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 accom
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 accom