is some gay ass INCESTOUS shit! It makes me really rethink what the hell these two are actually talking about when they use the word "stuntin'". I used to think it meant to flamboyantly show off one's wealth and station in society by drawing others' attention to one's designer clothes, furs, luxury automobiles, jewelry, and harem of zaftig whores hoping to get promoted to video vixen. Apparently, it might also have something to do with hooking up with your de facto family members. Gross.
On my last visit to the P-N-Dub, I was hanging with the R-uh and we were talking about the best Southern rappers, and after a brief detour in which the R-uh rhapsodized about Juvenile's song "Huh", we got on the topic of the remaining Cash Money Records loyalists. The R-uh opined that Birdman was a stand-up guy, but Lil' Wayne was a scrawny little bitch. I concurred with his assessment of Lil' Wayne, but mentioned that I felt Birdman was less of a "stand-up" guy than a down-low guy.
"Haven't you ever seen that picture of Lil' Wayne and Baby making out?" I asked.
"What picture of them making out?" he responded.
THIS picture of them making out:
Although some blog pundits have raised questions about the veracity of this image, G-Unit South rapper Young Buck decried accusations that this picture was Photoshopped, as he eloquently attested in an interview several months ago. Although I don't see Young Buck anywhere in the above photo, he claims he was present and offers his eyewitness account: "I seen that shit go down. I ain't gonna sit here and fuckin' lie...That is just some gay ass shit!"
Correction, Buck. That is some gay ass INCESTOUS shit! It makes me really rethink what the hell these two are actually talking about when they use the word "stuntin'". I used to think it meant to flamboyantly show off one's wealth and station in society by drawing others' attention to one's designer clothes, furs, luxury automobiles, jewelry, and harem of zaftig whores hoping to get promoted to video vixen. Apparently, it might also have something to do with hooking up with your de facto family members. Gross.
Labels: Birdman, Cash Money, gross, Lil' Wayne, perversion, rap, the R-uh, vulgar display of faggotry
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Must buys for my boudoir
A friend of mine employed by a major news network has just tipped me off to some serious breaking news in the business world. It seems my boyfriend Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson has just informed GQ that he plans on further broadening his line of signature products to include condoms and sex toys. And I quote:
"I need to make a 50 Cent condom, and a motorized version of me."While he has stated that he wants his condom line to promote HIV/AIDS awareness and safe sex, he doesn't quite have the particulars figured out regarding his 50 Cent vibrator. I applaud the amount of thought he's putting into it, though. Clearly he's trying to think from a woman's point of view, as he's considered many of the more practical aspects of vibrator use:
"A motorized version of me will definitely have to be waterproof, so you could utilize it in the tub. A lot of them (vibrators) aren't waterproof."I could add that, in my experience, a superior vibrator is one that plugs into a wall outlet. The Sharper Image sells a lot of "neck massagers" that are excellent for this purpose. I've found that the battery-powered ones, while having the advantage of portability, often lose their juice too quickly. However, it is true that there are precious few vibrators that can stand immersion, or more importantly, that won't electrocute you if introduced to the bath or shower. For years, women have been compromised with those variable-speed massaging shower-heads, which I've always found to be woefully inadequate for rubbing one off (it's easier to just do it the old-fashioned way with your dominant hand) AND potent inducers of urinary tract infections. Fitty would clearly be getting into a market with plenty of room to grow by making a waterproof vibrator. This isn't the only concern my man Curtis has for his line of G-Unit pleasuring devices, though.
"Blue is my favorite color, so it would probably be blue. But I don't know how big. I don't know if big is better, because I'm not sure a man wants his woman playing with a really big dildo."Typical men...always concerned first and foremost with their own stupid fucking penis insecurity issues. I wonder if this isn't a clever ruse to distract consumers from the fact that a "motorized version" of himself might not be the hugest weiner women have ever seen. I mean, I've obviously seen his penis like a zillion times, but I'm not at liberty to say how big it actually is because he swore me to secrecy. All I have to say to him is baby, if you want to make a product that women will want to use, that shit better have some girth and *several* different speeds! At least Fitty's final word on the project makes sense:
"I want to create something like that, that's fun and sexually exciting for women."If you pull it off, bitches everywhere will be glad to get in your car, Fitty!
Labels: 50 cent, boyfriends, capitalism, I LOVE IT, masturbation, perversion, rap, sex
So this explains it
Since I got back to New York, I've gotten several queries along the lines of "I read your blog. Are you hitting it with chicks again?"
The answer to that is no, not really. I think chicks are hot and sexy, and I'd rather look at a naked chick than a naked dude, but when it comes down to it, I'm in for the function over form. Therefore, I'll always be partial to a good, old-fashioned hard penis. Just because I've occasionally strayed from my "strictly dickly" approach to my sexuality doesn't mean that I'm switching teams permanently.
Now I have some insight, direct from the pages of Nature, which may help those curious about why I'll occasionally indulge in some Sapphic action. For whatever reason, Nature seems to devote far more coverage to the science of same-sex doin' it than any other elite science journal. For example, there were no pictures of gay animal sex (ie: male giraffes fudge packing or male whales sticking their dicks in each others' blowholes) in Science or Cell, but Nature devoted an entire page to it. J-Sexy has this picture hanging above her desk, indicating that Nature is obviously the go-to journal regarding stories appealing to scientists with more prurient interests.
The "News and Views" section of Nature covers interesting research published this week in any journal. I am glad they do, because I don't routinely read Proceedings of the Royal Society, and I would have missed an important study modeling the prevalence of the as-yet unidentified gay gene in the human population. I abbreviated it here, because nobody really cares about Gavrilets and Rice's speculative theories about whether this hypothetical gay gene is X-linked or autosomal or their musings about homosexuality being "a Darwinian paradox." The important part is highlighted in bold text anyway, and is quite succinct. Read for yourself:
Yes! Finally, a genetics study that's actually interesting! Note the conclusion in the abstract of this blurb: "The model also predicts widespread bisexuality in humans." The next time someone asks me why I'm getting down with the ladies, I'll just refer them to this article and attribute it to the normal phenotype of someone heterozygous for gay and straight alleles at the sexual preferences locus. It makes sense. I hope that next they tackle distribution of the pull-my-hair-while-you're-doing-me-doggystyle gene among the population. Gavrilets and Rice are doing some of the most meaningful genetics research EVER...it's way more insightful than dicking around with Drosophila or C. elegans. I hope they get funding for years to come, and I look forward to all their future papers.
The answer to that is no, not really. I think chicks are hot and sexy, and I'd rather look at a naked chick than a naked dude, but when it comes down to it, I'm in for the function over form. Therefore, I'll always be partial to a good, old-fashioned hard penis. Just because I've occasionally strayed from my "strictly dickly" approach to my sexuality doesn't mean that I'm switching teams permanently.
Now I have some insight, direct from the pages of Nature, which may help those curious about why I'll occasionally indulge in some Sapphic action. For whatever reason, Nature seems to devote far more coverage to the science of same-sex doin' it than any other elite science journal. For example, there were no pictures of gay animal sex (ie: male giraffes fudge packing or male whales sticking their dicks in each others' blowholes) in Science or Cell, but Nature devoted an entire page to it. J-Sexy has this picture hanging above her desk, indicating that Nature is obviously the go-to journal regarding stories appealing to scientists with more prurient interests.
The "News and Views" section of Nature covers interesting research published this week in any journal. I am glad they do, because I don't routinely read Proceedings of the Royal Society, and I would have missed an important study modeling the prevalence of the as-yet unidentified gay gene in the human population. I abbreviated it here, because nobody really cares about Gavrilets and Rice's speculative theories about whether this hypothetical gay gene is X-linked or autosomal or their musings about homosexuality being "a Darwinian paradox." The important part is highlighted in bold text anyway, and is quite succinct. Read for yourself:
Yes! Finally, a genetics study that's actually interesting! Note the conclusion in the abstract of this blurb: "The model also predicts widespread bisexuality in humans." The next time someone asks me why I'm getting down with the ladies, I'll just refer them to this article and attribute it to the normal phenotype of someone heterozygous for gay and straight alleles at the sexual preferences locus. It makes sense. I hope that next they tackle distribution of the pull-my-hair-while-you're-doing-me-doggystyle gene among the population. Gavrilets and Rice are doing some of the most meaningful genetics research EVER...it's way more insightful than dicking around with Drosophila or C. elegans. I hope they get funding for years to come, and I look forward to all their future papers.
Labels: I LOVE IT, perversion, Razzification, science, sex
More than meets the eye
I always envied my brother's toys when I was little. Boy toys are way better than girl toys, because they lend themselves to much more interesting adventures than dolls and fake fucking kitchen sets that they give little girls to play with. As far as I was concerned, nothing involving domestic chores could be considered a fun toy (anyone who has seen my skills as a housekeeper can attest that I maintain this view to this day). I never played with my girl toys right anyway.
My Barbies were all ambitious career women, earning their keeps as librarians, scientists, mortgage brokers, high-level diplomats, fighter pilots, etc. They were all also lesbians because there weren't enough Ken dolls to go around. My two pathetic Ken dolls wound up forgotten, cuckolded pussies on unemployment sitting around while their female counterparts ruled the world and drove each other to and from work in the pink Corvette they all shared. I never saw the point of my My Little Ponies, except as the occasional transportation to the office for my Barbies when the Vette was in the shop. My Little Ponies didn't have opposable thumbs and could thus accomplish no useful job besides that of a pack animal, and their greatest attributes were glittery mane and tail hair and scratch-and-sniff brands on their asses. Even the "Pegasus" My Little Ponies, which would be useful because they can supposedly fly, had these stupid vestigial wings that wouldn't have been remotely functional in any real world flying situation, and particularly wouldn't have produced enough lift to hoist a fat horse's ass off the ground. Meanwhile, my Cabbage Patch Kids, rather than stirring my innate maternal instincts and getting me to look forward to when I can be a mommy to a REAL baby, were doing duty as the foundation of the discarded crap pile in my room.
I thought my brother, Lil Tevie, had far superior toys. G.I. Joes, He Man and the Masters of the Universe, Transformers, and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were all much more interesting to me. They were toys with a premise of action, and had a purpose, whether it be battling covert terror organizations or harnessing the Power of Grayskull. I thought those callings were far more interesting than toys that exist mainly to be orphan babies harvested from a vegetable patch or pastel-colored ponies that were piss-poor even as beasts of burden.
That is why, when I saw this trailer, I got really excited. Ever since Dolph Lundgren ruined the cinematic legacy of He Man, I've been skeptical about the conversion of rad boy toys into movies. But if anyone can do it, Michael "More Explosions!" Bay can, and so far, it appears he's going to rock my fucking face off:
How cool is that? If I were a dude, I'd have like the world's biggest erection after seeing that trailer. Yes, that is the mind-blowing awesomeness of applying a huge budget to tell the tale of the benevolent Martian robots that transform into long-haul 18-wheelers pitted against evil Martian robots that transform into military aircraft, with humanity hanging in the balance. In other words, it's the Autobots v. the Decepticons! Robots in disguise! FUCKING RAD!
My Barbies were all ambitious career women, earning their keeps as librarians, scientists, mortgage brokers, high-level diplomats, fighter pilots, etc. They were all also lesbians because there weren't enough Ken dolls to go around. My two pathetic Ken dolls wound up forgotten, cuckolded pussies on unemployment sitting around while their female counterparts ruled the world and drove each other to and from work in the pink Corvette they all shared. I never saw the point of my My Little Ponies, except as the occasional transportation to the office for my Barbies when the Vette was in the shop. My Little Ponies didn't have opposable thumbs and could thus accomplish no useful job besides that of a pack animal, and their greatest attributes were glittery mane and tail hair and scratch-and-sniff brands on their asses. Even the "Pegasus" My Little Ponies, which would be useful because they can supposedly fly, had these stupid vestigial wings that wouldn't have been remotely functional in any real world flying situation, and particularly wouldn't have produced enough lift to hoist a fat horse's ass off the ground. Meanwhile, my Cabbage Patch Kids, rather than stirring my innate maternal instincts and getting me to look forward to when I can be a mommy to a REAL baby, were doing duty as the foundation of the discarded crap pile in my room.
I thought my brother, Lil Tevie, had far superior toys. G.I. Joes, He Man and the Masters of the Universe, Transformers, and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were all much more interesting to me. They were toys with a premise of action, and had a purpose, whether it be battling covert terror organizations or harnessing the Power of Grayskull. I thought those callings were far more interesting than toys that exist mainly to be orphan babies harvested from a vegetable patch or pastel-colored ponies that were piss-poor even as beasts of burden.
That is why, when I saw this trailer, I got really excited. Ever since Dolph Lundgren ruined the cinematic legacy of He Man, I've been skeptical about the conversion of rad boy toys into movies. But if anyone can do it, Michael "More Explosions!" Bay can, and so far, it appears he's going to rock my fucking face off:
How cool is that? If I were a dude, I'd have like the world's biggest erection after seeing that trailer. Yes, that is the mind-blowing awesomeness of applying a huge budget to tell the tale of the benevolent Martian robots that transform into long-haul 18-wheelers pitted against evil Martian robots that transform into military aircraft, with humanity hanging in the balance. In other words, it's the Autobots v. the Decepticons! Robots in disguise! FUCKING RAD!
Labels: I LOVE IT, movies, Razzification
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Queen of the Lakes Baghdad
BigBagel sent me the following e-mail today:
From: BigBagel (bigbagel@dirrtydirrtypulitzerprizewinningnewspaper)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: [Fwd: Minnesotan Trades Crown for Cammies]
In keeping with the beauty contest theme:
QUEEN OF THE MUTHER FUCKING LAKES TAKES IRAQ, BITCHES!
This may be my favorite ever DoD press release
Minnesotan Trades Crown for Cammies
By Samantha L. Quigley
American Forces Press Service
WASHINGTON, Jan. 9, 2007 - A 22-year-old college student recently traded her beauty-queen tiara for the Kevlar helmet she'll wear when she deploys with her Minnesota Army National Guard unit to Iraq.
For the past six months, Jessica Gaulke's life has been about college classes and making appearances as Minneapolis' 2007 Aquatennial Queen of the Lakes, but soon it will focus on helping lead Iraq to a peaceful democracy.
The Augsburg College senior studying sociology will be deploying as Spc. Jessica Gaulke with the 2nd Battalion, 147th Assault Helicopter Battalion. The unit is scheduled to start training at Fort Hood, Texas, this spring in advance of a yearlong tour in Iraq.
"I'm feeling strong to go. The training I've received is good training, and I'm prepared," Gaulke said. But her military obligation, which she accepted in February 2002 when she joined the National Guard, has ended her rein as Queen of the Lakes.
Although it was never her lifelong ambition to win a beauty pageant, she said the abbreviated experience has been wonderful. So, although she admits it was bittersweet to hand over her crown Jan. 4, she said she feels no resentment.
"I've heard this whole time that, 'You could go. You never know when you're going to go, but you could go at any time and they don't even have to give you notice,'" Gaulke said. "I'm thankful for the six months that I've had (as Queen of the Lakes). Of course, I would have liked to finish the year out, but what I've experienced has been amazing."
During the six months as Aquatennial Queen of the Lakes, she juggled her National Guard drill duties and schoolwork with her public appearances, she said.
"I do it pretty well, actually. I've had to do a couple of changes in my car going from drill to parades," Gaulke said. "I think maybe this is changing the whole outlook on the pageant system and scholarship programs because it's not all about the glitz and glam.
"It's really about the person you are," she said. "Sometimes I don't look the best, but people understand."
Although she's been dubbed the "Brave Beauty," Gaulke said she won her crown based on who she is. "There's no swimsuit, there's no gown or fishbowl questions, things like that we normally see in Miss America," she said. "It's based on your school, your volunteer experience, what you're active in currently."
Gaulke carries a 3.3 grade point average and volunteers as a coach for her high school lacrosse team in the spring. She also works with the Minneapolis-based Open Arms, an organization that makes and delivers meals for residents with HIV/AIDS.
For the down-to-earth beauty queen, trading her crown for cammies is no big deal. "Switching one for the other ... I signed up for it and I knew it was a possibility," Gaulke said.
There's another major life event on the near horizon that makes giving up her crown to head to Iraq seem easy in comparison. "I'm getting married next week," she said, adding that her newlywed husband, whom she'll be leaving behind soon, will take care of their two dogs and the new home the couple just purchased.
"I'm excited and I think life is bringing me in the right direction," she said. "Things happen for a reason."
Yeah, right. I don't believe this song and dance about her "military obligation" being the reason she relinquished her crown. This was obviously to cover up the "brave beauty" and former Miss Robbinsdale's recent habits of tearing up the Minneapolis nightlife scene and bringing disgrace upon the much-revered name of the Aquatennial Queen of the Lakes. From what I hear, this bitch is so out of control that she makes Miss USA look like a paragon of chastity and virtue in comparison. See? This is the smile of a drunken muff diver if I ever saw one.
Proof? You want proof? Well, I don't have any, because I'm too busy to concern myself with trivial matters like accurate reporting or checking facts before I print something. Anyway, my intuition is proof enough in situations like these. I guarantee, the pageant powers that be didn't want the debauched former Miss Robbinsdale kicking it with all these impressionable young ladies...
...so they forced her to comply with drastic measures to cover up the scandal. Hence, all of a sudden she's like, "Oops, I forgot that I joined the Land o' Lakes National Guard five years ago!" Since her after-hours shenanigans going down on the other lucky ladies in the Queen of the Lakes pageant have been hushed up, she's still don't ask-don't tell eligible to get conveniently shipped off and silenced by some pissed-off insurgent. Because everyone knows that what the American Forces Propaganda Service calls "helping lead Iraq to a peaceful democracy" really means "getting your ass blowed up by a roadside IED." No wonder the fallen Queen of the Lakes looks so serious:
The party's over!
From: BigBagel (bigbagel@dirrtydirrtypulitzerprizewinningnewspaper)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: [Fwd: Minnesotan Trades Crown for Cammies]
In keeping with the beauty contest theme:
QUEEN OF THE MUTHER FUCKING LAKES TAKES IRAQ, BITCHES!
This may be my favorite ever DoD press release
Minnesotan Trades Crown for Cammies
By Samantha L. Quigley
American Forces Press Service
WASHINGTON, Jan. 9, 2007 - A 22-year-old college student recently traded her beauty-queen tiara for the Kevlar helmet she'll wear when she deploys with her Minnesota Army National Guard unit to Iraq.
For the past six months, Jessica Gaulke's life has been about college classes and making appearances as Minneapolis' 2007 Aquatennial Queen of the Lakes, but soon it will focus on helping lead Iraq to a peaceful democracy.
The Augsburg College senior studying sociology will be deploying as Spc. Jessica Gaulke with the 2nd Battalion, 147th Assault Helicopter Battalion. The unit is scheduled to start training at Fort Hood, Texas, this spring in advance of a yearlong tour in Iraq.
"I'm feeling strong to go. The training I've received is good training, and I'm prepared," Gaulke said. But her military obligation, which she accepted in February 2002 when she joined the National Guard, has ended her rein as Queen of the Lakes.
Although it was never her lifelong ambition to win a beauty pageant, she said the abbreviated experience has been wonderful. So, although she admits it was bittersweet to hand over her crown Jan. 4, she said she feels no resentment.
"I've heard this whole time that, 'You could go. You never know when you're going to go, but you could go at any time and they don't even have to give you notice,'" Gaulke said. "I'm thankful for the six months that I've had (as Queen of the Lakes). Of course, I would have liked to finish the year out, but what I've experienced has been amazing."
During the six months as Aquatennial Queen of the Lakes, she juggled her National Guard drill duties and schoolwork with her public appearances, she said.
"I do it pretty well, actually. I've had to do a couple of changes in my car going from drill to parades," Gaulke said. "I think maybe this is changing the whole outlook on the pageant system and scholarship programs because it's not all about the glitz and glam.
"It's really about the person you are," she said. "Sometimes I don't look the best, but people understand."
Although she's been dubbed the "Brave Beauty," Gaulke said she won her crown based on who she is. "There's no swimsuit, there's no gown or fishbowl questions, things like that we normally see in Miss America," she said. "It's based on your school, your volunteer experience, what you're active in currently."
Gaulke carries a 3.3 grade point average and volunteers as a coach for her high school lacrosse team in the spring. She also works with the Minneapolis-based Open Arms, an organization that makes and delivers meals for residents with HIV/AIDS.
For the down-to-earth beauty queen, trading her crown for cammies is no big deal. "Switching one for the other ... I signed up for it and I knew it was a possibility," Gaulke said.
There's another major life event on the near horizon that makes giving up her crown to head to Iraq seem easy in comparison. "I'm getting married next week," she said, adding that her newlywed husband, whom she'll be leaving behind soon, will take care of their two dogs and the new home the couple just purchased.
"I'm excited and I think life is bringing me in the right direction," she said. "Things happen for a reason."
Yeah, right. I don't believe this song and dance about her "military obligation" being the reason she relinquished her crown. This was obviously to cover up the "brave beauty" and former Miss Robbinsdale's recent habits of tearing up the Minneapolis nightlife scene and bringing disgrace upon the much-revered name of the Aquatennial Queen of the Lakes. From what I hear, this bitch is so out of control that she makes Miss USA look like a paragon of chastity and virtue in comparison. See? This is the smile of a drunken muff diver if I ever saw one.
Proof? You want proof? Well, I don't have any, because I'm too busy to concern myself with trivial matters like accurate reporting or checking facts before I print something. Anyway, my intuition is proof enough in situations like these. I guarantee, the pageant powers that be didn't want the debauched former Miss Robbinsdale kicking it with all these impressionable young ladies...
...so they forced her to comply with drastic measures to cover up the scandal. Hence, all of a sudden she's like, "Oops, I forgot that I joined the Land o' Lakes National Guard five years ago!" Since her after-hours shenanigans going down on the other lucky ladies in the Queen of the Lakes pageant have been hushed up, she's still don't ask-don't tell eligible to get conveniently shipped off and silenced by some pissed-off insurgent. Because everyone knows that what the American Forces Propaganda Service calls "helping lead Iraq to a peaceful democracy" really means "getting your ass blowed up by a roadside IED." No wonder the fallen Queen of the Lakes looks so serious:
The party's over!
Labels: beauty queens, BigBagel, international intrigue, ridiculous absurdity, sluts
I SO love New York
In case anyone didn't notice the awesome superfecta of new reality shows Vh1 is ringing in the New Year with, let me just say first that "celebreality" has really outdone itself this season. There is "The Surreal Life Fame Games", aka "the fight to the famousest" (in which C.C. Deville cried because nobody knows who he is), and "Shooting Sizemore," about Tom Sizemore's not-so-triumphant return to acting from such indignities as making a horrible home sex tape prominently featuring the massive "HEIDI" (for his ex, Hollywood Madam and scary-jawed Heidi Fleiss) tattoo over his diminuitive weiner, numerous drug busts, and generally being a coke-addled failure at life, and "The (White) Rapper Show" in which MC Serch of 3rd Bass "Pop Goes the Weasel" fame forces this fat chick to wear a gigantic "N-Word" chain after she attacks a guy calling himself "King of the Burbs" with a dildo. However, while these shows are great, I would be remiss if I didn't declare THIS show the greatest of them all:
That's right. Tiffany "New York" Patterson, the undisputable lunatic bitch from "Flavor of Love" and "Flavor of Love 2", after being summarily rejected by Flavor Flav not once but twice, has her own reality show dedicated to finding the man of her dreams. I don't know if such a thing is possible, considering that New York is certifiably batshit crazy. I consider anyone who wants to sleep with Flavor Flav (much less anyone who shouts "fuck me proper!" while doing so) a little on the insane side, but New York takes it to the next level. For example, watch what happened in "Flavor of Love 2" when New York was invited back by Flav to critique his new troupe of girls. New York immediately turns on the charm, saying things like, "You look like a fairy princess...who resides over the pits of hell."
This is a sort-of lame remixed compilation of New York's greatest "spits", a reference to when New York slapped Pumkin after she spit on her in the original "Flavor of Love" series. I don't know who has time to put shit like this together, and I could do without the fucking "boom boom boom let's go back to my room" soundtrack, but it's a lovely summary of the classy behavior that Vh1's viewers have come to expect from New York:
Anyway, as I said, New York is absolutely certifiable, so I'm all for giving the girl her own show. This show premiered last night, and features a cast of men, all of whom look either like extras from that club in Hustle and Flow where Terrence Howard beat up Ludacris, Kevin Federline, or insurance salesmen. Oh yeah, or they look INCREDIBLY GAY, like "12-pack" the Nick Lachey wannabe who plucks his eyebrows, and "Romance", the guy who disturbingly wants New York to take the place of his late teacup Yorkshire terrier "Princess", presumably because New York has "princess" tattooed on her left tit.
Upon catching a vision of New York in a hot pink minidress, the men say things like "she didn't come from no Cro-Magnon man...a divine wisdom put that together", "New York looked fine as hell...I almost got a woody", and (my favorite) "you makin' my penis hurt." That sounds to me like a bad thing, but the dude who said it was trying to be complimentary. Anyway, the fun comes to a screeching halt when New York's mom shows up, and she's even more crazy than her daughter. During "Flavor of Love 2" she pretended to have a terminal medical condition in order to persuade her daughter to ditch Flav. In "I Love New York", she has decided to be addressed by the title of "Sister" and promptly starts telling everyone they are racist and/or gay.
For example, while interrogating "Mr. Boston," an uber-dork with a voice frighteningly similar to Gilbert Gottfried's, she tricks him into saying that his and New York's hypothetical progeny would look "just like Derek Jeter" and be able to pass for white. She also promptly starts a very vocal beef with "Chance", the guy who looks like a cross between Marlon Wayans and T.I., and who New York "is feeling" on the basis that he's "a thug and an urban brother." New York likes them a little rough around the edges, and apparently, scrawny and unattractive, as well.
Everyone proceeds to get drunk on what appears to be Wild Vines island fruits pinot grigio, and New York and her mother run around chain-smoking Newports, being mean, and causing trouble, and it rules. The Latin dude, named "Rico" for being a "smooth talker", decides to start calling New York "mi negrita," which New York promptly translates as "my little nigger" and thus flips the fuck out. Rico starts crying for being so misunderstood, and for asking to be named after a Gerardo song. Named erroneously, in fact, for he is neither rico nor suave. Chance attempts to apologize to "Sister" Patterson, who goes ballistic and sends him and his Corona Light slinking away in fear. After New York sent "Jersey" (an investment banker), "T-Bone" (a fat man with lazy eyes), and "Wood" (a man with no personality) packing, the scenes from the next indicate that the men will be challenged to play basketball, get into fistfights, and yes, fuck New York. I can't wait.
I do, indeed, love New York.
That's right. Tiffany "New York" Patterson, the undisputable lunatic bitch from "Flavor of Love" and "Flavor of Love 2", after being summarily rejected by Flavor Flav not once but twice, has her own reality show dedicated to finding the man of her dreams. I don't know if such a thing is possible, considering that New York is certifiably batshit crazy. I consider anyone who wants to sleep with Flavor Flav (much less anyone who shouts "fuck me proper!" while doing so) a little on the insane side, but New York takes it to the next level. For example, watch what happened in "Flavor of Love 2" when New York was invited back by Flav to critique his new troupe of girls. New York immediately turns on the charm, saying things like, "You look like a fairy princess...who resides over the pits of hell."
This is a sort-of lame remixed compilation of New York's greatest "spits", a reference to when New York slapped Pumkin after she spit on her in the original "Flavor of Love" series. I don't know who has time to put shit like this together, and I could do without the fucking "boom boom boom let's go back to my room" soundtrack, but it's a lovely summary of the classy behavior that Vh1's viewers have come to expect from New York:
Anyway, as I said, New York is absolutely certifiable, so I'm all for giving the girl her own show. This show premiered last night, and features a cast of men, all of whom look either like extras from that club in Hustle and Flow where Terrence Howard beat up Ludacris, Kevin Federline, or insurance salesmen. Oh yeah, or they look INCREDIBLY GAY, like "12-pack" the Nick Lachey wannabe who plucks his eyebrows, and "Romance", the guy who disturbingly wants New York to take the place of his late teacup Yorkshire terrier "Princess", presumably because New York has "princess" tattooed on her left tit.
Upon catching a vision of New York in a hot pink minidress, the men say things like "she didn't come from no Cro-Magnon man...a divine wisdom put that together", "New York looked fine as hell...I almost got a woody", and (my favorite) "you makin' my penis hurt." That sounds to me like a bad thing, but the dude who said it was trying to be complimentary. Anyway, the fun comes to a screeching halt when New York's mom shows up, and she's even more crazy than her daughter. During "Flavor of Love 2" she pretended to have a terminal medical condition in order to persuade her daughter to ditch Flav. In "I Love New York", she has decided to be addressed by the title of "Sister" and promptly starts telling everyone they are racist and/or gay.
For example, while interrogating "Mr. Boston," an uber-dork with a voice frighteningly similar to Gilbert Gottfried's, she tricks him into saying that his and New York's hypothetical progeny would look "just like Derek Jeter" and be able to pass for white. She also promptly starts a very vocal beef with "Chance", the guy who looks like a cross between Marlon Wayans and T.I., and who New York "is feeling" on the basis that he's "a thug and an urban brother." New York likes them a little rough around the edges, and apparently, scrawny and unattractive, as well.
Everyone proceeds to get drunk on what appears to be Wild Vines island fruits pinot grigio, and New York and her mother run around chain-smoking Newports, being mean, and causing trouble, and it rules. The Latin dude, named "Rico" for being a "smooth talker", decides to start calling New York "mi negrita," which New York promptly translates as "my little nigger" and thus flips the fuck out. Rico starts crying for being so misunderstood, and for asking to be named after a Gerardo song. Named erroneously, in fact, for he is neither rico nor suave. Chance attempts to apologize to "Sister" Patterson, who goes ballistic and sends him and his Corona Light slinking away in fear. After New York sent "Jersey" (an investment banker), "T-Bone" (a fat man with lazy eyes), and "Wood" (a man with no personality) packing, the scenes from the next indicate that the men will be challenged to play basketball, get into fistfights, and yes, fuck New York. I can't wait.
I do, indeed, love New York.
Labels: celebrities, crazies, Flavor of Love, hilarious shit, media whores, ridiculous absurdity, sluts
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Sympathy all around
My deepest and most heartfelt sympathies go out to BigBagel, Dirrty Dirrty expatriate and Jersey native, on the Giants' loss to the Eagles tonight in the NFC Wild Card game. I know that he's probably sitting in some Mississippian bar, surrounded by a cadre of empty jalapeno popper plates and mammoth piles of the bones of many vanquished hot wings, despairing as the Giants' season ended with that last-second David Akers field goal. Even though I hate the Giants, I hate the Eagles more, and imagining a despondent BigBagel over the Giants falling to the hated Philadelphia fills me with a sense of deep sadness. I pray that BigBagel's wish comes true and Tom Coughlin's cranky ass gets unceremonially and decisively sent packing from the Meadowlands. Although unlikely, I think that the Giants would be wise to lose Eli "FAS" Manning ("FAS" is BigBagel's nickname for him; it stands for "Fetal Alcohol Syndrome") as well and start with a clean slate next year.
Incidentally, I'd also like to extend my condolences to BigBagel's fiancee and my dear friend LL Cool Jew, because, given BigBagel's presumable fugue state, she probably isn't getting laid tonight.
Incidentally, I'd also like to extend my condolences to BigBagel's fiancee and my dear friend LL Cool Jew, because, given BigBagel's presumable fugue state, she probably isn't getting laid tonight.
Labels: BigBagel, LL Cool Jew, NFL football, tragedy
Playoffs?!
Last night while I was having a heart attack about the Seahawks' extremely fucking lucky, ridiculous win over the Cowboys, my buddy Catman sent me a text message which read "Cmon seahawks!...U c jim mora sr coors commercial? Playoffs?" I hadn't seen this commercial, because I didn't get to start watching the Seahawks game until the fourth quarter, as I'd been attending CorporateCard's birthday dinner. It was held in this extremely campy, Bollywoodish Indian restaurant that touted its decor as "where Christmas and chili pepper lights meet." I thought that was a little inadequate, as they should have made a statement about the reflector tape used to paper the walls. Epileptics should think twice before going to the Panna II Indian Garden in the East Village. Needless to say, there wasn't a TV there, so I had to insist that we go for after-dinner drinks somewhere with a TV tuned to the Seahawks-Cowboys game. When I got Catman's text message, I was pissed I hadn't seen the commercial he mentioned, because I knew EXACTLY what it was going to entail.
Jim Mora, Sr. was formerly the coach of the New Orleans Saints and the Indianapolis Colts. He is famous for ranting and raving in press conferences. There are two that come to mind. The first is his final press conference as head coach of the Saints. This got him fired, even though I would consider his assessment (which, among other things, accused the offense of accomplishing "diddly poo") an accurate summary of the game the Saints had just played:
The most famous Jim Mora, Sr. tirade of all time is popularly known as the "Playoffs" rant, when, after tearing apart the offense's performance and implying that the Colts couldn't beat a high school JV practice squad because they "just SUCKED", some hapless reporter asked him what the Colts' chances were of making the playoffs after such an abysmally bad showing. This is what went down:
SO awesome. I never get tired of watching this, and I'm not the only one. My buddy NeisMan always names his Fantasy Football team having something to do with Jim Mora, Sr. This past season his team was called "Mora's Crappy Team", and the season before it was simply "Playoffs?!". Jim Mora, Sr. may be no longer employable as a NFL head coach due his combined losing records and blistering rants to the media, but his legacy lives on for all NFL fans who experienced a legendary Mora, Sr. press conference. Therefore, it was high time for Coors Light to advertise their beer via a faux press conference featuring the legendary "Playoffs" rant.
Coors Light has been doing these relatively amusing commercials where they splice footage of former NFL head coaches (Dick Vermeil, Bill Walsh, and Mike Ditka) answering questions at press conferences posed by Coors Light-swilling football fans. I particularly enjoyed the Dick Vermeil ads, but nothing, and I mean NOTHING, can achieve the supreme quality and brilliance of Jim Mora, Sr. Behold the awesomeness:
Looks like I'm going to have to switch to Coors Light next weekend at the football bar, because I MUST support any company who produces such commendable advertising. I will gladly tap the Rockies in exchange for Jim Mora, Sr. footage. It's only a matter of time before Coors releases another commercial featuring scenes from the "diddly poo" incident. The Playoffs?! are going to rule.
Jim Mora, Sr. was formerly the coach of the New Orleans Saints and the Indianapolis Colts. He is famous for ranting and raving in press conferences. There are two that come to mind. The first is his final press conference as head coach of the Saints. This got him fired, even though I would consider his assessment (which, among other things, accused the offense of accomplishing "diddly poo") an accurate summary of the game the Saints had just played:
The most famous Jim Mora, Sr. tirade of all time is popularly known as the "Playoffs" rant, when, after tearing apart the offense's performance and implying that the Colts couldn't beat a high school JV practice squad because they "just SUCKED", some hapless reporter asked him what the Colts' chances were of making the playoffs after such an abysmally bad showing. This is what went down:
SO awesome. I never get tired of watching this, and I'm not the only one. My buddy NeisMan always names his Fantasy Football team having something to do with Jim Mora, Sr. This past season his team was called "Mora's Crappy Team", and the season before it was simply "Playoffs?!". Jim Mora, Sr. may be no longer employable as a NFL head coach due his combined losing records and blistering rants to the media, but his legacy lives on for all NFL fans who experienced a legendary Mora, Sr. press conference. Therefore, it was high time for Coors Light to advertise their beer via a faux press conference featuring the legendary "Playoffs" rant.
Coors Light has been doing these relatively amusing commercials where they splice footage of former NFL head coaches (Dick Vermeil, Bill Walsh, and Mike Ditka) answering questions at press conferences posed by Coors Light-swilling football fans. I particularly enjoyed the Dick Vermeil ads, but nothing, and I mean NOTHING, can achieve the supreme quality and brilliance of Jim Mora, Sr. Behold the awesomeness:
Looks like I'm going to have to switch to Coors Light next weekend at the football bar, because I MUST support any company who produces such commendable advertising. I will gladly tap the Rockies in exchange for Jim Mora, Sr. footage. It's only a matter of time before Coors releases another commercial featuring scenes from the "diddly poo" incident. The Playoffs?! are going to rule.
Labels: hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, Jim Mora Sr., NFL football, ranting, Seahawks
If you murder Rachael Ray...
...I will fuck you. Or if you don't want to fuck me, I'll find someone you DO want to fuck and persuade him/her to fuck you. In any event, I'd rather take out a monetary contract on Rachael Ray, but since I'm poorer than an orphan in a Charles Dickens book, I'll have to offer sexual favors instead since they're free. All I want is Racheal Ray gone. Marooning her on a desert island, or bricking her into your wine cellar a la The Cask of Amontillado, would be acceptable alternatives if you're too squeamish to commit actual homicide.
In case you don't know who Rachael Ray is, she's the most annoying bitch on the face of the earth. She started with this show on the Food Network that involved eating in restaurants for less than $40 a day. Then she got did this "30-minute meals" cooking show, and now she has a daytime talk show. She is like the All-American girl next door, except she sounds like she just sucked an entire bunch of helium balloons and injected liquid amphetamine. Every time you see her, she has this manic grin and crazy look. I feel uneasy looking at her, because she could either show me how to make mac-n-cheese from scratch in 30 minutes, or rip my throat out with those gargantuan teeth she's constantly baring.
My family is decidedly anti-Rachael Ray. When I was home for the holidays, my brother Lil' Tevie informed me that he holds a lifelong grudge against her ever since she and Mario Batali beat Bobby Flay and Lil' Tevie's object of lust Giada de Laurentiis in the team cranberry battle on "Iron Chef America." (I told Lil' Tevie that if breasts and/or disproportionately large heads were a criteria for judging, Giada would have taken it hands down, but this did not console him.) My dad declared that she was too perky, and my mother said that she couldn't stand her voice. I say all of the above. However, what I saw last week amped my level of hatred from where I just change the channel when I see Racheal Ray to fantasizing about different ways to brutally murder her.
I was at the grocery store, and was doing just fine stocking up on frozen pizza, beer, sausages, various cheeses, and other Razzy refrigerator staples. The music they had on in the store was this sexy saxophone number. Not like the Kenny G type of friendly, unthreatening, easy-on-the-ears sax, but the sensual, sort-of dirty type that is always on in Skinemax erotic thrillers from the 80s. I almost expected to see Shannon Tweed come sauntering seductively up the pet food aisle in a negligee and start taking off her fishnets and throwing them hither and thither over the bags of Healthy Weight Beneful. I was in a pretty good mood, as I would be replenishing my fridge and getting my handsome, perfect, sweet, wonderful Caesar back from the dogsitter when I got home. Then I went to check out, and came completely unhinged.
The Washington Heights Gristede's where I was shopping is often like a third-world live poultry market at the checkout. There are no discernible organized lines, people cut in front of each other constantly, the cashiers shout at the paying customers in rapid Dominican Spanish, the credit/debit card machines are frequently out of order, and it's general pandemonium. As I was being jostled in this madness, I looked to the magazine racks for solace. I was hoping to see the celebrity trash talking headlines in Star, or (more likely) the Spanish language gossip rag Mira!. Unfortunately, neither of these, nor any other decent publication was populating the magazine racks. They were filled ENTIRELY with copies of this glossy publication:
Yes, Rachael Ray has a magazine, Everyday with Rachael Ray. Like her buddy, asshole rich person and closeted lesbian Oprah, Rachael Ray decided to publish a monthly glossy devoted entirely to herself and her allegedly useful tips on how to plan a fucking picnic and have a DIY spa party. I don't need to see this smarmy bitch riding a Vespa side-saddle and telling me how to execute a "breezy" recipe. I don't need this bitch to make a shopping list for me, I don't need this bitch to smile aggressively at me, and I certainly don't need this bitch to advise me on how to properly road-trip. There's only one thing I need from Rachael Ray, and that is for her to FUCKING DISAPPEAR.
Since Rachael Ray now has an apparently successful daytime talk show (successful because it has yet to be cancelled), I suppose she fancies herself a media mogul. Presumably there are people who enjoy experiencing her frightening cheerfulness, since Rachael Ray magazines and TV shows keep getting greenlighted, and showing up where Mira! should be in my fucking Gristedes. This has to stop. If I don't get any takers on my sex-for-the-death-of-Rachael-Ray proposition, I'll strongly consider taking out a classified ad in Soldier of Fortune magazine or asking around on some website for freelance militia enthusiast/mercenaries. Rachael Ray must die.
In case you don't know who Rachael Ray is, she's the most annoying bitch on the face of the earth. She started with this show on the Food Network that involved eating in restaurants for less than $40 a day. Then she got did this "30-minute meals" cooking show, and now she has a daytime talk show. She is like the All-American girl next door, except she sounds like she just sucked an entire bunch of helium balloons and injected liquid amphetamine. Every time you see her, she has this manic grin and crazy look. I feel uneasy looking at her, because she could either show me how to make mac-n-cheese from scratch in 30 minutes, or rip my throat out with those gargantuan teeth she's constantly baring.
My family is decidedly anti-Rachael Ray. When I was home for the holidays, my brother Lil' Tevie informed me that he holds a lifelong grudge against her ever since she and Mario Batali beat Bobby Flay and Lil' Tevie's object of lust Giada de Laurentiis in the team cranberry battle on "Iron Chef America." (I told Lil' Tevie that if breasts and/or disproportionately large heads were a criteria for judging, Giada would have taken it hands down, but this did not console him.) My dad declared that she was too perky, and my mother said that she couldn't stand her voice. I say all of the above. However, what I saw last week amped my level of hatred from where I just change the channel when I see Racheal Ray to fantasizing about different ways to brutally murder her.
I was at the grocery store, and was doing just fine stocking up on frozen pizza, beer, sausages, various cheeses, and other Razzy refrigerator staples. The music they had on in the store was this sexy saxophone number. Not like the Kenny G type of friendly, unthreatening, easy-on-the-ears sax, but the sensual, sort-of dirty type that is always on in Skinemax erotic thrillers from the 80s. I almost expected to see Shannon Tweed come sauntering seductively up the pet food aisle in a negligee and start taking off her fishnets and throwing them hither and thither over the bags of Healthy Weight Beneful. I was in a pretty good mood, as I would be replenishing my fridge and getting my handsome, perfect, sweet, wonderful Caesar back from the dogsitter when I got home. Then I went to check out, and came completely unhinged.
The Washington Heights Gristede's where I was shopping is often like a third-world live poultry market at the checkout. There are no discernible organized lines, people cut in front of each other constantly, the cashiers shout at the paying customers in rapid Dominican Spanish, the credit/debit card machines are frequently out of order, and it's general pandemonium. As I was being jostled in this madness, I looked to the magazine racks for solace. I was hoping to see the celebrity trash talking headlines in Star, or (more likely) the Spanish language gossip rag Mira!. Unfortunately, neither of these, nor any other decent publication was populating the magazine racks. They were filled ENTIRELY with copies of this glossy publication:
Yes, Rachael Ray has a magazine, Everyday with Rachael Ray. Like her buddy, asshole rich person and closeted lesbian Oprah, Rachael Ray decided to publish a monthly glossy devoted entirely to herself and her allegedly useful tips on how to plan a fucking picnic and have a DIY spa party. I don't need to see this smarmy bitch riding a Vespa side-saddle and telling me how to execute a "breezy" recipe. I don't need this bitch to make a shopping list for me, I don't need this bitch to smile aggressively at me, and I certainly don't need this bitch to advise me on how to properly road-trip. There's only one thing I need from Rachael Ray, and that is for her to FUCKING DISAPPEAR.
Since Rachael Ray now has an apparently successful daytime talk show (successful because it has yet to be cancelled), I suppose she fancies herself a media mogul. Presumably there are people who enjoy experiencing her frightening cheerfulness, since Rachael Ray magazines and TV shows keep getting greenlighted, and showing up where Mira! should be in my fucking Gristedes. This has to stop. If I don't get any takers on my sex-for-the-death-of-Rachael-Ray proposition, I'll strongly consider taking out a classified ad in Soldier of Fortune magazine or asking around on some website for freelance militia enthusiast/mercenaries. Rachael Ray must die.
Labels: assholes, celebrities, media whores, ranting, retard rage, sluts
Saturday, January 06, 2007
The Ruining
It's no secret to anyone who reads this blog that I am a stickler for spelling and punctuation. This obsession has been forged in me from childhood, because of my competitive spirit. I have actually lost sleep after catching random typos on RAZZY.org, wondering how many more typos and misplaced commas are lingering undiscovered. People actually read this, so my copy has to be of the utmost quality. God help me if my website has poorer spelling and/or grammar than any given asshole with a MySpace page. I am driven to have the finest fucking blog on planet Earth, because I want to be better than everyone else.
I'm viciously competitive when I'm competing for something that piques my interest. However, I'm not unnecessarily competitive. I don't care if I lose things I have no skill at. I was watching Caddyshack tonight, and when I wasn't thinking "holy SHIT, Rodney Dangerfield is hilarious", it reminded me of golf, and how I suck at it. I don't mind losing at golf, because I am abysmally bad at it. If I were to play a great game of golf (great game being defined as less than thirty over par after nine holes), it would be a fucking miracle on par with Croat ragamuffins getting the secrets of the coming apocalypse from the Virgin or whatever at Medjugorje. Getting my ass kicked at golf is no problem, because I can drink while playing, make vulgar jokes about the ball-washing devices, and can expect nothing from myself except trying my best to suck as little as possible, so losing gracefully is no big deal. That is NOT the case, however, when it comes to battles of wit or intellect, and specifically those involving spelling.
I rarely resort to physical violence in arguments. I learned at a young age that the resultant trouble from slugging somebody is disproportionate to any gain from the act of punching itself. Consequently, I haven't had cause to give anyone an authentic, put-up-your-dukes knuckle sandwich for going on twenty years. However, if there is any competition that will make me an insane, go-for-the-throat opponent, it is the spelling bee.
I dominated the All Saints School (aka ASS) spelling bee starting in the second grade, where we were challenged by bullshit words like "apple" and "tree" and the more challenging "chief" and "Mississippi." That was before this chick Joy came along. Joy enrolled in my class and gave me a heaping helping of motherfucking humility. That bitch mopped the floor with my ass in the finals of our third grade spelling bee. I seem to recall a heated duel over the word "gymnasium", in which I was subsequently vanquished. I was pissed. In second grade, people called me a "human dictionary" (and at that age, this was a pejorative term, but I embraced it nonetheless). I not only took the spelling bee with ease, but I totally ruled "Around the World" when we worked with the alphabet, spelling, phonics, social studies, or anatomy. I got to skip regular school once a week to attend the goddamn gifted program, and I wasted no time telling everyone so. At the time, I could back my shit-talking up with things like pointless spelling bee victories, and was sitting pretty as the ASS resident genius. I guess I got too comfortable, because Joy showed up and snatched my credible intellectual elitism out from under my nose.
Joy became my friend because we were both nerds and could spend our time playing with our My Little Ponies and discussing The Chronicles of Narnia, but I secretly nursed a tremendous grudge. Making matters worse was her tendency to brag about spelling triumphs in regular conversation. Her behavior was the academic equivalent of one of my brother's favorite pesky-little-brother techniques: the Ruining. When I was about five, I occupied much of my time either writing and illustrating stories or building large, cult headquarter-esque structures from Lincoln Logs. I would build these elaborate, gigantic meeting halls, complete with necessary infrastructure (police station, jail, fire department, hospital, armory, etc.), that were great examples of the architectural style made famous in legendary places like Waco, TX and Jonestown, Guyana. Lil' Tevie, in true toddler little brother form, would sneak up on me and, when my back was turned, gleefully start jumping on my masterpieces. My much toiled-over Branch Davidian compound would be reduced to a pile of Lincoln Logs, and I would invariably be furious. According to my mother, in these situations I used to point at my brother and scream "He's RUINING me!" Well, that is exactly how I felt about that bitch Joy and her superior spelling ability.
When the fourth grade spelling bee rolled around, I was fucking prepared. There was no way that bitch was going to beat me in the fourth grade. I read feverishly and even copied challenging words out of the dictionary for my mom to grill me with. I showed up on spelling bee day ready to lay waste to Joy and anyone else who dared challenge my spelling prowess. Slowly the class thinned out as the words grew progressively harder, until only Joy and me were left spelling. And the bitch beat me...AGAIN. I was outraged. I had been practicing, for God's sake. I should beat people in intellectual battles without even trying, and CERTAINLY when I actually practice. Joy was congratulated, and our class was dismissed to the parking lot for recess.
While the other kids were busy playing hit the jerk with the tennis balls Manny Rivera and Joe Whelan always carried with them for this purpose, I calmly strolled up to Joy. I think she thought I was going to say something gracious, and actually be a good sport. Fuck that. I was incensed.
"You won," I said venomously.
"No hard feelings?" she said.
I didn't respond. I seethed at her for a moment. Then I closed up my fist, and punched her square in the nose.
I remember being disappointed at both the lack of a satisfying crunching sound and the absence of the "thwack" sound that movies led me to believe results from slugging someone in the face. I also remember being completely alarmed at how much my hand hurt. Blood started pouring out of Joy's nose onto her Peter Pan collar, ASS sweatshirt, and lloyd plaid pleated uniform skirt, so my attempt at vengeance wasn't entirely unsuccessful.
Unfortunately, my victory in the gladiatorial arena was short-lived. I was promptly dragged into the principal's office, and my parents received phone calls at work. I got in BIG TIME trouble with the folks, and was restricted from phone calls, computer games, slumber parties, and Babysitter's Club books for a solid month. I couldn't believe it. I thought that if I couldn't win at spelling, a pugilist victory would mitigate the sting of defeat, and the adults would understand. When they didn't, and I got in trouble, it was like Joy beating me all over again. That bitch was ruining me, in spite of my best effort to ruin her.
In fifth grade, I got pneumonia and was out of school for several weeks recuperating, thus missing the spelling bee that year due to absentia. It was just as well, because I didn't think I could stomach another loss to Joy. The year after that, she moved to a different school, and I handily won the sixth grade competition. I went to the Pierce County Private School district competition, and took first prize in that by mowing down inferior spellers from St. Charles and Visitation like I was Cortes and they were the Incas. I got my picture in the Tacoma News Tribune and went on to compete in the Pierce County finals.
I walked in to the room at Tacoma Community College where the county finals were being held prepared for epic battle. I was wearing a very stylish banana clip in my freshly permed hair, a pair of Guess jeans with zippers at the ankle, and a neon windbreaker. I was ready to destroy all the other district winners, until I heard something that fucked up my game BIG TIME.
"Hey, Razzy! I thought you'd be here!" a familiar voice said. I turned and saw Joy sitting there, looking smug. Apparently she'd won the Orting district competition, and once again, we were going to throw down. "Good luck!" she said sweetly. I managed to return the sentiment in an irritable and insincere tone, and resolved to outspell this hooker once and for all.
When the competition started, I did well for the first three rounds until I came across the word that was my undoing. I still grit my teeth in anger when I come across this word now. I have to write it all the time in my lab notebook with respect to sacrificing mice using carbon dioxide gas, and every time I do I seethe just a little bit inside. I remember standing on that stage, looking at the three solemn judges moderating the spelling bee, and hearing the word that was my downfall.
"Your word is...asphyxiate," said the head judge.
I had no fucking clue how to spell this word. I stalled, asking for the definition, asking for it to be used in a sentence, etc. I was hoping to get a flash of divine inspiration, but I did not.
I finally had to suck it up and give it a try. "A-S-S-F-I-X-I-A-T-E. Assfixiate."
Although I'm still convinced that "assfixiate" should be a word, I was appalled to see the judges raise the red flag indicating that I was wrong. I went to my seat cursing myself for failing to ask the word origin, believing that if I'd heard this word had Greek roots I would have spelled it with one "s" and a "phy". This bothers me so much to this day that I'll go to my grave wishing a pox upon the house of whoever included the word "asphyxiate" in that county-wide spelling bee competition.
Then it was Joy's turn. Her word was ventriloquist. Fucking ventriloquist! I got asphyxiate and that bitch lands an easy word like ventriloquist! I wanted to shout something dramatic, like, "This contest is a travesty! It is FIXED!", but since my parents were sitting there and encouraging me to be a good sport, I simply sat and fumed, stomping my LA Gear Brats periodically in anger. Ultimately, Joy lasted long enough to win fourth place.
I never made it back to the county competition. Although I continued to dominate the ASS spelling bee in seventh and eighth grade, I took second in the districts both those years. This kid Jason Dye beat me both times, and promptly got his ass handed to him at county. I could only console myself by dominating the ASS geography bee and the Puyallup Valley Piano Olympics (where, I'm proud to say, I took home blue ribbons for note-reading and--my favorite--fingering). By a strange coincidence, my high school best friend G-Boner knew Joy from Orting, and in high school we met up and smoked pot with her a couple times, but I still could never really get over the fact that I never defeated her in spelling competition. The fact that she dropped out of high school, and may have won the spelling bee but clearly lost to me in the game of life, was of little consequence. I can't let the spelling bee go. I remember sitting around in some field in Orting getting stoned and saying something along the lines of, "Remember how I rearranged your face after you beat me in the spelling bee? Man, that was awesome." She said she only vaguely recalled that, as her most vivid All Saints spelling memory was of repeatedly defeating me. Fucking bitch.
That is why I am so fucking picky about spelling and grammar now, because my dreams of spelling glory were summarily crushed by Joy, the Ruiner. I think that, one day, if Joy starts looking for useless bullshit on the internet and happens to stumble across my site, she'll be like, "God damn, Razzy is so superior in her command of the written word that I was one LUCKY-ASS BITCH to have ever beaten her in the spelling bee. I'm not worthy!" And that's why I'm so vigilant about spelling. Go asphyxiate yourself, Joy.
I'm viciously competitive when I'm competing for something that piques my interest. However, I'm not unnecessarily competitive. I don't care if I lose things I have no skill at. I was watching Caddyshack tonight, and when I wasn't thinking "holy SHIT, Rodney Dangerfield is hilarious", it reminded me of golf, and how I suck at it. I don't mind losing at golf, because I am abysmally bad at it. If I were to play a great game of golf (great game being defined as less than thirty over par after nine holes), it would be a fucking miracle on par with Croat ragamuffins getting the secrets of the coming apocalypse from the Virgin or whatever at Medjugorje. Getting my ass kicked at golf is no problem, because I can drink while playing, make vulgar jokes about the ball-washing devices, and can expect nothing from myself except trying my best to suck as little as possible, so losing gracefully is no big deal. That is NOT the case, however, when it comes to battles of wit or intellect, and specifically those involving spelling.
I rarely resort to physical violence in arguments. I learned at a young age that the resultant trouble from slugging somebody is disproportionate to any gain from the act of punching itself. Consequently, I haven't had cause to give anyone an authentic, put-up-your-dukes knuckle sandwich for going on twenty years. However, if there is any competition that will make me an insane, go-for-the-throat opponent, it is the spelling bee.
I dominated the All Saints School (aka ASS) spelling bee starting in the second grade, where we were challenged by bullshit words like "apple" and "tree" and the more challenging "chief" and "Mississippi." That was before this chick Joy came along. Joy enrolled in my class and gave me a heaping helping of motherfucking humility. That bitch mopped the floor with my ass in the finals of our third grade spelling bee. I seem to recall a heated duel over the word "gymnasium", in which I was subsequently vanquished. I was pissed. In second grade, people called me a "human dictionary" (and at that age, this was a pejorative term, but I embraced it nonetheless). I not only took the spelling bee with ease, but I totally ruled "Around the World" when we worked with the alphabet, spelling, phonics, social studies, or anatomy. I got to skip regular school once a week to attend the goddamn gifted program, and I wasted no time telling everyone so. At the time, I could back my shit-talking up with things like pointless spelling bee victories, and was sitting pretty as the ASS resident genius. I guess I got too comfortable, because Joy showed up and snatched my credible intellectual elitism out from under my nose.
Joy became my friend because we were both nerds and could spend our time playing with our My Little Ponies and discussing The Chronicles of Narnia, but I secretly nursed a tremendous grudge. Making matters worse was her tendency to brag about spelling triumphs in regular conversation. Her behavior was the academic equivalent of one of my brother's favorite pesky-little-brother techniques: the Ruining. When I was about five, I occupied much of my time either writing and illustrating stories or building large, cult headquarter-esque structures from Lincoln Logs. I would build these elaborate, gigantic meeting halls, complete with necessary infrastructure (police station, jail, fire department, hospital, armory, etc.), that were great examples of the architectural style made famous in legendary places like Waco, TX and Jonestown, Guyana. Lil' Tevie, in true toddler little brother form, would sneak up on me and, when my back was turned, gleefully start jumping on my masterpieces. My much toiled-over Branch Davidian compound would be reduced to a pile of Lincoln Logs, and I would invariably be furious. According to my mother, in these situations I used to point at my brother and scream "He's RUINING me!" Well, that is exactly how I felt about that bitch Joy and her superior spelling ability.
When the fourth grade spelling bee rolled around, I was fucking prepared. There was no way that bitch was going to beat me in the fourth grade. I read feverishly and even copied challenging words out of the dictionary for my mom to grill me with. I showed up on spelling bee day ready to lay waste to Joy and anyone else who dared challenge my spelling prowess. Slowly the class thinned out as the words grew progressively harder, until only Joy and me were left spelling. And the bitch beat me...AGAIN. I was outraged. I had been practicing, for God's sake. I should beat people in intellectual battles without even trying, and CERTAINLY when I actually practice. Joy was congratulated, and our class was dismissed to the parking lot for recess.
While the other kids were busy playing hit the jerk with the tennis balls Manny Rivera and Joe Whelan always carried with them for this purpose, I calmly strolled up to Joy. I think she thought I was going to say something gracious, and actually be a good sport. Fuck that. I was incensed.
"You won," I said venomously.
"No hard feelings?" she said.
I didn't respond. I seethed at her for a moment. Then I closed up my fist, and punched her square in the nose.
I remember being disappointed at both the lack of a satisfying crunching sound and the absence of the "thwack" sound that movies led me to believe results from slugging someone in the face. I also remember being completely alarmed at how much my hand hurt. Blood started pouring out of Joy's nose onto her Peter Pan collar, ASS sweatshirt, and lloyd plaid pleated uniform skirt, so my attempt at vengeance wasn't entirely unsuccessful.
Unfortunately, my victory in the gladiatorial arena was short-lived. I was promptly dragged into the principal's office, and my parents received phone calls at work. I got in BIG TIME trouble with the folks, and was restricted from phone calls, computer games, slumber parties, and Babysitter's Club books for a solid month. I couldn't believe it. I thought that if I couldn't win at spelling, a pugilist victory would mitigate the sting of defeat, and the adults would understand. When they didn't, and I got in trouble, it was like Joy beating me all over again. That bitch was ruining me, in spite of my best effort to ruin her.
In fifth grade, I got pneumonia and was out of school for several weeks recuperating, thus missing the spelling bee that year due to absentia. It was just as well, because I didn't think I could stomach another loss to Joy. The year after that, she moved to a different school, and I handily won the sixth grade competition. I went to the Pierce County Private School district competition, and took first prize in that by mowing down inferior spellers from St. Charles and Visitation like I was Cortes and they were the Incas. I got my picture in the Tacoma News Tribune and went on to compete in the Pierce County finals.
I walked in to the room at Tacoma Community College where the county finals were being held prepared for epic battle. I was wearing a very stylish banana clip in my freshly permed hair, a pair of Guess jeans with zippers at the ankle, and a neon windbreaker. I was ready to destroy all the other district winners, until I heard something that fucked up my game BIG TIME.
"Hey, Razzy! I thought you'd be here!" a familiar voice said. I turned and saw Joy sitting there, looking smug. Apparently she'd won the Orting district competition, and once again, we were going to throw down. "Good luck!" she said sweetly. I managed to return the sentiment in an irritable and insincere tone, and resolved to outspell this hooker once and for all.
When the competition started, I did well for the first three rounds until I came across the word that was my undoing. I still grit my teeth in anger when I come across this word now. I have to write it all the time in my lab notebook with respect to sacrificing mice using carbon dioxide gas, and every time I do I seethe just a little bit inside. I remember standing on that stage, looking at the three solemn judges moderating the spelling bee, and hearing the word that was my downfall.
"Your word is...asphyxiate," said the head judge.
I had no fucking clue how to spell this word. I stalled, asking for the definition, asking for it to be used in a sentence, etc. I was hoping to get a flash of divine inspiration, but I did not.
I finally had to suck it up and give it a try. "A-S-S-F-I-X-I-A-T-E. Assfixiate."
Although I'm still convinced that "assfixiate" should be a word, I was appalled to see the judges raise the red flag indicating that I was wrong. I went to my seat cursing myself for failing to ask the word origin, believing that if I'd heard this word had Greek roots I would have spelled it with one "s" and a "phy". This bothers me so much to this day that I'll go to my grave wishing a pox upon the house of whoever included the word "asphyxiate" in that county-wide spelling bee competition.
Then it was Joy's turn. Her word was ventriloquist. Fucking ventriloquist! I got asphyxiate and that bitch lands an easy word like ventriloquist! I wanted to shout something dramatic, like, "This contest is a travesty! It is FIXED!", but since my parents were sitting there and encouraging me to be a good sport, I simply sat and fumed, stomping my LA Gear Brats periodically in anger. Ultimately, Joy lasted long enough to win fourth place.
I never made it back to the county competition. Although I continued to dominate the ASS spelling bee in seventh and eighth grade, I took second in the districts both those years. This kid Jason Dye beat me both times, and promptly got his ass handed to him at county. I could only console myself by dominating the ASS geography bee and the Puyallup Valley Piano Olympics (where, I'm proud to say, I took home blue ribbons for note-reading and--my favorite--fingering). By a strange coincidence, my high school best friend G-Boner knew Joy from Orting, and in high school we met up and smoked pot with her a couple times, but I still could never really get over the fact that I never defeated her in spelling competition. The fact that she dropped out of high school, and may have won the spelling bee but clearly lost to me in the game of life, was of little consequence. I can't let the spelling bee go. I remember sitting around in some field in Orting getting stoned and saying something along the lines of, "Remember how I rearranged your face after you beat me in the spelling bee? Man, that was awesome." She said she only vaguely recalled that, as her most vivid All Saints spelling memory was of repeatedly defeating me. Fucking bitch.
That is why I am so fucking picky about spelling and grammar now, because my dreams of spelling glory were summarily crushed by Joy, the Ruiner. I think that, one day, if Joy starts looking for useless bullshit on the internet and happens to stumble across my site, she'll be like, "God damn, Razzy is so superior in her command of the written word that I was one LUCKY-ASS BITCH to have ever beaten her in the spelling bee. I'm not worthy!" And that's why I'm so vigilant about spelling. Go asphyxiate yourself, Joy.
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, grammar gestapo, oh the horror, overcompensation, ranting, scathing indictments, vengeance is sweet
Thursday, January 04, 2007
More proof that alcoholism is healthy
Today while catching up on all the EXCITING developments in rhinovirology and mouse dendritic cell immunology, I came across an unrelated but equally thrilling article in the riveting journal Proceedings of the National Academy of the Sciences, or as J-Sexy and I call it, Pe-NAS. I'm not in the arthritis business, but some people who are decided to do the following awesome study, as published in the January 2, 2007 issue of PNAS. Feel free to skim the attached abstract. Oh yeah, and FYI, ethanol=potable booze.
Ethanol prevents development of destructive arthritis
Ing-Marie Jonsson,Margareta Verdrengh , Mikael Brisslert , Sofia Lindblad , Maria Bokarewa , Ulrika Islander , Hans Carlsten , Claes Ohlsson, Kutty Selma Nandhakumar, Rikard Holmdahl, and Andrej Tarkowski
Environmental factors are thought to play a major role in the development of rheumatoid arthritis. Because the use of ethanol is widespread, we assessed the role of ethanol intake on the propensity to develop chronic arthritis. Collagen type II-immunized mice were given water or water containing 10% (vol/vol) ethanol or its metabolite acetaldehyde. Their development of arthritis was assessed, as well as the impact of ethanol on leukocyte migration and activation of intracellular transcription factors. Mice exposed daily to this dose of ethanol did not display any liver toxicity, and the development of erosive arthritis was almost totally abrogated. In contrast, the antibody-mediated effector phase of collagen-induced arthritis was not influenced by ethanol exposure. Also, the major ethanol metabolite, acetaldehyde, prevented the development of arthritis. This antiinflammatory and antidestructive property of ethanol was mediated by (i) down-regulation of leukocyte migration and (ii) up-regulation of testosterone secretion, with the latter leading to decreased NF-
B activation. We conclude that low but persistent ethanol consumption delays the onset and halts the progression of collagen-induced arthritis by interaction with innate immune responsiveness.
In case you got cross-eyed reading all the above science, I'll just quickly translate for you. This study used mice that get arthritis after being immunized with collagen, thus causing their immune systems to attack their joints and destroy them. When they constantly drank a solution of 10% booze, THEY DIDN'T GET IT. Now, I'm just going to gloss over the part about it inhibiting the immune system by downregulating leukocyte (white blood cell) migration and NF-B activation, and will completely ignore any papers in the future that show alcohol making mice more susceptible to infectious disease or tumors via negative modulation of immune responses. The point here is that THIS paper, which was so important that it graced the cover of PNAS (which may not be Science, Nature, or Cell, but is a solid journal nonetheless), says that alcoholism will keep your joints healthy (and macho--note where it says it upregulates testosterone).
I would expect nothing less than important studies like these to come from a lab so thoroughly populated by Scandinavians. Furthermore, this paper has just become the cornerstone of my marathon-training strategy (well, apart from running my tits off, of course). When I'm running those agonizing 26.2 miles this fall, my joints will be replete with collagen and I'll be in great shape, laughing in the face of all those super-healthy athletes who trained without the benefit of joint-sustaining beer and scotch. In your FACE, Runners Temperance League! Age may be destroying my soul (at least according to Tej Bindra), but it's certainly not going to do a number on my knees or knuckles since I'm being protected by my persistent alcohol consumption. Thanks to booze, I am a robust physical specimen, the picture of health, vitality, and resistance to arthritis. So drink up, motherfuckers! Science says it's good for you.
Ethanol prevents development of destructive arthritis
Ing-Marie Jonsson,
Environmental factors are thought to play a major role in the development of rheumatoid arthritis. Because the use of ethanol is widespread, we assessed the role of ethanol intake on the propensity to develop chronic arthritis. Collagen type II-immunized mice were given water or water containing 10% (vol/vol) ethanol or its metabolite acetaldehyde. Their development of arthritis was assessed, as well as the impact of ethanol on leukocyte migration and activation of intracellular transcription factors. Mice exposed daily to this dose of ethanol did not display any liver toxicity, and the development of erosive arthritis was almost totally abrogated. In contrast, the antibody-mediated effector phase of collagen-induced arthritis was not influenced by ethanol exposure. Also, the major ethanol metabolite, acetaldehyde, prevented the development of arthritis. This antiinflammatory and antidestructive property of ethanol was mediated by (i) down-regulation of leukocyte migration and (ii) up-regulation of testosterone secretion, with the latter leading to decreased NF-
B activation. We conclude that low but persistent ethanol consumption delays the onset and halts the progression of collagen-induced arthritis by interaction with innate immune responsiveness.In case you got cross-eyed reading all the above science, I'll just quickly translate for you. This study used mice that get arthritis after being immunized with collagen, thus causing their immune systems to attack their joints and destroy them. When they constantly drank a solution of 10% booze, THEY DIDN'T GET IT. Now, I'm just going to gloss over the part about it inhibiting the immune system by downregulating leukocyte (white blood cell) migration and NF-
B activation, and will completely ignore any papers in the future that show alcohol making mice more susceptible to infectious disease or tumors via negative modulation of immune responses. The point here is that THIS paper, which was so important that it graced the cover of PNAS (which may not be Science, Nature, or Cell, but is a solid journal nonetheless), says that alcoholism will keep your joints healthy (and macho--note where it says it upregulates testosterone).I would expect nothing less than important studies like these to come from a lab so thoroughly populated by Scandinavians. Furthermore, this paper has just become the cornerstone of my marathon-training strategy (well, apart from running my tits off, of course). When I'm running those agonizing 26.2 miles this fall, my joints will be replete with collagen and I'll be in great shape, laughing in the face of all those super-healthy athletes who trained without the benefit of joint-sustaining beer and scotch. In your FACE, Runners Temperance League! Age may be destroying my soul (at least according to Tej Bindra), but it's certainly not going to do a number on my knees or knuckles since I'm being protected by my persistent alcohol consumption. Thanks to booze, I am a robust physical specimen, the picture of health, vitality, and resistance to arthritis. So drink up, motherfuckers! Science says it's good for you.
Labels: alcoholism, I LOVE IT, science
Tenement sweet tenement
Well, I'm back in New York, and the trip getting here was a little grueling. Chingy! acted up in an unprecendented manner once we got to JFK, but since I now have to go to work and spend a wild and crazy day remembering what the hell it is I do in lab and separating about 9,000 cages of mice, I'll have to wait until this evening before I can relate that story here.
In the meantime, I'll just mention that there was no doubt in my mind I wasn't in the P-N-Dub anymore when my elderly Puerto Rican neighbor Rosa woke me up at six this morning reading the riot act en espanol to her common-law husband. After two peaceful weeks in the P-N-Dub, where the most disruptive sound is that of my insomniac father lumbering around the house late at night, I had completely forgotten how noisy life is here in New Jack City. It appears I have some ghetto reacclimatization to do.
On the bright side, all the mouse poison I'd baited my apartment with before leaving seems to have been eagerly devoured by my rodent roommates, and my kitchen counter and oven top was surprisingly devoid of mouse shit. I may have actually succeeded in exterminating all those motherfuckers over the holidays. No hantavirus for me this year!
In the meantime, I'll just mention that there was no doubt in my mind I wasn't in the P-N-Dub anymore when my elderly Puerto Rican neighbor Rosa woke me up at six this morning reading the riot act en espanol to her common-law husband. After two peaceful weeks in the P-N-Dub, where the most disruptive sound is that of my insomniac father lumbering around the house late at night, I had completely forgotten how noisy life is here in New Jack City. It appears I have some ghetto reacclimatization to do.
On the bright side, all the mouse poison I'd baited my apartment with before leaving seems to have been eagerly devoured by my rodent roommates, and my kitchen counter and oven top was surprisingly devoid of mouse shit. I may have actually succeeded in exterminating all those motherfuckers over the holidays. No hantavirus for me this year!
Labels: Harlem world, NYC
Monday, January 01, 2007
I wonder if she's also into chicks and blow?
LL Cool Jew just sent me the following e-mail:
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: you must blog, even briefly, about this!
so one of the things i've gotten into since living in mississippi - aside from 300-piece university marching bands - is beauty pageants.
i was looking at the miss america website (jan 29, baby!) and found this:
Miss Tennessee 2007 Profile
miss tennessee is seriously named "blaire ashley pancake."
can you imagine?
"mah naym is blaire ashley pancake of the chattanooga pancakes, not to be confused with those murfeesboro pancakes 'cuz thayer a bunch of trayush."
aka, the rich pancakes.
Obviously I immediately reassured LL Cool Jew that I would write up a little something about Ms. Pancake, simply on the grounds that I too have recently been intrigued by the whole beauty pageant thing. I am curious if the Miss America people are anything like the coked-up bisexual alcoholics duking it out in the Miss USA/Miss Universe/Miss Trump pageants. I get the feeling that Miss America is for the more refined, sophisticated ladies of the pageant world; in other words, the boring, uptight ones. I'd way rather party with the now-deposed Miss Nevada from the Miss USA competition). In fact, the antics that ended the former Miss Nevada's dreams of the Miss USA crown aren't a far cry from what went down at my New Year's festivities last night in glamorous South Hill-Puyallup/unincorporated Pierce County.
Anyway, Blaire Ashley Pancake has decided to put her UT (go Vols!) anthropology degree to good use and vie with the likes of the other super stunners in the Miss America pageant. She's already off to a great start with her two-pronged career ambition of barrister and "philanthroper." I don't know if a "philanthroper" is anything like a "philanthropist," but it certainly sounds impressive. I cannot wait until she starts using the family fortune for the good of mankind, erecting such august institutions as the Pancake Museum of Disco Ball Earrings and the Pancake Institute for Excessive Eyeliner Application. That shit will be on par with the Gates Foundation in terms of its impact on humanity.
I figure Blaire has a pretty good shot, given that some of the competition is pretty stank. Her opponents include my home state's representative, the former Miss Kitsap County and disturbingly feline Miss Washington (a comparison that is NOT helped by that leopard print collared halter she's rocking):
She'll also be taking on Kate Michael, Miss District of Columbia, who has formerly been made fun of by LL Cool Jew herself on RAZZY.org in the 2005 Hall of Heinous Hill Staffers!
I'm sure that the night before the pageant, they'll probably all be practicing how to walk in their busted evening gowns, but in a perfect world, some of these bitches would hit the clubs with the party animal sluts over at Miss USA, have one too many blow job shots, and end up flashing their tits and fingerbanging each other. Now those broads would get my vote, if I were judging anyway.
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: you must blog, even briefly, about this!
so one of the things i've gotten into since living in mississippi - aside from 300-piece university marching bands - is beauty pageants.
i was looking at the miss america website (jan 29, baby!) and found this:
Miss Tennessee 2007 Profile
miss tennessee is seriously named "blaire ashley pancake."
can you imagine?
"mah naym is blaire ashley pancake of the chattanooga pancakes, not to be confused with those murfeesboro pancakes 'cuz thayer a bunch of trayush."
aka, the rich pancakes.
Obviously I immediately reassured LL Cool Jew that I would write up a little something about Ms. Pancake, simply on the grounds that I too have recently been intrigued by the whole beauty pageant thing. I am curious if the Miss America people are anything like the coked-up bisexual alcoholics duking it out in the Miss USA/Miss Universe/Miss Trump pageants. I get the feeling that Miss America is for the more refined, sophisticated ladies of the pageant world; in other words, the boring, uptight ones. I'd way rather party with the now-deposed Miss Nevada from the Miss USA competition). In fact, the antics that ended the former Miss Nevada's dreams of the Miss USA crown aren't a far cry from what went down at my New Year's festivities last night in glamorous South Hill-Puyallup/unincorporated Pierce County.
Anyway, Blaire Ashley Pancake has decided to put her UT (go Vols!) anthropology degree to good use and vie with the likes of the other super stunners in the Miss America pageant. She's already off to a great start with her two-pronged career ambition of barrister and "philanthroper." I don't know if a "philanthroper" is anything like a "philanthropist," but it certainly sounds impressive. I cannot wait until she starts using the family fortune for the good of mankind, erecting such august institutions as the Pancake Museum of Disco Ball Earrings and the Pancake Institute for Excessive Eyeliner Application. That shit will be on par with the Gates Foundation in terms of its impact on humanity.
I figure Blaire has a pretty good shot, given that some of the competition is pretty stank. Her opponents include my home state's representative, the former Miss Kitsap County and disturbingly feline Miss Washington (a comparison that is NOT helped by that leopard print collared halter she's rocking):
She'll also be taking on Kate Michael, Miss District of Columbia, who has formerly been made fun of by LL Cool Jew herself on RAZZY.org in the 2005 Hall of Heinous Hill Staffers!
I'm sure that the night before the pageant, they'll probably all be practicing how to walk in their busted evening gowns, but in a perfect world, some of these bitches would hit the clubs with the party animal sluts over at Miss USA, have one too many blow job shots, and end up flashing their tits and fingerbanging each other. Now those broads would get my vote, if I were judging anyway.
Labels: beauty queens, hot chicks, LL Cool Jew, ridiculous absurdity, sluts
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]
