Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Prepare for the fierceness
HotLawyer texted me last night to inform me there was a new episode of "To Catch a Predator" on Dateline. Unfortunately, because he texted me on West Coast time, not only was the kewlness long over here, I wouldn't have been able to catch it anyways as during "TCaP" I was drinking Tsingtaos and scotch with KatieScarlett at our favorite Chinatown bar, Winnie's. There were no Seahawks fans this time, but instead they were watching "Jeopardy!" when we arrived, and I totally cleaned up in the "Double Z" and "Biblical Anagram" categories. I didn't think to ask the staff at Winnie's if they would turn on Dateline at 8 (partly because 8 p.m. signaled the start of Cantonese karaoke hour AND I was involved in a long conversation with the bartender about the mythology of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles). Because of my despair over missing the new "TCaP" and my consequent lamentations that I didn't get HotLawyer's reminder text until this morning, it almost escaped my notice that tonight, one of the finest reality shows ever to grace American TV screens starts yet another season (or "cycle", as it's referred to on the show):
YES! I totally watched the free preview on the CW's website, and already I've decided who I hate (the blonde girl on the top left looks like she just smoked a pound of homemade meth while she gurgles semi-coherently about "how I just, like, think I'm going to have, like, the best time and it's gonnna be, like, so fun", while the blonde girl at the bottom claims to be "extremely intelligent" and says "I have such a tenacity of this industry"...what? ) and who I love (the girl with the fro on the upper right goes about how nice she is going to be to everyone else, but "don't get it twisted...it's all about me" and the girl on the very bottom claims she's never had a girlfriend on account of "the expression on my face...everyone thinks I'm a bitch." Believe me, honey, you ARE!)
And you better believe the featured ho on this show is still this crazy, tacky, cheap extension-wearing Oprah wannabe:
YES! I totally watched the free preview on the CW's website, and already I've decided who I hate (the blonde girl on the top left looks like she just smoked a pound of homemade meth while she gurgles semi-coherently about "how I just, like, think I'm going to have, like, the best time and it's gonnna be, like, so fun", while the blonde girl at the bottom claims to be "extremely intelligent" and says "I have such a tenacity of this industry"...what? ) and who I love (the girl with the fro on the upper right goes about how nice she is going to be to everyone else, but "don't get it twisted...it's all about me" and the girl on the very bottom claims she's never had a girlfriend on account of "the expression on my face...everyone thinks I'm a bitch." Believe me, honey, you ARE!)
And you better believe the featured ho on this show is still this crazy, tacky, cheap extension-wearing Oprah wannabe:
In the preview, Tyra immediately launches into how she chose not one but TWO plus-sized models because she's tired of everyone calling her fat. She plans to show them how they can love themselves because their extra cellulite makes them different in a good way, and promptly sets a great example for self-acceptance by Photoshopping the shit out of both of them and herself in all the promotional pictures. I bet one of the fat girls wins just so Tyra can continue ranting on her other show about how just because she weighs 150 pounds more now than when she was on the cover of the '97 Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue doesn't mean she's not still "poppin'" (sha right...in order to legitimately "pop" anything besides the waistband of her pants, bitch needs to drop the excess lard and lose the busted weave!). Already Tyra and the aspiring Lane Bryant spokesmodels are bitching about society and how it hurts their feelings when they get called fat. After all, it's not their fault they're too lazy to do any exercise besides lifting spoons full of Haagen-Dazs up to their mouths.
As usual, all the girls go on about how this is their dream come true, and who can blame them? My dream was always to be counted among the ranks of such famed beauties as Adrianne Curry, Yoanna House, Eva Pigford, Naima Mora, Nicole Linkletter, Danielle Evans, and Caridee English. Of course, the only one who might have a somewhat recognizable name is Adrianne Curry, and that's for being a reality TV whore and marrying Peter Brady rather than her illustrious modeling career, but whatever...it WAS my dream until fate rudely stole it from me because I'm five inches too short (and now five years too old) to even apply for the opportunity to read Tyra Mail, live in a house wallpapered with vintage Tyra Elle covers, participate in Tyra-centric photo shoots, let Tyra rub Vaseline all over my face and tell me she's the ultimate stylist, and possibly get yelled at by Tyra for not taking the show seriously enough. Remember in season 2 or 3 when she flipped out because the chick wasn't sufficiently sad that she got kicked off the show? That was awesome. Anyway, when I finally accepted that competing for the title of "Top Model" was not an option for me, I had to grudgingly fall back on plan B (Ph.D. in microbiology).
Also, I'm terribly depressed that the following twink won't get to criticize the way I walk or the clothes I wear, because I totally appreciate getting fashion advice from a dude (?) who spent an entire cycle wearing a spring table centerpiece as his trademark boutonierre, and currently rocks a look that's one part leprechaun, one part Catholic school girl, and one part tennis pro.
Yes, professional runway coach and "Top Model" judge J. Alexander's fashion sense is so irreparably fucked that he declared Nicole Kidman best-dressed at the Oscars the other night on E!'s "Fashion Police", and she looked like an emaciated swatch of Christmas bunting, but that doesn't stop him from derisively bellowing "Oh, HELL no," or dismissively hissing "oh, girl...please," when the contestants try to explain themselves to him at judging. I would like some clarification concerning J. Alexander's gender identity, as he answers to "Miss J" and still uses the pronoun "he", which I find very confusing. I guess his florid color schemes and tendency to make snarling cat faces is fitting for this cycle's theme of "Welcome to the Jungle."
Somehow I suspect this season of "ANTM" won't be quite as asskicking as the Guns 'n' Roses song of the same name, but hopefully it will at least be more exciting than last cycle. So far, it's looking promising...there's two fat girls, two morons who think they're smart, two unrepentant bitches, and a whole host of dumbasses staking their lives and identities on this reality TV trash, and that's hopefully a recipe for not boring the life out of me like the broads did last cycle.
J-Sexy best charge up her phone, because I predict she'll be receiving some fierce text messages from me around 8 pm EST!
As usual, all the girls go on about how this is their dream come true, and who can blame them? My dream was always to be counted among the ranks of such famed beauties as Adrianne Curry, Yoanna House, Eva Pigford, Naima Mora, Nicole Linkletter, Danielle Evans, and Caridee English. Of course, the only one who might have a somewhat recognizable name is Adrianne Curry, and that's for being a reality TV whore and marrying Peter Brady rather than her illustrious modeling career, but whatever...it WAS my dream until fate rudely stole it from me because I'm five inches too short (and now five years too old) to even apply for the opportunity to read Tyra Mail, live in a house wallpapered with vintage Tyra Elle covers, participate in Tyra-centric photo shoots, let Tyra rub Vaseline all over my face and tell me she's the ultimate stylist, and possibly get yelled at by Tyra for not taking the show seriously enough. Remember in season 2 or 3 when she flipped out because the chick wasn't sufficiently sad that she got kicked off the show? That was awesome. Anyway, when I finally accepted that competing for the title of "Top Model" was not an option for me, I had to grudgingly fall back on plan B (Ph.D. in microbiology).
Also, I'm terribly depressed that the following twink won't get to criticize the way I walk or the clothes I wear, because I totally appreciate getting fashion advice from a dude (?) who spent an entire cycle wearing a spring table centerpiece as his trademark boutonierre, and currently rocks a look that's one part leprechaun, one part Catholic school girl, and one part tennis pro.
Yes, professional runway coach and "Top Model" judge J. Alexander's fashion sense is so irreparably fucked that he declared Nicole Kidman best-dressed at the Oscars the other night on E!'s "Fashion Police", and she looked like an emaciated swatch of Christmas bunting, but that doesn't stop him from derisively bellowing "Oh, HELL no," or dismissively hissing "oh, girl...please," when the contestants try to explain themselves to him at judging. I would like some clarification concerning J. Alexander's gender identity, as he answers to "Miss J" and still uses the pronoun "he", which I find very confusing. I guess his florid color schemes and tendency to make snarling cat faces is fitting for this cycle's theme of "Welcome to the Jungle."
Somehow I suspect this season of "ANTM" won't be quite as asskicking as the Guns 'n' Roses song of the same name, but hopefully it will at least be more exciting than last cycle. So far, it's looking promising...there's two fat girls, two morons who think they're smart, two unrepentant bitches, and a whole host of dumbasses staking their lives and identities on this reality TV trash, and that's hopefully a recipe for not boring the life out of me like the broads did last cycle.
J-Sexy best charge up her phone, because I predict she'll be receiving some fierce text messages from me around 8 pm EST!
Labels: America's Next Top Model, crazies, fat fucks, J-Sexy, media whores, TV
Monday, February 26, 2007
I Dream Nightmare of Jenna
I love porn, and thus it goes without saying that I've always had a special place in my heart for Jenna Jameson. For one thing, she's an exceptionally talented porn star, and anyone who has seen enough porn can tell you that it is indeed possible to be horrible at pornography. Just as with any other star, there's a certain "it" factor you need to make fucking for the camera look awesome, and Jenna has it. For another, she's the embodiment of the American dream. With no money in her pocket, she fought her way into stripping at the age of 17 with a fake ID. When the manager told her that she couldn't strip with braces, she went home and grabbed a set of pliers and RIPPED THEM OFF HER TEETH. That is the determination of the truly hard core. Years later, she's a multimillionaire, a household name, and exemplifies the pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps type of success that's most lauded in our society.
I've seen a lot of Jenna's movies, including such cinematic masterpieces as Jennatalia, Briana Loves Jenna, Bella Loves Jenna, Jenna Loves Pain, Cherry Pie, Last Girl Standing (which SUCKED...the least amount of sex in any porn I've ever seen, although the part where Briana Banks contemptuously masturbates with a bottle Jenna's signature fragrance is hilarious), The Dinner Party, and I Dream of Jenna. Jenna is not really a natural beauty, but in spite of her rather plastic appearance, she's always been very sexy, in a porn star, fake-tits sort of way. For the last ten years or so, Jenna has looked more or less like this:
Yeah, so her jugs might be super surgerized and her face might be covered with so much pancake she could start an IHOP, but I've always found Jenna to be one of the more appealing porn stars. God knows she's much better looking than the probable post-op tranny Taylor Wane and is certainly more natural than Chelsea Charms. Furthermore, I must admire Jenna's business acumen. She's made millions, not only through selling DVDs and stripping, but through merchandizing the shit out of her brand. You can buy everything from a Jenna Jameson blow-up doll to Jenna Jameson perfume (which can also be used as a dildo according to Briana Banks, as mentioned above) to a Jenna Jameson battery-powered pube trimmer if you want. She's like the Madonna of porn, going from a broke, meth-addicted slut to a true, super-rich media mogul. Even if you're not into Jenna's product or profession, you have to give her props for entrepreneurial savvy.
That's why I was so horrified to find on one of my gossip websites today that Jenna made the terrible, unforgivable mistake of venturing out to collect swag at a pre-Oscar party looking like THIS:
Jenna, how could you? Not only are you so skinny that I'm wondering if you haven't restarted that meth habit you claimed to have kicked ten years ago on your E! True Hollywood Story, but you've had so much Restalyne pumped into your mouth that your lips could act as a flotation device. Your hair looks like it's had one too many treatments with industrial-strength Clairol Maxi-Blonde, and you need to call whatever plastic surgeon did your eyes and demand a refund because that shit was BOTCHED. And don't get me started on that tan of yours...your skin is so fucking leathery I wouldn't be surprised if you fired up a chainsaw and went after the nearest hapless coed. Seriously...are you taking style tips from Amanda Lepore? You look like you're one of the extras from Total Recall who lived in the poor part of Mars, where everyone turned into a mutant because of the stellar radiation that filtered into the whorehouses. And you're not hot like that mutant prostitute with the three boobs; you look more like the "Quaiiiid! Start the reactorrrrr!" guy who was growing out of the other dude's stomach.
I'm just going to pretend this didn't happen so that I won't want to throw up the next time I'm trying to rub one off to a movie of Jenna's. I'm just hoping that these pictures hitting the internet will spark an outcry from your fans. Put on some weight, lay off the Mystic Tan, and call a decent surgeon to fix your entire fucking face, because what you have going on now is not anything I want to see getting it on for the camera.
I've seen a lot of Jenna's movies, including such cinematic masterpieces as Jennatalia, Briana Loves Jenna, Bella Loves Jenna, Jenna Loves Pain, Cherry Pie, Last Girl Standing (which SUCKED...the least amount of sex in any porn I've ever seen, although the part where Briana Banks contemptuously masturbates with a bottle Jenna's signature fragrance is hilarious), The Dinner Party, and I Dream of Jenna. Jenna is not really a natural beauty, but in spite of her rather plastic appearance, she's always been very sexy, in a porn star, fake-tits sort of way. For the last ten years or so, Jenna has looked more or less like this:
That's why I was so horrified to find on one of my gossip websites today that Jenna made the terrible, unforgivable mistake of venturing out to collect swag at a pre-Oscar party looking like THIS:
I'm just going to pretend this didn't happen so that I won't want to throw up the next time I'm trying to rub one off to a movie of Jenna's. I'm just hoping that these pictures hitting the internet will spark an outcry from your fans. Put on some weight, lay off the Mystic Tan, and call a decent surgeon to fix your entire fucking face, because what you have going on now is not anything I want to see getting it on for the camera.
Labels: celebrities, oh the horror, porn, ranting, sluts, you're ugly
Immunity writes misleading titles
Today I arrived at work and saw that I had been e-mailed the table of contents for this months scintillating edition of Immunity. As I lazily scanned the list of articles for something having to do with asthma or dendritic cells or innate immunity that might interest me, something caught my eye.
I like to travel, so I like reading things about traveling. However, I think I'd WAY rather leaf through 1,000 Places to See Before You Die and plan fantasy vacations to Machu Picchu and Petra than read the grand chronicle of this odyssey:
Okay, so it turns out it's actually just a preview of some fancy culture system some dudes made up to look at HIV infection without taking apart some unfortunate hooker's cooch, and not a Lonely Planet guide for the vagina. What a misleading title, though. For a second, I thought there might actually be something interesting and more importantly, pithy in Immunity (it is published by Cell Press, which is famous for ensuring that all articles in a Cell journal are AT LEAST 15 pages long, if not more). However, it seems that not only is this less entertaining than any given Travel Channel show about exploring Patagonia or wherever, but it's not really about "traveling" anywhere besides a positive result on a HIV test. Lame.
I like to travel, so I like reading things about traveling. However, I think I'd WAY rather leaf through 1,000 Places to See Before You Die and plan fantasy vacations to Machu Picchu and Petra than read the grand chronicle of this odyssey:
Okay, so it turns out it's actually just a preview of some fancy culture system some dudes made up to look at HIV infection without taking apart some unfortunate hooker's cooch, and not a Lonely Planet guide for the vagina. What a misleading title, though. For a second, I thought there might actually be something interesting and more importantly, pithy in Immunity (it is published by Cell Press, which is famous for ensuring that all articles in a Cell journal are AT LEAST 15 pages long, if not more). However, it seems that not only is this less entertaining than any given Travel Channel show about exploring Patagonia or wherever, but it's not really about "traveling" anywhere besides a positive result on a HIV test. Lame.
Labels: epidemic geekery, grad school bullshit, science
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Now you can say you've seen it
Last weekend, LL Cool Jew was in town to visit with myself and the rest of her Smith bitches and take care of some wedding business, like laying the smackdown on the inept fucktards at Vera Wang who did a hack job on her dress. You think that when your bridal gown costs as much as a moderately tricked-out Nissan Sentra and it's VERA FUCKING WANG, they would not try to blame their own ineptitude on the bride-to-be by asking, "Have you gained weight since you were measured?" Once it was established that LL Cool Jew actually lost weight since then (and she's a size 2, for God's sake), they declared that heads would roll and she was moving to "the top of ALL the lists" in terms of priority. We decided this must mean that only the third-world children with the most nimble fingers will be stitching it together. Anyway, somehow while we were talking about this, LL Cool Jew turned to me and asked a question. One fun fact about LL Cool Jew is that she used to be a lesbian. And I don't mean she was on the Smith four-year plan. She was a full-on dyke, and she came out of the closet in junior high. At one point she owned a house with her partner. When she and I spent a year sharing an apartment, she was dating my friend KatieScarlett. Then she met BigBagel, and fell in love, and the rest is history. Anyway, because of her established Sapphic history, LL Cool Jew had a question about male anatomy. So naturally, she asked me, who, as a slut and a scientist, has extensive firsthand and professional knowledge of the male nether regions. Also, I am familiar with all the latest in internet celebrity gossip, so her reference did not need to be explained. "Have you seen that picture of Cisco Adler's balls? BigBagel's don't look like that...is he weird or is Cisco Adler?"
I know precisely what picture she was talking about, because it stunned me, as well. I have never seen a set of nards so categorically revolting. I figured the rest of the world had seen this picture and was equally repelled, but apparently not.
I've mentioned this photograph several times, the most recent being this morning while catching up with Morrissey'sHair on the phone, and everyone responds with a blank "huh?" Well, I'm going to end that right now. This is old news, and I'm tired of explaining it. Be sure you haven't eaten recently when you look at this, because it's better than syrup of ipecac for induction of vomiting.
DISGUSTING. It's like he has two asymmetric pendulums between his legs. His scrote is so stretched out that I wonder if his balls are actually made of lead, and their ponderous weight conspired with gravity to drag that shit down like a fucking taffy pull. Making the picture contextually even more horrendous is the fact that he's parading around butt-naked at PARIS HILTON'S HOUSE. The source of this picture was that ParisExposed.com website that was sells the privilege of viewing the auctioned-off items in a storage locker that Paris forgot to pay for, such as video of her singing every racist epithet in the book to the tune of "It's a Small World", doing a mountain of blow off a fat man's chest, and saying "I got fucked in the butt for coke", as well as a receipt for an abortion a miscarriage, a fake ID, her Valtrex prescription, and frightening pictures like the one above. The only conceivable reason I can see for Cisco Adler (who is only famous for looking like a homeless guy and sticking his above stank weiner into the ultra-fug Mischa Barton) being naked at Paris Hilton's house is to swap strains of herpes simplex with her.
And for the record, LL Cool Jew and anyone else who hasn't seen as many testicles up close as I have, that is NOT NORMAL. Most dudes have much smaller scrotums. Sure, there's usually a little give and sway to them, but they do not look like there's two fleshy grandfather clocks ticking away between their legs. Cisco Adler is a freak, and he should get one of the actual celebrities who hangs out with him (no pun intended) to pay for the scrotal lift he so desperately needs. SO HEINOUS!
I know precisely what picture she was talking about, because it stunned me, as well. I have never seen a set of nards so categorically revolting. I figured the rest of the world had seen this picture and was equally repelled, but apparently not.
I've mentioned this photograph several times, the most recent being this morning while catching up with Morrissey'sHair on the phone, and everyone responds with a blank "huh?" Well, I'm going to end that right now. This is old news, and I'm tired of explaining it. Be sure you haven't eaten recently when you look at this, because it's better than syrup of ipecac for induction of vomiting.
DISGUSTING. It's like he has two asymmetric pendulums between his legs. His scrote is so stretched out that I wonder if his balls are actually made of lead, and their ponderous weight conspired with gravity to drag that shit down like a fucking taffy pull. Making the picture contextually even more horrendous is the fact that he's parading around butt-naked at PARIS HILTON'S HOUSE. The source of this picture was that ParisExposed.com website that was sells the privilege of viewing the auctioned-off items in a storage locker that Paris forgot to pay for, such as video of her singing every racist epithet in the book to the tune of "It's a Small World", doing a mountain of blow off a fat man's chest, and saying "I got fucked in the butt for coke", as well as a receipt for And for the record, LL Cool Jew and anyone else who hasn't seen as many testicles up close as I have, that is NOT NORMAL. Most dudes have much smaller scrotums. Sure, there's usually a little give and sway to them, but they do not look like there's two fleshy grandfather clocks ticking away between their legs. Cisco Adler is a freak, and he should get one of the actual celebrities who hangs out with him (no pun intended) to pay for the scrotal lift he so desperately needs. SO HEINOUS!
Labels: celebrities, gross, LL Cool Jew, oh the horror, sex, weiners, you're ugly
Friday, February 23, 2007
Science explains it
Ever since I got my cherry popped back in '95 (and, for that matter, before when I was solely interested in muff diving), I've never been too prim or proper about sex. In fact, I'm so casual about it now that I have a strict policy of always fucking on the first date, to get it out of the way and to make sure dude doesn't have something wrong with his dick (ie: disease, size, or technical issues). I've had sex with a bunch of my friends, and even some enemies, and it's not really a very big deal to me. Because of this lackadaisical attitude concerning the holy union of man and woman, and because I'm frequently drunk, I've taken home some real losers in my time as well.
Readers of this blog are already familiar with some of these horror stories, including Chapstick Dick, Facial Boy, and the White Piercing Apprentice with Dreadlocks who Shredded my Vagina and Gave me a Hickey. There are plenty more that I have not chronicled for lack of time or what I presume would be lack of reader interest. These guys all had one thing in common: in order for me to fuck them, I was so wasted I probably couldn't have even spelled my own name when I invited them into my bed and my twat.
Fortunately, I no longer have to wonder about the underlying mechanism as to how I wound up banging these trolls because, in an example of grant funding being well-spent, some researchers at the University of Manchester have calculated the formula describing the "beer goggles" effect.
You gotta love those Brits...not only do their university professors engage in worthwhile research such as this, but they immediately send a press release to the BBC so we can all benefit from their contributions to science. This didn't get a mention in Nature or Science, which is making me question those journals' long-undisputed "top-tier" status. Fuck global warming, sustainability, proving the Poincare conjecture (which Science declared "Breakthrough of the Year" even though I have no clue what that is), astrophysical studies of the Kuiper Belt, and even Nature's gay animals...BEER GOGGLES is an unexplained phenomenon that has fascinated and confused mankind since the dawn of time. For evidence of this, see Clan of the Cave Bear. Some Neanderthal porked Darryl Hannah and then, when his prehistoric hangover wore off, was so horrified he'd stuck it in a disgusting Cro-Magnon bitch that he had the other early hominids boot her out of their communal cave. Beer goggles has been responsible for legions of hookups that made people slap their hands to their foreheads in despair the next day and wonder "why." I smell a Nobel prize in the University of Manchester's future!
Without further ado, marvel at the answer to the mystery that has facilitated ugly people getting laid for millenia:
The authors state that the value of beta represents the magnitude of the beer goggles effect, and may be interpreted as follows:
An=15 Johnnie Walker Blacks
S=0 (NYC bars are smoke-free)
L=75 (right in the middle of the scale for "luminosity", so should cover all bases from the darkest lounge to the most well-lit pizza place visited post-bar)
Vo=8/12 (I wear contacts and the prescription is outdated, but I can still see well enough)
d=1 meter
When we calculated, my beer goggles number was only 56, indicating that I would suffer from a "moderate beer goggle" effect and thus find someone I consider hideously ugly (examples: Cisco Adler, Greta van Susteren, any of the Rejects) less "visually offensive." However, it should be noted that this is assuming I'm standing right next to them. If you change d to 5 meters, the number is well over 100, assuring that I'd probably go home with a disfigured monkey eating its own shit and think it was Reggie (Get in My) Bush or Gisele or someone really, really, really good-looking.
I'm glad I know about this now, because I'm about to go to grad student happy hour, and you know I'm going to need a serious pair of beta equals An-squared times delta(S+1) divided by root L times Vo-squared in order to get any play there.
Readers of this blog are already familiar with some of these horror stories, including Chapstick Dick, Facial Boy, and the White Piercing Apprentice with Dreadlocks who Shredded my Vagina and Gave me a Hickey. There are plenty more that I have not chronicled for lack of time or what I presume would be lack of reader interest. These guys all had one thing in common: in order for me to fuck them, I was so wasted I probably couldn't have even spelled my own name when I invited them into my bed and my twat.
Fortunately, I no longer have to wonder about the underlying mechanism as to how I wound up banging these trolls because, in an example of grant funding being well-spent, some researchers at the University of Manchester have calculated the formula describing the "beer goggles" effect.
You gotta love those Brits...not only do their university professors engage in worthwhile research such as this, but they immediately send a press release to the BBC so we can all benefit from their contributions to science. This didn't get a mention in Nature or Science, which is making me question those journals' long-undisputed "top-tier" status. Fuck global warming, sustainability, proving the Poincare conjecture (which Science declared "Breakthrough of the Year" even though I have no clue what that is), astrophysical studies of the Kuiper Belt, and even Nature's gay animals...BEER GOGGLES is an unexplained phenomenon that has fascinated and confused mankind since the dawn of time. For evidence of this, see Clan of the Cave Bear. Some Neanderthal porked Darryl Hannah and then, when his prehistoric hangover wore off, was so horrified he'd stuck it in a disgusting Cro-Magnon bitch that he had the other early hominids boot her out of their communal cave. Beer goggles has been responsible for legions of hookups that made people slap their hands to their foreheads in despair the next day and wonder "why." I smell a Nobel prize in the University of Manchester's future!
Without further ado, marvel at the answer to the mystery that has facilitated ugly people getting laid for millenia:
The authors state that the value of beta represents the magnitude of the beer goggles effect, and may be interpreted as follows:
A formula rating of less than one means no effect. Between one and 50 the person you would normally find unattractive appears less "visually offensive".To amuse ourselves in lab one day, J-Sexy and I applied the following hypothetical parameters (representing a typical night of me raging around NYC and demanding that various dudes do me like I would never in a million years want to be done while sober) and solved for beta:
Non-appealing people become suddenly attractive between 51 and 100. At more than 100, someone not considered attractive looks like a super model.
An=15 Johnnie Walker Blacks
S=0 (NYC bars are smoke-free)
L=75 (right in the middle of the scale for "luminosity", so should cover all bases from the darkest lounge to the most well-lit pizza place visited post-bar)
Vo=8/12 (I wear contacts and the prescription is outdated, but I can still see well enough)
d=1 meter
When we calculated, my beer goggles number was only 56, indicating that I would suffer from a "moderate beer goggle" effect and thus find someone I consider hideously ugly (examples: Cisco Adler, Greta van Susteren, any of the Rejects) less "visually offensive." However, it should be noted that this is assuming I'm standing right next to them. If you change d to 5 meters, the number is well over 100, assuring that I'd probably go home with a disfigured monkey eating its own shit and think it was Reggie (Get in My) Bush or Gisele or someone really, really, really good-looking.
I'm glad I know about this now, because I'm about to go to grad student happy hour, and you know I'm going to need a serious pair of beta equals An-squared times delta(S+1) divided by root L times Vo-squared in order to get any play there.
Labels: alcoholism, grad school bullshit, Reggie (Get In My) Bush, science, you're ugly
How about some news about war or terrorists?
While initially intrigued, I'm completely sick of both the Anna Nicole and Britney media circuses. Not only has this been dominating the internet gossip pages I frequent, but it's been all over CNN and every paper. Well, every paper except the elitist Times which always insists that the only news fit to print is about serious (ie: boring) stuff, like the economy or Scooter Libby or the war in Iraq. Excepting the Post and Daily News coverage concerning Prince Harry's impending deployment, the tabloids have no interest in Iraq. Rather, they are milking the biggest stories in America for every last drop, and today are gambling on what the average NYC subway rider wants to hear more about: the crazy judge giving Anna Nicole's rotting corpse to her five-month-old daughter or Britney and her new Gollum haircut opening a can of golf umbrella on some paparazzo's SUV.
At least with TWO big stories, the dueling tabloids can each run with a different topic. I guess the Daily News had to go with Britney, since they pretty much shot their wad with respect to awesome Anna Nicole headlines several weeks ago when it first broke that she'd gone to that heavenly methadone clinic in the sky:
Too bad I don't need to buy either paper to find out what's been on the internet so extensively that I'm completely losing interest. Seriously, I'm so fucking tired of this crap that I said a prayer of thanks when I got a little Anna Nicole and Britney relief in the form of Harry Potter's penis. Mercifully, there shouldn't be any new breaking stories about these two until the paternity hearings get heated up and Britney checks out of Promises (either to give some tell-all interview with Matt Lauer about her recovery or to hit up the lezzie bars in search of some fellow meth-and-ecstasy-fueled orgy partners). Right now the only remotely interesting thing I can think of in terms of shit I haven't heard about these stories is that Kimmie, former fat purple-haired lesbian assistant, will be talking to "The Insider" about Anna Anna Anna Anna Anna Nicole. I WANT to care about these stories, so until Britney's back out on the streets terrorizing the tattoo artists and gogo dancers of Los Angeles or we know who Dannielynn's baby daddy is, stop the bombardment already!
At least with TWO big stories, the dueling tabloids can each run with a different topic. I guess the Daily News had to go with Britney, since they pretty much shot their wad with respect to awesome Anna Nicole headlines several weeks ago when it first broke that she'd gone to that heavenly methadone clinic in the sky:
Too bad I don't need to buy either paper to find out what's been on the internet so extensively that I'm completely losing interest. Seriously, I'm so fucking tired of this crap that I said a prayer of thanks when I got a little Anna Nicole and Britney relief in the form of Harry Potter's penis. Mercifully, there shouldn't be any new breaking stories about these two until the paternity hearings get heated up and Britney checks out of Promises (either to give some tell-all interview with Matt Lauer about her recovery or to hit up the lezzie bars in search of some fellow meth-and-ecstasy-fueled orgy partners). Right now the only remotely interesting thing I can think of in terms of shit I haven't heard about these stories is that Kimmie, former fat purple-haired lesbian assistant, will be talking to "The Insider" about Anna Anna Anna Anna Anna Nicole. I WANT to care about these stories, so until Britney's back out on the streets terrorizing the tattoo artists and gogo dancers of Los Angeles or we know who Dannielynn's baby daddy is, stop the bombardment already!
Labels: Britney Spears, large exclamatory font, media whores, ranting
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Harry Potter is kewl
I've never had any desire to put up kiddie porn on my website. For one thing, I hate kids, so why on earth would I want to look at pictures of them doing anything, much less getting sexy? Also, even more than kids, I hate pervertedly criminal morons, like the sex offenders in my neighborhood and the many dumbasses caught on tape during the awesomeness known as Dateline NBC "To Catch a Predator." I never thought I'd even consider amending my "no kiddie porn" policy, much less actually do so.
After much torment and agonizing internal debate, I decided to make an exception for photos I found of the FULL FRONTAL NAKED Daniel "Harry Potter" Radcliffe, who as I have already mentioned, is growing up into quite the fox. In my defense, he'll be 18 in five short months, so he's almost legal. Also, this picture is being distributed all over the internet as promotional material for his West End revival of Equus. Since he's stripping down and wagging his pecker around to the London theater crowd, it's not like I'm the only adult saying "daaaaaamn" about Harry Potter frolicking around in his birthday suit. The pretentious fucks who go see this live on stage cover up their perverted naked-Harry-Potter thoughts by calling it art. This is making the rounds on ALL the gossip blogs, so if it's kiddie porn, then go after Perez Hilton and all 5 million of his readers too. Are you listening, people at Perverted-Justice.com getting ready to look me up on MySpace and attempt to entrap me via poorly spelled, incomprehensible acronym-filled correspondence? I'm not sending his underage ass any instant messages or masturbating for him via webcam or offering to bring him some Zima in exchange for oral at his absent parents' house, so don't send Chris Hansen to castigate me.
Now that I've said my I'm-not-a-child-pornographer disclaimer, take a gander at Harry Potter's uncircumcised weiner!
Holy shit! The boy has some girth. And the length appears adequate too, and he's not even hard! Granted, it's not eleven inches of holly with a phoenix feather core, but whose wand really is? I'm impressed. I'm also glad to know that the guy portraying The Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One, and the most legendary adversary of You-Know-Who and his loyal depraved Death Eaters has got a healthy-sized dick and isn't afraid to rock out with his cock out. Since he's eventually going to take on the dark wizard formerly known as Tom Riddle in mortal combat, he's going to need a big dick to help keep his confidence up when he's trading hexes with Lord Voldemort. Can a blonde, alcoholic, science-geek Muggle get a piece of that action?
And if the self-assured, yeah-I-know-my-prick-is-nice attitude wasn't appealing enough, he's totally a bad boy. Here he is, unshaven and probably relaxing in an interview talking about his challenging new role of baring it all on stage before he does some chick and blinds all her horses.
He smokes! Even though he's not old enough to legally purchase a pack of fags, he's contentedly puffing away on what I like to imagine is a Marlboro Red (although it's probably a fucking Dunhill or whatever British people smoke). Whether he smokes cowboy killers or not, and despite the distractingly hideous sleeve and collar striping on that busted polo shirt, I suddenly have the hots for Daniel Radcliffe in a big way. Dude is going on the Hot Jews list ASAP.
Turn 18 already, Harry!
After much torment and agonizing internal debate, I decided to make an exception for photos I found of the FULL FRONTAL NAKED Daniel "Harry Potter" Radcliffe, who as I have already mentioned, is growing up into quite the fox. In my defense, he'll be 18 in five short months, so he's almost legal. Also, this picture is being distributed all over the internet as promotional material for his West End revival of Equus. Since he's stripping down and wagging his pecker around to the London theater crowd, it's not like I'm the only adult saying "daaaaaamn" about Harry Potter frolicking around in his birthday suit. The pretentious fucks who go see this live on stage cover up their perverted naked-Harry-Potter thoughts by calling it art. This is making the rounds on ALL the gossip blogs, so if it's kiddie porn, then go after Perez Hilton and all 5 million of his readers too. Are you listening, people at Perverted-Justice.com getting ready to look me up on MySpace and attempt to entrap me via poorly spelled, incomprehensible acronym-filled correspondence? I'm not sending his underage ass any instant messages or masturbating for him via webcam or offering to bring him some Zima in exchange for oral at his absent parents' house, so don't send Chris Hansen to castigate me.
Now that I've said my I'm-not-a-child-pornographer disclaimer, take a gander at Harry Potter's uncircumcised weiner!
Holy shit! The boy has some girth. And the length appears adequate too, and he's not even hard! Granted, it's not eleven inches of holly with a phoenix feather core, but whose wand really is? I'm impressed. I'm also glad to know that the guy portraying The Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One, and the most legendary adversary of You-Know-Who and his loyal depraved Death Eaters has got a healthy-sized dick and isn't afraid to rock out with his cock out. Since he's eventually going to take on the dark wizard formerly known as Tom Riddle in mortal combat, he's going to need a big dick to help keep his confidence up when he's trading hexes with Lord Voldemort. Can a blonde, alcoholic, science-geek Muggle get a piece of that action?
And if the self-assured, yeah-I-know-my-prick-is-nice attitude wasn't appealing enough, he's totally a bad boy. Here he is, unshaven and probably relaxing in an interview talking about his challenging new role of baring it all on stage before he does some chick and blinds all her horses.
Turn 18 already, Harry!
Labels: celebrities, Harry Potter, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, kewlness, perversion, sex, weiners
Edward Fortyhands
This weekend I attempted to drink forties with my friends LL Cool Jew, JerseyGirl, Wmania, and FalloniusMonk. After a long discussion covering such topics as the existence of diet low-carb 40s for those on impending wedding diets, establishing that New York City bodegas are the best places to purchase these beverages, accepting Wmania drinking Boone's Farm instead because she's now too grown-up and sophisticated for beer, debating whether or not Colt 45 is, as claimed by Billy Dee Williams, the smoothest, we attempted to purchase said forties. Unfortunately, since FalloniusMonk and I both live in the heart of the ghetto, where the bodega trade in forties is brisk, our opinion of the availability of 40s through all parts of the five boroughs was skewed. We completely didn't reckon on the snotty organic juice-peddling bodega/gourmet deli by JerseyGirl's Upper West Side apartment NOT SELLING A SINGLE BRAND OF FORTY. So we bought Heineken and Michelob Ultra instead.
While we were drinking, we got to talking about how we wished we had been able to purchase forties. JerseyGirl started telling us about some college party custom she'd heard about called "Edward Fortyhands", in which a forty is duct-taped into one's hand, thus mandating rapid consumption to prevent the beverage inside from warming via body heat. There's truly nothing worse than sipping on warm malt liquor, no matter HOW drunk you already are, so I can see how this sufficiently motivates the alcoholic to chug that King Cobra fast. I thought this was stupid and wanted to know which hellhole Garden State township this idea originated in. JerseyGirl squealed, "I can't believe you've never heard of this before!"
I advised her that the only Edward ______hands I'm interested in is Edward Penishands, which involves some of the finest acting in the history of adult hardcore pornographic cinema. I seriously BELIEVE the dude in that movie is Johnny Depp; his performance as a 15-inch dildo-handed savant with Lead-Singer-of-Korn-esque hair and a skin-bleaching fetish is that convincing. However, it seems that out on the internet, "Edward Fortyhands" has captured enough of the zeitgeist to warrant a video on YouTube.
Cue up the absurdly-placed synth-heavy classic rock:
Who the hell listens to Journey when they're drinking forties besides intentionally ironic hipster girlie boy members of "The Cock Country Club"? Journey is for roller skating and redneck lesbian makeout sessions, not Edward Fortyhands. Put on some Dr. Dre, you fools!
While we were drinking, we got to talking about how we wished we had been able to purchase forties. JerseyGirl started telling us about some college party custom she'd heard about called "Edward Fortyhands", in which a forty is duct-taped into one's hand, thus mandating rapid consumption to prevent the beverage inside from warming via body heat. There's truly nothing worse than sipping on warm malt liquor, no matter HOW drunk you already are, so I can see how this sufficiently motivates the alcoholic to chug that King Cobra fast. I thought this was stupid and wanted to know which hellhole Garden State township this idea originated in. JerseyGirl squealed, "I can't believe you've never heard of this before!"
I advised her that the only Edward ______hands I'm interested in is Edward Penishands, which involves some of the finest acting in the history of adult hardcore pornographic cinema. I seriously BELIEVE the dude in that movie is Johnny Depp; his performance as a 15-inch dildo-handed savant with Lead-Singer-of-Korn-esque hair and a skin-bleaching fetish is that convincing. However, it seems that out on the internet, "Edward Fortyhands" has captured enough of the zeitgeist to warrant a video on YouTube.
Cue up the absurdly-placed synth-heavy classic rock:
Who the hell listens to Journey when they're drinking forties besides intentionally ironic hipster girlie boy members of "The Cock Country Club"? Journey is for roller skating and redneck lesbian makeout sessions, not Edward Fortyhands. Put on some Dr. Dre, you fools!
Labels: alcoholism, FalloniusMonk, JerseyGirl, LL Cool Jew, porn, ridiculous absurdity, Wmania
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Bagels are rad
Since it's Ash Wednesday and I'm not supposed to eat, I immediately began thinking about how badly I'd like a bagel. I'll probably hit that shit and then feel guilty in church later when I'm getting my ashes. Then I'll spend the rest of the day yelling at people for being stupid about Catholics when they tell me that I have a bunch of black shit on my forehead. Man, I hate Lent. Lent sucks.
Also sucking about Lent is the fact that LL Cool Jew returns to the Dirrty Dirrty today, and I won't see her until her weddingstravaganza kicks off in about six weeks, right in time for Easter. Since I already have bagels on the brain, it made me think of some amusing anecdotes concerning her fiance, BigBagel. He did two years in the Peace Corps in Togo, which is in Africa in case you are a little rusty on your world geography. Consequently, he has a huge Africa fetish. When I went to their place in Mississippi for Thanksgiving two years ago, LL Cool Jew was setting up a place for Wmania and myself to sleep, and walked in with what looked like the contents of a village cloth market in her arms. "Nice blankets, dude," I said.
"Don't look at me." LL Cool Jew said. "BigBagel bought most of West Africa's supply of Kinte cloth while he was in Togo. I'm amazed they have any blankets left over there."
As a salute to his Afrophilia, LL Cool Jew thought it would be funny to get BigBagel this shirt for Valentine's Day.
She thought it was silly and would appeal to his love for all things Africa. How wrong she was. Apparently, BigBagel opened the gift, took one look at the shirt, and frowned thoughtfully.
"Well, what's the matter? Don't you like it?" LL Cool Jew asked him.
"I don't get it," he responded. "Chad isn't rad. It's the next Darfur."
LL Cool Jew probably would have done better to get a "Togo is ____", but I can't think of anything clever that rhymes with Togo, and apparently neither have manufacturers of clever faux vintage t-shirts. At least she just got him a shirt and not the traditional Valentine's Day gift of a blood diamond. Oh well...he's still going to marry her ass in spite of her attempts at humor having to do with civil war-torn, politically unstable, economically fucked African nations.
Anyway, I don't know how BigBagel lasted two years in Togo eating gerbils and termites or whatever, because, as his name implies, the dude is crazy for bagels. Granted, he's like a goat and would probably eat a tin can if you served it to him, but given a choice of foods, he opts for bagels. Last fall, when they were both in town, LL Cool Jew informed me that BigBagel had "wiped out the stock of every H&H in Manhattan", because authentic New York bagels are as impossible to get in Mississippi as they are in Togo.
It's only fitting that last week, the day before LL Cool Jew arrived on this trip, I opened my mail to find a large, invitation-y envelope with a Montclair, NJ postmark. "Rehearsal dinner invitation," I predicted, and I was right. However, in addition to that, there was an invitation for another event.
It seems MillerTime and I are invited to "a post-wedding bagel nosh" at BigBagel's parents' home, which I like to imagine as being next door to Tony Soprano's in a well-kept Garden State suburban development. Of course...what else could BigBagel's family POSSIBLY follow up their son's wedding with than a meal consisting mainly of bagels? It's perfect.
Also sucking about Lent is the fact that LL Cool Jew returns to the Dirrty Dirrty today, and I won't see her until her weddingstravaganza kicks off in about six weeks, right in time for Easter. Since I already have bagels on the brain, it made me think of some amusing anecdotes concerning her fiance, BigBagel. He did two years in the Peace Corps in Togo, which is in Africa in case you are a little rusty on your world geography. Consequently, he has a huge Africa fetish. When I went to their place in Mississippi for Thanksgiving two years ago, LL Cool Jew was setting up a place for Wmania and myself to sleep, and walked in with what looked like the contents of a village cloth market in her arms. "Nice blankets, dude," I said.
"Don't look at me." LL Cool Jew said. "BigBagel bought most of West Africa's supply of Kinte cloth while he was in Togo. I'm amazed they have any blankets left over there."
As a salute to his Afrophilia, LL Cool Jew thought it would be funny to get BigBagel this shirt for Valentine's Day.
"Well, what's the matter? Don't you like it?" LL Cool Jew asked him.
"I don't get it," he responded. "Chad isn't rad. It's the next Darfur."
LL Cool Jew probably would have done better to get a "Togo is ____", but I can't think of anything clever that rhymes with Togo, and apparently neither have manufacturers of clever faux vintage t-shirts. At least she just got him a shirt and not the traditional Valentine's Day gift of a blood diamond. Oh well...he's still going to marry her ass in spite of her attempts at humor having to do with civil war-torn, politically unstable, economically fucked African nations.
Anyway, I don't know how BigBagel lasted two years in Togo eating gerbils and termites or whatever, because, as his name implies, the dude is crazy for bagels. Granted, he's like a goat and would probably eat a tin can if you served it to him, but given a choice of foods, he opts for bagels. Last fall, when they were both in town, LL Cool Jew informed me that BigBagel had "wiped out the stock of every H&H in Manhattan", because authentic New York bagels are as impossible to get in Mississippi as they are in Togo.
It's only fitting that last week, the day before LL Cool Jew arrived on this trip, I opened my mail to find a large, invitation-y envelope with a Montclair, NJ postmark. "Rehearsal dinner invitation," I predicted, and I was right. However, in addition to that, there was an invitation for another event.
It seems MillerTime and I are invited to "a post-wedding bagel nosh" at BigBagel's parents' home, which I like to imagine as being next door to Tony Soprano's in a well-kept Garden State suburban development. Of course...what else could BigBagel's family POSSIBLY follow up their son's wedding with than a meal consisting mainly of bagels? It's perfect.
Labels: BigBagel, Catholicism, international intrigue, LL Cool Jew, ridiculous absurdity
Britney might kill us all
I'm so glad this insane, out-of-control bitch is in rehab after seeing this picture. Homegirl looks like she might eat the motherfucker toying with her panty line because he's there and she's hungry. However, anyone not living on the recently demoted Kuiper Belt body Pluto knows that Britney is hungry only in the sense that she might eat you for bad publicity.
She might be taking entirely too much vitamin E and doing her part to subsequently bolster the Bolivian economy and fund guerilla insurgents battling for de facto control of Colombia, but Britney Spears is NO JOKE. Did you ever see Dune? Because this fierce hooker looks as though she's about to grab her crude yet effective Fremen blade and engage her tattooist in mortal combat to negotiate ancient intergalactic feudal family bullshit concerning planetary fiefdoms and control of the spice trade. Don't fuck with House Atreides! Holy God, I just fully revealed my nerdiness. Next I'm going to start making "Battlestar Galactica" references, a la "Britney looks like she could be one of the five unrevealed Cylons!" I need to not blog when drunk alone after spending the entire night bonding with LL Cool Jew about how she meets friends in the Dirrty Dirrty based on well-placed references to lembas bread.
Regardless, would YOU fuck with that? I surely would not.
She might be taking entirely too much vitamin E and doing her part to subsequently bolster the Bolivian economy and fund guerilla insurgents battling for de facto control of Colombia, but Britney Spears is NO JOKE. Did you ever see Dune? Because this fierce hooker looks as though she's about to grab her crude yet effective Fremen blade and engage her tattooist in mortal combat to negotiate ancient intergalactic feudal family bullshit concerning planetary fiefdoms and control of the spice trade. Don't fuck with House Atreides! Holy God, I just fully revealed my nerdiness. Next I'm going to start making "Battlestar Galactica" references, a la "Britney looks like she could be one of the five unrevealed Cylons!" I need to not blog when drunk alone after spending the entire night bonding with LL Cool Jew about how she meets friends in the Dirrty Dirrty based on well-placed references to lembas bread.
Regardless, would YOU fuck with that? I surely would not.
Labels: alcoholism, Britney Spears, epic geekery, oh the horror, PWT, ridiculous absurdity, stank vaginas
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Million dollar scabies
Recently the woman who refused to shave Britney's head has been dragging the hair around to "Entertainment Tonight" and any other media outfit that will allow those biohazardous synthetic tresses on set. It seems she spied a golden opportunity and tried to sell this crap on eBay. eBay, adhering to their policy not to allow auctions selling biological or chemical weapons of mass destruction, pulled the listing. Undaunted, the entrepreneurial owner of the alleged hair set up a website to sell it for the low, low price of one MILLION dollars.
While I'm all for capitalism and I'm not hating on this salon owner for aspiring to be counted among what Destiny's Child calls "all the mamas with profit dollas", if this sells fora cool million a hundred thousand ten grand one C-note 5 bucks, I'll be astounded yet again by the sheer idiocy of the average American consumer. How exactly could you make any money off this shit except by selling it to a monumentally stupid buyer after convincing them it's a winning business venture? Unfortunately, there probably IS some trashy moron out there who just won Powerball or something that will plunk down an obscene sum of cash for this worthless crap which MAY be an infectious hazard. God bless America.
I was hoping that my favorite city paper, the NY Post, would have an awesome exclamatory front page headline about this bullshit "opportunity." Instead, it seems they've chosen to focus on the busted selection of wigs she's chosen to sport since getting the Smith College first-year womyn's studies major/G.I. Jane coif, although they neglect to mention that this look was shamelessly stolen from Deputy Johnson on "Reno 911!".
On a totally unrelated note, the Post and Daily News are BOTH all over how Pay-Rod and Derek Jeter broke up. The Post got it wrong because the headline SHOULD be "A-ROD COMES OUT".
I defy anyone (JerseyGirl) passionately arguing against the fact that these two were trading reach-arounds up until Jeter's brief showmance with Jessica Biel to say so now. Not only are they not friends anymore, but what Pay-Rod specifically said was, "You go from sleeping over at someone's house five nights a week, and then you don't sleep over anymore." He should have added, "And then your boyfriend--I mean, teammate--is on Perez Hilton playing football on some Puerto Rican beach with that hot-assed bitch who used to be on '7th Heaven'. I've learned that when someone says, 'I'll never leave you, Alex' they are A FILTHY LIAR! Wait...I miss you, Derek. I'll never find anything as special as what we once had. Call me!" This is otherwise known as BREAKING UP. Apparently, they hit a rough patch (AKA last post-season, when the only balls Gay-Rod was hitting with his bat were Jeter's) and had a bit of a lovers' spat. Now Jeter is sending Gay-Rod to voicemail and slutting around Hollywood to inspire jealousy. Man, I hope the Yankees suck this year on account of gay drama involving the shortstop and third baseman. Better yet, I hope one of them buys Britney's hair to give the other as a peace offering, and then they both die from the as-yet-undescribed super-virulent strain of the clap it carries. That would kick so much ass.
This is it, the opportunity of a lifetime. You can be the proud owner of Britney Spears’ hair, extensions, the Omega clipper used to cut it all off and even the can of Red Bull she was drinking at the time. You also get her blue Bic Lighter and this valuable domain and website to use for publicity purposes. This is the Ultimate Britney Spears Experience! It is a piece of history that can not be duplicated!It might be the "opportunity of a lifetime" for the salon owner to unload a permanently nit-contaminated set of clippers, but that's it. I would also argue that the "Ultimate Britney Spears experience" would be doing a shit-ton of ecstasy and having a lesbian orgy with a platoon of washed-up Vegas hookers in a pig trough filled with Cheetos, but I guess that's a little tougher to orchestrate and sell. In case that sales pitch didn't convince you that the cheap extensions Brit sheared off, along with a Red Bull can that actually touched her herpetic lips, a lighter, and the EXTREMELY valuable domain "buybritneyshair.com" are worth your hard-earned MILLION DOLLARS, take a gander at the goods themselves.
A portion of the proceeds will be donated to various charities. The winner will have the choice to remain anonymous or to use this for publicity purposes.
If you are SERIOUS about purchasing please do the following:
Please send an email to buybritneyshair@yahoo.com and include your name, company name (if applicable), email, phone number, and address. We will contact you A.S.A.P. Any submissions that do not include ALL of the required information will be discarded.
While I'm all for capitalism and I'm not hating on this salon owner for aspiring to be counted among what Destiny's Child calls "all the mamas with profit dollas", if this sells for
I was hoping that my favorite city paper, the NY Post, would have an awesome exclamatory front page headline about this bullshit "opportunity." Instead, it seems they've chosen to focus on the busted selection of wigs she's chosen to sport since getting the Smith College first-year womyn's studies major/G.I. Jane coif, although they neglect to mention that this look was shamelessly stolen from Deputy Johnson on "Reno 911!".
On a totally unrelated note, the Post and Daily News are BOTH all over how Pay-Rod and Derek Jeter broke up. The Post got it wrong because the headline SHOULD be "A-ROD COMES OUT".
Labels: Britney Spears, capitalism, celebrities, fuck the Yankees, gross, large exclamatory font, oh the horror, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, ridiculous absurdity, vulgar display of faggotry
Monday, February 19, 2007
Dead Poetic license
Last week, I went out to dinner with some friends to celebrate my buddy Neo's 28th year of existence in this mortal coil. Afterward, we went to this bar on the Upper West Side called the Dead Poet. I got myself a scotch, helped Neo pick out some songs on the jukebox, picked out the choicest quotes about alcoholism attributed to various dead poets hanging on the bar wall, and was generally having a grand time...until I got a look at the drink menu.
The menu had a page devoted to the bar's "signature cocktails", each one of which is named after a notable dead poet. I could not disagree more with some of these drinks. I suspect that the morons who made up these drinks have never read a single word of their namesakes' poetry, because they are dead wrong.
Walt Whitman: "Our famous version of the Long Island Iced Tea. Lemon vodka, gin, coconut rum, and orange liqueur are combined to create a smooth, highly potent potion. Served in a pint glass and garnished with lemons and a cherry."
The fact that their Walt Whitman cocktail is "famous" is news to me, probably because the only thing it's famous for is having absolutely nothing to do with Walt Whitman save the fact that he originally hails from Strong Island. Nothing about coconut rum and orange liqueur bring to mind Whitman's ties to the abolitionist and free-soil movements or his passionate hatred of the tariff. The only way I can see this having any connection to Whitman at all is that it might have been what Monica Lewinsky was drinking when the Silver Fox President William Jefferson Clinton gave her a copy of Leaves of Grass and stained her dress. I think a more appropriate drink would be one reflecting the image of the poet himself:
The mixologists at the Dead Poet should have noted Whitman's obvious resemblance to a cracked-out homeless dude or freight rail-riding stowaway hobo (although in fairness, that was the look in the 1870s), and just served some Mad Dog 20/20 Banana Red out of the bottle in a brown paper bag. People would get it.
Oscar Wilde: "Much like the flamboyant Irish writer, our sour-apple martini is spirited and robust. Ketel One vodka, apple liqueur, and melon liqueur are shaken and poured into a sugar-rimmed martini glass."
I guess "flamboyant" is a better adjective for use on a menu than "big fat homo." I also can't argue with the drink choice here, except to say that Oscar Wilde was probably not swilling appletinis while testifying about "the love that dares not speak its name" as he faced two years in Reading Gaol for buggering Lord Alfred Douglas. The appletini would have been a better choice for Truman Capote, but being that he was more of a novelist, he doesn't have a signature drink.
Edgar Allan Poe: "Poe was both glorified as an angel and maligned as the devil because of his dark, mournful tales and his mysterious personal life. Grey Goose vodka, Chambord, Triple Sec, and a squeeze of fresh lime. Shaken with ice and served in a sugar-rimmed martini glass."
Yes, nothing says "dark mystery" like a drink that tastes like raspberries and oranges served up with a sugar-coated rim. This definitely captures the dualistic nature of Poe, and conjures up the correspondent gloomy images celebrated in such poems as "The Raven". Certainly this drink would make me think of a man who drank himself into oblivion because all his family members kept dying of consumption.
Emily Dickinson: "Celebrate this 'New England mystic' with our pink lemonade cocktail. We combine Bacardi Limon, Triple Sec, sour mix, and a splash of grenadine to create this tart and tangy cocktail. Garnished with a lemon and served on the rocks or straight up in a martini glass."
Emily Dickinson was a sexually repressed, miserable old spinster who lived at the nexus of hell on Earth: western Assachusetts. She spent all of her time and poetry fixated on death and winter, because there's nothing else to do in Amherst unless you like fucking rich, WASPy, lacrosse-playing frat boys with big egos, limp dicks, and white baseball caps (which she did not). Nothing says "undersexed, reclusive, depressed, austere old woman" like pink lemonade!
Dylan Thomas: "Thomas was flamboyantly theatrical, a heavy drinker, and he became a legendary figure, both for his work and the boisterousness of his life. We toast Thomas with the ultimate dirty martini. Ketel One vodka is shaken with olive juice and strained into a chilled martini glass. Garnished with a trio of Queen olives."
My friend LL Cool Jew has a line from a Dylan Thomas poem, "Noli me tangere", tattooed on her shoulder. This was bitten by Thomas from the Gospel of John, and it means "touch me not." That's about the limit of my knowledge about Dylan Thomas, but I'm curious as to whether the Dead Poet's barkeep using "flamboyant" here means that, like Oscar Wilde, Dylan Thomas had a thing for young minor male nobility. The garnish of "Queen olives" certainly supports that theory. I couldn't find anything about that on his Wikipedia page, but I did find that he was a whiskey drinker...so what's with giving him a dirty martini?
John Keats: "Known especially for his descriptions of nature, his poetry also resonated with
deep philosophical questions. Feel free to philosophize the meaning of life while you enjoy a pint glass full of vodka, Southern Comfort, amaretto, sloe gin, Triple Sec, lime juice, and orange juice."
This seems like it could be overly sweet, much like Keats's poetry.
Robert Frost: "Possibly the most popular 20th century American poet, Frost wrote about the character, people, and landscape of New England. Vanilla vodka, melon liqueur, and raspberry liqueur are combined with cranberry and orange juice and served in a pint glass."
This drink is for curmudgeony old New Englanders who get sick of the Emily Dickinson lemonade. It's best consumed surrounded by blazing Yankee Candles. Presumably the melon and raspberry flavors will then evoke images of fall foliage, Nantucket whalers, and the Kennedys.
W.B. Yeats: "This Nobel Prize-winning author was one of the greatest English-language poets of the 20th century. His intellectual, often obscure poetry focused on the reality of life in Ireland. A mixture of vodka, gin, rum, Triple Sec, melon liqueur, sour mix, and a splash of 7-Up reflect the lush green countryside of Yeats's homeland."
This drink might reflect the Emerald Isle in terms of color, but I don't recall anybody drinking anything involving Triple Sec in Angela's Ashes. In fact, the only thing I remember about that book was that every other chapter, a baby died of starvation and/or typhoid. Presumably, the Dead Poet bar staff felt that accuracy be damned, this tricked-out Midori sour-flavored Long Island Tea was a better representative of Yeats's Ireland than say, a glass of Bushmill's. The drink comes with a bar of Irish Spring, a box of Lucky Charms, and a DVD of the classic film Leprechaun: In Space to really hammer the faux Irishness home.
I was ranting about this to my mom on the phone that night after I got home and she asked a very good question. "Didn't they have one for that depressed woman? You know, Sylvia Plath?" (My mom gets her money's worth on my college education by giving shout-outs to notable Smith alumnae at every turn...you should hear her when she gets going about Julia Child).
"What would that be, Mom? An oven with an unlit pilot light and the gas on full?"
"Judging by what you told me about their menu, I was thinking that would probably be an electric iced tea or something equally inappropriate," Mom said in her half-disapproving Marge Simpson voice.
"You're probably right about that. It IS too bad they didn't include her, because I could totally associate her with a kamikaze shot. 'Let's do a round of Sylvia Plaths, guys!'" My mom shelved her disapproval and laughed along with me.
Tasteless Sylvia Plath jokes aside, the owners of the Dead Poet clearly need to take a fucking poetry class. If I brought Saratoga120, my old English teacher from Smith who secured my acquittal on possession charges, to this place, she'd take one look at the drink menu and probably inform the bartender that he had the literary accomplishments of a brandy jigger. The Dead Poet would be a considerably better establishment if they made like the main character in the crappy movie of the same name and died. Carpe diem, or whatever. Death is the only just reward for any tard who associates Emily Dickinson with pink lemonade.
The menu had a page devoted to the bar's "signature cocktails", each one of which is named after a notable dead poet. I could not disagree more with some of these drinks. I suspect that the morons who made up these drinks have never read a single word of their namesakes' poetry, because they are dead wrong.
Walt Whitman: "Our famous version of the Long Island Iced Tea. Lemon vodka, gin, coconut rum, and orange liqueur are combined to create a smooth, highly potent potion. Served in a pint glass and garnished with lemons and a cherry."
The fact that their Walt Whitman cocktail is "famous" is news to me, probably because the only thing it's famous for is having absolutely nothing to do with Walt Whitman save the fact that he originally hails from Strong Island. Nothing about coconut rum and orange liqueur bring to mind Whitman's ties to the abolitionist and free-soil movements or his passionate hatred of the tariff. The only way I can see this having any connection to Whitman at all is that it might have been what Monica Lewinsky was drinking when the Silver Fox President William Jefferson Clinton gave her a copy of Leaves of Grass and stained her dress. I think a more appropriate drink would be one reflecting the image of the poet himself:
The mixologists at the Dead Poet should have noted Whitman's obvious resemblance to a cracked-out homeless dude or freight rail-riding stowaway hobo (although in fairness, that was the look in the 1870s), and just served some Mad Dog 20/20 Banana Red out of the bottle in a brown paper bag. People would get it.
Oscar Wilde: "Much like the flamboyant Irish writer, our sour-apple martini is spirited and robust. Ketel One vodka, apple liqueur, and melon liqueur are shaken and poured into a sugar-rimmed martini glass."
I guess "flamboyant" is a better adjective for use on a menu than "big fat homo." I also can't argue with the drink choice here, except to say that Oscar Wilde was probably not swilling appletinis while testifying about "the love that dares not speak its name" as he faced two years in Reading Gaol for buggering Lord Alfred Douglas. The appletini would have been a better choice for Truman Capote, but being that he was more of a novelist, he doesn't have a signature drink.
Edgar Allan Poe: "Poe was both glorified as an angel and maligned as the devil because of his dark, mournful tales and his mysterious personal life. Grey Goose vodka, Chambord, Triple Sec, and a squeeze of fresh lime. Shaken with ice and served in a sugar-rimmed martini glass."
Yes, nothing says "dark mystery" like a drink that tastes like raspberries and oranges served up with a sugar-coated rim. This definitely captures the dualistic nature of Poe, and conjures up the correspondent gloomy images celebrated in such poems as "The Raven". Certainly this drink would make me think of a man who drank himself into oblivion because all his family members kept dying of consumption.
Emily Dickinson: "Celebrate this 'New England mystic' with our pink lemonade cocktail. We combine Bacardi Limon, Triple Sec, sour mix, and a splash of grenadine to create this tart and tangy cocktail. Garnished with a lemon and served on the rocks or straight up in a martini glass."
Emily Dickinson was a sexually repressed, miserable old spinster who lived at the nexus of hell on Earth: western Assachusetts. She spent all of her time and poetry fixated on death and winter, because there's nothing else to do in Amherst unless you like fucking rich, WASPy, lacrosse-playing frat boys with big egos, limp dicks, and white baseball caps (which she did not). Nothing says "undersexed, reclusive, depressed, austere old woman" like pink lemonade!
Dylan Thomas: "Thomas was flamboyantly theatrical, a heavy drinker, and he became a legendary figure, both for his work and the boisterousness of his life. We toast Thomas with the ultimate dirty martini. Ketel One vodka is shaken with olive juice and strained into a chilled martini glass. Garnished with a trio of Queen olives."
My friend LL Cool Jew has a line from a Dylan Thomas poem, "Noli me tangere", tattooed on her shoulder. This was bitten by Thomas from the Gospel of John, and it means "touch me not." That's about the limit of my knowledge about Dylan Thomas, but I'm curious as to whether the Dead Poet's barkeep using "flamboyant" here means that, like Oscar Wilde, Dylan Thomas had a thing for young minor male nobility. The garnish of "Queen olives" certainly supports that theory. I couldn't find anything about that on his Wikipedia page, but I did find that he was a whiskey drinker...so what's with giving him a dirty martini?
John Keats: "Known especially for his descriptions of nature, his poetry also resonated with
deep philosophical questions. Feel free to philosophize the meaning of life while you enjoy a pint glass full of vodka, Southern Comfort, amaretto, sloe gin, Triple Sec, lime juice, and orange juice."
This seems like it could be overly sweet, much like Keats's poetry.
Robert Frost: "Possibly the most popular 20th century American poet, Frost wrote about the character, people, and landscape of New England. Vanilla vodka, melon liqueur, and raspberry liqueur are combined with cranberry and orange juice and served in a pint glass."
This drink is for curmudgeony old New Englanders who get sick of the Emily Dickinson lemonade. It's best consumed surrounded by blazing Yankee Candles. Presumably the melon and raspberry flavors will then evoke images of fall foliage, Nantucket whalers, and the Kennedys.
W.B. Yeats: "This Nobel Prize-winning author was one of the greatest English-language poets of the 20th century. His intellectual, often obscure poetry focused on the reality of life in Ireland. A mixture of vodka, gin, rum, Triple Sec, melon liqueur, sour mix, and a splash of 7-Up reflect the lush green countryside of Yeats's homeland."
This drink might reflect the Emerald Isle in terms of color, but I don't recall anybody drinking anything involving Triple Sec in Angela's Ashes. In fact, the only thing I remember about that book was that every other chapter, a baby died of starvation and/or typhoid. Presumably, the Dead Poet bar staff felt that accuracy be damned, this tricked-out Midori sour-flavored Long Island Tea was a better representative of Yeats's Ireland than say, a glass of Bushmill's. The drink comes with a bar of Irish Spring, a box of Lucky Charms, and a DVD of the classic film Leprechaun: In Space to really hammer the faux Irishness home.
I was ranting about this to my mom on the phone that night after I got home and she asked a very good question. "Didn't they have one for that depressed woman? You know, Sylvia Plath?" (My mom gets her money's worth on my college education by giving shout-outs to notable Smith alumnae at every turn...you should hear her when she gets going about Julia Child).
"What would that be, Mom? An oven with an unlit pilot light and the gas on full?"
"Judging by what you told me about their menu, I was thinking that would probably be an electric iced tea or something equally inappropriate," Mom said in her half-disapproving Marge Simpson voice.
"You're probably right about that. It IS too bad they didn't include her, because I could totally associate her with a kamikaze shot. 'Let's do a round of Sylvia Plaths, guys!'" My mom shelved her disapproval and laughed along with me.
Tasteless Sylvia Plath jokes aside, the owners of the Dead Poet clearly need to take a fucking poetry class. If I brought Saratoga120, my old English teacher from Smith who secured my acquittal on possession charges, to this place, she'd take one look at the drink menu and probably inform the bartender that he had the literary accomplishments of a brandy jigger. The Dead Poet would be a considerably better establishment if they made like the main character in the crappy movie of the same name and died. Carpe diem, or whatever. Death is the only just reward for any tard who associates Emily Dickinson with pink lemonade.
Labels: alcoholism, assholes, librophilia, NYC, people who died, retard rage, ridiculous absurdity
Saturday, February 17, 2007
You can catch us at E and J's pourin' it up
LL Cool Jew's plane is probably taxiing into the terminal at JFK right about now, so I thought I'd give her a little shout-out to welcome her back to the Big Apple. She was forced to come here by the twin nefarious forces of her impending wedding shower (which she refers to as her wedding "colonic") and the insistent bitches at Vera Wang who are constantly pestering her to come in for dress measurements. Fortunately, she has a shitload of bitches around to negate the less desirable obligations of her weekend, and tonight we're getting together to drink 40s and watch either Menace II Society or more reruns of our old standby "90210."
So to welcome LL Cool Jew back to Mannahattas, I thought I'd post this video of my boyfriend Levell "David Banner" Clump. I'm sure that she'll desperately miss the Mighty Mississip while she's here, so I figure that a little "Like a Pimp" might take the edge off. Besides, it will remind her of my opinion that an interview with David Banner's grandmother, who apparently lives in the same county as LL Cool Jew's newspaper, would probably be the biggest breaking news story of the year. Seriously, LL Cool Jew...do that interview and you and BigBagel will be celebrating your his-and-hers Pulitzers along with your wedding this April! Okay, maybe not, but anyway...who doesn't love "Like a Pimp"?
Welcome back, LL Cool Jew!
So to welcome LL Cool Jew back to Mannahattas, I thought I'd post this video of my boyfriend Levell "David Banner" Clump. I'm sure that she'll desperately miss the Mighty Mississip while she's here, so I figure that a little "Like a Pimp" might take the edge off. Besides, it will remind her of my opinion that an interview with David Banner's grandmother, who apparently lives in the same county as LL Cool Jew's newspaper, would probably be the biggest breaking news story of the year. Seriously, LL Cool Jew...do that interview and you and BigBagel will be celebrating your his-and-hers Pulitzers along with your wedding this April! Okay, maybe not, but anyway...who doesn't love "Like a Pimp"?
Welcome back, LL Cool Jew!
Labels: boyfriends, Dirrty Dirrty, LL Cool Jew, NYC, rap
Friday, February 16, 2007
Moderation is back in full motherfuckin' effect
It is always that when a time of peace has descended upon me here at RAZZY.org, some tool shows up and ruins it all. I used to not delete any comments, because I'm not going to be like Rose and Olive and tell motherfuckers they're being inappropriate on account of me not being able to handle their criticisms. However, occasionally, I am forced to delete. This has occurred only when someone either posts my home address and invites all the creeps of the internet over, or when someone writes a bunch of extremely racist bullshit and signs it with my name.
This morning, I opened my e-mail and was alerted that the latter had occurred, funnily enough, on the comment page of the Rose and Olive post. It seems the hatemongering Razzy impersonator is back at it after several months of silence, although that person is now employing the moniker "Razzy III" instead of just plain old "Razzy". Clever. Anyway, I didn't even finish reading the bullshit about how I've been off with the retired Nazis "incinerating Jews in Argentina" before I deleted it and turned comment moderation back on.
So hopefully Razzy III will find something better to do than craft these idiotic missives, so I don't have to sit around approving comments on the grounds that they don't contain references to "porch monkeys" and the like. Anyways, bear with me. I'll approve everything so long as it's not written by "Razzy III", even if you're calling me a big, fat, ugly, mentally challenged slut or whatever else, and hopefully Razzy III will crawl back under his/her rock and be otherwise occupied.
Oh, and Razzy III, I have your IP address. So be warned: if you persist in cluttering up my comment pages with your bullshit, I will eventually find out who you are. Then I'll be happy to post your personal information right alongside the text of some of your more choice comments. They're deleted, but I still have the comment e-mail alerts Blogger sent me. I figured I would save them in the hopes that I'd figure out who you are and out you for being a bigot and, I might add, a pussy for choosing to share that side of you with the world via anonymous blog comments. Man up, bitch, and take credit for either your own fucked-up worldview or for whatever it is about me that compels you to occupy your time in this way. I am shameless and I am ruthless, so feel free to continue trying my patience. I will destroy you.
This morning, I opened my e-mail and was alerted that the latter had occurred, funnily enough, on the comment page of the Rose and Olive post. It seems the hatemongering Razzy impersonator is back at it after several months of silence, although that person is now employing the moniker "Razzy III" instead of just plain old "Razzy". Clever. Anyway, I didn't even finish reading the bullshit about how I've been off with the retired Nazis "incinerating Jews in Argentina" before I deleted it and turned comment moderation back on.
So hopefully Razzy III will find something better to do than craft these idiotic missives, so I don't have to sit around approving comments on the grounds that they don't contain references to "porch monkeys" and the like. Anyways, bear with me. I'll approve everything so long as it's not written by "Razzy III", even if you're calling me a big, fat, ugly, mentally challenged slut or whatever else, and hopefully Razzy III will crawl back under his/her rock and be otherwise occupied.
Oh, and Razzy III, I have your IP address. So be warned: if you persist in cluttering up my comment pages with your bullshit, I will eventually find out who you are. Then I'll be happy to post your personal information right alongside the text of some of your more choice comments. They're deleted, but I still have the comment e-mail alerts Blogger sent me. I figured I would save them in the hopes that I'd figure out who you are and out you for being a bigot and, I might add, a pussy for choosing to share that side of you with the world via anonymous blog comments. Man up, bitch, and take credit for either your own fucked-up worldview or for whatever it is about me that compels you to occupy your time in this way. I am shameless and I am ruthless, so feel free to continue trying my patience. I will destroy you.
Labels: assholes, crazies, defiance, oh the horror, Razzy Haters, retard rage
Thursday, February 15, 2007
I didn't even have to go 88 miles per hour
My lab bench might resemble Doc Brown from Back to the Future's workshop (minus all the alarm clocks) in terms of messy disorganization, but unlike that esteemed fictional scientist, I haven't come up with anything as cool as the flux capacitor. However, I wondered if I hadn't accidentally found a way to travel through time without the help of a Delorean and plutonium-having Libyan terrorists, because when I checked my e-mail today, I could swear it was 1999 and I was back at Smith.
From: Some Feminazi Ho
To: All the Columbia Grad Students
Subject: LUNAFest Tonight! & ICECREAM for charity & the Vagina Monologues!
Come out and support CUMC's V-DAY Campaign--the fight (no pun intended!) against VIOLENCE towards women:
1.) CHECK OUT tonight's LUNAFEST: A screening of short films and documentaries by women. Here's their website for the list of movies:
http://www.lunabar.com/community/lunafest2006.cfm?DocumentId=406
DATE: Thurs, Feb 15
LOCATION: Hammer 401
Time: 8.30pm
DONATIONs will be greatly APPRECIATED! (5$ donation suggested)
All proceeds go to Project FAITH (an organization providing aid/services to victims of Domestic abuse) and to the Breast Cancer Fund.
2.) ICECREAM: the Cold Stone Creamery on 162 W 72nd will be having a fundraising event for CUMC's V-Day 2007. From the total of all sales made in the shop between 5 and 9 PM, 20% will be donated to Project FAITH.
3.) Also, be sure to check out the VAGINA MONOLOGUES next week:
Friday, Feb 23rd 10pm
Saturday, Feb 24th 7pm
Sunday, Feb 25th, 3pm (SPANISH show)
Thanks in advance for ALL your support!
My inbox was always blowing up with e-mails like this at Smith, advertising events with similarly stupid names. LUNAfest...why is "luna" always the prefix of choice for womynist bullshit like this? At Smith they even renamed ultimate frisbee "Lunadisc" to make it more girly. MUST feminist bitches try to rally us ladies together under the banner of our menstrual cycles? And that's an inaccurate use of the lunar calendar anyway; I don't know about other bitches, but my period is scheduled by Ortho Tri-Cyclen, not the phases of the goddamned moon. Furthermore, LUNAfest seems like a serious fucking drag. I checked out the LUNAfest website and these awesome "movies" they are going to show include the following:
-A music video starring some singer named Shubda Mudgal (seriously, her last name is MUDGAL) about this other chick who married an abusive asshole, how she gained the courage to leave his wife-beating ass, her struggles to get a driver's license, and her triumphant rebirth as...a VAN DRIVER in Ahmedabad, India.
-Plum Flower, a thrilling tale of female infanticide in rural China.
-Slip of the Tongue, a movie exploring body image...basically four minutes of BBWs who got rejected from the Dove Real Women ad campaign.
-Breached, a movie about some knocked up Mexican chick who goes through a bunch of border-hopping bullshit in hopes of giving birth in the good old U.S. of A. This sounds like something my high school Spanish teacher Senora "La Bruja" Rossi would have shown my class. She tormented me for a year with bad Chayanne videos and a slew of disturbing movies. She showed us this movie called El Norte once about the illegal alien children of a beheaded Guatemalan insurgent who are attacked by rats while crawling through Tijuana sewer tunnels to the U.S. and then subsequently die of plague. Seeing film was pointless for me learning more conversational Spanish (although I did pick up the useful verb chingar), but it traumatized me more than even the unsettling Julio Iglesias poster above her blackboard that seemed to watch you no matter where you went in the classroom.
-City Paradise, six minutes detailing the adventures of some Japanese woman who doesn't speak a word of English in London. She stumbles upon a secret world "inhabited by friendly little aliens and beautiful blossoms." I don't even want to know.
-Top of the Circle, a movie exploring the concept of the food chain and centering on one of the world's best meat products ever: bacon. If this movie were celebrating bacon for its sheer overpowering awesomeness, I'd be first in line to see it. However, I suspect this movie is going to diss bacon and encourage vegetarianism. Fuck that.
-Some movie about a woman who is totally going to die of breast cancer giving advice that her newborn daughter will supposedly find useful later. Tip #1: don't get fucking breast cancer.
-A documentary about an adopted Chinese girl named Kylie Goldstein, and how she's so American she plays baseball. BOOOOORRRRING.
-Agricultural Report, a cartoon that appears to be about a cow who becomes angry that her teats are being exploited by the nefarious dairy industry.
If LUNAfest wasn't already totally unappealing based on its name and the fact that the moment people start arriving, they're going to be bombarded with a bunch of depressing facts about smacked-up bitches and tit cancer only to watch a festival of shitty-ass movies for chicks. I guess that's why they're sending the fat armpit-hair-having bitches attending this thing for ice cream afterward, although that's poor compensation for putting up with the evening of torture-by-feminist-art-films. I'd be pissed as hell if I got through the cinematic selections of period-fest only to discover there isn't fucking booze, and told instead to go get some fucking ice cream on the Upper West Side in the middle of BITTER-COLD FEBRUARY. It's fucking sixteen degrees outside!
I guess the LUNAfest-throwing sluts running this show thought that the Columbia Medical Center campus would have only whet their appetites for estrogenic entertainment. Not only they are they having LUNAfest tonight (which, as I'm not feeling particularly hot today, I will decline to attend), but next week we have not one, not two, but THREE performances of The Vagina Monologues (!!!). And one of them is en espanol! Boy, I never thought I would get enough of this play where bitches sing the praises of their cooches...it never gets old. Back at Smith this event was so celebrated that the bitches running it hung two-story tall banners spelling out "VAGINA" on Seelye Hall to get the girls all excited for it.
Man, I am so glad this bullshit isn't limited to Smith College. I would feel like the dumb bitches at Columbia didn't care about doing pointless vadgetastic crap as much as the dumb bitches at Smith. Then again, I sort-of hoped that the dumb bitches at Columbia would be too busy doing their thesis projects in lab to spend their days putting together a week-long calendar of twatcentric events WITH NO ALCOHOL. I miss industry so much...when the hell am I going to get out of this ivory vagina tower?
From: Some Feminazi Ho
To: All the Columbia Grad Students
Subject: LUNAFest Tonight! & ICECREAM for charity & the Vagina Monologues!
Come out and support CUMC's V-DAY Campaign--the fight (no pun intended!) against VIOLENCE towards women:
1.) CHECK OUT tonight's LUNAFEST: A screening of short films and documentaries by women. Here's their website for the list of movies:
http://www.lunabar.com/community/lunafest2006.cfm?DocumentId=406
DATE: Thurs, Feb 15
LOCATION: Hammer 401
Time: 8.30pm
DONATIONs will be greatly APPRECIATED! (5$ donation suggested)
All proceeds go to Project FAITH (an organization providing aid/services to victims of Domestic abuse) and to the Breast Cancer Fund.
2.) ICECREAM: the Cold Stone Creamery on 162 W 72nd will be having a fundraising event for CUMC's V-Day 2007. From the total of all sales made in the shop between 5 and 9 PM, 20% will be donated to Project FAITH.
3.) Also, be sure to check out the VAGINA MONOLOGUES next week:
Friday, Feb 23rd 10pm
Saturday, Feb 24th 7pm
Sunday, Feb 25th, 3pm (SPANISH show)
Thanks in advance for ALL your support!
My inbox was always blowing up with e-mails like this at Smith, advertising events with similarly stupid names. LUNAfest...why is "luna" always the prefix of choice for womynist bullshit like this? At Smith they even renamed ultimate frisbee "Lunadisc" to make it more girly. MUST feminist bitches try to rally us ladies together under the banner of our menstrual cycles? And that's an inaccurate use of the lunar calendar anyway; I don't know about other bitches, but my period is scheduled by Ortho Tri-Cyclen, not the phases of the goddamned moon. Furthermore, LUNAfest seems like a serious fucking drag. I checked out the LUNAfest website and these awesome "movies" they are going to show include the following:
-A music video starring some singer named Shubda Mudgal (seriously, her last name is MUDGAL) about this other chick who married an abusive asshole, how she gained the courage to leave his wife-beating ass, her struggles to get a driver's license, and her triumphant rebirth as...a VAN DRIVER in Ahmedabad, India.
-Plum Flower, a thrilling tale of female infanticide in rural China.
-Slip of the Tongue, a movie exploring body image...basically four minutes of BBWs who got rejected from the Dove Real Women ad campaign.
-Breached, a movie about some knocked up Mexican chick who goes through a bunch of border-hopping bullshit in hopes of giving birth in the good old U.S. of A. This sounds like something my high school Spanish teacher Senora "La Bruja" Rossi would have shown my class. She tormented me for a year with bad Chayanne videos and a slew of disturbing movies. She showed us this movie called El Norte once about the illegal alien children of a beheaded Guatemalan insurgent who are attacked by rats while crawling through Tijuana sewer tunnels to the U.S. and then subsequently die of plague. Seeing film was pointless for me learning more conversational Spanish (although I did pick up the useful verb chingar), but it traumatized me more than even the unsettling Julio Iglesias poster above her blackboard that seemed to watch you no matter where you went in the classroom.
-City Paradise, six minutes detailing the adventures of some Japanese woman who doesn't speak a word of English in London. She stumbles upon a secret world "inhabited by friendly little aliens and beautiful blossoms." I don't even want to know.
-Top of the Circle, a movie exploring the concept of the food chain and centering on one of the world's best meat products ever: bacon. If this movie were celebrating bacon for its sheer overpowering awesomeness, I'd be first in line to see it. However, I suspect this movie is going to diss bacon and encourage vegetarianism. Fuck that.
-Some movie about a woman who is totally going to die of breast cancer giving advice that her newborn daughter will supposedly find useful later. Tip #1: don't get fucking breast cancer.
-A documentary about an adopted Chinese girl named Kylie Goldstein, and how she's so American she plays baseball. BOOOOORRRRING.
-Agricultural Report, a cartoon that appears to be about a cow who becomes angry that her teats are being exploited by the nefarious dairy industry.
If LUNAfest wasn't already totally unappealing based on its name and the fact that the moment people start arriving, they're going to be bombarded with a bunch of depressing facts about smacked-up bitches and tit cancer only to watch a festival of shitty-ass movies for chicks. I guess that's why they're sending the fat armpit-hair-having bitches attending this thing for ice cream afterward, although that's poor compensation for putting up with the evening of torture-by-feminist-art-films. I'd be pissed as hell if I got through the cinematic selections of period-fest only to discover there isn't fucking booze, and told instead to go get some fucking ice cream on the Upper West Side in the middle of BITTER-COLD FEBRUARY. It's fucking sixteen degrees outside!
I guess the LUNAfest-throwing sluts running this show thought that the Columbia Medical Center campus would have only whet their appetites for estrogenic entertainment. Not only they are they having LUNAfest tonight (which, as I'm not feeling particularly hot today, I will decline to attend), but next week we have not one, not two, but THREE performances of The Vagina Monologues (!!!). And one of them is en espanol! Boy, I never thought I would get enough of this play where bitches sing the praises of their cooches...it never gets old. Back at Smith this event was so celebrated that the bitches running it hung two-story tall banners spelling out "VAGINA" on Seelye Hall to get the girls all excited for it.
Man, I am so glad this bullshit isn't limited to Smith College. I would feel like the dumb bitches at Columbia didn't care about doing pointless vadgetastic crap as much as the dumb bitches at Smith. Then again, I sort-of hoped that the dumb bitches at Columbia would be too busy doing their thesis projects in lab to spend their days putting together a week-long calendar of twatcentric events WITH NO ALCOHOL. I miss industry so much...when the hell am I going to get out of this ivory vagina tower?
Labels: artfaggotry, Dumb Smith bitches, feminazism, retard rage, scathing indictments, stank vaginas
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Protest
I fucking hate Valentine's Day. Even when I was in love and in a relationship I hated Valentine's Day. There's so much pressure to get crappy cards and presents and candy and all sorts of bullshit if you're in a relationship, and so much pressure to feel bad about yourself if you happen to be single. Valentine's Day should be renamed "Single People Pity Party Day", because I was at a bar tonight and the waitress could not stop trying to shove Guiness, Heineken, and mixed drinks involving lots of rum and splashes of fruit juice down our throats with this extraordinarily, obviously accomodating air. I was at this bar because it was my friend RefractometerThief's birthday, her husband is India on business, and she wanted to down some Heinies, not because I wanted to drown my sorrows. Besides, it snowed today, and that seemed like a good enough excuse to leave work early and consume beer. However, between the waitress, the sappy-ass bar soundtrack comprised solely of Celine Dion and Barry Manilow (what, no Lionel Richie? COME ON!), and people saying shit like "Do you have a Valentine...besides J-Sexy?", it's impossible not to notice that motherfuckers are expecting me and every other single person in sight to lament their non-coupled status.
I'm not going to feel sorry for myself in spite of the Coogan's waitress and society at large's best efforts, and I'm doing the most loser thing possible on V-Day: sitting around by the phone, semi-drunk alone, waiting for my mom to call with my uncle's latest colon report. My uncle, a self-proclaimed "mean S.O.B." and retired Boeing machinist by trade (his CB handle is "Toolmaker") finally caved to medical pressure and let them stick a scope up his ass a few months ago. He's survived a host of serious fucking problems: prostate cancer (twice), having a valve put at the base of his weiner to regulate his urine flow, a stroke, subsequent brain surgery, bacterial meningitis, and hearing loss in one ear. He still has the nuts to spend much of the Christmas holiday bitching about the pussy liberals who say negative shit about George W. Bush and who don't drink MacNaughton's. Well, when he finally conceded to his many doctors' requests to get an eyeful of his colon, they realized that he had over FIFTY polyps in it. They biopsied a few representative polyps, and the pathologist was promptly like, "Why doesn't he have colon cancer yet?" My uncle thus decided to have his ENTIRE COLON removed, and the entryway to his large intestine attached directly to his asshole. This is a major fucking surgery, and it will mean that he has to make major lifestyle changes to accommodate his new need to shit fifteen times a day. He's having all sorts of post-surgical complications, including renal failure, severe dehydration from the issues with his plumbing, and "reactions" to his medication, so I'm waiting for my mom to call and give me the update. There could not be a lamer way to spend Valentine's Day, but I've gone all-out to ensure that my Valentine's Day is as pathetic as possible.
In addition to waiting for my mom's call with the colon report, I am watching a show on the History Channel called "Siberian Apocalypse" about the mysterious explosion in the Tunguska Forest during the early part of the 20th century. According to the channel guide, it was supposed to be a show about the St. Valentine's Day massacre and Al Capone's involvement in the same, but I guess the History Channel figured that anyone home watching the History Channel on V-Day would rather hear about the Tunguska Blast of 1909. Apart from several other vague and relatively uninformative History and Discovery Channel shows about this incident, the main information I have about it was when Dan Aykroyd cited it as a historical paranormal incident in the sublime film Ghostbusters. Thus I can add "excited about History Channel show regarding an incident nobody really cares about" along with "sitting by myself", "waiting by the phone for my mom to call about bowels", and "drinking beer alone" to my list of Valentine's Day loserishness. But rather than indulge in self-pity, I'm going to revel in my bachelor status.
If I had a boyfriend, I'd probably have to spend all day shopping for some piece of shit watch or tie or whatever to give him and then fight for a table in some restaurant, neglecting my dogs and the Heineken in my fridge in the process. And why? Because some dumbass in the third century couldn't keep his Jesus love to himself and wound up on the business end of a Roman archer firing squad, and the church decided to strike back by making up his holiday on the same day that the pagans celebrated Zeus/Jupiter doing it with Hera/Juno. What a pointless fucking obligation. I'm not going to let the early Christians or Hallmark convince me to celebrate this bullshit by feeling sorry for myself. If I was going to sit around feeling lonely and desperate because Russell Stover, the DeBeers family, and the greeting card industry think I should, I wouldn't be able to chat it up with la madre and watch the (awesome) History Channel. I could not be more excited about spending my V-day in this way, because doing your basal alone behavior and enjoying it is the best protest against this stupid fucking holiday. I hope that every single person is doing their equivalent and loving it right now too. Fuck Valentine's Day!
I'm not going to feel sorry for myself in spite of the Coogan's waitress and society at large's best efforts, and I'm doing the most loser thing possible on V-Day: sitting around by the phone, semi-drunk alone, waiting for my mom to call with my uncle's latest colon report. My uncle, a self-proclaimed "mean S.O.B." and retired Boeing machinist by trade (his CB handle is "Toolmaker") finally caved to medical pressure and let them stick a scope up his ass a few months ago. He's survived a host of serious fucking problems: prostate cancer (twice), having a valve put at the base of his weiner to regulate his urine flow, a stroke, subsequent brain surgery, bacterial meningitis, and hearing loss in one ear. He still has the nuts to spend much of the Christmas holiday bitching about the pussy liberals who say negative shit about George W. Bush and who don't drink MacNaughton's. Well, when he finally conceded to his many doctors' requests to get an eyeful of his colon, they realized that he had over FIFTY polyps in it. They biopsied a few representative polyps, and the pathologist was promptly like, "Why doesn't he have colon cancer yet?" My uncle thus decided to have his ENTIRE COLON removed, and the entryway to his large intestine attached directly to his asshole. This is a major fucking surgery, and it will mean that he has to make major lifestyle changes to accommodate his new need to shit fifteen times a day. He's having all sorts of post-surgical complications, including renal failure, severe dehydration from the issues with his plumbing, and "reactions" to his medication, so I'm waiting for my mom to call and give me the update. There could not be a lamer way to spend Valentine's Day, but I've gone all-out to ensure that my Valentine's Day is as pathetic as possible.
In addition to waiting for my mom's call with the colon report, I am watching a show on the History Channel called "Siberian Apocalypse" about the mysterious explosion in the Tunguska Forest during the early part of the 20th century. According to the channel guide, it was supposed to be a show about the St. Valentine's Day massacre and Al Capone's involvement in the same, but I guess the History Channel figured that anyone home watching the History Channel on V-Day would rather hear about the Tunguska Blast of 1909. Apart from several other vague and relatively uninformative History and Discovery Channel shows about this incident, the main information I have about it was when Dan Aykroyd cited it as a historical paranormal incident in the sublime film Ghostbusters. Thus I can add "excited about History Channel show regarding an incident nobody really cares about" along with "sitting by myself", "waiting by the phone for my mom to call about bowels", and "drinking beer alone" to my list of Valentine's Day loserishness. But rather than indulge in self-pity, I'm going to revel in my bachelor status.
If I had a boyfriend, I'd probably have to spend all day shopping for some piece of shit watch or tie or whatever to give him and then fight for a table in some restaurant, neglecting my dogs and the Heineken in my fridge in the process. And why? Because some dumbass in the third century couldn't keep his Jesus love to himself and wound up on the business end of a Roman archer firing squad, and the church decided to strike back by making up his holiday on the same day that the pagans celebrated Zeus/Jupiter doing it with Hera/Juno. What a pointless fucking obligation. I'm not going to let the early Christians or Hallmark convince me to celebrate this bullshit by feeling sorry for myself. If I was going to sit around feeling lonely and desperate because Russell Stover, the DeBeers family, and the greeting card industry think I should, I wouldn't be able to chat it up with la madre and watch the (awesome) History Channel. I could not be more excited about spending my V-day in this way, because doing your basal alone behavior and enjoying it is the best protest against this stupid fucking holiday. I hope that every single person is doing their equivalent and loving it right now too. Fuck Valentine's Day!
Labels: History Channel, ranting, Razzification, scathing indictments
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Sex offenders and the city
Tonight I was glad to see that there was a new episode of "To Catch a Predator" on, and it included some serious awesomeness like Chris Hansen telling one of the idiot pederasts whose internet kewlness landed him in the Dateline NBC web of righteous deceit "you wrote 'i want to taste your orgasm' TO A 14 YEAR OLD!". When another perverted creep started talking to the chunky decoy about doing her fat ass on the nearby pool table, Chris Hansen smugly narrated, "Fortunately, he never got to demonstrate his skill at billiards," then leaped into the room with unchecked gloating enthusiasm. Also, the voice-overs of the IM transcripts are fucking priceless. I don't know if there's an Emmy for approximating the sound of "lol" and distinguishing it from "rotflmao", but if there is, the folks on "TCaP" should get it hands down. It's totally fucking rad.
While "TCaP" will always entertain me, I think its golden age has passed. The predators are much more wary than they used to be. A lot of the would-be pervs chicken out before they go into the house and get simultaneously interrogated and morally browbeaten by the incomparable Mr. Chris Hansen. They know that their numerous IM transcripts reading "do u do anal lol" or "wil u suck my cock? kewlio" are going to get them in big trouble, so they leave without even getting out of their cars. Of course, the police then pick them up, but they've gotten wily and insist on their right to an attorney, ensuring that the interrogation back at the station house is boooorrrring. While I was impatiently admonishing the television to get some better predators for catching, I got to thinking.
All the predators on "TCaP" are preying upon children, who I hate. Granted, I'm not for kids getting raped or molested (I don't hate kids THAT much), but I don't believe that the only predators out there are just targeting kids. What about the predators who, say, lurk in the bushes in the hope of raping an impoverished grad student at St. Nicholas Park while she's walking her dogs? I'm not sure how Dateline could set up an entertaining show about catching them as there are no hilarious chat transcripts involved and it would be hard to lure them to a house with Kool-Aid set out on the kitchen island for their enjoyment while Chris Hansen lectures them for depravity, but I suspect there are just as many creeps trying to rape me as these dumb kids.
So I hit the internet to see if there's any kind of online sex offender registry, and what do you know? There is. New York has passed its own "Megan's Law", which was named for a girl in Jersey who was raped and murdered by the convicted sex offender who lived across the street. This law requires state law enforcement officials to release to the public the names, addresses, pictures, and details of the crimes, and in New York, they do this via the internet. I plugged in my zip code on the sex offender registry search page and was amazed at how many convicted predators have relocated to my hood after paying their debts to society up at Dannemora and Sing Sing. If Dateline ever does figure out a way to have a show dedicated to known perverts out and about in society, there's a whole bunch to choose from in historical Sugar Hill.
Meet Eddie Raymore:
He pretended to be a police officer so that he could overpower and brutally rape a 36-year-old woman. After doing 3 to 7 at the state's expense, he moved into the projects three blocks away from me. Awesome.
And this is Ronald Crosby:
According to his rap sheet, he did 15 years in state prison for attempting to rape a teenager in 1984 by attacking her with a "knife/cutting instrument (e.g. ax, ice pick, screwdriver, switchblade, Kung Fu stars, cane sword, etc.)". I guess that most of the sex crimes committed in New York City involving a "knife/cutting instrument" are committed by either Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles or Jet Li. I suspect that Ronald here probably went for the screwdriver or switchblade route over the cane sword or battle axe. Now he resides about 7 or 8 blocks away from me.
Living right down the street from Ronald is Hamilton Dejesus:
I don't even need to tell you that this skeezy-ass motherfucker raped an 11-year-old girl. The sagging face, the Dumbo-esque ears, the dully malevolent expression, the fact that there's some serious general not-quite-rightness about this guy...obviously he diddles kids. And for some reason, he only did nine years for it.
A mere two blocks away from me is Wilbert Harrison.
He might look like he's all sensitive and tearful, but he's probably crying for his own sorry ass doing 25 years for raping a woman at knifepoint. He did his entire sentence for being an assole.
Then we have Anthony Hayes, a fellow I not-affectionately call "Handlebars".
Apparently he used his appearance as the long-lost black grandson of Yosemite Sam to orchestrate molesting a seven year old in 2002. After doing the three-year max upstate, he moved in with his girlfriend (he has a girlfriend?!) about five blocks away.
I don't know if he's related to Handlebars Hayes above, but the next guy on the list is George Hayes.
After racking up a slew of rape and forcible sodomy convictions starting in 1983, he did 15 years and moved into the 135th Street Y. I can't wait until he hollers at me as I jog by one of these days.
When his dreams of a career impersonating Forest Whitaker failed to pan out, Derrick James decided to resort to plan B.
By "Plan B", I mean raping a 12-year-old girl and blaming it on his drug addiction. Derrick should have stuck with the Forest Whitaker career, because right now Forest is the Oscar favorite for his portrayal of Idi Amin, and Derrick would probably be getting lots of work. I'd say that paying homage to an ugly man portraying a sadistic warlord dictator is far preferable to committing tween rape and moving one measly block away from yours truly.
If you want to see an example of someone with an "obvious child molester" vibe, take a gander at Virgilio Lay.
He diddled two little girls and did a pathetic 60 days for it. I guess his group sessions went well. Anyway, he continues his recovery just a ways up St. Nicholas Ave from me.
And speaking of kiddie touchers, meet Andre Mathews.
After he was convicted for forcible sodomy on a 6-year-old girl, he did 11 years in state prison and then decided to move to my neighborhood two blocks from my place, where he'll undoubtedly pass the time by NOT plucking his unkempt monobrow. Fortunately, I don't think I've crossed paths in person with Andre despite the close proximity of his residence, because I have yet to see anyone so blatantly reminiscent of Mr. Potato Head loitering around the block.
Unlike the previous pedophiles, Jirel McClinton likes them barely illegal.
He physically overpowered and forced a 17-year-old in Poughkeepsie to perform some type of unspecified sex act. He did 6 months, and then moved three blocks away from me.
My neighbor ten blocks away, Eric McNeil, should be glad that his picture is so grainy.
I suspect that if the above image of Mr. McNeil were refined, he'd be recognized for his true identity: the cymbal-playing harbinger of death wind-up organ grinder monkey from the cover of Stephen King's Skeleton Crew. It's too bad that short story didn't wind up like some of Stephen King's other short stories as a vignette in the movie Creepshow, because when you try to rape a 16-year-old girl by holding a knife to her throat, a creepshow in the form of the New York Megan's Law Sex Offender Registry website is exactly what ensues.
Don't let the lazy eye fool you...Anthony Palmer is NOT a harmless simpleton.
After four years upstate for sexually assaulting a 12-year-old girl, Anthony Palmer moved to a building three blocks away.
Continuing to ensure that mustaches of this nature look impossibly creepy, Ricardo Pereira sexually assaulted a 15-year-old boy in the Bronx.
Now he lives one street over.
When he's not busy guarding Jabba's palace on Tatooine, Michael Pimble likes walks in the park, sunsets, and ass-raping young boys.
He pursues his interests and revels in his porcine visage three blocks away.
Over at the Adam Clayton Powell Houses, Hector Reynoso is waddling after all the underage girls.
He sexually abused some teenager, and now is looking forward to spring when he can scout the local parks and try out his new line for luring prospective victims: "Ever hear of Fat Joe? Well, he's my older brother."
It seems that Justin Guarini from "American Idol" season one had John Legend's love child, and said progeny grew up to be a child rapist named Darryl Smalls.
Correspondent with his level 3 (aka most likely to reoffend) offender rating, Smalls seems happy and not the least bit repentant about raping a 9-year-old. According to the New York Department of Criminal Justice, the terms of his release involve a mandate to "ENTER A SEX AFFENDERS PROGRAM, ENTER A SEX AFFENDERS PROGRAM." Despite the obvious emphasis implied by the capitalization and the repeating of the phrase, I can just see Smalls getting out of going to therapy on the basis that there is no such thing as a program for sex "affenders." I hate it when creeps slip through the cracks, especially when it's due to state justice department officials not being able to properly spell.
Don't think that senior citizens aren't representing in the neighborhood pervert cadre. Michael Vincze has that demographic covered.
This distinguished older gentleman raped 2 teenaged boys in another state in the late '80s, and now is trying to live out his sick pedophilic version of "Diff'rent Strokes" starring himself as Mr. Drummond five blocks from my crib.
And last but certainly not least, we have Christopher Williams.
This accomplished rapist of 15-year-old boys lives right by the deli two blocks away. I probably see him on late nights when the slightly closer deli is closed and I venture out in search of more Sugarfree Red Bull.
One thing that struck me about all my convicted neighborhood felons is that, with the exception of the bushy browed Conrad Bain up there, they're all REALLY SHORT, as in 5'7" or less. Now I have good reason to defend my "I don't fuck dudes under five-ten" platform with vigor and determination on the basis that anyone shorter might not only have a small penis, but could also be a convicted sex offender. Henceforth, whenever I see some skeezy-looking short dude leering at me on my street, I am going to double-check whether or not he's one of the creeps on this list.
While "TCaP" will always entertain me, I think its golden age has passed. The predators are much more wary than they used to be. A lot of the would-be pervs chicken out before they go into the house and get simultaneously interrogated and morally browbeaten by the incomparable Mr. Chris Hansen. They know that their numerous IM transcripts reading "do u do anal lol" or "wil u suck my cock? kewlio" are going to get them in big trouble, so they leave without even getting out of their cars. Of course, the police then pick them up, but they've gotten wily and insist on their right to an attorney, ensuring that the interrogation back at the station house is boooorrrring. While I was impatiently admonishing the television to get some better predators for catching, I got to thinking.
All the predators on "TCaP" are preying upon children, who I hate. Granted, I'm not for kids getting raped or molested (I don't hate kids THAT much), but I don't believe that the only predators out there are just targeting kids. What about the predators who, say, lurk in the bushes in the hope of raping an impoverished grad student at St. Nicholas Park while she's walking her dogs? I'm not sure how Dateline could set up an entertaining show about catching them as there are no hilarious chat transcripts involved and it would be hard to lure them to a house with Kool-Aid set out on the kitchen island for their enjoyment while Chris Hansen lectures them for depravity, but I suspect there are just as many creeps trying to rape me as these dumb kids.
So I hit the internet to see if there's any kind of online sex offender registry, and what do you know? There is. New York has passed its own "Megan's Law", which was named for a girl in Jersey who was raped and murdered by the convicted sex offender who lived across the street. This law requires state law enforcement officials to release to the public the names, addresses, pictures, and details of the crimes, and in New York, they do this via the internet. I plugged in my zip code on the sex offender registry search page and was amazed at how many convicted predators have relocated to my hood after paying their debts to society up at Dannemora and Sing Sing. If Dateline ever does figure out a way to have a show dedicated to known perverts out and about in society, there's a whole bunch to choose from in historical Sugar Hill.
Meet Eddie Raymore:
He pretended to be a police officer so that he could overpower and brutally rape a 36-year-old woman. After doing 3 to 7 at the state's expense, he moved into the projects three blocks away from me. Awesome.
And this is Ronald Crosby:
According to his rap sheet, he did 15 years in state prison for attempting to rape a teenager in 1984 by attacking her with a "knife/cutting instrument (e.g. ax, ice pick, screwdriver, switchblade, Kung Fu stars, cane sword, etc.)". I guess that most of the sex crimes committed in New York City involving a "knife/cutting instrument" are committed by either Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles or Jet Li. I suspect that Ronald here probably went for the screwdriver or switchblade route over the cane sword or battle axe. Now he resides about 7 or 8 blocks away from me.
Living right down the street from Ronald is Hamilton Dejesus:
I don't even need to tell you that this skeezy-ass motherfucker raped an 11-year-old girl. The sagging face, the Dumbo-esque ears, the dully malevolent expression, the fact that there's some serious general not-quite-rightness about this guy...obviously he diddles kids. And for some reason, he only did nine years for it.
A mere two blocks away from me is Wilbert Harrison.
He might look like he's all sensitive and tearful, but he's probably crying for his own sorry ass doing 25 years for raping a woman at knifepoint. He did his entire sentence for being an assole.
Then we have Anthony Hayes, a fellow I not-affectionately call "Handlebars".
Apparently he used his appearance as the long-lost black grandson of Yosemite Sam to orchestrate molesting a seven year old in 2002. After doing the three-year max upstate, he moved in with his girlfriend (he has a girlfriend?!) about five blocks away.
I don't know if he's related to Handlebars Hayes above, but the next guy on the list is George Hayes.
After racking up a slew of rape and forcible sodomy convictions starting in 1983, he did 15 years and moved into the 135th Street Y. I can't wait until he hollers at me as I jog by one of these days.
When his dreams of a career impersonating Forest Whitaker failed to pan out, Derrick James decided to resort to plan B.
By "Plan B", I mean raping a 12-year-old girl and blaming it on his drug addiction. Derrick should have stuck with the Forest Whitaker career, because right now Forest is the Oscar favorite for his portrayal of Idi Amin, and Derrick would probably be getting lots of work. I'd say that paying homage to an ugly man portraying a sadistic warlord dictator is far preferable to committing tween rape and moving one measly block away from yours truly.
If you want to see an example of someone with an "obvious child molester" vibe, take a gander at Virgilio Lay.
He diddled two little girls and did a pathetic 60 days for it. I guess his group sessions went well. Anyway, he continues his recovery just a ways up St. Nicholas Ave from me.
And speaking of kiddie touchers, meet Andre Mathews.
After he was convicted for forcible sodomy on a 6-year-old girl, he did 11 years in state prison and then decided to move to my neighborhood two blocks from my place, where he'll undoubtedly pass the time by NOT plucking his unkempt monobrow. Fortunately, I don't think I've crossed paths in person with Andre despite the close proximity of his residence, because I have yet to see anyone so blatantly reminiscent of Mr. Potato Head loitering around the block.
Unlike the previous pedophiles, Jirel McClinton likes them barely illegal.
He physically overpowered and forced a 17-year-old in Poughkeepsie to perform some type of unspecified sex act. He did 6 months, and then moved three blocks away from me.
My neighbor ten blocks away, Eric McNeil, should be glad that his picture is so grainy.
I suspect that if the above image of Mr. McNeil were refined, he'd be recognized for his true identity: the cymbal-playing harbinger of death wind-up organ grinder monkey from the cover of Stephen King's Skeleton Crew. It's too bad that short story didn't wind up like some of Stephen King's other short stories as a vignette in the movie Creepshow, because when you try to rape a 16-year-old girl by holding a knife to her throat, a creepshow in the form of the New York Megan's Law Sex Offender Registry website is exactly what ensues.
Don't let the lazy eye fool you...Anthony Palmer is NOT a harmless simpleton.
After four years upstate for sexually assaulting a 12-year-old girl, Anthony Palmer moved to a building three blocks away.
Continuing to ensure that mustaches of this nature look impossibly creepy, Ricardo Pereira sexually assaulted a 15-year-old boy in the Bronx.
Now he lives one street over.
When he's not busy guarding Jabba's palace on Tatooine, Michael Pimble likes walks in the park, sunsets, and ass-raping young boys.
He pursues his interests and revels in his porcine visage three blocks away.
Over at the Adam Clayton Powell Houses, Hector Reynoso is waddling after all the underage girls.
He sexually abused some teenager, and now is looking forward to spring when he can scout the local parks and try out his new line for luring prospective victims: "Ever hear of Fat Joe? Well, he's my older brother."
It seems that Justin Guarini from "American Idol" season one had John Legend's love child, and said progeny grew up to be a child rapist named Darryl Smalls.
Correspondent with his level 3 (aka most likely to reoffend) offender rating, Smalls seems happy and not the least bit repentant about raping a 9-year-old. According to the New York Department of Criminal Justice, the terms of his release involve a mandate to "ENTER A SEX AFFENDERS PROGRAM, ENTER A SEX AFFENDERS PROGRAM." Despite the obvious emphasis implied by the capitalization and the repeating of the phrase, I can just see Smalls getting out of going to therapy on the basis that there is no such thing as a program for sex "affenders." I hate it when creeps slip through the cracks, especially when it's due to state justice department officials not being able to properly spell.
Don't think that senior citizens aren't representing in the neighborhood pervert cadre. Michael Vincze has that demographic covered.
This distinguished older gentleman raped 2 teenaged boys in another state in the late '80s, and now is trying to live out his sick pedophilic version of "Diff'rent Strokes" starring himself as Mr. Drummond five blocks from my crib.
And last but certainly not least, we have Christopher Williams.
This accomplished rapist of 15-year-old boys lives right by the deli two blocks away. I probably see him on late nights when the slightly closer deli is closed and I venture out in search of more Sugarfree Red Bull.
One thing that struck me about all my convicted neighborhood felons is that, with the exception of the bushy browed Conrad Bain up there, they're all REALLY SHORT, as in 5'7" or less. Now I have good reason to defend my "I don't fuck dudes under five-ten" platform with vigor and determination on the basis that anyone shorter might not only have a small penis, but could also be a convicted sex offender. Henceforth, whenever I see some skeezy-looking short dude leering at me on my street, I am going to double-check whether or not he's one of the creeps on this list.
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, kewlness, NYC, oh the horror, perversion, TV
Sperm bowling?!
So I heard back from the latest stripper to try and solicit work from our LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party Yahoo! group, and I can't decide whether to laugh or be deeply disturbed. One thing is clear, though, and that's that Motherbucker, FalloniusMonk, Wmania, and myself were all wrong in assuming that this particular dancer was a woman...because female strippers don't usually perform party tricks like "sperm bowling."
From: i_iwanna (iwanna4253@aol.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
love your title razzy,, director of strippers too
funny
i'm handsome , just not a bodybuilder type but im not
tubby
either id be the joke entertainment maybe serve
drinks nude
then some party tricks im good at sperm bowling but need
a lil rest between frames hope you ladies enjoy your party just
figured
id throw myself out there and besides id be no charge
i appreciate you stickin up for the nuthin special contingent
im
sure you put up a valiant fight for me
keep me in mind your reply was a piss take
care
I'm not sure I know what exactly "sperm bowling" is, but it sounds like some sort of latently homosexual fraternity initiation rite, variations of which might involve a plate of crackers. While I'm not inclined to look a gift stripper in the mouth, I have to say that I don't believe there is such a thing as a free stripper, despite his assertions that he'd be "no charge." I also don't trust anyone who can't identify denigrating sarcasm when he sees it, or who has such an obvious fondness for using the Tab key in his correspondence.
He's right about one thing, though. I did put up a "valiant fight"...to embarrass him on the internet. Mission accomplished.
From: i_iwanna (iwanna4253@aol.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
love your title razzy,, director of strippers too
funny
i'm handsome , just not a bodybuilder type but im not
tubby
either id be the joke entertainment maybe serve
drinks nude
then some party tricks im good at sperm bowling but need
a lil rest between frames hope you ladies enjoy your party just
figured
id throw myself out there and besides id be no charge
i appreciate you stickin up for the nuthin special contingent
im
sure you put up a valiant fight for me
keep me in mind your reply was a piss take
care
I'm not sure I know what exactly "sperm bowling" is, but it sounds like some sort of latently homosexual fraternity initiation rite, variations of which might involve a plate of crackers. While I'm not inclined to look a gift stripper in the mouth, I have to say that I don't believe there is such a thing as a free stripper, despite his assertions that he'd be "no charge." I also don't trust anyone who can't identify denigrating sarcasm when he sees it, or who has such an obvious fondness for using the Tab key in his correspondence.
He's right about one thing, though. I did put up a "valiant fight"...to embarrass him on the internet. Mission accomplished.
Labels: crazies, FalloniusMonk, gross, LL Cool Jew, Motherbucker, oh the horror, perversion, real-life rejects, ridiculous absurdity, weiners, Wmania
Monday, February 12, 2007
Nuthin' special
LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party Yahoo! group is certainly attracting its fair share of interested adult entertainers. Previously we had Not-Shy George instructing us to "not be afraid to touch" on the big night while passive-aggressively advertising his disrobing services. Today, Motherbucker forwarded the latest unsolicited correspondence from a net surfing stripper to the party planners:
From: Motherbucker (motherbucker@somecampaignofficeoranother.org)
To: FalloniusMonk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com), Wmania (wmania@bighugecorporatePRfirm.com), Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: FWD: APPROVE -- i_iwanna wants to join llcooljewsparty
lol - dudes...this ho wants to be a part of our group...so she can "Strip" for us, despite the fact that she's "nuthin' special"
Forwarded message:
Hello,
The following person would like to join the llcooljewsparty group:
Email address: i_iwanna <iwanna4253@aol.com>
Comment from user:
would love to strip for ll cool jew and you other girls, im nuthin special but willing to do a show for you gals
I don't know exactly what "I wanna 4253" was thinking when designing this particular sales pitch, but it needs a little work. I can't imagine the situation where us planners, all a group of debauched drunks, dykes, and general titty aficionados, would willingly hire someone who describes herself as "nuthin' special" for our dear friend's last night of unmarriedness. At the very least, we ought to salute LL Cool Jew's graduating from Smith summa cum laude with her English degree and the highest honors her thesis on Graham Greene won with a stripper who can spell "nothing" properly.
So I wrote the stripper back to advise her that we weren't interested, and, in the spirit of compassion, to give her some tips on how to improve her cold-calling technique. My sales skills are a little rusty, but I did sell over $10,000 worth of fine kitchen cutlery one summer in college, and I didn't do that by telling motherfuckers that Cutco knives were "nothin' special," so I figured I could help the bitch out a little bit. And by "help the bitch out a little bit", I mean make her reconsider ever making a similar proposition by filling my letter with disdain and palpable sarcasm.
To: i_iwanna (iwanna4253@aol.com)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Recently, our party planning group has engaged in a heated debate over whether or not "nuthin special" is a valid criterion for selecting the strippers we plan to employ for the pleasure of the bride-to-be. Despite my passionate argument for "nuthin special" strippers, the pro-special contigent has won out, and thus I regret to inform you that we will be unable to accept your generous offer.
Thank you for your interest, and best of luck in your future endeavors and solicitations.
Cordially,
Razzy
Director of Strippers, LL Cool Jew's Bachelorette Party
We have done nothing to advertise our little Yahoo! group, and I believe it's even designated "private" (although given that so far two degenerate unemployed strippers have attempted to join it, I'm not sure that "private" means anything at all). Nonetheless, we seem to be attracting the deepest, darkest dregs of the stripper world. Fucking typical...even though we try to keep our business on the low, there's still ugly bitches pestering us without provocation. Do we just give off a "we went to Smith, so therefore we're tolerant of stank twats offering the same for our amusement" vibe or something? Just because we all went to Ugly Bitch U does not mean we'll put up with some Betty Friedan-looking cooches slutting around LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party with a set of tasseled pasties and a feather boa, so to all other marginally attractive, fat, "nuthin' special" exotic dancers considering submitting a bid...DON'T BOTHER!
From: Motherbucker (motherbucker@somecampaignofficeoranother.org)
To: FalloniusMonk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com), Wmania (wmania@bighugecorporatePRfirm.com), Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: FWD: APPROVE -- i_iwanna
lol - dudes...this ho wants to be a part of our group...so she can "Strip" for us, despite the fact that she's "nuthin' special"
Forwarded message:
Hello,
The following person would like to join the llcooljewsparty group:
Email address: i_iwanna <iwanna4253@aol.com>
Comment from user:
would love to strip for ll cool jew and you other girls, im nuthin special but willing to do a show for you gals
I don't know exactly what "I wanna 4253" was thinking when designing this particular sales pitch, but it needs a little work. I can't imagine the situation where us planners, all a group of debauched drunks, dykes, and general titty aficionados, would willingly hire someone who describes herself as "nuthin' special" for our dear friend's last night of unmarriedness. At the very least, we ought to salute LL Cool Jew's graduating from Smith summa cum laude with her English degree and the highest honors her thesis on Graham Greene won with a stripper who can spell "nothing" properly.
So I wrote the stripper back to advise her that we weren't interested, and, in the spirit of compassion, to give her some tips on how to improve her cold-calling technique. My sales skills are a little rusty, but I did sell over $10,000 worth of fine kitchen cutlery one summer in college, and I didn't do that by telling motherfuckers that Cutco knives were "nothin' special," so I figured I could help the bitch out a little bit. And by "help the bitch out a little bit", I mean make her reconsider ever making a similar proposition by filling my letter with disdain and palpable sarcasm.
To: i_iwanna (iwanna4253@aol.com)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Recently, our party planning group has engaged in a heated debate over whether or not "nuthin special" is a valid criterion for selecting the strippers we plan to employ for the pleasure of the bride-to-be. Despite my passionate argument for "nuthin special" strippers, the pro-special contigent has won out, and thus I regret to inform you that we will be unable to accept your generous offer.
Thank you for your interest, and best of luck in your future endeavors and solicitations.
Cordially,
Razzy
Director of Strippers, LL Cool Jew's Bachelorette Party
We have done nothing to advertise our little Yahoo! group, and I believe it's even designated "private" (although given that so far two degenerate unemployed strippers have attempted to join it, I'm not sure that "private" means anything at all). Nonetheless, we seem to be attracting the deepest, darkest dregs of the stripper world. Fucking typical...even though we try to keep our business on the low, there's still ugly bitches pestering us without provocation. Do we just give off a "we went to Smith, so therefore we're tolerant of stank twats offering the same for our amusement" vibe or something? Just because we all went to Ugly Bitch U does not mean we'll put up with some Betty Friedan-looking cooches slutting around LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party with a set of tasseled pasties and a feather boa, so to all other marginally attractive, fat, "nuthin' special" exotic dancers considering submitting a bid...DON'T BOTHER!
Labels: correspondence, crazies, holy fucking matrimony, LL Cool Jew, Motherbucker, real-life rejects, ridiculous absurdity, sluts, stank vaginas, Wmania, you're ugly
Thursday, February 08, 2007
TrimSpa, baby!
Remember those early Anna Nicole TrimSpa ads where she was writhing around a beach saying, "Like my body?" (except it sounded more like, "Lahk my bahhhhdy?", similar to what I imagine what one of the banjo-picking locals in Deliverance would sound like if afflicted with Downs syndrome).
Well, the only one whose opinion of Anna Nicole's body is of any relevance now is the Broward County Medical Examiner, because she just DROPPED DEAD.
My e-mail and text messages have been going berserk between LL Cool Jew, JerseyGirl, FalloniusMonk, Wmania, Rack, and myself all corresponding. Examples include FalloniusMonk e-mailing "#1 in HOODIA GORDONII!! Be envied!" and Rack responding "Yall bitches are terrible and I love ya for it!" Our need to share thoughts on this breaking story is more urgent, fast, and furious than when Britney dumped K-Fed or when Aaron Spelling moved to that great elite zip code in the sky.
Anyway, I definitely care what the coroner has to say about Vicky Lynn "Anna Nicole Smith" Hogan's body because I'm trying to get anyone and everyone to wager whether it was suicide or accidental overdose. I'm leaning toward the latter, as it's not a stretch imagining some sort of ill-conceived publicity stunt gone horribly wrong. Can't you just see her thinking that spiking a huge bolus of methadone directly and wandering around the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel babbling incoherently would intrigue people to the point where they'd forget about the court-order compelling her daughter to take a paternity test or something? (And on that note, how long do you think it will take Howard K. Stern, her grieving lawyer/sham husband and fake baby daddy, to sign away his paternity rights? My guess is he'll have the papers drawn up to pass off that kid before Anna's even in the ground).
Accidental methadone OD is my bet, and I'm sticking to it like cellulite to the late Vicky Lynn Hogan's thighs. Seriously, what are all y'all's thoughts? The betting window is open.
Well, the only one whose opinion of Anna Nicole's body is of any relevance now is the Broward County Medical Examiner, because she just DROPPED DEAD.
My e-mail and text messages have been going berserk between LL Cool Jew, JerseyGirl, FalloniusMonk, Wmania, Rack, and myself all corresponding. Examples include FalloniusMonk e-mailing "#1 in HOODIA GORDONII!! Be envied!" and Rack responding "Yall bitches are terrible and I love ya for it!" Our need to share thoughts on this breaking story is more urgent, fast, and furious than when Britney dumped K-Fed or when Aaron Spelling moved to that great elite zip code in the sky.Anyway, I definitely care what the coroner has to say about Vicky Lynn "Anna Nicole Smith" Hogan's body because I'm trying to get anyone and everyone to wager whether it was suicide or accidental overdose. I'm leaning toward the latter, as it's not a stretch imagining some sort of ill-conceived publicity stunt gone horribly wrong. Can't you just see her thinking that spiking a huge bolus of methadone directly and wandering around the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel babbling incoherently would intrigue people to the point where they'd forget about the court-order compelling her daughter to take a paternity test or something? (And on that note, how long do you think it will take Howard K. Stern, her grieving lawyer/sham husband and fake baby daddy, to sign away his paternity rights? My guess is he'll have the papers drawn up to pass off that kid before Anna's even in the ground).
Accidental methadone OD is my bet, and I'm sticking to it like cellulite to the late Vicky Lynn Hogan's thighs. Seriously, what are all y'all's thoughts? The betting window is open.
Labels: celebrities, fat fucks, people who died, PWT, stank vaginas
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Rose and Olive: Truly a shitshow
Rose and Olive are these other photobloggers on Nerve, and I think they bother me more than any other blog there. Every time I go to see what Kate and Camilla are up to, I just see Rose and Olive's mongoloid features glaring at me from the sidebar and end up looking at their blog just to reaffirm what a couple of dumbasses they are.
All of their "artwork" consists of pictures of them splashing mud on themselves, masturbating in their Kia Rios, and bracketing all of this with some crappy e.e. cummings poem or a snippet from Walden or something literary, ostensibly to enhance their artistic credibility. When they do actually write their own words, you can tell from the insufferably pretentious tone that they think they are the most original bitches on the face of the planet, and it makes me want to punch my computer screen. Furthermore, both of them look like feminine versions of creatures that should be issuing forth from the Black Gates of Mordor in Lord of the Rings, except in serious need of some Proactiv solution, so their entire repertoire of work falls under the rubric of very BAD nudity.
Anyway, I looked at their blog yesterday to get my daily dose of retard rage, and saw this post, which sums up Rose and Olive's unique "dirt art" style:
What a couple of tards, right? I read this and thought to myself, "It looks like that bitch is eating shit. Literally." I couldn't let this rest, so I HAD to leave a snarky comment. Besides, given that the title of this post was "What you think it is, and why", I felt obligated to comply and weigh in with my guess on the mystery substance.
Ah...so finally you've ventured into the realm of poop eating.
Your bold forays into showcasing your cacophagic tendencies, along with your poxvirus-like dermatological conditions, are an artistic achievement on par with that created by retarded children in mental institutions.
Congratulations on proving yet again how innovative and groundbreaking you truly are. Your work is an inspiration to the developmentally disabled everywhere.
That's an approximation of what I wrote. I can't provide the original text verbatim because it was deleted shortly after I published it, and I stupidly forgot to save it. For all the hideous self-portraits they so bravely exhibit on the regular, it seems Rose and Olive are cowards who can't abide by some frank criticism. I suppose I did forget to put the "why" in my comment as to the mystery substance Olive is eating, but I figured that their apparent cerebral impairment was patently obvious to anyone who might stumble across their bullshit blog.
Like the pussies they are, they took down the entire blog entry so as to send my two cents into e-oblivion and reposted with this crybaby comment:
thanks to everyone who posted comments here previously, but due to the inappropriateness of one commenter, we decided to delete the photos and re-post them. thanks to those of you (miss west) who know dirt when you see it and especially to those of you who guessed chocolate powder. that gave me all kinds of wonderful ideas. perhaps that's our next endeavor. say, right now, for instance.
posted by tetheredtothesun on 2/6/2007 8:17:53 PM
"Inappropriateness?" Where does a bitch with the unbelievably lame screen name "tetheredtothesun" who takes pictures of EATING DIRT get off lecturing me about what's appropriate? They followed up this post with pictures of a chick performing oral sex on a gender-indeterminate subject, for God's sake! Porn loosely disguised as artwork is okay, but pointing out what a couple of talentless hacks they are is INAPPROPRIATE. Granted, they probably don't want it getting out that their style was flagrantly plagiarized from a barnyard hog-wallow, and thus rush to squelch any opinion which might lead their loyal fans down that path of critical thinking.
Rose and Olive can take their sense of what's appropriate and shove it up their intellectually impaired, crusty zit-covered, chocolate powdered asses. My opinion that they're eating shit will live in infamy on my blog forever.
All of their "artwork" consists of pictures of them splashing mud on themselves, masturbating in their Kia Rios, and bracketing all of this with some crappy e.e. cummings poem or a snippet from Walden or something literary, ostensibly to enhance their artistic credibility. When they do actually write their own words, you can tell from the insufferably pretentious tone that they think they are the most original bitches on the face of the planet, and it makes me want to punch my computer screen. Furthermore, both of them look like feminine versions of creatures that should be issuing forth from the Black Gates of Mordor in Lord of the Rings, except in serious need of some Proactiv solution, so their entire repertoire of work falls under the rubric of very BAD nudity.
Anyway, I looked at their blog yesterday to get my daily dose of retard rage, and saw this post, which sums up Rose and Olive's unique "dirt art" style:
What a couple of tards, right? I read this and thought to myself, "It looks like that bitch is eating shit. Literally." I couldn't let this rest, so I HAD to leave a snarky comment. Besides, given that the title of this post was "What you think it is, and why", I felt obligated to comply and weigh in with my guess on the mystery substance.
Ah...so finally you've ventured into the realm of poop eating.
Your bold forays into showcasing your cacophagic tendencies, along with your poxvirus-like dermatological conditions, are an artistic achievement on par with that created by retarded children in mental institutions.
Congratulations on proving yet again how innovative and groundbreaking you truly are. Your work is an inspiration to the developmentally disabled everywhere.
That's an approximation of what I wrote. I can't provide the original text verbatim because it was deleted shortly after I published it, and I stupidly forgot to save it. For all the hideous self-portraits they so bravely exhibit on the regular, it seems Rose and Olive are cowards who can't abide by some frank criticism. I suppose I did forget to put the "why" in my comment as to the mystery substance Olive is eating, but I figured that their apparent cerebral impairment was patently obvious to anyone who might stumble across their bullshit blog.
Like the pussies they are, they took down the entire blog entry so as to send my two cents into e-oblivion and reposted with this crybaby comment:
thanks to everyone who posted comments here previously, but due to the inappropriateness of one commenter, we decided to delete the photos and re-post them. thanks to those of you (miss west) who know dirt when you see it and especially to those of you who guessed chocolate powder. that gave me all kinds of wonderful ideas. perhaps that's our next endeavor. say, right now, for instance.
posted by tetheredtothesun on 2/6/2007 8:17:53 PM
"Inappropriateness?" Where does a bitch with the unbelievably lame screen name "tetheredtothesun" who takes pictures of EATING DIRT get off lecturing me about what's appropriate? They followed up this post with pictures of a chick performing oral sex on a gender-indeterminate subject, for God's sake! Porn loosely disguised as artwork is okay, but pointing out what a couple of talentless hacks they are is INAPPROPRIATE. Granted, they probably don't want it getting out that their style was flagrantly plagiarized from a barnyard hog-wallow, and thus rush to squelch any opinion which might lead their loyal fans down that path of critical thinking.
Rose and Olive can take their sense of what's appropriate and shove it up their intellectually impaired, crusty zit-covered, chocolate powdered asses. My opinion that they're eating shit will live in infamy on my blog forever.
Labels: artfaggotry, assholes, retard rage, scathing indictments
My new nose
When I was around eight or nine, my grade school best friend Cris and I used to play a variety of imaginative games. For example, we used to play this game accurately called "commercial", where we would make up commercials for invented products and perform them for each other. There was one I came up with that I thought, then and now, was genius; it was a parody of ads for Lee Press-On Nails. For those of you unfamiliar with Lee Press-On Nails, they are these tacky fake nail tips you can buy at the drugstore.
They come with these nail-shaped glue stickers that supposedly keep the nail tips secured to your fingertips. They don't work in the sense that they fall off almost immediately, are veritably Freddy Krueger in terms of length, and are an even cheaper, trashier alternative to a fake manicure than a set of acrylics. The commercial I invented was for a product called Lee Press-On Noses. My commercial consisted of me saying brightly, "Want a nose job but don't have the time or money?" Then I would press an imaginary nose to my face and say, "No problem! That's why there's Lee Press-On Noses! They're EASY to use and won't break your budget!" Then the commercial would basically end as Cris and I dissolved in laughter.
Granted, even if a product like this existed, it's doubtful I'd try it. I'm quite happy with my nose, and have never desired rhinoplasty. Even if I did, I feel that changing one's bodily features is an activity best done at the offices of Drs. Troy and McNamara or some other non-fictional plastic surgeon. However, thanks to KatieScarlett, I now have an approximation of what a Lee Press-On Nose might actually look like.
Yesterday, KatieScarlett e-mailed me and said something like, "Dewd, I read ur blog. R U mad we put ur pic up because I can totalz take it down if ur not kewl with it!" (Don't let the style fool you, KatieScarlett is actually quite eloquent save her intentionally misspelling "masterbate." We just type all our e-mails to each other in the style of "To Catch a Predator" instant messages because it's funny to us). I responded "No, dewd, it's totz kewl, I wuz just busting ur ballz for not linking to my site and sending lotz of Nerve.com pseudo-intellectuals to get indignant on my comment pages for making fun of them! LOL ROFLMAO! Luv yew so!"
Nonetheless, KatieScarlett went and posted a link to my site for the porn artfag crowd to better find me, and directed her readers to look at the thumbnails on her blog sidebar. Because she and BloodyTosser are the special variety of internet chronicler known as "photobloggers", Nerve arranges little snippets of all their photos to tittilate readers. Right before the entry featuring my infamous balloon hat fellatio picture, they had posted pictures of a naked man jumping, so that's the thumb right below the one of my red eyes. KatieScarlett noted, "Doesn't the thumbnail arrangement make it look like poor Razzy has a ballsack for a nose??!! Hehehehehe!"
If there were Lee Press-On Noses, I'd make sure to get the scrotum-shaped variety for sheer humor value alone.
They come with these nail-shaped glue stickers that supposedly keep the nail tips secured to your fingertips. They don't work in the sense that they fall off almost immediately, are veritably Freddy Krueger in terms of length, and are an even cheaper, trashier alternative to a fake manicure than a set of acrylics. The commercial I invented was for a product called Lee Press-On Noses. My commercial consisted of me saying brightly, "Want a nose job but don't have the time or money?" Then I would press an imaginary nose to my face and say, "No problem! That's why there's Lee Press-On Noses! They're EASY to use and won't break your budget!" Then the commercial would basically end as Cris and I dissolved in laughter.
Granted, even if a product like this existed, it's doubtful I'd try it. I'm quite happy with my nose, and have never desired rhinoplasty. Even if I did, I feel that changing one's bodily features is an activity best done at the offices of Drs. Troy and McNamara or some other non-fictional plastic surgeon. However, thanks to KatieScarlett, I now have an approximation of what a Lee Press-On Nose might actually look like.
Yesterday, KatieScarlett e-mailed me and said something like, "Dewd, I read ur blog. R U mad we put ur pic up because I can totalz take it down if ur not kewl with it!" (Don't let the style fool you, KatieScarlett is actually quite eloquent save her intentionally misspelling "masterbate." We just type all our e-mails to each other in the style of "To Catch a Predator" instant messages because it's funny to us). I responded "No, dewd, it's totz kewl, I wuz just busting ur ballz for not linking to my site and sending lotz of Nerve.com pseudo-intellectuals to get indignant on my comment pages for making fun of them! LOL ROFLMAO! Luv yew so!"
Nonetheless, KatieScarlett went and posted a link to my site for the porn artfag crowd to better find me, and directed her readers to look at the thumbnails on her blog sidebar. Because she and BloodyTosser are the special variety of internet chronicler known as "photobloggers", Nerve arranges little snippets of all their photos to tittilate readers. Right before the entry featuring my infamous balloon hat fellatio picture, they had posted pictures of a naked man jumping, so that's the thumb right below the one of my red eyes. KatieScarlett noted, "Doesn't the thumbnail arrangement make it look like poor Razzy has a ballsack for a nose??!! Hehehehehe!"
If there were Lee Press-On Noses, I'd make sure to get the scrotum-shaped variety for sheer humor value alone.
Labels: BloodyTosser, down with OPB (other people's blogs), KatieScarlett, ridiculous absurdity
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
I can always tell...
...when KatieScarlett and BloodyTosser put a picture of me on their Nerve.com blog, as I start getting weird e-mails from their readers. Usually these e-mails are a more erudite and/or cryptic version of "ur pretty hot nekkid wen can i do u?" This happened yesterday, when a couple dudes e-mailed me saying stuff like "Saw you on Kate and Camilla's blog via Nerve...interesting. Yer video there caught my eye" and "What a photograph! I've enjoyed your forays into portrature on K&C in the past and though this one is of a different ilk it sums you up so beautifully. So very apropo."
I was like "video?" Why have several people gone through Kate and Camilla's blog archives several months today to look at old videos of me? Also, I didn't have the usual spike in traffic that accompanies a link from Kate and Camilla's blog (much to my chagrin and disbelief, Nerve.com still gets a lot more traffic than RAZZY.org, and thus whenever KatieScarlett and BloodyTosser throw some linkity love my way I get literally thousands of hits more than is typical). I was puzzled, so I went to Kate and Camilla's blog. It turns out THIS is the photo KatieScarlett posted at this blog entry. I should have known. Both of them have told me that they think it may be the most hilarious photograph they've ever taken, and though I look awful in it, I have to concur. It's pretty ridiculous.
I still don't know why dude is talking about a "video", unless this inspired him to search their blog for "Razzy", but whatever. They forgot (an oversight, I'm sure) to include a link to my site, which explains why the comments on their blog are not "Razzy is a f-ing riot" (usually what people say when they stumble across my site) and are instead "kinky! looks like she's drunkenly fellating her headgear" (and yes, Einstein, that's EXACTLY what I'm doing). Ah, those astute Nerve.com readers...I'd expect nothing less from a community of people who worship Macs, will not drink beer unless it's a microbrew, wear angular glasses whether or not they have vision problems, read Sartre because they heard he's an existentialist and that sounds cool, refer to themselves erroneously as "intelligentsia", and like to pretend their porn is art. KatieScarlett told me that she and BloodyTosser got a talking-to once from the higher-ups at Nerve because they had a week or two where they didn't put up any nudity, and the Nerve pervs were getting restless looking at landscapes and fashion shoots for a cashmere sweater designer. Apparently they're expected to be more like the other Nerve photobloggers Siege (who takes pictures of naked bitches and/or his cock under blacklights and provides inane, snotty commentary) or the possibly retarded Rose and Olive (who have some of the worst face, chest, and bacne I've ever seen, probably owing to the fact that all their pictures involve them rolling around in mud puddles and/or by-the-hour flophouses to showcase their stank genitalia, then juxtapose it with quotes from Aldous Huxley and William S. Burroughs.) Therefore, if it isn't semi-pornographic and accompanied by some sort of intellectual poseur text blurb, then it isn't fit whack-off material for the intellectual elitist tools at Nerve. I'm not kidding...those fucks leave comments telling BloodyTosser about how they jerked it to pictures of her breast reduction surgery scars.
KatieScarlett and BloodyTosser have been very busy as of late, as they just signed with an agent and have to put all these fancy portfolios together. Plus, KatieScarlett and Bienvenido-a-Miami are now officially domestic partners and are planning a commitment ceremony (KatieScarlett told me to brace myself for her "big fat lesbian wedding"), so they probably haven't had much time to shoot jerkers, naked chicks, etc. To keep the Nerve crowd happy, they probably went through their old photo file, found this picture from BloodyTosser's birthday party two years ago, and decided to get some extra mileage out of it. As KatieScarlett noted, "it gets me every fucking time!" Me too, dude. Me too.
I was like "video?" Why have several people gone through Kate and Camilla's blog archives several months today to look at old videos of me? Also, I didn't have the usual spike in traffic that accompanies a link from Kate and Camilla's blog (much to my chagrin and disbelief, Nerve.com still gets a lot more traffic than RAZZY.org, and thus whenever KatieScarlett and BloodyTosser throw some linkity love my way I get literally thousands of hits more than is typical). I was puzzled, so I went to Kate and Camilla's blog. It turns out THIS is the photo KatieScarlett posted at this blog entry. I should have known. Both of them have told me that they think it may be the most hilarious photograph they've ever taken, and though I look awful in it, I have to concur. It's pretty ridiculous.
KatieScarlett and BloodyTosser have been very busy as of late, as they just signed with an agent and have to put all these fancy portfolios together. Plus, KatieScarlett and Bienvenido-a-Miami are now officially domestic partners and are planning a commitment ceremony (KatieScarlett told me to brace myself for her "big fat lesbian wedding"), so they probably haven't had much time to shoot jerkers, naked chicks, etc. To keep the Nerve crowd happy, they probably went through their old photo file, found this picture from BloodyTosser's birthday party two years ago, and decided to get some extra mileage out of it. As KatieScarlett noted, "it gets me every fucking time!" Me too, dude. Me too.
Labels: BloodyTosser, down with OPB (other people's blogs), hilarious shit, KatieScarlett, perversion, ridiculous absurdity
Monday, February 05, 2007
Out of our cold, dead hands
My buddy FalloniusMonk is from South Carolina and I'm from Puyallup, places known respectively for worshipping a team called the "Fighting Gamecocks" and for its dominance in the West Coast homebrewed meth trade, so we are both are own special brand of regional redneck. We might come off as city girls, being that we both live in Gotham, and have our fancy-sounding jobs (she's a creative director at a marketing company and even though I consider my job slavery--or at least indentured servitude--saying that you are in "The Coordinated Doctoral Program in the Biomedical Sciences" at an Ivy League school sounds pretty glamorous and elite). However, our trappings of being cosmopolitan and sophisticated belie our deeply ingrained PWT sensibilities, and neither of us have forgotten that we come from places where Toby Keith gets lots of airplay, people are considered successful if they own a double-wide, and mullets never go out of style. Therefore, there are only a couple things we love as much as God and country: swill, fuckin', and guns.
FalloniusMonk called me in the later phases of the whole Tej Bindra debacle, at the point where I was firing off letters to Smith deans, hanging with the dedicated detectives of the elite squad known as the 3-0 precinct gold shields, and writing reports for the FBI. I was a mess: drinking my courage, sleeping fitfully, and generally freaking out.
"What you need, Razzy," she said wisely. "Is a gun."
"I know," I said. "I've already thought about that. But handgun licenses take a while to get in New York, and they're mad expensive."
"What about a rifle or a shotgun?"
"I thought of that, too, but dude, I haven't shot a gun since I was fucking G-Boner's cousin J and he took me out to their field to tag beer cans with his .22."
"That's easily rectified, Razzy. We're going to the motherfucking rifle range. It's like riding a bike...you never really forget how."
I was thrilled with this plan. So after the madness of traveling and the holidays died down, we made it a New Year's resolution to get our firearms on stat. Therefore, weekend before last, we went to the Westside Pistol Range and experienced what their website calls "the excitement of firing a .22-caliber rifle."
We arrived and started chatting away with the range staff who gave us acrid cups of "range brew" coffee and forms to sign verifying that we are not felons, not wanted, not impersonating law enforcement officers, and hadn't used any drugs or alcohol (thatyear month week day). We were clean, sober, of good legal standing, and ready to shoot the shit out of some targets. Then we took a quick class on how to properly load our Ruger 1022s, operate the bolt and safety, hold the gun, aim, and fire. The instructor cautioned me that my "low-cut blouse" (aka titty shirt) was putting me at a great risk for getting a burn from a shell casing should it happen to pop down my cleavage. I saucily informed him that I could hardly blame the shell casing for wanting to get in there, and would consider it a necessary but unavoidable risk, and my knockers would take it like a man. Then came the awesomeness. I am fairly certain that, given my personality and intolerance for bullshit, NOBODY wants to fuck with this:
Okay, so the glasses and ear protection aren't exactly sexy, but whatever...that big old gun sure is! FalloniusMonk and I took turns documenting the good times with her camera, and how exceptionally good we look while firing our guns.
We had so much fun that after we shot off our complimentary fifty rounds, FalloniusMonk bought us each another box of bullets and we consulted on the action so far while loading our magazines. FalloniusMonk is way faster than me at loading, so she gave me a wink and helped my slow ass finish up with my ammo.
My slowness at loading magazines didn't deter me from announcing that on our next trip, we would shoot the 9-mil rifle, because it uses WAY bigger bullets ("manstoppers", as the instructor called them), is louder, and is the gun equivalent of a bigger dick. FalloniusMonk heartily concurred, and then made my day when she showed me that she'd acquired some duck and pig targets, which I promptly compared to my dog. "I'm going to kill the fuck out of that Chingy!-looking pig," I vowed.
I did. It was a good day to be a target duck, because I hardly shot any of them at all, but the pigs I ultimately filled with lead. "I'm bringing home the bacon!" I shouted. FalloniusMonk declared that my new "bang bang" name was "Angie Oakley." I thought that was generous of her, because truth be told, I wasn't exactly a sharpshooter (although I did manage to hit the bullseye a few times).
Probably the most hilarious part of the day was when FalloniusMonk managed to capture on film an extremely rare occurrence. Despite my many professions that I am terrible at housework, she managed to obtain definitive photographic evidence that I am capable of operating the device used to sweep shit off the floor known as a broom.
It's fitting that the only time I can be compelled to use one of these domestic contraptions is to sweep up my spent shells. FalloniusMonk didn't mind it so much, considering it the necessary conclusion to a job well done.
The guys at the range loved us, and we assured them we would return. They suggested we should bring LL Cool Jew there for her bachelorette party, and FalloniusMonk and I tried to keep a straight face wondering how that would go over with a posse of liberal-ass Smith alumnae. We graciously informed them that since liquor is an integral part of her bachelorette party, the gun range wouldn't be an appropriate venue for a bunch of boozed-up bitches, but thanked them for the idea nonetheless. Then we went and had lunch at this bizarre little bistro where a dude who looked like the bastard child of Andy Warhol and Johnny Cash ("Johnny Warhol") tortured us with his acoustic guitar and covers of old Beatles tunes.
"Too bad they didn't let us take the Rugers with us," I told FalloniusMonk after he launched into his earsplitting rendition of "Norwegian Wood." She laughed and ordered us "an apertif" of some weird Czech liquor she used to drink during her semester in Prague, and then we went out for scotch. All in all, it was about as close as I get to a perfect day short of Reggie (Get In My) Bush showing up with a rare steak and the intent of sexually working me for ten hours straight. Needless to say, this is the look of a happy Razzy:
Second amendment, baby! I'm going to treat myself to a NRA membership (and now only partly because it's an asshole thing to do and because they have awesome complimentary bumper stickers). Next stop for FalloniusMonk and myself: One Police Plaza, where we're going to submit our applications for a handgun license. Watch out, haters, because from now on, I'm going to be packing heat.
FalloniusMonk called me in the later phases of the whole Tej Bindra debacle, at the point where I was firing off letters to Smith deans, hanging with the dedicated detectives of the elite squad known as the 3-0 precinct gold shields, and writing reports for the FBI. I was a mess: drinking my courage, sleeping fitfully, and generally freaking out.
"What you need, Razzy," she said wisely. "Is a gun."
"I know," I said. "I've already thought about that. But handgun licenses take a while to get in New York, and they're mad expensive."
"What about a rifle or a shotgun?"
"I thought of that, too, but dude, I haven't shot a gun since I was fucking G-Boner's cousin J and he took me out to their field to tag beer cans with his .22."
"That's easily rectified, Razzy. We're going to the motherfucking rifle range. It's like riding a bike...you never really forget how."
I was thrilled with this plan. So after the madness of traveling and the holidays died down, we made it a New Year's resolution to get our firearms on stat. Therefore, weekend before last, we went to the Westside Pistol Range and experienced what their website calls "the excitement of firing a .22-caliber rifle."
We arrived and started chatting away with the range staff who gave us acrid cups of "range brew" coffee and forms to sign verifying that we are not felons, not wanted, not impersonating law enforcement officers, and hadn't used any drugs or alcohol (that
Okay, so the glasses and ear protection aren't exactly sexy, but whatever...that big old gun sure is! FalloniusMonk and I took turns documenting the good times with her camera, and how exceptionally good we look while firing our guns.
We had so much fun that after we shot off our complimentary fifty rounds, FalloniusMonk bought us each another box of bullets and we consulted on the action so far while loading our magazines. FalloniusMonk is way faster than me at loading, so she gave me a wink and helped my slow ass finish up with my ammo.
My slowness at loading magazines didn't deter me from announcing that on our next trip, we would shoot the 9-mil rifle, because it uses WAY bigger bullets ("manstoppers", as the instructor called them), is louder, and is the gun equivalent of a bigger dick. FalloniusMonk heartily concurred, and then made my day when she showed me that she'd acquired some duck and pig targets, which I promptly compared to my dog. "I'm going to kill the fuck out of that Chingy!-looking pig," I vowed.
I did. It was a good day to be a target duck, because I hardly shot any of them at all, but the pigs I ultimately filled with lead. "I'm bringing home the bacon!" I shouted. FalloniusMonk declared that my new "bang bang" name was "Angie Oakley." I thought that was generous of her, because truth be told, I wasn't exactly a sharpshooter (although I did manage to hit the bullseye a few times).
Probably the most hilarious part of the day was when FalloniusMonk managed to capture on film an extremely rare occurrence. Despite my many professions that I am terrible at housework, she managed to obtain definitive photographic evidence that I am capable of operating the device used to sweep shit off the floor known as a broom.
It's fitting that the only time I can be compelled to use one of these domestic contraptions is to sweep up my spent shells. FalloniusMonk didn't mind it so much, considering it the necessary conclusion to a job well done.
The guys at the range loved us, and we assured them we would return. They suggested we should bring LL Cool Jew there for her bachelorette party, and FalloniusMonk and I tried to keep a straight face wondering how that would go over with a posse of liberal-ass Smith alumnae. We graciously informed them that since liquor is an integral part of her bachelorette party, the gun range wouldn't be an appropriate venue for a bunch of boozed-up bitches, but thanked them for the idea nonetheless. Then we went and had lunch at this bizarre little bistro where a dude who looked like the bastard child of Andy Warhol and Johnny Cash ("Johnny Warhol") tortured us with his acoustic guitar and covers of old Beatles tunes.
"Too bad they didn't let us take the Rugers with us," I told FalloniusMonk after he launched into his earsplitting rendition of "Norwegian Wood." She laughed and ordered us "an apertif" of some weird Czech liquor she used to drink during her semester in Prague, and then we went out for scotch. All in all, it was about as close as I get to a perfect day short of Reggie (Get In My) Bush showing up with a rare steak and the intent of sexually working me for ten hours straight. Needless to say, this is the look of a happy Razzy:
Second amendment, baby! I'm going to treat myself to a NRA membership (and now only partly because it's an asshole thing to do and because they have awesome complimentary bumper stickers). Next stop for FalloniusMonk and myself: One Police Plaza, where we're going to submit our applications for a handgun license. Watch out, haters, because from now on, I'm going to be packing heat.
Labels: FalloniusMonk, guns, I LOVE IT, PWT, Razzification
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Say I
I can mark the moment I started caring about football, because it was a pivotal one in my life. I was at Packard's, this bar in Northampton, giving my boyfriend Benzo all sorts of shit about not taking me out to breakfast on Sunday mornings during football season, and I said, "I don't understand the point of football. Isn't it just a bunch of fat dudes running into each other?"
"Razzy," he said patiently, trying for the thousandth time to compel me to lay off his ass about his Sundays being dedicated to the NFL instead of his hot blonde shikse girlfriend. "Football is like chess. I don't think you understand football."
"What's to understand?" I scoffed. "The most basic play involves dudes butting heads like a bunch of fucking mountain goats posturing for sexual dominance. Don't care."
"You're wrong," he said. "The most basic play is the I formation. Well, not in the West Coast offense, but for all intents and purposes, let's say it's the I formation, and let me explain it to you."
I humored him, expecting to find some inherent flaw and be able to be right on the fact that I can deconstruct almost anything on the fourfold basis of my harsh criticisms, my forceful personality, my tits, and my willingness to put out. He grabbed a cocktail napkin and a pen. Then Benzo not only proved me wrong, he changed my life.
By the time he'd finished with the I formation, he also went through the shotgun, a variety of draw, screen, and slant plays, some basic defensive packages, and classic gimmick plays such as the flea-flicker and the hook-and-ladder. I was enthralled, and had completely forgotten about being right or complaining about his non-availability for Sunday brunch. I resolved to start watching football immediately, because not only was I wrong about it being stupid, I was deeply intrigued.
That was in December 1999, and I proceeded to not only watch all the playoffs, but damn near had a massive coronary during the Super Bowl the next January. In case you aren't up on your stats, that was Super Bowl XXXIV, in which the Tennessee Titans lost by one struggling, Kevin Dyson's-desperately-reaching yard to the St. Louis Rams. Dick Vermeil cried with joy. Steve McNair shook his head with deep sadness (as well as pain from his typical 18 different injuries). I swore vengeance against the Rams, and pledged my life and soul to Eddie George (with a clause allowing revocation of said pledge if he ever signed with the Cowboys, that I exercised in 2004).
Since then, I have become progressively more and more obsessed with NFL football. Now I do things like I did tonight: go to Super Bowl parties and impress the dudes there with my knowledge. Miss Corbutt's boyfriend, who invited me and my friends to his party, heard me trying to explain to Miss Corbutt the awesomeness of the Coors Light "Playoffs?!" commercial and going off on a tangent about the ins and outs of Jim Mora, Sr.'s illustrious press conference record, NFL head coaching politics, and family playing/coaching dynasties, and said, "Wow...you really ARE hard core."
Miss Corbutt had initially lured me to this party on the basis that there was a free buffet of fried foods, she would be there, there would be lots of "single Amherst guys" (been there and did that...in 1997), and there were many plasma screens to watch the game on. I enjoyed the fact that I was the resident girl who knows about football much more than the prospect of me doing a bunch of I-bankers from the underground DEKE house at Amherst. On account of the night before and the lethal tequila-Jaegermeister-scotch-gin-vodka-beer combo I'd imbibed, I was glad to be kicking ass at anything, so it was excellent to be a lauded-for-knowing-football bitch at a Super Bowl party.
I was rooting for the Bears, because I hate and despise the Colts, and I will until I die. I hate them even more than the Cowboys. They were the team I hated most until the Shitsburgh Stealers gave me a personal reason to hate them more, but nonetheless my anti-Colts sentiments remain true and unmitigated. This is partly because they are the Titans' AFC South rivals, and partly because I loathe Peyton and all other Mannings to the core of my being. However, since the officiating in this Super Bowl was considerably better than last year's bullshit travesty, and since the Bears basically didn't get a goddamn thing going offensively, by the end of the third quarter I accepted that I'd simply have to suffer through another year of Peyton Manning being an incorrigible asshole bolstered by a Super Bowl ring. So I went to take a piss.
There were these girls there who were decked out in head-to-toe Bears gear waiting in the bathroom line. I pegged them as serious fans, as they were wearing Bears caps, NFC champion shirts, Bears armbands, and logo orange-and-navy C's on their cheeks. I decided to be friendly and share my sympathies.
"Dudes, I'm sorry," I said. "I'm a Seahawks fan, so I know how you feel. I was right where you are last year, getting dangerously close to a fugue state."
They gave me this weird, extraordinarily puzzled look that indicated I should elaborate.
"I mean, last year, I knew that the Hawks were done by this time in the game. Of course then it was because of bullshit offensive pass interference calls and ignored horse collar tackles and not the straight-up inability of Rex Grossman to convert third downs, but still, I feel you."
"Oh..." The head girl suddenly got where I was coming from. "We're not really Bears fans, hon. We just like dressing up."
"Um..." I said.
"Yeah," her friend chimed in. "We called the Chicago Sports Authority and had them FedEx us these Cubs temporary tattoos!"
She pointed proudly to the C on her face. I didn't mean to be an asshole, but I couldn't help it.
"Uh, I think you mean the Bears. The Cubs are a baseball team," I said as kindly as I could.
She and her friend gave each other a what-the-fuck-is-up-with-this-bitch?-there-are-hedge-fund-owners-to-hit-on-here look.
"Whatever!" she said cheerfully, and went back to chatting about the boys they liked. Mercifully the bathroom became available at that moment. While I was pissing, I wondered what those girls would do if I forced their "Cubs"-fan asses to check out an I formation and appreciate the depth of the culture they are appropriating for frivolous dress-up. Probably think I'm even more bizarre than they already do, but I wished I could do it nonetheless. In a perfect world, it would change their lives for the better, as Benzo's Xs and Os (and not just his kisses and hugs) once changed mine. Then again, in a perfect world, the Stealers wouldn't be sitting around reminiscing about how they stole last year's Super Bowl, and Peyton Manning wouldn't be spending tonight making false promises about taking the trampy hos he cheats on his wife with at the Delano Super Bowl afterparty to his mandated Disneyland victory celebration. So I guess I still have to give a nod of acknowledgement to the girls who spend $200 on fan gear and root for teams playing a different fucking sport for financial effort alone, and silently pray that one day someone with more credibility than me draws them a sufficiently interesting I formation. Seriously...that shit is better than finding Jesus.
"Razzy," he said patiently, trying for the thousandth time to compel me to lay off his ass about his Sundays being dedicated to the NFL instead of his hot blonde shikse girlfriend. "Football is like chess. I don't think you understand football."
"What's to understand?" I scoffed. "The most basic play involves dudes butting heads like a bunch of fucking mountain goats posturing for sexual dominance. Don't care."
"You're wrong," he said. "The most basic play is the I formation. Well, not in the West Coast offense, but for all intents and purposes, let's say it's the I formation, and let me explain it to you."
I humored him, expecting to find some inherent flaw and be able to be right on the fact that I can deconstruct almost anything on the fourfold basis of my harsh criticisms, my forceful personality, my tits, and my willingness to put out. He grabbed a cocktail napkin and a pen. Then Benzo not only proved me wrong, he changed my life.
By the time he'd finished with the I formation, he also went through the shotgun, a variety of draw, screen, and slant plays, some basic defensive packages, and classic gimmick plays such as the flea-flicker and the hook-and-ladder. I was enthralled, and had completely forgotten about being right or complaining about his non-availability for Sunday brunch. I resolved to start watching football immediately, because not only was I wrong about it being stupid, I was deeply intrigued.
That was in December 1999, and I proceeded to not only watch all the playoffs, but damn near had a massive coronary during the Super Bowl the next January. In case you aren't up on your stats, that was Super Bowl XXXIV, in which the Tennessee Titans lost by one struggling, Kevin Dyson's-desperately-reaching yard to the St. Louis Rams. Dick Vermeil cried with joy. Steve McNair shook his head with deep sadness (as well as pain from his typical 18 different injuries). I swore vengeance against the Rams, and pledged my life and soul to Eddie George (with a clause allowing revocation of said pledge if he ever signed with the Cowboys, that I exercised in 2004).
Since then, I have become progressively more and more obsessed with NFL football. Now I do things like I did tonight: go to Super Bowl parties and impress the dudes there with my knowledge. Miss Corbutt's boyfriend, who invited me and my friends to his party, heard me trying to explain to Miss Corbutt the awesomeness of the Coors Light "Playoffs?!" commercial and going off on a tangent about the ins and outs of Jim Mora, Sr.'s illustrious press conference record, NFL head coaching politics, and family playing/coaching dynasties, and said, "Wow...you really ARE hard core."
Miss Corbutt had initially lured me to this party on the basis that there was a free buffet of fried foods, she would be there, there would be lots of "single Amherst guys" (been there and did that...in 1997), and there were many plasma screens to watch the game on. I enjoyed the fact that I was the resident girl who knows about football much more than the prospect of me doing a bunch of I-bankers from the underground DEKE house at Amherst. On account of the night before and the lethal tequila-Jaegermeister-scotch-gin-vodka-beer combo I'd imbibed, I was glad to be kicking ass at anything, so it was excellent to be a lauded-for-knowing-football bitch at a Super Bowl party.
I was rooting for the Bears, because I hate and despise the Colts, and I will until I die. I hate them even more than the Cowboys. They were the team I hated most until the Shitsburgh Stealers gave me a personal reason to hate them more, but nonetheless my anti-Colts sentiments remain true and unmitigated. This is partly because they are the Titans' AFC South rivals, and partly because I loathe Peyton and all other Mannings to the core of my being. However, since the officiating in this Super Bowl was considerably better than last year's bullshit travesty, and since the Bears basically didn't get a goddamn thing going offensively, by the end of the third quarter I accepted that I'd simply have to suffer through another year of Peyton Manning being an incorrigible asshole bolstered by a Super Bowl ring. So I went to take a piss.
There were these girls there who were decked out in head-to-toe Bears gear waiting in the bathroom line. I pegged them as serious fans, as they were wearing Bears caps, NFC champion shirts, Bears armbands, and logo orange-and-navy C's on their cheeks. I decided to be friendly and share my sympathies.
"Dudes, I'm sorry," I said. "I'm a Seahawks fan, so I know how you feel. I was right where you are last year, getting dangerously close to a fugue state."
They gave me this weird, extraordinarily puzzled look that indicated I should elaborate.
"I mean, last year, I knew that the Hawks were done by this time in the game. Of course then it was because of bullshit offensive pass interference calls and ignored horse collar tackles and not the straight-up inability of Rex Grossman to convert third downs, but still, I feel you."
"Oh..." The head girl suddenly got where I was coming from. "We're not really Bears fans, hon. We just like dressing up."
"Um..." I said.
"Yeah," her friend chimed in. "We called the Chicago Sports Authority and had them FedEx us these Cubs temporary tattoos!"
She pointed proudly to the C on her face. I didn't mean to be an asshole, but I couldn't help it.
"Uh, I think you mean the Bears. The Cubs are a baseball team," I said as kindly as I could.
She and her friend gave each other a what-the-fuck-is-up-with-this-bitch?-there-are-hedge-fund-owners-to-hit-on-here look.
"Whatever!" she said cheerfully, and went back to chatting about the boys they liked. Mercifully the bathroom became available at that moment. While I was pissing, I wondered what those girls would do if I forced their "Cubs"-fan asses to check out an I formation and appreciate the depth of the culture they are appropriating for frivolous dress-up. Probably think I'm even more bizarre than they already do, but I wished I could do it nonetheless. In a perfect world, it would change their lives for the better, as Benzo's Xs and Os (and not just his kisses and hugs) once changed mine. Then again, in a perfect world, the Stealers wouldn't be sitting around reminiscing about how they stole last year's Super Bowl, and Peyton Manning wouldn't be spending tonight making false promises about taking the trampy hos he cheats on his wife with at the Delano Super Bowl afterparty to his mandated Disneyland victory celebration. So I guess I still have to give a nod of acknowledgement to the girls who spend $200 on fan gear and root for teams playing a different fucking sport for financial effort alone, and silently pray that one day someone with more credibility than me draws them a sufficiently interesting I formation. Seriously...that shit is better than finding Jesus.
Labels: Jim Mora Sr., Miss Corbutt, NFL football, ridiculous absurdity, Stealers suck
Breaking radio silence...soon
I've been pretty non-bloggity this week on account of a bunch of work-related bullshit that nobody wants to hear about, but I just wanted to assure all the Razzyphiles who depend on this blog for life-sustaining useless bullshit that I have many updates coming. Since it seems several readers are tired of hearing me go on about beauty pageants and have demanded writing about my personal life, I'll gladly oblige. Here's what you have to look forward to:
-Striking out with grad school recruits who were feeling up my ass and hitting on me, but ultimately were too scared to actually fuck me (granted, demanding that they "return to my crib and go down like a Thai hooker" is probably not the best seduction technique, but that was the Johnnie Walker talking)
-A trip to the rifle range (complete with pictures!) with fellow proud redneck and firearm enthusiast FalloniusMonk and shooting the shit out of a pig-shaped target reminiscent of Chingy!.
-My upstairs neighbor wallowing in contrition today when I ran into him by the elevator. Then Caesar stepped on his foot like the good dog he is.
I keep meaning to write some more classic tales from Smith College as well, and will do so ASAP. For now, however, I have to go watch Peyton Manning get his smug, whiny, chicken-fried ass whupped by Brian Urlacher and the Bears' defense. Even though they beat the Seahawks, I have to say "Go Bears!" loudly, not only to rep the NFC, but because I will root for anything that brings about the defeat and public disgrace of the Colts and their overexposed fucktard of a quarterback.
So stay tuned.
-Striking out with grad school recruits who were feeling up my ass and hitting on me, but ultimately were too scared to actually fuck me (granted, demanding that they "return to my crib and go down like a Thai hooker" is probably not the best seduction technique, but that was the Johnnie Walker talking)
-A trip to the rifle range (complete with pictures!) with fellow proud redneck and firearm enthusiast FalloniusMonk and shooting the shit out of a pig-shaped target reminiscent of Chingy!.
-My upstairs neighbor wallowing in contrition today when I ran into him by the elevator. Then Caesar stepped on his foot like the good dog he is.
I keep meaning to write some more classic tales from Smith College as well, and will do so ASAP. For now, however, I have to go watch Peyton Manning get his smug, whiny, chicken-fried ass whupped by Brian Urlacher and the Bears' defense. Even though they beat the Seahawks, I have to say "Go Bears!" loudly, not only to rep the NFC, but because I will root for anything that brings about the defeat and public disgrace of the Colts and their overexposed fucktard of a quarterback.
So stay tuned.
Labels: Razzification
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