Thursday, March 29, 2007
Yo FNC raps!
I don't even know what to say about this. It's either Karl Rove's woefully belated attempt to court the minority vote, or just what happens when they have a few too many glasses of grog at the Skull and Bones annual gladhanding party, but...sweet Jesus Christ on a cracker.
Where's my boyfriend Curtis to show up, start some beef, and fill this fat asshole with lead? I think that the beat-boxing alone should be enough to warrant an attempt on his life. I mean, in addition to being a lying, cheating, swindling, warmongering, power-hungry, manipulating, America-fucking crook.
Oh no he DIDN'T!
Where's my boyfriend Curtis to show up, start some beef, and fill this fat asshole with lead? I think that the beat-boxing alone should be enough to warrant an attempt on his life. I mean, in addition to being a lying, cheating, swindling, warmongering, power-hungry, manipulating, America-fucking crook.
Oh no he DIDN'T!
Labels: assholes, oh the horror, overcompensation, politics, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, rap
Feeling the hate for the baby collector
I used to have a huge, HUGE girl crush on Angelina Jolie, back when she used to do all sorts of lunatic shit, like collect knives, fuck girls, get tattoos, and make out with her brother. she might have been a little insane, but in a really hot way.
You'd never know when she'd haul off and do something completely, ridiculously nuts. I even liked her when she was wearing a vial of Billy Bob Thornton's blood around her neck and talking about jumping enthusiastically on his manorexic trailer park dick in the limo on the way to the SAG awards. She was slutty, bizarre, out of her mind, and did not give a fuck. Consequently, I thought she was one of the most smoking pieces of ass on the planet.
Unfortunately, then Angelina's priorities changed and the U.N. appointed her their international spokeswhore, and it all went downhill from there. She decided that it would be much better to morph into what she calls "a citizen of the world" and what I call a STUCK-UP FUCKING BITCH, and a homewrecking, uptight, baby-stealing adoption junkie to boot. Before everyone jumps all over me for being mean to Saint Angelina, let me just catalogue her numerous asshole moves so that you can all see for yourselves what a fucking haughty hypocrite this cuntface ho-bag is.
First, in spite of claiming that Madonna's an asshole and that she would NEVER adopt a kid illegally, she hired a shady adoption agent who bribed Cambodian officials and bought first baby Maddox from his impoverished mother for a measly hundred clams. This prompted Cambodia to tighten up their adoption laws. You know you've seriously fucked up when an impoverished and underdeveloped nation famous for its killing fields decides that its orphans would be better off staying put instead of being sold to wealthy celebrities. Thanks to the tougher Angelina-prompted adoption laws, Casey Johnson, heiress to the Johnson and Johnson Band-Aid fortune, is bitching that Angelina ruined her chances of illegally adopting a Cambodian urchin of her own. Now, she's apparently fucked up again while acquiring the latest child for her collection because the kid's mom, a heroin addict named Dung, didn't sign off on the adoption and is supposedly going to demand she return him. I can't wait until Dung rallies all the Human Rights organizations to start denouncing Angelina for what she is: a fetishistic baby thief. Don't they have any orphans in Vietnam who are actually orphans that she could snag for her collection instead? On top of that, the kid is three, and upon getting him, she changed his name to Pax Thien from Pham Sang Quang. One would think that with all her world travels and experience with childrearing, she would know that there IS a difference between a human toddler and a stray dog at the pound, and one of those differences is that they KNOW THEIR OWN FUCKING NAMES BY THE AGE OF THREE. I hopes she socks some of the money she makes whoring out pictures of her new kids away for Pax's therapy when he's older. And for that matter, her biological baby Shiloh, who she called a "blob" and who is obviously her least favorite child. Shiloh never gets to go along with mommy and the rest of the brood when they pick out new siblings.
Also, instead of humanitarian aid, she figured that it would be much better to bring along a team of photographers on her latest vacation to the refugee camps in Chad and Darfur. I'm sure that kid really appreciates you telling him that he's seventy pounds underweight after you forced his ass onto that digital scale for the cameras. Bring his ass some food and medicine, instead, ho!
Furthermore, she had Newsweek tag along and take these photos of Angelina in action can market herself as the "voice of the victims." Yeah, there's nothing posed about these at all. I can just hear this bitch directing her team of stylists, makeup artists, and photographers to make the shots extra poignant:
Hey, let's do this in BLACK AND WHITE, to show everyone that I'm SUPER serious about this. Okay, first show me debriefing the U.N. humanitarian force. Hang on, I have to put on my $500 Marc Jacobs aviator shades on. They make me look like an army general. It shows people that I'm serious about this shit! Hey, and try to not to get too much of my private Gulfstream IV jet in the background...I want people to think I'm travelling with the riffraff, I mean, with the aid workers.
Cut the crap, soldier, where's the morgue? I need a shot of me grieving over some dead fucker's body.
Perfect. Alright, let's lighten things up a little. People need to see how I'm the only thing that can bring these people joy. Get some kids over here, and tell those lazy fucks in wardrobe that I need a head scarf. Now tell these kids some knock-knock jokes to get them smiling. What? You say they're not in a joking mood after the Sudanese government bombed the shit out of their villages and killed their entire families? Well, how do you say, "I just called Dominos, the pizza should be here any minute" in Arabic? No, wait, how do you say, "If you're good and you smile at me, I'll adopt you?" Yeah, that's it! Make it look like I'm the only thing that's ever brought hope to their worthless lives!
Maybe I will adopt one. I've got Zahara already, and if I could get a little African boy, I can complete the set.
Hey, here's a good one. Get a picture of me hugging his emaciated ass. Make sure I look REALLY empathetic.
Touching. That's perfect. It's the cover shot! Now get one of just me contemplating this great human tragedy.
Boo hoo, this is sad. Hey, "sad" rhymes with "Chad." I think that makes for a snappy headline! Are you writing this down, people? Nobody's going to care unless they see how sad I am, because I'm an expert on the world's problems. Nobody's going to give a shit about stupid Darfur unless they can see how much it's affecting ME!
Jesus Christ, I hate this woman. I know all about Darfur without this bullshit faux photojournalism. They have ads all over the damn subway about the hundreds of thousands who have died there, so it's not like I'm shocked to see that the situation over there seriously blows for the refugees. Furthermore, Angelina sold the first pictures of her and Pax Thien to Hello! magazine for $2 million dollars. Now she's saying that she's going to use $100,000 of that to build a hospital in the Sudan. While that's nice, WHAT'S SHE DOING WITH THE OTHER $1.9 million?
For someone who professes to care so deeply for her family, she also doesn't seem to have much respect for anyone else's. It's not that I'm on "Team Aniston", as I think Jennifer Aniston is a fugly, humorless, no-talent sourpuss without feminine features or really any endearing qualities. Given that her greatest impact on society was popularizing stupid layered haircuts and starring in one of the most annoying sitcoms in the history of television, I have no love for her. Also, if I were Brad Pitt, I'd probably jump at the opportunity to stick my dick in Angelina. However, she was simply the latest to have her man stolen by Angelina. Previously, Billy Bob Thornton was engaged to Laura Dern, and he dumped her by phone on the way to the Vegas chapel to marry Angelina. Angelina also hates her father, Jon Voight, without mercy. Interestingly enough, the reason she hates him is because he cheated on her mother and ruined their marriage. Way to break the cycle of adultery, Angelina. Nothing says "family values" like breaking up marriages and hating your dad for doing exactly that.
Then there's the matter of her insufferably snotty attitude. She has claimed to dislike American traditions such as Thanksgiving (because it's gluttonous and self-indulgent) and awards shows (supposedly she gave Ryan Seacrest the silent treatment on the red carpet at the Golden Globes this year because she considers awards shows to be "a waste of time and money.") I actually enjoy this trash, as do many other people, and they keep a lot of people fed and employed. For example, all the lesser judging staff on "America's Next Top Model" (Mr. and Miss J) and Joan and Melissa Rivers. You know those crones would starve if they didn't have shit to talk on the red carpet. In any event, awards shows are far less of a waste of time and money than THESE:
Wait, there's more...
And let's not forget the EXTREMELY worthwhile contributions to improve the quality of life for masturbating video game addicts everywhere with her performance in this powerful cinematic franchise:
And where would society be without THESE extremely useful contributions? Nominate her for a Nobel Peace Prize, already!
And don't overlook these oldies but not-goodies:
A waste of time and money? That basically describes Angelina's ENTIRE movie career, with the exceptions of Gia and Girl, Interrupted. I only liked Gia because there's was all sorts of hot girl-on-girl action in that with the chick who currently plays the fertility doctor on "Lost", and while I thought Girl, Interrupted sucked, apparently she was good in it because she played a mentally deranged slut. In other words, she played herself. Both movies continue to positively impact our society by getting lots of replay on the Lifetime Movie Network. It takes some serious nerve to be such a pompous cunt about what you're wearing at the Golden Globes when you've played second fiddle to Jack Palance in Cyborg 2.
It's funny that up until she started cruising the third-world for kids, telling everyone else what an inferior job they're doing solving the world's problems, and stinking up movie screens with her piss-poor film projects, she was getting along with her (totally awesome) dad John Voight. She hasn't spoken to him since made the appallingly rude request to merely meet his grandchildren and subsequently said she has "serious emotional problems." I guess she was more stable back when she was collecting knives and frenching her brother. That Angelina is dead to me now. The only remnant of her old life is that fact that for awhile Maddox was sporting the same faux-hawk popularized by her ex-girlfriend:
I never thought I'd say this, but I'd rather attend a weeklong seminar dedicated exclusively to Bono talking about AIDS and debt than see more footage of Angelina riding around on her high horse and acting like the world's greatest humanitarian. That would be like a luxury vacation compared to bearing witness to any more Angelina worship. Finally, the mainstream media seems to agree with me, as Us Weekly has decided that the beatification of Angelina for all her saintly deeds has gone far enough. Behold, this week's cover:
It's about damn time the media turned on her, because I swear the next time I see this snatch parading around acting like the second coming of Christ on one of my internet gossip sites, I'm going to punch out my computer monitor. Thank you, Us Weekly, for feeling the hate!
You'd never know when she'd haul off and do something completely, ridiculously nuts. I even liked her when she was wearing a vial of Billy Bob Thornton's blood around her neck and talking about jumping enthusiastically on his manorexic trailer park dick in the limo on the way to the SAG awards. She was slutty, bizarre, out of her mind, and did not give a fuck. Consequently, I thought she was one of the most smoking pieces of ass on the planet.
Unfortunately, then Angelina's priorities changed and the U.N. appointed her their international spokeswhore, and it all went downhill from there. She decided that it would be much better to morph into what she calls "a citizen of the world" and what I call a STUCK-UP FUCKING BITCH, and a homewrecking, uptight, baby-stealing adoption junkie to boot. Before everyone jumps all over me for being mean to Saint Angelina, let me just catalogue her numerous asshole moves so that you can all see for yourselves what a fucking haughty hypocrite this cuntface ho-bag is.
First, in spite of claiming that Madonna's an asshole and that she would NEVER adopt a kid illegally, she hired a shady adoption agent who bribed Cambodian officials and bought first baby Maddox from his impoverished mother for a measly hundred clams. This prompted Cambodia to tighten up their adoption laws. You know you've seriously fucked up when an impoverished and underdeveloped nation famous for its killing fields decides that its orphans would be better off staying put instead of being sold to wealthy celebrities. Thanks to the tougher Angelina-prompted adoption laws, Casey Johnson, heiress to the Johnson and Johnson Band-Aid fortune, is bitching that Angelina ruined her chances of illegally adopting a Cambodian urchin of her own. Now, she's apparently fucked up again while acquiring the latest child for her collection because the kid's mom, a heroin addict named Dung, didn't sign off on the adoption and is supposedly going to demand she return him. I can't wait until Dung rallies all the Human Rights organizations to start denouncing Angelina for what she is: a fetishistic baby thief. Don't they have any orphans in Vietnam who are actually orphans that she could snag for her collection instead? On top of that, the kid is three, and upon getting him, she changed his name to Pax Thien from Pham Sang Quang. One would think that with all her world travels and experience with childrearing, she would know that there IS a difference between a human toddler and a stray dog at the pound, and one of those differences is that they KNOW THEIR OWN FUCKING NAMES BY THE AGE OF THREE. I hopes she socks some of the money she makes whoring out pictures of her new kids away for Pax's therapy when he's older. And for that matter, her biological baby Shiloh, who she called a "blob" and who is obviously her least favorite child. Shiloh never gets to go along with mommy and the rest of the brood when they pick out new siblings.
Also, instead of humanitarian aid, she figured that it would be much better to bring along a team of photographers on her latest vacation to the refugee camps in Chad and Darfur. I'm sure that kid really appreciates you telling him that he's seventy pounds underweight after you forced his ass onto that digital scale for the cameras. Bring his ass some food and medicine, instead, ho!
Furthermore, she had Newsweek tag along and take these photos of Angelina in action can market herself as the "voice of the victims." Yeah, there's nothing posed about these at all. I can just hear this bitch directing her team of stylists, makeup artists, and photographers to make the shots extra poignant:
Hey, let's do this in BLACK AND WHITE, to show everyone that I'm SUPER serious about this. Okay, first show me debriefing the U.N. humanitarian force. Hang on, I have to put on my $500 Marc Jacobs aviator shades on. They make me look like an army general. It shows people that I'm serious about this shit! Hey, and try to not to get too much of my private Gulfstream IV jet in the background...I want people to think I'm travelling with the riffraff, I mean, with the aid workers.
Cut the crap, soldier, where's the morgue? I need a shot of me grieving over some dead fucker's body.
Perfect. Alright, let's lighten things up a little. People need to see how I'm the only thing that can bring these people joy. Get some kids over here, and tell those lazy fucks in wardrobe that I need a head scarf. Now tell these kids some knock-knock jokes to get them smiling. What? You say they're not in a joking mood after the Sudanese government bombed the shit out of their villages and killed their entire families? Well, how do you say, "I just called Dominos, the pizza should be here any minute" in Arabic? No, wait, how do you say, "If you're good and you smile at me, I'll adopt you?" Yeah, that's it! Make it look like I'm the only thing that's ever brought hope to their worthless lives!
Maybe I will adopt one. I've got Zahara already, and if I could get a little African boy, I can complete the set.
Hey, here's a good one. Get a picture of me hugging his emaciated ass. Make sure I look REALLY empathetic.
Touching. That's perfect. It's the cover shot! Now get one of just me contemplating this great human tragedy.
Boo hoo, this is sad. Hey, "sad" rhymes with "Chad." I think that makes for a snappy headline! Are you writing this down, people? Nobody's going to care unless they see how sad I am, because I'm an expert on the world's problems. Nobody's going to give a shit about stupid Darfur unless they can see how much it's affecting ME!
Jesus Christ, I hate this woman. I know all about Darfur without this bullshit faux photojournalism. They have ads all over the damn subway about the hundreds of thousands who have died there, so it's not like I'm shocked to see that the situation over there seriously blows for the refugees. Furthermore, Angelina sold the first pictures of her and Pax Thien to Hello! magazine for $2 million dollars. Now she's saying that she's going to use $100,000 of that to build a hospital in the Sudan. While that's nice, WHAT'S SHE DOING WITH THE OTHER $1.9 million?
For someone who professes to care so deeply for her family, she also doesn't seem to have much respect for anyone else's. It's not that I'm on "Team Aniston", as I think Jennifer Aniston is a fugly, humorless, no-talent sourpuss without feminine features or really any endearing qualities. Given that her greatest impact on society was popularizing stupid layered haircuts and starring in one of the most annoying sitcoms in the history of television, I have no love for her. Also, if I were Brad Pitt, I'd probably jump at the opportunity to stick my dick in Angelina. However, she was simply the latest to have her man stolen by Angelina. Previously, Billy Bob Thornton was engaged to Laura Dern, and he dumped her by phone on the way to the Vegas chapel to marry Angelina. Angelina also hates her father, Jon Voight, without mercy. Interestingly enough, the reason she hates him is because he cheated on her mother and ruined their marriage. Way to break the cycle of adultery, Angelina. Nothing says "family values" like breaking up marriages and hating your dad for doing exactly that.
Then there's the matter of her insufferably snotty attitude. She has claimed to dislike American traditions such as Thanksgiving (because it's gluttonous and self-indulgent) and awards shows (supposedly she gave Ryan Seacrest the silent treatment on the red carpet at the Golden Globes this year because she considers awards shows to be "a waste of time and money.") I actually enjoy this trash, as do many other people, and they keep a lot of people fed and employed. For example, all the lesser judging staff on "America's Next Top Model" (Mr. and Miss J) and Joan and Melissa Rivers. You know those crones would starve if they didn't have shit to talk on the red carpet. In any event, awards shows are far less of a waste of time and money than THESE:
Wait, there's more...
And let's not forget the EXTREMELY worthwhile contributions to improve the quality of life for masturbating video game addicts everywhere with her performance in this powerful cinematic franchise:
And where would society be without THESE extremely useful contributions? Nominate her for a Nobel Peace Prize, already!
And don't overlook these oldies but not-goodies:
A waste of time and money? That basically describes Angelina's ENTIRE movie career, with the exceptions of Gia and Girl, Interrupted. I only liked Gia because there's was all sorts of hot girl-on-girl action in that with the chick who currently plays the fertility doctor on "Lost", and while I thought Girl, Interrupted sucked, apparently she was good in it because she played a mentally deranged slut. In other words, she played herself. Both movies continue to positively impact our society by getting lots of replay on the Lifetime Movie Network. It takes some serious nerve to be such a pompous cunt about what you're wearing at the Golden Globes when you've played second fiddle to Jack Palance in Cyborg 2.
It's funny that up until she started cruising the third-world for kids, telling everyone else what an inferior job they're doing solving the world's problems, and stinking up movie screens with her piss-poor film projects, she was getting along with her (totally awesome) dad John Voight. She hasn't spoken to him since made the appallingly rude request to merely meet his grandchildren and subsequently said she has "serious emotional problems." I guess she was more stable back when she was collecting knives and frenching her brother. That Angelina is dead to me now. The only remnant of her old life is that fact that for awhile Maddox was sporting the same faux-hawk popularized by her ex-girlfriend:
I never thought I'd say this, but I'd rather attend a weeklong seminar dedicated exclusively to Bono talking about AIDS and debt than see more footage of Angelina riding around on her high horse and acting like the world's greatest humanitarian. That would be like a luxury vacation compared to bearing witness to any more Angelina worship. Finally, the mainstream media seems to agree with me, as Us Weekly has decided that the beatification of Angelina for all her saintly deeds has gone far enough. Behold, this week's cover:
It's about damn time the media turned on her, because I swear the next time I see this snatch parading around acting like the second coming of Christ on one of my internet gossip sites, I'm going to punch out my computer monitor. Thank you, Us Weekly, for feeling the hate!
Labels: assholes, celebrities, media whores, movies, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts, vanity
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
If Meg Ryan and I had a baby...
Apparently, scouring various media for bitches that look like me is my friends' new favorite pasttime. After reading LL Cool Jew's assertion that I resemble lady boxer Holly Holm, Motherbucker decided to get on MySpace and make her own contribution. Then she decided to share her finding with FalloniusMonk via instant message, and forward the chat transcript on to me:
Motherbucker: so
Motherbucker: i go onto myspace to see if i have any new friend requests and i do...from this girl i barely new in highschool. so i click on her profile to try and remember her
Motherbucker: and in her "top friends"
Motherbucker: there is this person:
Motherbucker: http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=88299206
FalloniusMonk: give it
Motherbucker: "julie"
FalloniusMonk: i can't clock her profile, it's "set to private"
Motherbucker: you can see the picture though right?
FalloniusMonk: bless her heart, yes i can
Motherbucker: who does she look like?
FalloniusMonk: a little like tha razzynator
Motherbucker: indeed
Motherbucker: shockingly
FalloniusMonk: if raz were crossbred with meg ryan
Motherbucker: hahahahaha
FalloniusMonk: what do they do in that lab all day?
FalloniusMonk: mutant cloning!
Motherbucker: exactly my question
FalloniusMonk: discovered at last!
Motherbucker: i knew something was fishy
FalloniusMonk: more likely they argue ovwer whether they play reggaeton and listen to razzy talk about dick
FalloniusMonk: but just sayin
Motherbucker: hahaha
I guess they're kind of right:
(Me)
(Meg Ryan)
(This ho Julie)
I can state unequivocally that this slut originated all on her own. The only mutants J-Sexy and I clone in lab are picornaviruses. Also, you can bet that if I were to create a chimeric cloned human I would NOT merge my unbelievably superior DNA with that of a woman who has made her name starring in movies I absolutely hate. If for some reason I did in spite of my disdain for romantic comedies, you bet your ass I'd be publishing that shit in Science AND Nature and NOT on MySpace.
On the bright side, though, at least FalloniusMonk is no longer under the impression that I spend all day curing cancer, and her assessment of how J-Sexy and I ACTUALLY spend our days is fairly accurate. We definitely spend a lot of time discussing reggaeton and dick while we're cloning mutant viruses and/or viral genes, analyzing FACS data, killing mice, transfecting cells, and otherwise slaving away for 10 hours a day. That's a hell of a lot more interesting than talking about science!
Motherbucker: so
Motherbucker: i go onto myspace to see if i have any new friend requests and i do...from this girl i barely new in highschool. so i click on her profile to try and remember her
Motherbucker: and in her "top friends"
Motherbucker: there is this person:
Motherbucker: http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=88299206
FalloniusMonk: give it
Motherbucker: "julie"
FalloniusMonk: i can't clock her profile, it's "set to private"
Motherbucker: you can see the picture though right?
FalloniusMonk: bless her heart, yes i can
Motherbucker: who does she look like?
FalloniusMonk: a little like tha razzynator
Motherbucker: indeed
Motherbucker: shockingly
FalloniusMonk: if raz were crossbred with meg ryan
Motherbucker: hahahahaha
FalloniusMonk: what do they do in that lab all day?
FalloniusMonk: mutant cloning!
Motherbucker: exactly my question
FalloniusMonk: discovered at last!
Motherbucker: i knew something was fishy
FalloniusMonk: more likely they argue ovwer whether they play reggaeton and listen to razzy talk about dick
FalloniusMonk: but just sayin
Motherbucker: hahaha
I guess they're kind of right:
(Me)
+
(Meg Ryan)
=
(This ho Julie)
I can state unequivocally that this slut originated all on her own. The only mutants J-Sexy and I clone in lab are picornaviruses. Also, you can bet that if I were to create a chimeric cloned human I would NOT merge my unbelievably superior DNA with that of a woman who has made her name starring in movies I absolutely hate. If for some reason I did in spite of my disdain for romantic comedies, you bet your ass I'd be publishing that shit in Science AND Nature and NOT on MySpace.
On the bright side, though, at least FalloniusMonk is no longer under the impression that I spend all day curing cancer, and her assessment of how J-Sexy and I ACTUALLY spend our days is fairly accurate. We definitely spend a lot of time discussing reggaeton and dick while we're cloning mutant viruses and/or viral genes, analyzing FACS data, killing mice, transfecting cells, and otherwise slaving away for 10 hours a day. That's a hell of a lot more interesting than talking about science!
Labels: celebrities, FalloniusMonk, grad school bullshit, J-Sexy, Motherbucker, MySpace, science
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Jake Taylor has really let himself go
Last night, I arrived home to see several gigantic trailers and production trucks pulling up to the sidewalk outside my house. I got all excited, thinking they might be filming more episodes of "Law and Order:SVU" there and I could get a glimpse of Tracy "Ice-T" Marrow, his buxom ho-bag of a wife CoCo, or the hotness that is Mariska Hargitay running around my hood. However, I couldn't discern from the "No Parking By Order of the Mayor's Office of Film and TV Production" signs what they were filming, so I basically forgot about it.
This morning, I was reminded when I ventured out to the park with the dogs, but I still couldn't figure out what was going to be filmed, and the production assistants were all running around, wearing headsets, and looking very busy with VERY important stuff like plugging in big cables and unloading equipment, so I didn't ask them. It's a good thing I didn't, because they turned out to be assholes.
Tonight, I arrived home to see lots of activity around the trailers, and one PA was eyeing me beadily as I approached. She looked as though she were ready to tackle me if I made so much as a step toward the trailer directly in front of my building's door. I must have looked sketchy, on account of having a horrible headache. I spent the afternoon doing organic chemistry (which I suck at; in college I got a C in it, and the only thing I was ever good at was distilling alcohol...go figure), and even worse, I was using ether. I don't know why Hunter S. Thompson was into huffing that shit, because the only thing it did for me was provide me with a splitting headache. Then again, I did have it in the fume hood, so maybe I didn't experience the full effects, but have a general policy of not getting high off organic solvents, especially those that are notorious for volatility and explosions. Anyway, I must have looked angry or sketchy or stalkerish, so she eyed me warily until I was safely inside my building. I figured there must be some big celebrity in that trailer to warrant such a vigilant PA guarding it.
I came back out with the dogs five minutes later, only to see that the big Hollywood movie star had emerged and was standing in front of my building. It was not Brad Pitt, or Halle Berry, or Jack Nicholson, or even Justin Timberlake. At first I thought the star, surrounded by an entourage, was James Gandolfini wearing a curly wig, based on his hulking girth and man-boobs (visible even beneath a black shirt AND jacket), but as he turned to face the camera, I realized that it was a much, much fatter version of this guy:
Yes! Tom Berenger, the actor who immortalized Cleveland Indians catcher Jake Taylor in one of the greatest movies ever made, Major League. In case you haven't seen this film, it's a silly but sublime movie with an awesomely 80s cast (also including Charlie Sheen as volatile ex-con pitcher Rick "Wild Thing" Vaughn, Corbin Bernsen--who thanks to "L.A. Law" was unbelievably a stud of the era--as wealthy, womanizing shortstop Roger Dorn, Wesley Snipes as wisecracking, base-stealing outfielder Willie Mays Hayes, Bob Uecker as the drunken commentator, and Rene Russo as Jake Taylor's librarian ex-girlfriend.) There's also a cast of awesome supporting characters, including the super cunty team owner's trophy widow, the curmudgeonly old coach, an aging born-again pitcher (who sucks), the Tribe's dedicated fans in all their Indian gear, and the Dominican-Haitian-Mexican designated hitter Pedro Cerrano, who speaks Spanish, practices voodoo, and at one point tells the born-again "chingate, cabron." (Obviously the writers suffered from the surprisingly common confusion that drives J-Sexy crazy, that all the nations of the Caribbean are on one big island and share one big blurred culture.) Major League was a favorite in the Razzy household growing up, so I recognized Jake Taylor's ass IMMEDIATELY, in spite of the fact that he's blown up like Lil' Kim.
His entourage started hurrying him across the street to the Harlem School for the Arts, where they were shooting the movie Order of Redemption, in which Tom Berenger plays a former stud of a criminal defense attorney who becomes a hard-core drug addict. Busta Rhymes is also in this, but I didn't see him. He's probably hanging out with a real-life criminal defense attorney since the people of the City of New York are taking his non-snitching ass to trial on assault charges in May. Caesar wasn't paying attention to any of this. He was more interested in pissing on his usual fire hydrant.
The beady-eyed PA guarding the trailer hurried over and gave me a very admonishing look. "Excuse me," she said. "He needs to do that somewhere else." I looked at her incredulously. Apart from providing water for firefighters and acting as impromptu sprinklers for kids on particularly sweltering summer days, the one other thing fire hydrants are famous for is DOGS PISSING ON THEM. Furthermore, who does this bitch think she is that she can issue such imperative commands to me in front of my own fucking apartment building? At least say "please" and phrase that request in the form of a question, you self-important slut!
"He's a dog. It's a fire hydrant," I said coldly to her. "And it's a public street." She gave me a very offended look. Apparently Tom Berenger is such a big fucking star that he warrants peons stationed outside to prevent dogs from pissing in his trailer's vicinity. I was irritated. As far as I could tell, Mayor Bloomberg gave them the right to park their giant trucks and trailers on the street, not dictate where my dog can or can't urinate, and I resented this dumb snatch telling me otherwise. I thought the best solution was to rattle her by showing how very little I cared for her mandate to fetch coffee and shoo dogs away from Tom Berenger's trailer by addressing the celebrity directly.
"Hey Jake! Where's Willie Mays Hayes?!" I shouted. I know exactly where Willie Mays Hayes is (in federal court answering to charges of tax evasion to the tune of $12 million dollars and probably gearing up to star in Blade 4), but it was the only pithy thing I could think to shout to a man who once called his shot like the Babe and then shocked the (evil) Yankees by bunting, thus securing a pennant for the Tribe.
If Tom Berenger heard me, he didn't respond. He probably didn't, because he was fully across St. Nicholas Ave. at that point, and it was clogged with traffic. In any event, he didn't respond, but the look of horror on the PA's face was priceless. She failed at preventing the local riff-raff from bugging the big MOVIE STAR, and was probably worried about her bullshit job. I felt totally vindicated. Welcome to Sugar Hill, bitch.
On a separate but related topic, if you look up Major League on IMDB.com, the listed plot keywords "include "Voodoo", "Wife's Sexual Pretence", "Vulgarity", "Rum", "Bad Haircut", "Mullet Haircut", "Obscene Finger Gesture", "Sombrero", "Watermelon", and "Urination Scene." What, no "Joe Boo" or "Corbin Bernsen taking one in the nuts?" I wouldn't have noticed this, but you have no idea how difficult it is to find pictures of Tom Berenger on the internets in anything except Platoon. I've literally spent two hours RESEARCHING this blog entry and snagging Major League screen captures off YouTube. Uff da.
This morning, I was reminded when I ventured out to the park with the dogs, but I still couldn't figure out what was going to be filmed, and the production assistants were all running around, wearing headsets, and looking very busy with VERY important stuff like plugging in big cables and unloading equipment, so I didn't ask them. It's a good thing I didn't, because they turned out to be assholes.
Tonight, I arrived home to see lots of activity around the trailers, and one PA was eyeing me beadily as I approached. She looked as though she were ready to tackle me if I made so much as a step toward the trailer directly in front of my building's door. I must have looked sketchy, on account of having a horrible headache. I spent the afternoon doing organic chemistry (which I suck at; in college I got a C in it, and the only thing I was ever good at was distilling alcohol...go figure), and even worse, I was using ether. I don't know why Hunter S. Thompson was into huffing that shit, because the only thing it did for me was provide me with a splitting headache. Then again, I did have it in the fume hood, so maybe I didn't experience the full effects, but have a general policy of not getting high off organic solvents, especially those that are notorious for volatility and explosions. Anyway, I must have looked angry or sketchy or stalkerish, so she eyed me warily until I was safely inside my building. I figured there must be some big celebrity in that trailer to warrant such a vigilant PA guarding it.
I came back out with the dogs five minutes later, only to see that the big Hollywood movie star had emerged and was standing in front of my building. It was not Brad Pitt, or Halle Berry, or Jack Nicholson, or even Justin Timberlake. At first I thought the star, surrounded by an entourage, was James Gandolfini wearing a curly wig, based on his hulking girth and man-boobs (visible even beneath a black shirt AND jacket), but as he turned to face the camera, I realized that it was a much, much fatter version of this guy:
His entourage started hurrying him across the street to the Harlem School for the Arts, where they were shooting the movie Order of Redemption, in which Tom Berenger plays a former stud of a criminal defense attorney who becomes a hard-core drug addict. Busta Rhymes is also in this, but I didn't see him. He's probably hanging out with a real-life criminal defense attorney since the people of the City of New York are taking his non-snitching ass to trial on assault charges in May. Caesar wasn't paying attention to any of this. He was more interested in pissing on his usual fire hydrant.
The beady-eyed PA guarding the trailer hurried over and gave me a very admonishing look. "Excuse me," she said. "He needs to do that somewhere else." I looked at her incredulously. Apart from providing water for firefighters and acting as impromptu sprinklers for kids on particularly sweltering summer days, the one other thing fire hydrants are famous for is DOGS PISSING ON THEM. Furthermore, who does this bitch think she is that she can issue such imperative commands to me in front of my own fucking apartment building? At least say "please" and phrase that request in the form of a question, you self-important slut!
"He's a dog. It's a fire hydrant," I said coldly to her. "And it's a public street." She gave me a very offended look. Apparently Tom Berenger is such a big fucking star that he warrants peons stationed outside to prevent dogs from pissing in his trailer's vicinity. I was irritated. As far as I could tell, Mayor Bloomberg gave them the right to park their giant trucks and trailers on the street, not dictate where my dog can or can't urinate, and I resented this dumb snatch telling me otherwise. I thought the best solution was to rattle her by showing how very little I cared for her mandate to fetch coffee and shoo dogs away from Tom Berenger's trailer by addressing the celebrity directly.
"Hey Jake! Where's Willie Mays Hayes?!" I shouted. I know exactly where Willie Mays Hayes is (in federal court answering to charges of tax evasion to the tune of $12 million dollars and probably gearing up to star in Blade 4), but it was the only pithy thing I could think to shout to a man who once called his shot like the Babe and then shocked the (evil) Yankees by bunting, thus securing a pennant for the Tribe.
If Tom Berenger heard me, he didn't respond. He probably didn't, because he was fully across St. Nicholas Ave. at that point, and it was clogged with traffic. In any event, he didn't respond, but the look of horror on the PA's face was priceless. She failed at preventing the local riff-raff from bugging the big MOVIE STAR, and was probably worried about her bullshit job. I felt totally vindicated. Welcome to Sugar Hill, bitch.
On a separate but related topic, if you look up Major League on IMDB.com, the listed plot keywords "include "Voodoo", "Wife's Sexual Pretence", "Vulgarity", "Rum", "Bad Haircut", "Mullet Haircut", "Obscene Finger Gesture", "Sombrero", "Watermelon", and "Urination Scene." What, no "Joe Boo" or "Corbin Bernsen taking one in the nuts?" I wouldn't have noticed this, but you have no idea how difficult it is to find pictures of Tom Berenger on the internets in anything except Platoon. I've literally spent two hours RESEARCHING this blog entry and snagging Major League screen captures off YouTube. Uff da.
Labels: assholes, Caese Doggy Dogg, celebrities, doggity style, fat fucks, Harlem world, intentional buffoonery, movies, NYC, scathing indictments, vengeance is sweet
My long-lost twin
Last week, LL Cool Jew e-mailed me informing me that she'd discovered a duplicate Razzy while watching Fox Sports Network at a bar in the Dirrty:
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: if you were a boxer
...you'd be holly holm.
http://www.hollyholm.com/
i was at a bar in gulfport last night (skeeter's, formerly known as
jim bob's; it says skeeter's on the building and jim bob's on the
dilapidated sign outside) and lazily looking at best damn sports show
and this girl came out and i was like, razzy?
she's seriously your buff doppelganger. look at her kicking the shit
out of the other bitches with her hair tied back – she looks just like
you!! it's crazy
I spoke with LL Cool Jew last night and she reiterated the comparison. "That glamour shot on her website is obviously Photoshopped to shit," she said. "But you should have seen her being interviewed! She even had your same mannerisms!"
"What, she was loud, drunk, and swore a lot?" I asked.
"Well, I don't think she was drunk. Anyway, I have to go, I'm pulling up to Skeeter's-formerly-known-as-Jim Bob's now."
I wished her happy drinking and then went through some of my old photo files. I see her point.
However, although I do bicep curls with little handweights and push ups, my guns are nothing like Holly's. That ho could seriously fuck me up. I suppose there are worse things to be compared to. I'd way rather resemble some ball-busting lady pugilist with a bloodstained sportsbra (and by the way, how hot is that?!) than other certain famous figure skaters, serial killers, and neo-conservative pundits to whom my looks have been compared:
Holly Holm is like a goddess compared to those bitches, so LL Cool Jew just made my week!
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: if you were a boxer
...you'd be holly holm.
http://www.hollyholm.com/
i was at a bar in gulfport last night (skeeter's, formerly known as
jim bob's; it says skeeter's on the building and jim bob's on the
dilapidated sign outside) and lazily looking at best damn sports show
and this girl came out and i was like, razzy?
she's seriously your buff doppelganger. look at her kicking the shit
out of the other bitches with her hair tied back – she looks just like
you!! it's crazy
I spoke with LL Cool Jew last night and she reiterated the comparison. "That glamour shot on her website is obviously Photoshopped to shit," she said. "But you should have seen her being interviewed! She even had your same mannerisms!"
"What, she was loud, drunk, and swore a lot?" I asked.
"Well, I don't think she was drunk. Anyway, I have to go, I'm pulling up to Skeeter's-formerly-known-as-Jim Bob's now."
I wished her happy drinking and then went through some of my old photo files. I see her point.
However, although I do bicep curls with little handweights and push ups, my guns are nothing like Holly's. That ho could seriously fuck me up. I suppose there are worse things to be compared to. I'd way rather resemble some ball-busting lady pugilist with a bloodstained sportsbra (and by the way, how hot is that?!) than other certain famous figure skaters, serial killers, and neo-conservative pundits to whom my looks have been compared:
Holly Holm is like a goddess compared to those bitches, so LL Cool Jew just made my week!
Labels: correspondence, hot chicks, I LOVE IT, LL Cool Jew, Razzification
Monday, March 26, 2007
D gets wild and scenic
LL Cool Jew's long-haired Chihuahua, Dulcinea, is cute as shit, and when LL Cool Jew sent me these pictures, I had to share. Because LL Cool Jew is a big time city girl, I imagine that it was BigBagel's idea to go canoeing on what LL Cool Jew states is "Mississippi's only congressionally recognized 'wild and scenic river.'" Presumably the river for which the state is named is neither wild nor scenic. I am not surprised that BigBagel enjoys this sort of thing since he spent two years in Togo doing the Peace Corps thing, a trip which was characterized by sightings of all sorts of horrific insects and arachnids, and which culminated in his "political enemy" murdering the pet cat which kept his hut scorpion-free. However, I am surprised that LL Cool Jew appears to be enjoying this so much, because usually she's less than content to shed her four-inch heels and venture into Deliverance territory. I mean, holy shit, is that bitch actually rowing a boat?!?! Living in the Dirrty Dirrty has really countried her up.
It's a good thing that BigBagel (and BTW, nice Jason Kidd jersey, dude...way to rep that Garden State proud) is holding onto the D so tightly, because this looks like the kind of place where at any moment a bird of prey could swoop down and carry all five pounds of the terrified little D back to its nest, eat her, and regurgitate her to its young.
Fortunately that did not happen, although Dulcinea came dangerously close to succumbing to heat stroke in the sultry Southern spring heat. She probably wasn't making quite as much "I'm dying from the heat" panting noises as Chingy! would in this situation, but I imagine she was displeased that LL Cool Jew's carp cum-catcher tattoo-adorned back wasn't providing ample shade.
To cool off, D decided to go frolic in the 'Sippi bush, in which she attempted to hide from the predators that undoubtedly prowl this "wild and scenic" area. Don't gators or something live in places like that? I guess pretending to look like a miniature hyena afforded a certain amount of protection.
Gators or not, I bet this was way easier for Dulcinea than the terrifying trial she is about to face: walking down the aisle at LL Cool Jew and BigBagel's wedding with the rings tied to her ringbearer costume surrounded by all those TALL AND SCARY PEOPLE. Certain members of the bridal party are already taking bets on how far she'll get before she pisses all over the same place Sarah Jessica Parker got married in terror. Anyone else want to get in on the action? I'm betting two feet.
It's a good thing that BigBagel (and BTW, nice Jason Kidd jersey, dude...way to rep that Garden State proud) is holding onto the D so tightly, because this looks like the kind of place where at any moment a bird of prey could swoop down and carry all five pounds of the terrified little D back to its nest, eat her, and regurgitate her to its young.
Fortunately that did not happen, although Dulcinea came dangerously close to succumbing to heat stroke in the sultry Southern spring heat. She probably wasn't making quite as much "I'm dying from the heat" panting noises as Chingy! would in this situation, but I imagine she was displeased that LL Cool Jew's carp cum-catcher tattoo-adorned back wasn't providing ample shade.
Gators or not, I bet this was way easier for Dulcinea than the terrifying trial she is about to face: walking down the aisle at LL Cool Jew and BigBagel's wedding with the rings tied to her ringbearer costume surrounded by all those TALL AND SCARY PEOPLE. Certain members of the bridal party are already taking bets on how far she'll get before she pisses all over the same place Sarah Jessica Parker got married in terror. Anyone else want to get in on the action? I'm betting two feet.
Labels: BigBagel, Dirrty Dirrty, doggity style, LL Cool Jew
Birthday kisses for Miss Corbutt
Today is my buddy Miss Corbutt's birthday, so I thought I'd send her some birthday wishes here in this public forum. She and I have been through a lot together. We have gotten up to all sorts of hijinks, including but not limited to:
-Streaking the Quad our sophomore year at Smith.
-Losing part of our apartment deposit after Miss Corbutt punched Chapstick Dick in the face and he bled all over our carpet. He deserved it...motherfucker stole my Def Leppard t-shirt, and although I got it back, I haven't forgiven his bitch ass.
-We have a secret sex tape. I can't say any more about that, but it's hot. And by "hot" I mean hilarious.
-I'm one of the few people Miss Corbutt hasn't painted as an amputee. My arms are behind my back!
-Getting crunk on Shih Wu Chih, a Chinese "health elixir" brewed by Satan himself.
-Chasing down her ex-boyfriend the overpierced, unemployed flight attendant for the purpose of scaring him, as he attempted to flee from my terrifying Honda Civic down North G Street on a razor scooter. This guy's idea of a romantic gift on their one week anniversary was a $5 set of Ginzu knives and a frozen Stouffer's chicken pot pie. He deserved to have some sense scared into him.
-Stealing tweeds out of that guy's car when we were moving from D to K Street.
-Becoming avid practitioners of Bikram's yoga, until it got too expensive.
-Getting ripped off on crappy canvas stretchers that some dude I was fucking made for her. It turns out he was better at fucking me than he was at building shit for her.
-Raising the handsomest, sweetest, most adorable Caesar dog the world has ever known.
-Trying to get Miss Corbutt's male model boyfriend in T-town to quit swinging by the house unannounced, knocking incessantly, trying to break in, and generally stalking her.
-Slinging cocktails and that stank artichoke crab dip at fucking Jazzbones.
-After a particularly long shift at the above Jazzbones, we somehow found our way onto Five Mile Drive at Point Defiance Park, where I proceeded to terrorize all the normal, sober people walking their dogs at 9 a.m. on a Sunday.
-After getting vomitously drunk on "Stumblefucks" (shots of Jaegermeister and Rumple Minze) courtesy of Adobo Taco Lounge bartender Kaiser (who later made out with G-Boner even though he was so old all his hair was gray), I puked myself into sobriety and still rallied to get dressed and rescue Miss Corbutt from the Old97s show at the Showbox.
-Making tuna casserole and traipsing around Harlem with the d-o-double g's.
-Confusing the lyrics to "Pour Some Sugar on Me" with "Awesome Sugar Omelette."
-Singing "Crazy Train" at Bob's Java Jive on karaoke night.
-My ex-boyfriend writing HER a four-page letter explaining what went wrong in his and my relationship, because he thought for some reason she cared.
-Wandering around lower Manhattan and buying skirts on the street with KatieScarlett.
-Going to a Mariners game, at which Miss Corbutt wanted to spend most of the game watching the trains go by outside Safeco Field.
-Walking down to Johnny's Dock for chowder in spring when the cherry trees were in bloom.
-Me dancing topless on "the bar" at the Furnace, where there was some sort of supercross BMX rider party or something.
-Being guilt tripped via answering machine by our non-friend "friend" before she was deployed to Afghanistan, after she dragged us around with a group of dumb military guys, threatened to bring over her kid, puked all over our apartment, and had sex with some random dude on our couch. Miss Corbutt and I never returned another one of her calls.
-TOO MANY MORE TO COUNT!
She and I have known each other for a solid decade now, and we've had lots of fun. She's a swell gal, and I'm lucky to be her friend. Since it's her special day, I think the best present I can give is this picture of what is either an extremely sloppy (and most definitely drunken) shared kiss or an attempt by me to eat off her chin. I can't tell. Presumably it was the former.
Happy birthday, babe! I love you so.
XO and Skoal,
Miss Assmussen
P.S. And so does Caesar:
P.P.S. And so does Tacoma and the P-N-Dub!
-Streaking the Quad our sophomore year at Smith.
-Losing part of our apartment deposit after Miss Corbutt punched Chapstick Dick in the face and he bled all over our carpet. He deserved it...motherfucker stole my Def Leppard t-shirt, and although I got it back, I haven't forgiven his bitch ass.
-We have a secret sex tape. I can't say any more about that, but it's hot. And by "hot" I mean hilarious.
-I'm one of the few people Miss Corbutt hasn't painted as an amputee. My arms are behind my back!
-Getting crunk on Shih Wu Chih, a Chinese "health elixir" brewed by Satan himself.
-Chasing down her ex-boyfriend the overpierced, unemployed flight attendant for the purpose of scaring him, as he attempted to flee from my terrifying Honda Civic down North G Street on a razor scooter. This guy's idea of a romantic gift on their one week anniversary was a $5 set of Ginzu knives and a frozen Stouffer's chicken pot pie. He deserved to have some sense scared into him.
-Stealing tweeds out of that guy's car when we were moving from D to K Street.
-Becoming avid practitioners of Bikram's yoga, until it got too expensive.
-Getting ripped off on crappy canvas stretchers that some dude I was fucking made for her. It turns out he was better at fucking me than he was at building shit for her.
-Raising the handsomest, sweetest, most adorable Caesar dog the world has ever known.
-Trying to get Miss Corbutt's male model boyfriend in T-town to quit swinging by the house unannounced, knocking incessantly, trying to break in, and generally stalking her.
-Slinging cocktails and that stank artichoke crab dip at fucking Jazzbones.
-After a particularly long shift at the above Jazzbones, we somehow found our way onto Five Mile Drive at Point Defiance Park, where I proceeded to terrorize all the normal, sober people walking their dogs at 9 a.m. on a Sunday.
-After getting vomitously drunk on "Stumblefucks" (shots of Jaegermeister and Rumple Minze) courtesy of Adobo Taco Lounge bartender Kaiser (who later made out with G-Boner even though he was so old all his hair was gray), I puked myself into sobriety and still rallied to get dressed and rescue Miss Corbutt from the Old97s show at the Showbox.
-Making tuna casserole and traipsing around Harlem with the d-o-double g's.
-Confusing the lyrics to "Pour Some Sugar on Me" with "Awesome Sugar Omelette."
-Singing "Crazy Train" at Bob's Java Jive on karaoke night.
-My ex-boyfriend writing HER a four-page letter explaining what went wrong in his and my relationship, because he thought for some reason she cared.
-Wandering around lower Manhattan and buying skirts on the street with KatieScarlett.
-Going to a Mariners game, at which Miss Corbutt wanted to spend most of the game watching the trains go by outside Safeco Field.
-Walking down to Johnny's Dock for chowder in spring when the cherry trees were in bloom.
-Me dancing topless on "the bar" at the Furnace, where there was some sort of supercross BMX rider party or something.
-Being guilt tripped via answering machine by our non-friend "friend" before she was deployed to Afghanistan, after she dragged us around with a group of dumb military guys, threatened to bring over her kid, puked all over our apartment, and had sex with some random dude on our couch. Miss Corbutt and I never returned another one of her calls.
-TOO MANY MORE TO COUNT!
She and I have known each other for a solid decade now, and we've had lots of fun. She's a swell gal, and I'm lucky to be her friend. Since it's her special day, I think the best present I can give is this picture of what is either an extremely sloppy (and most definitely drunken) shared kiss or an attempt by me to eat off her chin. I can't tell. Presumably it was the former.
Happy birthday, babe! I love you so.
XO and Skoal,
Miss Assmussen
P.S. And so does Caesar:
P.P.S. And so does Tacoma and the P-N-Dub!
Labels: Miss Corbutt
Sunday, March 25, 2007
In my dreams
I wasn't going to get into this, because it seems that every time I discuss my attempts at quitting smoking on this blog, I immediately start smoking again. However, as of now, I've gone since February 21 without so much as taking a drag, and since this quitting effort also represents my Lenten sacrifice, hopefully having my soul on the line will discourage me from falling off the wagon.
People often give me a lot of grief when I quit smoking, and this makes quitting more challenging. "Yeah, right," some will say, because I've tried quitting so many times before and failed. Others will joke about taking bets as to how long it will be before I'm back on the cancer sticks. Still others will get annoyed with me, because they no longer have me as a smoking buddy, and smokers LOVE company. It helps reinforce denial and, in the current climate that demonizes smokers to a certain degree, it makes people feel better about themselves in spite of their smoking. At least, this is how I feel when I'm smoking and one of my butt buddies quits, and the behavior of a few of my friends when I quit validates this. One time I quit smoking and one friend was shocked when I told her she couldn't smoke in my car anymore. "Are you fucking serious?" she asked. I relented because she made such a fuss, and I was smoking again by the end of the night. In 2005, when I fell off the wagon after 9 months of nicotine sobriety, another friend said, "Dude, I'm so glad you're back on the dark side." My judgment gets questioned when I quit, and I get praised when I relapse...how fucked up is that? Nobody cheers when recovering heroin addicts start shooting up again after rehab. I don't appreciate this sort of attitude, because it trivializes what has been a very miserable struggle for me over the past five years (when I really started thinking seriously about going smoke-free) and makes quitting even more difficult for me than it already is.
I smoked my first cigarette at age eleven, and became a regular smoker at 13. I've been smoking cigarettes for over half my life. I am severely addicted, and it is well documented that nicotine is as addictive as heroin or cocaine. I have a lot of smoker friends who refute this. Some of them say things like, "I never smoke at work," or "I only smoke when I'm drinking." Maybe so, but that doesn't mean you're not just as much of a fucking addict as me. Try to NOT smoke when you're drinking sometime. Some of these same friends have been saying that they're going to quit by a certain age or year or major event, and those milestones have come and gone and they're still smoking. In spite of my getting occasionally irritated with my smoker friends, I keep it mostly to myself, because I don't ever want to be the type of nonsmoker that runs around preaching at people. They'll confront this demon when they're good and ready, and it's not my job to be a self-righteous asshole and lecture them all about it. For one thing, it's not like they've never heard that smoking damages your health. For another, you can only quit when you really, REALLY want to, so saying patronizing shit like "don't you know that's bad for you?" or passive-aggressively coughing and/or dramatically fanning smoke away is pointless and fucking rude. I used to smoke like an industrial revolution-era textile mill, so acting all of a sudden like smoking is the most horrible thing a person can do is hypocritical and worthy of scorn. I'm not going to be that party-killing asshole. Unfortunately, though, the close link to smoking and socializing in my group of friends makes hanging out with them particularly challenging sometimes.
I went to see 300 with FalloniusMonk and Rack last week, and after the movie, they both promptly lit right up. As I stated before, I have no interest in lecturing them; FalloniusMonk in particular will have none of that, as she's one of the most defiantly proud smokers I've ever met and often states that it's all good because I'm going to cure cancer (for the record, dude, I've been out of the cancer biz for four years now...so unless they make a cigarette that gives you colds or polio, I can't help with that). She won't for one second tolerate any of that condescending, bossy, you-should-quit bullshit and I wouldn't dare run any of that by her even if I felt inclined to do so. However, it's still fucking hard to stand there and watch them take drag after drag, when I want to take just one SO FUCKING BAD. I tried to hang with them, telling myself that I'll have to get desensitized to seeing other people smoke, but I just couldn't take it. I said, "Okay-dudes-see-ya-later-I-gotta-catch-the-train-bye," and scurried off before I could freak out. I know they understand that it's just what I have to do.
However, while being around my smoking friends can be a challenge for me, NOTHING has been as difficult as sleeping. Yes, that's right...sleeping. It's not that I'm having trouble sleeping so much as I'm having trouble with my dreams. In order to not smoke and function as an only marginally psychopathic crazy bitch while I quit as opposed to a totally emotionally unstable maniac, I am on the patch. The patch is a pain in the ass, because it itches like crazy and falls off in the presence of the Palmer's Cocoa Butter Formula I have to slather on myself by the gallon to mitigate the itching, and because a side-effect is crazy, vivid dreams. In the past I've experienced a variety of disturbing nicotine-induced dreams in which I had dirty but romantic Thorn Birds-style sex with Archbishop of New York Edward Cardinal Egan, got a job teaching biology at Smith (about as close to hell as I can imagine), was accosted by Chris Hansen for internet perversion, married my high school boyfriend (sorry, THAT'S actually about as close to hell as I can imagine), was violently attacked by my lab mice, and ate my brother's dog. However, the most recurrent disturbing dreams I have are of me smoking. Last night I dreamt I was at my parent's house and their fridge was full of half-opened Parliament Light packs. I kept asking my mom to throw them away because they were so tempting, and she said she was keeping them fresh for someone else who might want them since I didn't need them anymore. I was begging her to throw them away and she was telling me not to be so wasteful. Then I smoked one, my mother started yelling at me that I was weak and pathetic, and I woke up.
This is about the twentieth dream I've had since quitting about smoking, and these dreams are so vivid, that I wake up wracked with guilt for relapsing once again. It's not that these dreams are otherwise believable; the notions that my mother's frugality would extend to stocking the fridge with P-Funks or that she would ever under any circumstances scream at me that I'm weak and pathetic are ridiculous, but the smoking part feels SO REAL. I really believe that I smoked upon awakening. Eventually I become more fully alert and realize that I only cheated in my dreams, and I'm still right with Jesus as far as my Lenten vow is concerned, but this is driving me crazy. I can learn to deal with being around smokers, because it's something I'm going to have to learn to cope with if I'm going to stay smoke-free and keep 90% of my friends (and I love them dearly whether they smoke or not, so that's not even an option), but being tormented with relapse every night is getting to be a bit much. I'd frankly rather live on Elm Street and have Freddy chasing me around every night in my subconscious than be confronted with pack after shiteous pack of Parliaments. Christ, does this ever get any easier???
People often give me a lot of grief when I quit smoking, and this makes quitting more challenging. "Yeah, right," some will say, because I've tried quitting so many times before and failed. Others will joke about taking bets as to how long it will be before I'm back on the cancer sticks. Still others will get annoyed with me, because they no longer have me as a smoking buddy, and smokers LOVE company. It helps reinforce denial and, in the current climate that demonizes smokers to a certain degree, it makes people feel better about themselves in spite of their smoking. At least, this is how I feel when I'm smoking and one of my butt buddies quits, and the behavior of a few of my friends when I quit validates this. One time I quit smoking and one friend was shocked when I told her she couldn't smoke in my car anymore. "Are you fucking serious?" she asked. I relented because she made such a fuss, and I was smoking again by the end of the night. In 2005, when I fell off the wagon after 9 months of nicotine sobriety, another friend said, "Dude, I'm so glad you're back on the dark side." My judgment gets questioned when I quit, and I get praised when I relapse...how fucked up is that? Nobody cheers when recovering heroin addicts start shooting up again after rehab. I don't appreciate this sort of attitude, because it trivializes what has been a very miserable struggle for me over the past five years (when I really started thinking seriously about going smoke-free) and makes quitting even more difficult for me than it already is.
I smoked my first cigarette at age eleven, and became a regular smoker at 13. I've been smoking cigarettes for over half my life. I am severely addicted, and it is well documented that nicotine is as addictive as heroin or cocaine. I have a lot of smoker friends who refute this. Some of them say things like, "I never smoke at work," or "I only smoke when I'm drinking." Maybe so, but that doesn't mean you're not just as much of a fucking addict as me. Try to NOT smoke when you're drinking sometime. Some of these same friends have been saying that they're going to quit by a certain age or year or major event, and those milestones have come and gone and they're still smoking. In spite of my getting occasionally irritated with my smoker friends, I keep it mostly to myself, because I don't ever want to be the type of nonsmoker that runs around preaching at people. They'll confront this demon when they're good and ready, and it's not my job to be a self-righteous asshole and lecture them all about it. For one thing, it's not like they've never heard that smoking damages your health. For another, you can only quit when you really, REALLY want to, so saying patronizing shit like "don't you know that's bad for you?" or passive-aggressively coughing and/or dramatically fanning smoke away is pointless and fucking rude. I used to smoke like an industrial revolution-era textile mill, so acting all of a sudden like smoking is the most horrible thing a person can do is hypocritical and worthy of scorn. I'm not going to be that party-killing asshole. Unfortunately, though, the close link to smoking and socializing in my group of friends makes hanging out with them particularly challenging sometimes.
I went to see 300 with FalloniusMonk and Rack last week, and after the movie, they both promptly lit right up. As I stated before, I have no interest in lecturing them; FalloniusMonk in particular will have none of that, as she's one of the most defiantly proud smokers I've ever met and often states that it's all good because I'm going to cure cancer (for the record, dude, I've been out of the cancer biz for four years now...so unless they make a cigarette that gives you colds or polio, I can't help with that). She won't for one second tolerate any of that condescending, bossy, you-should-quit bullshit and I wouldn't dare run any of that by her even if I felt inclined to do so. However, it's still fucking hard to stand there and watch them take drag after drag, when I want to take just one SO FUCKING BAD. I tried to hang with them, telling myself that I'll have to get desensitized to seeing other people smoke, but I just couldn't take it. I said, "Okay-dudes-see-ya-later-I-gotta-catch-the-train-bye," and scurried off before I could freak out. I know they understand that it's just what I have to do.
However, while being around my smoking friends can be a challenge for me, NOTHING has been as difficult as sleeping. Yes, that's right...sleeping. It's not that I'm having trouble sleeping so much as I'm having trouble with my dreams. In order to not smoke and function as an only marginally psychopathic crazy bitch while I quit as opposed to a totally emotionally unstable maniac, I am on the patch. The patch is a pain in the ass, because it itches like crazy and falls off in the presence of the Palmer's Cocoa Butter Formula I have to slather on myself by the gallon to mitigate the itching, and because a side-effect is crazy, vivid dreams. In the past I've experienced a variety of disturbing nicotine-induced dreams in which I had dirty but romantic Thorn Birds-style sex with Archbishop of New York Edward Cardinal Egan, got a job teaching biology at Smith (about as close to hell as I can imagine), was accosted by Chris Hansen for internet perversion, married my high school boyfriend (sorry, THAT'S actually about as close to hell as I can imagine), was violently attacked by my lab mice, and ate my brother's dog. However, the most recurrent disturbing dreams I have are of me smoking. Last night I dreamt I was at my parent's house and their fridge was full of half-opened Parliament Light packs. I kept asking my mom to throw them away because they were so tempting, and she said she was keeping them fresh for someone else who might want them since I didn't need them anymore. I was begging her to throw them away and she was telling me not to be so wasteful. Then I smoked one, my mother started yelling at me that I was weak and pathetic, and I woke up.
This is about the twentieth dream I've had since quitting about smoking, and these dreams are so vivid, that I wake up wracked with guilt for relapsing once again. It's not that these dreams are otherwise believable; the notions that my mother's frugality would extend to stocking the fridge with P-Funks or that she would ever under any circumstances scream at me that I'm weak and pathetic are ridiculous, but the smoking part feels SO REAL. I really believe that I smoked upon awakening. Eventually I become more fully alert and realize that I only cheated in my dreams, and I'm still right with Jesus as far as my Lenten vow is concerned, but this is driving me crazy. I can learn to deal with being around smokers, because it's something I'm going to have to learn to cope with if I'm going to stay smoke-free and keep 90% of my friends (and I love them dearly whether they smoke or not, so that's not even an option), but being tormented with relapse every night is getting to be a bit much. I'd frankly rather live on Elm Street and have Freddy chasing me around every night in my subconscious than be confronted with pack after shiteous pack of Parliaments. Christ, does this ever get any easier???
Labels: defiance, FalloniusMonk, Razzification, smoking
I like it rough
I was watching a little television today when I saw a preview for a new season of one of my favorite shows. The preview got me very excited, as it just reminded me how FUCKING AWESOME this show is. You'd better believe that on April 3rd, I will be firmly parked in front of the idiot box with a cold Heineken and an appetite for seafaring danger:
HELL FUCKING YES!!! "Deadliest Catch" is back, for its "roughest season yet"! I don't doubt it, with that rousing commercial; it makes "Deadliest Catch" look like Lord of the Rings in terms of its epic intensity. In case you are unfamiliar with this show, it's about the ballsiest men in the world: the salty seamen who chug out halfway to Russia in the violent and unpredictable Bering Sea to participate in "the modern-day gold rush," the quest for Alaskan crab. This career has one of the highest on-the-job fatality rates of any job in the world, and dudes have to have stones of steel to do it. I LOVE it.
Not only are these guys brave as hell and tough as nails, many of them are Scandinavians from the P-N-Dub, and I always enjoy watching my people do us Norskies proud. For example, this steaming slice of Viking hotness:
That's Sig Hansen, captain of the F/V Northwestern, fourth-generation Norwegian fisherman based in Seattle, and all-around total pimp. Sig spends most of his time chain smoking Marlboro Reds, barking orders at his crew (mostly his brothers), eating heaping helpings of lutefisk, and plotting Machiavellian strategies to outcrab his competition, the Rollo, Time Bandit, Cornelia Marie, Maverick, and Aleutian Ballad. Usually this involves moving the other boats' buoys and/or attaching heavy shit to their pots. Sig also doesn't take any bullshit. One episode last season, a dude on his crew was dragging his feet to take over for Sig in the "wheelhouse" (the bridge), so Sig shut down the freshwater supply and made his ass get up there covered in soap. As the narrator notes, "Norwegian justice is swift." Norwegian fishing is also hardcore. Every time they have a successful haul, Sig's brother celebrates with a variety of nasty Viking traditions that usually involve eating a raw cod heart or drinking bilge water or something equally revolting. I am FOR SURE getting a pair of these before the season premiere:
Yes, they actually sell "I'm a Sig Girl" thong underwear in the "Hansenette" section of the Northwestern's web site, and I'm totally investing $10.99 in that, as well as a "There's a right way, a wrong way, and a Norwegian way" baby tee. Sig is totally getting a promotion to boyfriend as soon as I update the woefully neglected rest of my site.
Man, I cannot WAIT for April 3rd to commence the season that is "deadlier than ever before." I might just have to pull on my Sig Girl g-string and go hit up the Times Square Red Lobster to pre-funk.
HELL FUCKING YES!!! "Deadliest Catch" is back, for its "roughest season yet"! I don't doubt it, with that rousing commercial; it makes "Deadliest Catch" look like Lord of the Rings in terms of its epic intensity. In case you are unfamiliar with this show, it's about the ballsiest men in the world: the salty seamen who chug out halfway to Russia in the violent and unpredictable Bering Sea to participate in "the modern-day gold rush," the quest for Alaskan crab. This career has one of the highest on-the-job fatality rates of any job in the world, and dudes have to have stones of steel to do it. I LOVE it.
Not only are these guys brave as hell and tough as nails, many of them are Scandinavians from the P-N-Dub, and I always enjoy watching my people do us Norskies proud. For example, this steaming slice of Viking hotness:
That's Sig Hansen, captain of the F/V Northwestern, fourth-generation Norwegian fisherman based in Seattle, and all-around total pimp. Sig spends most of his time chain smoking Marlboro Reds, barking orders at his crew (mostly his brothers), eating heaping helpings of lutefisk, and plotting Machiavellian strategies to outcrab his competition, the Rollo, Time Bandit, Cornelia Marie, Maverick, and Aleutian Ballad. Usually this involves moving the other boats' buoys and/or attaching heavy shit to their pots. Sig also doesn't take any bullshit. One episode last season, a dude on his crew was dragging his feet to take over for Sig in the "wheelhouse" (the bridge), so Sig shut down the freshwater supply and made his ass get up there covered in soap. As the narrator notes, "Norwegian justice is swift." Norwegian fishing is also hardcore. Every time they have a successful haul, Sig's brother celebrates with a variety of nasty Viking traditions that usually involve eating a raw cod heart or drinking bilge water or something equally revolting. I am FOR SURE getting a pair of these before the season premiere:
Yes, they actually sell "I'm a Sig Girl" thong underwear in the "Hansenette" section of the Northwestern's web site, and I'm totally investing $10.99 in that, as well as a "There's a right way, a wrong way, and a Norwegian way" baby tee. Sig is totally getting a promotion to boyfriend as soon as I update the woefully neglected rest of my site.
Man, I cannot WAIT for April 3rd to commence the season that is "deadlier than ever before." I might just have to pull on my Sig Girl g-string and go hit up the Times Square Red Lobster to pre-funk.
Labels: hot dudes, I LOVE IT, P-N-Dub, TV
Friday, March 23, 2007
This just in: Mitt Romney is still a dumbass
I've previously noted that Assachusetts Governor Mitt Romney is a dumbass when it comes to shooting his mouth off. Granted, I often have to account for shit that flew out of my mouth before I really thought about the consequences, but I've never been so stupid as to make a "tar baby" reference. Furthermore, even without knowing about the specific political and historical contexts, I'd never think to shout any phrase that started with "Fatherland or Death!" That sounds too much like Commie dictator rhetoric to me.
In fact, it IS Commie dictator rhetoric, but that didn't stop Gov. Romney from using this phrase while appealing to a crowd of Cubano-Americanos in south Florida. First, he grossly mispronounced several prominent Cuban-American politicians' names, called one dude named Marco "Mario", and shouted "Libertad! Libertad! Libertad!" (which the audience interpreted as a Scarface reference and not a plea for the liberation of Cuba). Wow, nobody courts the Latino vote like Mitt Romney. Next he'll probably ask all the Cubans what part of Mexico they're from, and tell them they are a bunch of "hachi pes" because he heard that somewhere and liked the way it sounded. He obviously knows everything there is to know about these people from Al Pacino's fine work in Scarface, specifically that Cuban-Americans like nothing more than to be characterized like crazed, coke-addled, murderous, drug-dealing gangsters. Isn't that right, Bienvenido-a-Miami, HotLawyer, and Morrissey'sHair???
In what Gov. Romney thought would be the definitive proof that he's the president who really understands la comunidade de Cubanos en Miami, he concluded his speech by exclaiming "Patria o muerte--venceremos!" In case your Spanish is a little rusty, that means "Fatherland or death...we shall overcome," and it's been Fidel Castro's standard catchphrase for the past fifty years. Bart Simpson has "eat my shorts", James Bond has "Bond. James Bond," Jerry Springer has "take care of yourselves, and each other," the Looney Tunes characters have "that's all, folks!", Emeril has "Bam!", and Castro has "Patria o muerte--venceremos!" The whole "muerte" part of Castro's schtick is no joke, and you can ask the thousands of political dissidents who found themselves on the business end of a firing squad. Reminding all the Cubans in Miami, many of whom probably floated over here on a fucking raft to get away from that bullshit, of this is a really smart move, Romney.
Then again, Romney doesn't really have a clue when it comes to any people of color. His quoting Fidel and using the term "tar baby" in speeches reflects the fact that he probably doesn't even KNOW anyone who isn't a white Mormon. This is Mitt Romney and all his wives (just kidding, I think those are his kids and grandkids, but I'm going to falsely characterize him as a polygamist anyway because it amuses me):
See? The entire crew is as white as the driven snow. Not surprising, considering that institutionalized racism is central to the Church of Latter Day Saints. The book of Mormon goes on and on about how God cursed sinners with dark skin, forbade them from the priesthood, and prohibits them from marrying white people, and the elders of the Mormon church upheld this view for decades. Therefore, it's pretty easy to understand that Gov. Romney's not TRYING to be racist; he's just a hapless douche who has no clue how to relate to ANY minorities.
I'm just curious what he's going to do next. I can only imagine him telling some group of Asians that we wouldn't be anywhere without their exceptional mathematical abilities, or telling a group of professional women that he's sorry he couldn't marry them all when they were 15 and spare them the horror of a career, or telling a bunch of gay people that if they pray hard enough, they can "recover" and be straight. Mitt Romney should not be elected president. Not because he's a Mormon, or a conservative, or even a racist. He shouldn't be elected because he's a fucking idiot. We've already had one of those in office for the past seven years, and that's been seven years too many. America needs someone minimally intelligent enough not to shout "Say hello to my little friend!" in a butchered accent to an audience of Cubans and expect them to applaud him for his cultural sensitivity. Fucktard.
In fact, it IS Commie dictator rhetoric, but that didn't stop Gov. Romney from using this phrase while appealing to a crowd of Cubano-Americanos in south Florida. First, he grossly mispronounced several prominent Cuban-American politicians' names, called one dude named Marco "Mario", and shouted "Libertad! Libertad! Libertad!" (which the audience interpreted as a Scarface reference and not a plea for the liberation of Cuba). Wow, nobody courts the Latino vote like Mitt Romney. Next he'll probably ask all the Cubans what part of Mexico they're from, and tell them they are a bunch of "hachi pes" because he heard that somewhere and liked the way it sounded. He obviously knows everything there is to know about these people from Al Pacino's fine work in Scarface, specifically that Cuban-Americans like nothing more than to be characterized like crazed, coke-addled, murderous, drug-dealing gangsters. Isn't that right, Bienvenido-a-Miami, HotLawyer, and Morrissey'sHair???
In what Gov. Romney thought would be the definitive proof that he's the president who really understands la comunidade de Cubanos en Miami, he concluded his speech by exclaiming "Patria o muerte--venceremos!" In case your Spanish is a little rusty, that means "Fatherland or death...we shall overcome," and it's been Fidel Castro's standard catchphrase for the past fifty years. Bart Simpson has "eat my shorts", James Bond has "Bond. James Bond," Jerry Springer has "take care of yourselves, and each other," the Looney Tunes characters have "that's all, folks!", Emeril has "Bam!", and Castro has "Patria o muerte--venceremos!" The whole "muerte" part of Castro's schtick is no joke, and you can ask the thousands of political dissidents who found themselves on the business end of a firing squad. Reminding all the Cubans in Miami, many of whom probably floated over here on a fucking raft to get away from that bullshit, of this is a really smart move, Romney.
Then again, Romney doesn't really have a clue when it comes to any people of color. His quoting Fidel and using the term "tar baby" in speeches reflects the fact that he probably doesn't even KNOW anyone who isn't a white Mormon. This is Mitt Romney and all his wives (just kidding, I think those are his kids and grandkids, but I'm going to falsely characterize him as a polygamist anyway because it amuses me):
See? The entire crew is as white as the driven snow. Not surprising, considering that institutionalized racism is central to the Church of Latter Day Saints. The book of Mormon goes on and on about how God cursed sinners with dark skin, forbade them from the priesthood, and prohibits them from marrying white people, and the elders of the Mormon church upheld this view for decades. Therefore, it's pretty easy to understand that Gov. Romney's not TRYING to be racist; he's just a hapless douche who has no clue how to relate to ANY minorities.
I'm just curious what he's going to do next. I can only imagine him telling some group of Asians that we wouldn't be anywhere without their exceptional mathematical abilities, or telling a group of professional women that he's sorry he couldn't marry them all when they were 15 and spare them the horror of a career, or telling a bunch of gay people that if they pray hard enough, they can "recover" and be straight. Mitt Romney should not be elected president. Not because he's a Mormon, or a conservative, or even a racist. He shouldn't be elected because he's a fucking idiot. We've already had one of those in office for the past seven years, and that's been seven years too many. America needs someone minimally intelligent enough not to shout "Say hello to my little friend!" in a butchered accent to an audience of Cubans and expect them to applaud him for his cultural sensitivity. Fucktard.
Labels: Assachusetts, assholes, Mitt Romney, politics, retard rage, tyrannical rulers
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Why I hate animal rights activists
At the Berlin Zoo a while back, one of the polar bears gave birth to this cute little cub and promptly abandoned it for no good reason except that's what polar bears do. They're really vicious,and from what the Discovery Channel tells me, the cub was lucky not to have been eaten by his mother.
Anyway, a kindhearted zookeeper adopted the cub instead and is rearing it. The zoo has named him Knut and he's currently Germany's biggest star. I can see why...the little guy is ADORABLE.
I usually hate cute stuff, but there's no way I can find anything bad to say about Knut. So far, everyone I've showed Knut's picture to has agreed except J-Sexy, who scoffed, "Ugh, it looks like a dog. It probably smells disgosting." J-Sexy does not like pets. I know that Knut will grow up into a vicious killer three times my size (look at his huge paws!), but right now he's the sweetest little furball on the planet.
Leave it to the fucking animal rights people to shit all over Knut. I hate animal rights people, and it's not because I hate animals. Obviously I love dogs and consider Caesar and Chingy! to be my children, and I love other animals too. They are responsible for most of my favorite foods: steak, cheese, ice cream, eggs, pork chops, bacon, sausage, pepperoni, etc. Also, though they cause me limitless grief at work and infuriate me by infesting my apartment, mice will ultimately help me get my ass out of grad school. And I never get tired of looking at taxidermied beasts at the Museum of Natural History. I love taxidermied animals so much that I have one on my wall at home. Furthermore, I love other animal products, like leather and fur. I can't afford any fur, but you bet your ass once I'm fabulously wealthy I'll make like Lil' Kim and "rock colorful minks". Maybe I'll make like her and get hooked up with a custom Karl Lagerfeld chinchilla bikini. That would be so hot, not even a little bit because it would piss people off with its ridiculousness.
Anyway, animal rights activists are always preaching against the things I like most about animals: eating them, wearing them, and utilizing them in my graduate research. In college I took this bullshit class called "Social Ethics" that everyone took because you never had to attend and the professor allegedly considered it unethical to give grades lower than B so long as you wrote one paper at the end of term. I wrote my paper on how extreme environmental activists were unethical, and one of my prime examples was a group of animal rights terrorists who "liberated" all the minks and ermines at a fur farm. This resulted in the prompt devastation of the local ecosystem, because all the freed animals are basically weasels, and they ate all the voles, chipmunks, birds, and other unlucky fauna in their paths. Animal rights activists act as though they know everything about what's acceptable and what's not, and thus are above the law. They can throw paint on people, assault people, destroy people's possessions, burglarize and vandalize people's property, etc., and they feel entitled to do so. They will not let anyone stand in their way when it comes to being destructive fucktards often violently defending their radical revisionist notions about the food chain.
As a biologist, I think animal rights activists are totally fucking idiotic. From a strictly Darwinian standpoint, there is nothing more important in nature than preservation of one's own species, and the animal rights activists seem to be concerned about every animal EXCEPT Homo sapiens. However, in the case of Knut, at least one animal rights group has suddenly decided to take a selective interest in nature's way and insist that the Berlin Zoo treated little Knut inhumanely by not allowing him to die of exposure when his mother rejected him. Because that's what would have happened in the wild, it's what should happen at the zoo, as well.
Some self-righteous dickhead named Frank Albrecht said, "The zoo must kill the bear. Feeding by hand is not species-appropriate but a gross violation of animal protection laws." I don't know about the laws in Germany, but the last time I checked, it's considered cruelty to starve a perfectly healthy animal. Furthermore, concerns that it would be humiliating for Knut to be raised as a "pet" are ridiculous since I doubt they're going to fly Knut off to Greenland or Alaska or wherever polar bears live when he's grown up. He lives in a zoo, so who cares if he's going to act like a normal wild polar bear. His vet says that not only is it stupid to suggest that polar bears like company since in the wild, they are mostly solitary, but that Knut's future will help polar bears all over the world. Knut will be useful as a healthy stud for making more polar bears. Being that polar bears are an ENDANGERED SPECIES, allowing Knut to grow old and bust Knuts all over the German captive polar bear bitches would potentially help repopulation efforts. So what's more "inhumane"? Allowing a perfectly healthy, cuddly little puff of sweetness like Knut die of exposure because his mom's an indifferent whore, or providing him with world-class care and a healthy diet so that he can grow up to professionally impregnate all the lucky lady polar bears in Deutschland.
If there's any justice in the world, they'd just hand-feed Frank Albrecht and all the other assholes that have confused animal welfare with hating on cute baby animals to Knut. If Frank had his way, Knut would probably be trim on a Sean John hoodie right about now. Animal protection, my ass.
Anyway, a kindhearted zookeeper adopted the cub instead and is rearing it. The zoo has named him Knut and he's currently Germany's biggest star. I can see why...the little guy is ADORABLE.
I usually hate cute stuff, but there's no way I can find anything bad to say about Knut. So far, everyone I've showed Knut's picture to has agreed except J-Sexy, who scoffed, "Ugh, it looks like a dog. It probably smells disgosting." J-Sexy does not like pets. I know that Knut will grow up into a vicious killer three times my size (look at his huge paws!), but right now he's the sweetest little furball on the planet.
Leave it to the fucking animal rights people to shit all over Knut. I hate animal rights people, and it's not because I hate animals. Obviously I love dogs and consider Caesar and Chingy! to be my children, and I love other animals too. They are responsible for most of my favorite foods: steak, cheese, ice cream, eggs, pork chops, bacon, sausage, pepperoni, etc. Also, though they cause me limitless grief at work and infuriate me by infesting my apartment, mice will ultimately help me get my ass out of grad school. And I never get tired of looking at taxidermied beasts at the Museum of Natural History. I love taxidermied animals so much that I have one on my wall at home. Furthermore, I love other animal products, like leather and fur. I can't afford any fur, but you bet your ass once I'm fabulously wealthy I'll make like Lil' Kim and "rock colorful minks". Maybe I'll make like her and get hooked up with a custom Karl Lagerfeld chinchilla bikini. That would be so hot, not even a little bit because it would piss people off with its ridiculousness.
Anyway, animal rights activists are always preaching against the things I like most about animals: eating them, wearing them, and utilizing them in my graduate research. In college I took this bullshit class called "Social Ethics" that everyone took because you never had to attend and the professor allegedly considered it unethical to give grades lower than B so long as you wrote one paper at the end of term. I wrote my paper on how extreme environmental activists were unethical, and one of my prime examples was a group of animal rights terrorists who "liberated" all the minks and ermines at a fur farm. This resulted in the prompt devastation of the local ecosystem, because all the freed animals are basically weasels, and they ate all the voles, chipmunks, birds, and other unlucky fauna in their paths. Animal rights activists act as though they know everything about what's acceptable and what's not, and thus are above the law. They can throw paint on people, assault people, destroy people's possessions, burglarize and vandalize people's property, etc., and they feel entitled to do so. They will not let anyone stand in their way when it comes to being destructive fucktards often violently defending their radical revisionist notions about the food chain.
As a biologist, I think animal rights activists are totally fucking idiotic. From a strictly Darwinian standpoint, there is nothing more important in nature than preservation of one's own species, and the animal rights activists seem to be concerned about every animal EXCEPT Homo sapiens. However, in the case of Knut, at least one animal rights group has suddenly decided to take a selective interest in nature's way and insist that the Berlin Zoo treated little Knut inhumanely by not allowing him to die of exposure when his mother rejected him. Because that's what would have happened in the wild, it's what should happen at the zoo, as well.
Some self-righteous dickhead named Frank Albrecht said, "The zoo must kill the bear. Feeding by hand is not species-appropriate but a gross violation of animal protection laws." I don't know about the laws in Germany, but the last time I checked, it's considered cruelty to starve a perfectly healthy animal. Furthermore, concerns that it would be humiliating for Knut to be raised as a "pet" are ridiculous since I doubt they're going to fly Knut off to Greenland or Alaska or wherever polar bears live when he's grown up. He lives in a zoo, so who cares if he's going to act like a normal wild polar bear. His vet says that not only is it stupid to suggest that polar bears like company since in the wild, they are mostly solitary, but that Knut's future will help polar bears all over the world. Knut will be useful as a healthy stud for making more polar bears. Being that polar bears are an ENDANGERED SPECIES, allowing Knut to grow old and bust Knuts all over the German captive polar bear bitches would potentially help repopulation efforts. So what's more "inhumane"? Allowing a perfectly healthy, cuddly little puff of sweetness like Knut die of exposure because his mom's an indifferent whore, or providing him with world-class care and a healthy diet so that he can grow up to professionally impregnate all the lucky lady polar bears in Deutschland.
If there's any justice in the world, they'd just hand-feed Frank Albrecht and all the other assholes that have confused animal welfare with hating on cute baby animals to Knut. If Frank had his way, Knut would probably be trim on a Sean John hoodie right about now. Animal protection, my ass.
Labels: assholes, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
I hate you too, Jared
My high school best friend G-Boner used to watch this show called "My So-Called Life", which didn't last long on TV because it sucked and the lead was played by a butt-ugly man named Claire Danes. Supposedly this show was highly acclaimed, but I hated it because not only was Claire hideous to look at, but her character was called Angela. I hate the name Angela. Yes, I know that Angela is my real name, but I hate it when people call me that. Angela is reserved for uptight and/or old people. For example: Angela "Murder, She Wrote" Lansbury (and by the way, did Cabot Cove, Maine have the highest murder rate in America, or what?), the constantly bitching mother on "Who's the Boss?", and the current prime minister of Germany. Sometimes when people call me Angela I don't even realize they're talking to me at first. My mom doesn't even call me Angela when she's mad at me. I reserve Angela for the signing of important documents, but everyone else is immediately instructed to call me either Angie or Razzy upon meeting me. Angela blows. Anyway, Claire Danes was called Angela on that show, and her fug ass was always making out with this pretty boy, Jordan Catalano, played by Jared Leto. "My So-Called Life" released a pox upon this planet by giving Jared Leto his big break and turning him into the fingerless glove-wearing assclown he is today.
For some reason, Jared Leto's performance as a girlie boy who was attracted to Claire Danes's manly physique despite his unbelievable status as a campus baller led to numerous supporting roles in Hollywood, such as Colin Farrell's boy fuck-toy in Alexander and Lindsay Lohan's boyfriend for about two seconds. Now, he's decided he's a rock star, and up until this past weekend was letting everyone know by rocking edgy layers in his hair and wearing lots of black eyeliner and nail polish. Presumably he's hoping that everyone forgot what Robert Smith was doing circa 1993 and thus think that he's original. News flash, asshole: we all know about Hot Topic, and you didn't discover it. They opened one at the Tacoma Mall when I was 14, for God's sake. In the course of this, he's also decided to start shooting his mouth off in order to stir up controversy and hopefully get some attention for his shiteous band, 30 Seconds to Finished. Oh, wait, that's his bedroom technique. His band's called 30 Seconds to Mars. Pretty much everyone wishes he would go there, because his band SUCKS.
Anyway, although he's a fan of the hipster photoblogs (ie: NERVE.com) who gullibly fall for his schtick and laud his "talent", and likes to surf the net, and allegedly slept with MySpace whore Tila Tequila, he hates bloggers. This is because almost every sensible blogger in the world that's ever written about him characterizes him as an emasculated C-list douchebag poseur, which is exactly what he is. Stung by the far-reaching criticism, last year Jared lashed out, saying:
The most ridiculous statement he makes, however, concerns his comparison of blogging to parachute pants as though he is some sort of fashionista. First off, it's a shame that parachute pants went out of style, because they were cool. Second, obviously Jared is paying attention to what bloggers were saying about his look, because at the South by Southwest festival in Texas this past week, he changed it up. If I wasn't taking him seriously when he looked like Pete Wentz's goth girlfriend, I sure as hell am not going to do so when he looks like a homeless veteran begging for change at a freeway off-ramp.
All the blogosphere was questioning his masculinity, so I guess he thought he'd butch it up by not shaving or waxing his eyebrows, and hitting up his local army-navy surplus for not one but TWO patterns of ill-fitting camo: classic forest and southeast Asian jungle. As an afterthought, he reached under his seat on the flight to Austin for SXSW and stole his life preserver to accessorize. Judging by the fact that he wrapped the plastic my late grandmother used to employ to protect her perm in rainy weather around his head, he's expecting a water landing.
Seriously, there is only room enough for one famous Jared in this world, and the above fucktard isn't it. I googled Jared to see whether or not he's the world's most notable person of that name, and guess what? After the jewelry store, there's only one truly notable Jared on the internets...THIS GUY.
Yes, Jared from Subway has achieved far more lasting fame and notoriety just by eating subway sandwiches and ceasing to be a fat tub of lard than Jared Leto could by taking himself seriously and trying to insinuate that he's better than me or anyone else who takes time to publish their useless bullshit online. Probably as many people read my blog as bought a 30 Seconds to Being Yesterday's News CD (I can't imagine that more than 300 people paid for this crap), so Jared Leto can go fuck himself. Which he probably does regularly, since Lohan dumped his bitch ass (and that in itself is pretty fucking pathetic)! Even Tila Tequila didn't go back for seconds and she'd fuck anyone with over 5000 MySpace friends. Jordan Catalano needs to make like "My So-Called Life" and get CANCELLED.
For some reason, Jared Leto's performance as a girlie boy who was attracted to Claire Danes's manly physique despite his unbelievable status as a campus baller led to numerous supporting roles in Hollywood, such as Colin Farrell's boy fuck-toy in Alexander and Lindsay Lohan's boyfriend for about two seconds. Now, he's decided he's a rock star, and up until this past weekend was letting everyone know by rocking edgy layers in his hair and wearing lots of black eyeliner and nail polish. Presumably he's hoping that everyone forgot what Robert Smith was doing circa 1993 and thus think that he's original. News flash, asshole: we all know about Hot Topic, and you didn't discover it. They opened one at the Tacoma Mall when I was 14, for God's sake. In the course of this, he's also decided to start shooting his mouth off in order to stir up controversy and hopefully get some attention for his shiteous band, 30 Seconds to Finished. Oh, wait, that's his bedroom technique. His band's called 30 Seconds to Mars. Pretty much everyone wishes he would go there, because his band SUCKS.
“I think that blogs should die a sudden death. It’s just ridiculous. It’s like a playground for four-year-olds. People say and do things in the world of blogs that they would never do in real life, and I think it’s a false experience…The blog is yesterday’s parachute pants. It’s here now but it’s gone tomorrow.”I see no need to defend the blogosphere against Jared's assertions concerning the staying power of blogs or address his specific charges, since they don't even really make sense. Clearly analogies are not his strong point, since four-year-olds don't typically spend a lot of time writing lengthy treatises on useless bullshit on their playgrounds, and any fucktard who dresses like a hipster version of the vampire Lestat and whose CDs are sold on the same shelf as Fall Out Boy's lacks credibility in the veracity-of-experience judging department. Furthermore, I'd gladly tell him to his face that I think he's an overcompensating and insincere hack with zero talent as either musician or actor, and I'll expect to see his bitch ass desperately seeking work on next season of "Dancing with the Stars." In fact, if I ever run into him around the city, telling him so will be my first order of business.
The most ridiculous statement he makes, however, concerns his comparison of blogging to parachute pants as though he is some sort of fashionista. First off, it's a shame that parachute pants went out of style, because they were cool. Second, obviously Jared is paying attention to what bloggers were saying about his look, because at the South by Southwest festival in Texas this past week, he changed it up. If I wasn't taking him seriously when he looked like Pete Wentz's goth girlfriend, I sure as hell am not going to do so when he looks like a homeless veteran begging for change at a freeway off-ramp.
Seriously, there is only room enough for one famous Jared in this world, and the above fucktard isn't it. I googled Jared to see whether or not he's the world's most notable person of that name, and guess what? After the jewelry store, there's only one truly notable Jared on the internets...THIS GUY.
Labels: assholes, celebrities, media whores, overcompensation, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, you're ugly
Monday, March 19, 2007
Medical alert
It's not often that I get an important piece of news on the virology front from my celebrity gossip pages, but Dlisted just delved into cutting edge epidemiology by reporting that this big black weiner belongs to Gnarls Barkley singer Cee-Lo. 
I have no idea how this dude was identified as Cee-Lo other than by the prominent love handle, but the identity of the man attached to this cock is pretty irrelevant. It's lucky this dude shaves his pubes, because it will be that much easier to visually diagnose his first outbreak that way. Regardless of who the dick belongs to, buy stock in GlaxoSmithKline, because there's one more scrip for Valtrex being written right now. In fact, I expect Valtrex sales to go through the roof so long as this whore is on the loose, so call your broker. Though there are many reasons why Paris Hilton should be summarily shot, ruining this gorgeous wang with her stank strain of the herp just became one of her more egregious offenses. Man, I hate that bitch.
I have no idea how this dude was identified as Cee-Lo other than by the prominent love handle, but the identity of the man attached to this cock is pretty irrelevant. It's lucky this dude shaves his pubes, because it will be that much easier to visually diagnose his first outbreak that way. Regardless of who the dick belongs to, buy stock in GlaxoSmithKline, because there's one more scrip for Valtrex being written right now. In fact, I expect Valtrex sales to go through the roof so long as this whore is on the loose, so call your broker. Though there are many reasons why Paris Hilton should be summarily shot, ruining this gorgeous wang with her stank strain of the herp just became one of her more egregious offenses. Man, I hate that bitch.Labels: celebrities, epidemic geekery, gross, oh the horror, perversion, sex, sluts, viruses rule, weiners
What's wrong with this picture?
While I was digging through my doggy photos to find choice face shots of Chingy! to make the Chingy! the Hutt photo spread, I came across this one. This was taken a couple years ago for the purposes of being a Christmas card, and I had selected it and gotten it all ready to send until I realized that there was something very wrong with it. Can you spot it? And no, it's not the fucking zit on my forehead that looks like Krakatoa erupting...my Photoshop skills are pretty piss poor but they're good enough to have covered that up. I'll give you a hint: it has to do with one of the dogs.
There was an old "Seinfeld" episode where Elaine sent out a Christmas card, only to realize later that her nipple was showing on it. That would be embarrassing, but not nearly as bad as sending all your friends and loved ones seasons greetings in the form of a disgusting dog erection.
Caesar, put away your lipstick! GROSS!
There was an old "Seinfeld" episode where Elaine sent out a Christmas card, only to realize later that her nipple was showing on it. That would be embarrassing, but not nearly as bad as sending all your friends and loved ones seasons greetings in the form of a disgusting dog erection.
Caesar, put away your lipstick! GROSS!
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, gross, oh the horror
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Episode Whatever: I am a weak-minded fool
A lot of people wonder "how much I paid" for Chingy!, since he's a purebred Pug and all. I've always had German Shepherd mix mutts like my devastatingly handsome Caesar, and I wasn't trying to be like the Angelina Jolie of dog adoption or anything. He used to belong to this creepy doorman at the first building I lived in, and he said that if he couldn't find Chingy! a new home, he'd be euthanized. In spite of my hatred for most living things, including children, plants, and many adult humans, I have a soft spot for dogs so I grudgingly agreed to take him "temporarily." That was four fucking years ago.
Now, when I tell the story of acquiring this little monster, I prefer to do so inventively. Not everyone gets it from the dialogue, though, because apparently not everyone's dad took them to see Return of the Jedi in the theaters when they were four, and had the combination of the Pit of Sarlacc and the noise that accompanied the outer space dogfighting between the Empire and the Rebel Fighters scare them to tears, ensuring that every part of that movie was committed almost verbatim to memory. Anyway, since I'm sick of explaining this to death, I'll try to illustrate the tale of Chingy! via Star Wars analogy with pictures.
EPISODE VI: REVENGE OF THE SHIT (EATER)
[Blah blah blah...background shit about the Empire building a new and terrifying Death Star, and something about Ewoks.]
Meanwhile, on Tattooine...
This is the palace of the vile intergalactic space gangster, Chingy! the Hutt. He terrorizes planets with his rePUGnant odors, arrogant attitude, and powerful aura of generalized affrontery.
Chingy! is inside, sedentary as usual, smoking his hookah and entertaining himself by chewing on dirty socks and feeding tentacle-headed strippers to the monster that lives underneath his equally revolting ass. In strolls a Jedi who looks nothing like my creepy former doorman to make an ill-advised attempt at detante.
Chingy!, in keeping with Hutt tradition of being an obstinate, destructive asshole, responds with scornful laughter.
The Jedi, unfazed, tries a new tactic.
Chingy! sees through this clever ruse. He sneezes disdainfully at his attendants for being so easily hoodwinked by the smooth-talking Jedi.
I have to interject that things would have been a lot better off if Chingy! had managed to successfully rebuff those campaigning to free Captain Solo from his carbonite prison. Then he couldn't have gotten old, fucked Ally McBeal's skeletal ass, and prepared to ruin Indiana Jones by making a fourth movie. How is he supposed to teach archaeology to Smith girls, retrieve priceless religious artifacts, and fight the Nazis for said valuable antiquities when he's older than Sean Connery was in Last Crusade? Is he going to beat them up with his walker, or what? Anyway, digression aside, this ploy on the Jedi's behalf did not work. Chingy! would not have his palace despoiled by the Jedi's cheap parlor tricks.
This is where I come into the story. I was just trying to mind my own business and walk Caesar as usual when this group of Star Wars nerds was blocking the road. I told them to get out of my way.
What?! Obviously THAT came out wrong.
This argument got me nowhere. Before I knew it, the stupid Jedi had tricked me into taking responsibility for the nefarious and despicable Chingy!, thus ending the days of brutalizing alien sex slaves, listening to really shitty music, and otherwise dominating the criminal underworld. A time of peace and prosperity returned to the parts of the galaxy now vacated by Chingy!, but the time of strife for me in Harlem was just beginning.
After months of civil war characterized by the wanton destruction of my personal belongings, I got used to the little asshole and we came to an uneasy truce. Once I changed out of that ridiculous gold bikini, it was a lot easier to command him on the leash. Also, I discovered that so long as he is supplied with ample Beneful and is permitted to sleep in my bed and/or suitcase, he's calm and peaceable to the point of being almost comatose twenty-three hours out of the day. And so the beast was quelled, and I find myself in the situation I'm in today.
And that's how much I paid for Chingy...not a damn cent, but the emotional and material toll has been immeasurable. CHONGAY CHONG!
P.S. Yeah, I know this is pretty dorky, but I had some time to kill this afternoon and my other alternative activity was housework. Sha right! Star Wars and dog Photoshop geekery wins every time.
Now, when I tell the story of acquiring this little monster, I prefer to do so inventively. Not everyone gets it from the dialogue, though, because apparently not everyone's dad took them to see Return of the Jedi in the theaters when they were four, and had the combination of the Pit of Sarlacc and the noise that accompanied the outer space dogfighting between the Empire and the Rebel Fighters scare them to tears, ensuring that every part of that movie was committed almost verbatim to memory. Anyway, since I'm sick of explaining this to death, I'll try to illustrate the tale of Chingy! via Star Wars analogy with pictures.
EPISODE VI: REVENGE OF THE SHIT (EATER)
[Blah blah blah...background shit about the Empire building a new and terrifying Death Star, and something about Ewoks.]
Meanwhile, on Tattooine...
I have to interject that things would have been a lot better off if Chingy! had managed to successfully rebuff those campaigning to free Captain Solo from his carbonite prison. Then he couldn't have gotten old, fucked Ally McBeal's skeletal ass, and prepared to ruin Indiana Jones by making a fourth movie. How is he supposed to teach archaeology to Smith girls, retrieve priceless religious artifacts, and fight the Nazis for said valuable antiquities when he's older than Sean Connery was in Last Crusade? Is he going to beat them up with his walker, or what? Anyway, digression aside, this ploy on the Jedi's behalf did not work. Chingy! would not have his palace despoiled by the Jedi's cheap parlor tricks.
This is where I come into the story. I was just trying to mind my own business and walk Caesar as usual when this group of Star Wars nerds was blocking the road. I told them to get out of my way.
And that's how much I paid for Chingy...not a damn cent, but the emotional and material toll has been immeasurable. CHONGAY CHONG!
P.S. Yeah, I know this is pretty dorky, but I had some time to kill this afternoon and my other alternative activity was housework. Sha right! Star Wars and dog Photoshop geekery wins every time.
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, creative projects, doggity style, epic geekery, fat fucks, gross, movies, oh the horror, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity
Friday, March 16, 2007
Valerie Plame is my baby daddy
I don't know what it is about this bitch, but she is SO GODDAMNED HOT. She's a 40-something mother of twins, and she'd totally still be like James Bond if politics hadn't gotten in the way, and I'd do her every which way but loose if she'd have me:
God, Valerie is just the fiercest. Between her no-nonsense herringbone jacket and her thousand-yard, you-ruined-my-career-I-will-ruin-you, eat-my-twat-Representative-Davis stare...Jesus Christ, it's not often that a hooker like Valerie Plame Wilson comes along. I think I'm in love.
God, Valerie is just the fiercest. Between her no-nonsense herringbone jacket and her thousand-yard, you-ruined-my-career-I-will-ruin-you, eat-my-twat-Representative-Davis stare...Jesus Christ, it's not often that a hooker like Valerie Plame Wilson comes along. I think I'm in love.
Labels: hot chicks, international intrigue, politics, sluts
Aural bombardment
My upstairs neighbor, a butt-ugly hippie jazz musician, has been having problems with me because I listen to RAP MUSIC. Although I'm by no means the only person doing so in our Sugar Hill tenement building, I'm the only one he feels comfortable complaining to, probably because he thinks I'm a sweet petitle girl who gives a shit about his dislike of bass. In the past, this resulted in the exchange of bitchy notes. After I dropped off my last note telling him to fuck off, he cornered me at the elevator and apologized for "being an asshole." I accepted his apology and thought our issues were resolved.
Yesterday I was about to leave for work when I noticed a piece of yellow paper on the floor of my entryway. I picked it up and found an unsigned note reading as follows:
To make matters worse, AT FIVE A.M. this morning the asshole woke me up with what was probably an extended jam session from a live Phish bootleg or something. He's totally the type who would have a whole shelf of illegally recorded Phish shows on tape. I knew this girl in college who would always have dumb debates over whether "Tucson '98" or "Vegas '96 New Years Eve" or whatever was a better concert to listen to on a busted ass cassette tape. In other words, it sounded like what I imagine elevator music sounds like in hell. Four years of living in New York City, however, have enabled me to willfully tune out most distracting noises. I simply rolled over and went back to sleep, but vowed that from now on, there will be no more note exchanges or other attempts at civility. The time for negotiating is past. I plan to wake that motherfucker up every morning by playing every last goddamn rap song in my arsenal.
So far this plan is working splendidly. Around 8:45 a.m., I wasn't even a full minute into "Bitch, Get Ya Mind Right" by my favorite rapper's favorite trapper Young Jeezy before he was stomping on his floor loudly, his preferred method of telling me that I'm bothering him. I smiled to myself and turned up the volume for a moment to indicate that I am no longer going to quiet down or otherwise respond to his stomping. I fucking hate his ass and resent his leaving me brusque notes informing me what I can and cannot do. I shouted at my ceiling, "Get some fucking earplugs, asshole!"
Then I turned on 50 Cent, because nobody says "fuck you all" quite like my boyfriend Curtis. He's the king of starting and perpetuating beef, and I felt it was appropriate. I get a feeling that my conflict with Upstairs Guy is going to be more protracted than the Cold War. Running with that analogy, he's totally Russia. I'm going to kick his pinko ass with my unimpeachable freedom, free trade, and brash American ways. You stomped on the wrong floor, hippie!
Yesterday I was about to leave for work when I noticed a piece of yellow paper on the floor of my entryway. I picked it up and found an unsigned note reading as follows:
"You can't play music with that much bass early in the morning. Please!"Though unsigned, I know it was this motherfucker. For one thing, it was his handwriting. For another, my other neighbors have never said a single word to me about my music or anything else. It's not like I'm bumping my music at top volume. It's just that this dude has hypersensitive hearing, and rather than get a set of earplugs, he thinks I should accommodate his ass. And by the way, "early in the morning" means 9:30 or 10 a.m.
To make matters worse, AT FIVE A.M. this morning the asshole woke me up with what was probably an extended jam session from a live Phish bootleg or something. He's totally the type who would have a whole shelf of illegally recorded Phish shows on tape. I knew this girl in college who would always have dumb debates over whether "Tucson '98" or "Vegas '96 New Years Eve" or whatever was a better concert to listen to on a busted ass cassette tape. In other words, it sounded like what I imagine elevator music sounds like in hell. Four years of living in New York City, however, have enabled me to willfully tune out most distracting noises. I simply rolled over and went back to sleep, but vowed that from now on, there will be no more note exchanges or other attempts at civility. The time for negotiating is past. I plan to wake that motherfucker up every morning by playing every last goddamn rap song in my arsenal.
So far this plan is working splendidly. Around 8:45 a.m., I wasn't even a full minute into "Bitch, Get Ya Mind Right" by my favorite rapper's favorite trapper Young Jeezy before he was stomping on his floor loudly, his preferred method of telling me that I'm bothering him. I smiled to myself and turned up the volume for a moment to indicate that I am no longer going to quiet down or otherwise respond to his stomping. I fucking hate his ass and resent his leaving me brusque notes informing me what I can and cannot do. I shouted at my ceiling, "Get some fucking earplugs, asshole!"
Then I turned on 50 Cent, because nobody says "fuck you all" quite like my boyfriend Curtis. He's the king of starting and perpetuating beef, and I felt it was appropriate. I get a feeling that my conflict with Upstairs Guy is going to be more protracted than the Cold War. Running with that analogy, he's totally Russia. I'm going to kick his pinko ass with my unimpeachable freedom, free trade, and brash American ways. You stomped on the wrong floor, hippie!
Labels: comeuppance, Harlem world, ranting, rap, retard rage, vengeance is sweet
Thursday, March 15, 2007
College kids binge drink? You're KIDDING me.
Whenever I tell people I go to Columbia, their reaction is usually like, "Oooo, Columbia! That's a great school!" Indeed Columbia is a fine institution of higher learning and for the most part is richly deserving of the status accorded to Ivy League schools. The "Oooo, Columbia!" reaction is also highly preferable to the reaction people have upon hearing that I went to Smith College, which is either "Isn't that all-girls?" or "Is everybody there a lesbian or what?"
The thing about going to fancy schools is that the name carries a lot of weight, but in my experience, they are populated by just as many morons as anywhere else. The only difference is that Ivy League morons are more insufferably elitist and superior (ie: Aleksey Vayner) than the morons who can't brag about going to Columbia/Harvard/Yale/Dartmouth/Penn/Cornell/Brown. In most cases, Columbia doesn't do much else differently than a lot of other accredited, reputable universities. They conduct plenty of what I call No Shit, Sherlock research.
For example, they were just bragging about this study on the Columbia website. It reveals the **shocking** fact that...HALF OF COLLEGE STUDENTS BINGE DRINK! Are you fucking for real? Because I thought that the Smith bitches who would go on the occasional peach schnapps bender were an isolated phenomenon. I had no idea that binge drinking was such a common part of college culture. Nobody ever told me that this sort of thing was going on in college:
I can't believe this type of No Shit, Sherlock study is getting funded and polio is getting a whole big fat wad of NOTHING. I mean, are they actually suggesting that not only do half of college kids get WASTED and think it's fun to do so (which everyone already knows), but that this should actually be stopped? That's BULLSHIT!
I know it's fake news, but this study published in the venerable Onion is the type that SHOULD be getting lots of press. To quote fictional study author Dr. Albert Greaves at U-Ass Amherst (right down Route 9 from good old Smith), "Over the course of our research, a consistent pattern emerged demonstrating that binge drinking seriously kicks ass."
And indeed it does. Columbia needs to get off its high and mighty ass and do something useful instead of spending millions of dollars to tell the world something that's already common knowledge. The fucktards running this ivory tower need to put the money towards curing cancer or AIDS or something we can all benefit from. Are you listening, President Bollinger?
The thing about going to fancy schools is that the name carries a lot of weight, but in my experience, they are populated by just as many morons as anywhere else. The only difference is that Ivy League morons are more insufferably elitist and superior (ie: Aleksey Vayner) than the morons who can't brag about going to Columbia/Harvard/Yale/Dartmouth/Penn/Cornell/Brown. In most cases, Columbia doesn't do much else differently than a lot of other accredited, reputable universities. They conduct plenty of what I call No Shit, Sherlock research.
For example, they were just bragging about this study on the Columbia website. It reveals the **shocking** fact that...HALF OF COLLEGE STUDENTS BINGE DRINK! Are you fucking for real? Because I thought that the Smith bitches who would go on the occasional peach schnapps bender were an isolated phenomenon. I had no idea that binge drinking was such a common part of college culture. Nobody ever told me that this sort of thing was going on in college:
I can't believe this type of No Shit, Sherlock study is getting funded and polio is getting a whole big fat wad of NOTHING. I mean, are they actually suggesting that not only do half of college kids get WASTED and think it's fun to do so (which everyone already knows), but that this should actually be stopped? That's BULLSHIT!
I know it's fake news, but this study published in the venerable Onion is the type that SHOULD be getting lots of press. To quote fictional study author Dr. Albert Greaves at U-Ass Amherst (right down Route 9 from good old Smith), "Over the course of our research, a consistent pattern emerged demonstrating that binge drinking seriously kicks ass."
And indeed it does. Columbia needs to get off its high and mighty ass and do something useful instead of spending millions of dollars to tell the world something that's already common knowledge. The fucktards running this ivory tower need to put the money towards curing cancer or AIDS or something we can all benefit from. Are you listening, President Bollinger?
Labels: alcoholism, Aleksey Vayner, grad school bullshit
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Hurry up and die already
When he clawed his way to the top of the cutthroat Vatican politics to win at Conclave two years ago, I was really hoping that Benedixteen would literally be a short-lived Pope. He's no JP Dos, that's for sure. Not only does he have a distinct child molestery vibe about him, but he also is a straight-up asshole with the media, and is undoing all the good press the late Karol Wojtyla worked so hard to build.
John Paul the Second did a lot of nice shit compared to most pontiffs past. He defended Darwin's theory of evolution, apologized for the Crusades and the Inquisition, and denounced Pius XII's decision to sit tight and not say anything while the Jews of Rome were loaded onto Auschwitz-bound boxcars. He gave communism the finger. He also traveled all over the world and was sweet and kind to everybody. He made Catholics look good.
Then we get Benedixteen, and despite the fact that his bros in the College of Cardinals call him "God's Rottweiler", I at least hoped he'd carry on with JP Dos's campaign of friendliness. BIG WRONG. First he shows up to say Mass at St. Peter's rocking Prada loafers and a pair of Gucci shades and doesn't even consider for a second that it might be a tad hypocritical to lecture the throngs of faithful about being humble and modest and helping the poor while rocking the latest haute coutoure. Then he decides that the best way to reach out to Muslims is quoting a fourteenth century Byzantine emperor who characterized them as violent barbarians and devoted much of his reign trying to exterminate them.
Now, Benedixteen has really done it, and managed to piss me off personally. According to this news blurb, Benedixteen has decided that the Church hasn't been trying hard enough to ruin sex with oppressive feelings of guilt. Also, apparently the Church has been remiss in terms of gay bashing. Therefore, Benedixteen has taken it upon himself to remedy this in his latest Apostolic Exhortation.
Granted, I'm not exactly a model Catholic. Twelve years of Catholic school will make a girl into either a virgin or a big old whore, and guess which path I took? I've pretty much overlooked the whole sex-before-marriage thing, and I definitely don't use the Church-approved "natural family planning" method they advocate for contraception. That involves taking your vagina temperature and measuring the thickness of your cervical mucus...ewwww. Popping an Ortho Tri every morning is a hell of a lot easier. And as far as abortion goes...well, the only comment I'll make is that I'm pro-choice. In terms of my commitment to show up in church for Holy Communion, I'm what my brother calls a "CEO": Christmas-Easter only. I haven't received the sacrament of reconciliation since my freshman year of high school, and Lord knows the next time I do make it into a confessional, it's going to take a while. I've done a whole lot of sinning in the fifteen years that have elapsed since I last did my fifty Hail Marys of penance or whatever the hell I had to do to atone for my crimes.
However, despite my bad Catholic status, I still consider myself a member of the fold and pay close attention to pronouncements that filter down from the Holy See. I definitely think that if it wasn't obvious before, it should be now that Benedixteen is a fun-hating asshole who is overstepping his boundaries. First he claims that Catholic politicians throughout the world are supposed to rubber stamp the Church's views on everything from the usual no abortion and no euthanasia to no gay marriage. And if they don't? Excommunicate the motherfuckers! Well, not really...excommunication went out of vogue after the Dark Ages ended, but apparently they won't let you participate in fun liturgical activities, like taking communion. That also applies for anyone who has been divorced. John Kerry, therefore, has three strikes: pro-choice, divorced, and gay friendly. No Eucharist for his stringy, impious ass! I can't believe Benedixteen is actually trying to enforce this. It's like the Bishops are as worried about making sure that Catholic politicians will appoint Supreme Court justices that will overthrow Roe v. Wade as they are about covering up scandals wrought by child molesting priests.
While pro-life and anti-divorce has always been Church policy, there's no reason Benedixteen has to be such a fucking Nazi about it. This hard-line approach was probably learned at an early age when he joined the Hitler Youth. In case he wasn't being enough of a conservative prick, he also suggests that we bring back Latin masses and refers to priestly celibacy as "a priceless treasure." Granted, that's the same terminology I might use to describe my vibrator, but it doesn't mean that I think being celibate is anything to cheer about.
Benedixteen needs to just die. He's obviously spending most of his time trying to relive the good old days before Vatican II and not do anything to make the church seem accessible. We need another JP Dos: a dude who defies Nazis, kicks Communist ass, and sneaks out of Vatican City to go skiing. Please, God, take this motherfucker so we can get a new model!
John Paul the Second did a lot of nice shit compared to most pontiffs past. He defended Darwin's theory of evolution, apologized for the Crusades and the Inquisition, and denounced Pius XII's decision to sit tight and not say anything while the Jews of Rome were loaded onto Auschwitz-bound boxcars. He gave communism the finger. He also traveled all over the world and was sweet and kind to everybody. He made Catholics look good.
Then we get Benedixteen, and despite the fact that his bros in the College of Cardinals call him "God's Rottweiler", I at least hoped he'd carry on with JP Dos's campaign of friendliness. BIG WRONG. First he shows up to say Mass at St. Peter's rocking Prada loafers and a pair of Gucci shades and doesn't even consider for a second that it might be a tad hypocritical to lecture the throngs of faithful about being humble and modest and helping the poor while rocking the latest haute coutoure. Then he decides that the best way to reach out to Muslims is quoting a fourteenth century Byzantine emperor who characterized them as violent barbarians and devoted much of his reign trying to exterminate them.
Now, Benedixteen has really done it, and managed to piss me off personally. According to this news blurb, Benedixteen has decided that the Church hasn't been trying hard enough to ruin sex with oppressive feelings of guilt. Also, apparently the Church has been remiss in terms of gay bashing. Therefore, Benedixteen has taken it upon himself to remedy this in his latest Apostolic Exhortation.
Granted, I'm not exactly a model Catholic. Twelve years of Catholic school will make a girl into either a virgin or a big old whore, and guess which path I took? I've pretty much overlooked the whole sex-before-marriage thing, and I definitely don't use the Church-approved "natural family planning" method they advocate for contraception. That involves taking your vagina temperature and measuring the thickness of your cervical mucus...ewwww. Popping an Ortho Tri every morning is a hell of a lot easier. And as far as abortion goes...well, the only comment I'll make is that I'm pro-choice. In terms of my commitment to show up in church for Holy Communion, I'm what my brother calls a "CEO": Christmas-Easter only. I haven't received the sacrament of reconciliation since my freshman year of high school, and Lord knows the next time I do make it into a confessional, it's going to take a while. I've done a whole lot of sinning in the fifteen years that have elapsed since I last did my fifty Hail Marys of penance or whatever the hell I had to do to atone for my crimes.
However, despite my bad Catholic status, I still consider myself a member of the fold and pay close attention to pronouncements that filter down from the Holy See. I definitely think that if it wasn't obvious before, it should be now that Benedixteen is a fun-hating asshole who is overstepping his boundaries. First he claims that Catholic politicians throughout the world are supposed to rubber stamp the Church's views on everything from the usual no abortion and no euthanasia to no gay marriage. And if they don't? Excommunicate the motherfuckers! Well, not really...excommunication went out of vogue after the Dark Ages ended, but apparently they won't let you participate in fun liturgical activities, like taking communion. That also applies for anyone who has been divorced. John Kerry, therefore, has three strikes: pro-choice, divorced, and gay friendly. No Eucharist for his stringy, impious ass! I can't believe Benedixteen is actually trying to enforce this. It's like the Bishops are as worried about making sure that Catholic politicians will appoint Supreme Court justices that will overthrow Roe v. Wade as they are about covering up scandals wrought by child molesting priests.
While pro-life and anti-divorce has always been Church policy, there's no reason Benedixteen has to be such a fucking Nazi about it. This hard-line approach was probably learned at an early age when he joined the Hitler Youth. In case he wasn't being enough of a conservative prick, he also suggests that we bring back Latin masses and refers to priestly celibacy as "a priceless treasure." Granted, that's the same terminology I might use to describe my vibrator, but it doesn't mean that I think being celibate is anything to cheer about.
Benedixteen needs to just die. He's obviously spending most of his time trying to relive the good old days before Vatican II and not do anything to make the church seem accessible. We need another JP Dos: a dude who defies Nazis, kicks Communist ass, and sneaks out of Vatican City to go skiing. Please, God, take this motherfucker so we can get a new model!
Labels: Catholicism, Pope Benedixteen, scathing indictments
Stick Wit sUicide
For some reason, after Dateline's "To Catch a Predator" ended, I flipped the channel over to the CW network where "The Pussycat Dolls Present: Search for the Next Doll" or whatever that show is called was on. I have no idea why I ended up watching this instead of Primetime's expose of up-and-coming porn stars, except that I caught a glimpse of Lil' Kim as I was channel surfing by, and my jaw just dropped. That bitch is fatter every time I see her. She's expanding like a fucking Hungry Jack biscuit in a hot oven. I swear to God she got lupus from her leaking breast implant and is now taking massive doses of steroids; she can't really be that fat now, can she?
Anyway, my fascination with the transformation of Lil' Kim into Mo'Nique got me to watch 5 minutes of this show, and it transfixed me with its train wreckishness. The girls, who all cry at the slightest provocation when their lackluster performance of "Buttons" failed to win excessive praise from their "mentor", the slut who currently sings lead for the Pussycat Dolls, are complete and total fucking morons. They make the girls on "Top Model" look like the committee of scientists working on the Manhattan Project in comparison. It's almost like the number one criterion for being cast was being utterly vapid.
Even better is when these bitches in their gangsta-font "PCD" wife beaters and cocked fedoras start rattling off Pussycat Dolls talking points to the judges about how they're here to be a "role model" (as opposed to "clap-spreading attention whore") because the Dolls are all about female empowerment and independence. And nothing says "womyn power" like a camel toe and a "Property of Stick Wit U" midriff-baring scoop-neck baby tee. At least it measures up to my old professor Saratoga120's interpretation of feminist actualization: "when there are many mediocre women as there are mediocre men in important, visible, or powerful positions." When I see Saratoga120 at LL Cool Jew's upcoming wedding, I'll inform her that finally gender equity has been achieved in the music industry and cite this as the most compelling piece of evidence.
The girls can't hold a candle in the "hot mess" department compared to the Pussycat Dolls' creator and producer, choreographer Robin Antin. I can state unequivocally that Robin Antin DEFINITELY AND FOR SURE was once a man. This isn't just a s/he-has-an-Adam's-apple kind of tranny. S/he looks like David Leisure (thespian noted for his work on "Empty Nest" and the seminal "Joe Isuzu" ad campaign) with one of Tyra Banks's discarded weaves on his/her head. S/he may not have had his/her gender reassigned as an adult, but I can picture him/her being one of those babies born a hermaphrodite, whose parents just picked a sex and ran with it when s/he was a baby. Whatever the scientific explanation, bitch definitely is packing a Y chromosome.
Bolstering the medical anomaly argument is Robin's general demeanor. The way she nods vigorously while smiling this vacant, open-mouthed grin makes me wonder if s/he didn't spend childhood riding the short bus with Corky Thatcher. Something is definitely amiss upstairs when a person shows that much primal, drooling, mouth-breathing joy listening to a trio of fake-titted, overtanned prostitutes perform atrocious covers of Ciara's "One, Two Step."
And then there's the aforementioned used-to-be-Lil' Kim. This woman, known for irresistable seduction lines such as "somethin' I wanted, but I never was pushy, the motherfucker never ate my pussy" and "I dug him, so I fucked him, it wasn't nothin'...he wanted me to suck him but I didn't, I ain't frontin'", actually lectures these bitches on how to be desirable. She acts like she's in fact cornered the market on sex appeal. John D. Rockefeller had oil, J.P. Morgan had railroads and banks, and Lil' Kim has sexiness? Sha right. The woman looks like she just ate an entire Popeye's, and I mean the ENTIRE restaurant, including the building. Furthermore, I think the CW was so busy dressing the contestants in PCD branded hooker wear that they forgot to budget for Lil' Kim's wardrobe, because she's wearing what looks like the same busted orange top that she's worn for virtually every TV appearance since she emerged from the federal penitentiary. She looks like a really slutty version of the Great Fucking Pumpkin, and don't get me started on her hair. Her wig looks like it was made of chicken wire, papier mache, and numerous coats of some sort of shellacking agent. My money's on Epoxy.
Don't watch this show. For weeks I've been referring to it as "Search for the Next Pussyclot Doll" to amuse J-Sexy. "Pussyclot" is a term in Jamaican patois that literally means "maxi-pad", but is often as an adjective to make an insult even more derogatory (ie: "you pussyclot motherfucker"). In this case, it is totally fitting. Unless you are feeling particularly masochistic, I would avoid this shit like the herpes the contestants are probably spreading around Los Angeles in their spare time. Jumping off a bridge would be a better use of your time.
Anyway, my fascination with the transformation of Lil' Kim into Mo'Nique got me to watch 5 minutes of this show, and it transfixed me with its train wreckishness. The girls, who all cry at the slightest provocation when their lackluster performance of "Buttons" failed to win excessive praise from their "mentor", the slut who currently sings lead for the Pussycat Dolls, are complete and total fucking morons. They make the girls on "Top Model" look like the committee of scientists working on the Manhattan Project in comparison. It's almost like the number one criterion for being cast was being utterly vapid.
Even better is when these bitches in their gangsta-font "PCD" wife beaters and cocked fedoras start rattling off Pussycat Dolls talking points to the judges about how they're here to be a "role model" (as opposed to "clap-spreading attention whore") because the Dolls are all about female empowerment and independence. And nothing says "womyn power" like a camel toe and a "Property of Stick Wit U" midriff-baring scoop-neck baby tee. At least it measures up to my old professor Saratoga120's interpretation of feminist actualization: "when there are many mediocre women as there are mediocre men in important, visible, or powerful positions." When I see Saratoga120 at LL Cool Jew's upcoming wedding, I'll inform her that finally gender equity has been achieved in the music industry and cite this as the most compelling piece of evidence.
The girls can't hold a candle in the "hot mess" department compared to the Pussycat Dolls' creator and producer, choreographer Robin Antin. I can state unequivocally that Robin Antin DEFINITELY AND FOR SURE was once a man. This isn't just a s/he-has-an-Adam's-apple kind of tranny. S/he looks like David Leisure (thespian noted for his work on "Empty Nest" and the seminal "Joe Isuzu" ad campaign) with one of Tyra Banks's discarded weaves on his/her head. S/he may not have had his/her gender reassigned as an adult, but I can picture him/her being one of those babies born a hermaphrodite, whose parents just picked a sex and ran with it when s/he was a baby. Whatever the scientific explanation, bitch definitely is packing a Y chromosome.
Bolstering the medical anomaly argument is Robin's general demeanor. The way she nods vigorously while smiling this vacant, open-mouthed grin makes me wonder if s/he didn't spend childhood riding the short bus with Corky Thatcher. Something is definitely amiss upstairs when a person shows that much primal, drooling, mouth-breathing joy listening to a trio of fake-titted, overtanned prostitutes perform atrocious covers of Ciara's "One, Two Step."
And then there's the aforementioned used-to-be-Lil' Kim. This woman, known for irresistable seduction lines such as "somethin' I wanted, but I never was pushy, the motherfucker never ate my pussy" and "I dug him, so I fucked him, it wasn't nothin'...he wanted me to suck him but I didn't, I ain't frontin'", actually lectures these bitches on how to be desirable. She acts like she's in fact cornered the market on sex appeal. John D. Rockefeller had oil, J.P. Morgan had railroads and banks, and Lil' Kim has sexiness? Sha right. The woman looks like she just ate an entire Popeye's, and I mean the ENTIRE restaurant, including the building. Furthermore, I think the CW was so busy dressing the contestants in PCD branded hooker wear that they forgot to budget for Lil' Kim's wardrobe, because she's wearing what looks like the same busted orange top that she's worn for virtually every TV appearance since she emerged from the federal penitentiary. She looks like a really slutty version of the Great Fucking Pumpkin, and don't get me started on her hair. Her wig looks like it was made of chicken wire, papier mache, and numerous coats of some sort of shellacking agent. My money's on Epoxy.
Don't watch this show. For weeks I've been referring to it as "Search for the Next Pussyclot Doll" to amuse J-Sexy. "Pussyclot" is a term in Jamaican patois that literally means "maxi-pad", but is often as an adjective to make an insult even more derogatory (ie: "you pussyclot motherfucker"). In this case, it is totally fitting. Unless you are feeling particularly masochistic, I would avoid this shit like the herpes the contestants are probably spreading around Los Angeles in their spare time. Jumping off a bridge would be a better use of your time.
Labels: celebrities, fat fucks, gender bending, Lil' Kim, media whores, oh the horror, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, ranting, sluts, TV
Monday, March 12, 2007
Subway bloody subway
Last Saturday, I met up with my buddy KatieScarlett and we went to go see The Host, this Korean horror movie in which the titled monster is basically a giant, man-eating, amphibious Chingy!, and then forced her to accompany me to a K-town noodle shop for Tsingtaos to bolster me for what I consider an arduous and lengthy trek: a D-train ride to Brooklyn to visit our friend Miss Corbutt.
I hate going to Brooklyn. For one thing, I always get lost there. It seems like Flatbush and Atlantic Aves are everywhere, and go in every direction, so I can't even use those landmarks to get situated like I can here on the fair isle of Mannahattas. I hate going off the grid. Furthermore, once you actually get to Brooklyn, the nearest subway stop is always at least two miles from wherever you are going. People who live in Brooklyn don't notice this, because they are so used to it. My subway stop here is four blocks from my apartment, and that takes all of five minutes to walk. Our destination in Brooklyn was like ten blocks from the subway, and it took us a solid twenty minutes to get there. Granted, we did have to stop at a bar so we could pee after our post-Host Tsingtaos, at which I insisted on doing Jaegermeister shots to "keep us warm" during our hike. "I need spirits to keep my spirits up," I told KatieScarlett. "Oh, Razzy...it's really not that far. Miss Corbutt's place just isn't that convenient for getting to and from the train." She was being very tolerant of my curmudgeonly grousing, though, and just took her shot. I liberated the bar's supply of NYC condoms from the bathroom and we returned to our quest.
Miss Corbutt just had surgery, and we were asked to bring some prune juice for her. We had no idea where to buy prune juice, but we were hoping it would be at some establishment that also sells beer. We passed a bodega called Angie's Deli. "This looks like a good spot," I said. "I bet they sell beer."
"Yes, but do they have prune juice?" KatieScarlett asked skeptically.
"We won't know until we go in and see."
"If you were running your namesake deli, would you stock prune juice?"
I thought quickly over the inventory that I would purchase for my bodega: Heineken, imported cheese, other beers, sausage, frozen pizza, toilet paper, Beneful, ice cream, and rolling papers were the first things that came to mind--not prune juice.
"Good point," I said. "But maybe we should get some beer here?"
"We still have a ways to go...you don't want to carry the beer all that way, do you?" KatieScarlett asked cheerfully.
I groaned. "A ways to go" probably equals three miles in Brooklynese. We kept walking. Finally we found a grocery store that sold prune juice but NO COLD BEER. "We should have gone to Angie's Deli," I grumbled as we checked out. We stopped at another store for beer, and then we were on the home stretch to Miss Corbutt's.
We kept passing these young lesbian couples everywhere we went. After passing the last pair of pixie cuts, I was so strongly reminded of Smith that I asked, "God, did some wrinkle in space-time or whatever result in half of Northampton, Ass being mystically transported to Park Slope, or what?"
"I know, it's pretty lesbish around here," KatieScarlett agreed.
"Smith should open a fucking satellite office of the alumnae association here--if they haven't already. Now I see why you and Bienvenido-a-Miami moved here."
"Miss Corbutt lives here too and she's not a lesbian."
"Yeah, because she's from Northampton! Lesbians probably make her feel as comfortable as mountains, smoked salmon, and Starbucks make me, and decrepit steel mills, scrapple, and Christmas music makes you" (KatieScarlett is from Bethlehem, PA). "Are we there yet?" I added.
"Almost," said KatieScarlett in a quit-your-bitching type of tone.
We arrived at Miss Corbutt's and spent a while visiting with her and her boyfriend. Then she was feeling a bit strained, and since she just had her guts rearranged (her surgery required a lot of digging around in her abdomen), we left her to get some rest. I went over to KatieScarlett's and Bienvenido-a-Miami's for dinner, and afterward, was feeling very full and content and not at all like doing anything besides getting horizontal.
"You can stay the night here, Razzy," offered Bienvenido-a-Miami.
"I can't...you know, the dogs need walking. How the hell do I find the D train again?"
They gave me directions to the train and I sucked it up and trudged off alone into the misty night, hoping that I would not get lost in this most confusing of boroughs. Fortunately, I found the train, and even more fortunately, a Manhattan-bound D train zoomed up within five minutes of my arrival on the platform. I boarded and sank contentedly into an empty seat with my book about Genghis Khan, confident that all my troubles would subside now that Brooklyn was almost behind me.
Sadly, my hopes of a nice, quiet, Mongol horde-filled ride the whole way back to Sugar Hill were dashed almost immediately. Across from me were two short dudes that were obviously completely shitfaced. They were passed out and leaning against each other. I wasn't paying them much attention since they were both asleep. As the train emerged from the subway tunnel to cross the Manhattan Bridge, I looked across the East River to the city full of its tall buildings and bright lights and felt very pleased and relieved; I was returning to my home borough. I'd be home in twenty minutes.
**THUNK**
A loud noise snapped me out of my reverie and I saw that one of the drunk guys had fallen smack into the middle of the floor of the train. He didn't move, and I wondered if he was even alive. Everyone around him was trying to decide if this situation warranted a break from the typical New Yorker apathy concerning crazy and/or drunk people on the train. Finally, some dude on the train stood up, appraised the situation, and said to some guy a few seats over, "I guess we'd better pick him up."
The other guy made like he was going to protest, but the first guy reiterated, "We gotta pick him up. Come on, we can't just leave him there on the ground."
I vacated my prized seat so these guys could haul the drunk motherfucker up and lay him down across the bench where I'd been sitting. In spite of the drunk guy's petite size, they were having a difficult time getting him to stay put on the bench. Even though he was totally unconscious, his limbs were sprawled out like he was playing some bizarre static game of Twister.
"Holy shit!" one of the Good Samaritan lifters exclaimed, and they both released the man, who slipped back on the floor, this time with a slightly less pronounced thumping noise. Blood had started gushing from the guy's head, presumably from splitting his head open when he initially fell. There was blood all over the seat, and now it was pooling on the floor. Everyone was backing up as though they were going to get hepatitis just looking at him.
"I think we should call 911," said one of the lifters.
"Tell them to send a Hazmat team," quipped another passenger.
"Fuck, no, are you crazy?! They'll stop the train!"
While the prospect of being stuck with Bloody Mario for an indeterminate amount of time was unappealing, the guy was bleeding profusely and was generally unresponsive. I grudgingly sided with the guy who wanted to call 911.
"We have to get the cops or something," I offered.
"I know, I know," said pro-911 guy. "I don't want to be stuck here either. But, Jesus Christ, look at him! He's still fucking bleeding!"
The train pulled into the Grand Street station and I went with pro-911 guy to tell the conductor to call an ambulance. The conductor did indeed stop the train. When I returned to the car, the dude was now sitting upright although whether or not he was aware of his surroundings AT ALL was unclear. Blood was now pouring down his face onto his shirt, and given his dirty appearance, he looked like he'd just survived a roadside bomb in Iraq. People were shouting at him to wake up, I think because nobody was sure if he was just dead drunk or actually dying. Someone decided to try and appeal to his equally drunken but thus far uninjured friend.
The friend finally looked up with a bleary eye, announced something semi-intelligible about needing to piss, and started unzipping his fly.
"NO!" the entire train car shouted, practically in unison. "NO! NO! NO!"
"Eh?" he squinted up at everyone, apparently not believing that the subway car was an inappropriate place to urinate.
"You pull anything out of those pants and you'll be lookin' like your friend there," said the conductor menacingly, having just arrived at the car to assess the situation.
Meanwhile, one of the other passengers found an empty fifth of vodka under the drunks' original seat and showed it to the conductor.
"Here's what they were drinking," he announced. "Leeds Vodka. Christ, I've never even heard of that."
The conductor turned around and said, "I wouldn't touch that, sir. It could be a health risk."
The guy dropped the bottle immediately. I offered him some hand sanitizer. At that moment, two of New York's finest arrived. They took one look around and immediately shouted, "Okay, people, please exit the car! This car is being isolated!"
We all moved to a different car, and about 15 minutes later, the train was on its way. As we moved past the platform, I saw the two drunk dudes facing the wall as the cops fitted them each with a pair of lovely silver bracelets.
When I got home, I thought about all my trials, ranging from not being able to track down prune juice to nearly being spattered with possibly HIV-loaded blood, and I realized that ONCE AGAIN, everything was going fine until I ventured into that accursed borough across the river. It's all Brooklyn's fault.
I hate going to Brooklyn. For one thing, I always get lost there. It seems like Flatbush and Atlantic Aves are everywhere, and go in every direction, so I can't even use those landmarks to get situated like I can here on the fair isle of Mannahattas. I hate going off the grid. Furthermore, once you actually get to Brooklyn, the nearest subway stop is always at least two miles from wherever you are going. People who live in Brooklyn don't notice this, because they are so used to it. My subway stop here is four blocks from my apartment, and that takes all of five minutes to walk. Our destination in Brooklyn was like ten blocks from the subway, and it took us a solid twenty minutes to get there. Granted, we did have to stop at a bar so we could pee after our post-Host Tsingtaos, at which I insisted on doing Jaegermeister shots to "keep us warm" during our hike. "I need spirits to keep my spirits up," I told KatieScarlett. "Oh, Razzy...it's really not that far. Miss Corbutt's place just isn't that convenient for getting to and from the train." She was being very tolerant of my curmudgeonly grousing, though, and just took her shot. I liberated the bar's supply of NYC condoms from the bathroom and we returned to our quest.
Miss Corbutt just had surgery, and we were asked to bring some prune juice for her. We had no idea where to buy prune juice, but we were hoping it would be at some establishment that also sells beer. We passed a bodega called Angie's Deli. "This looks like a good spot," I said. "I bet they sell beer."
"Yes, but do they have prune juice?" KatieScarlett asked skeptically.
"We won't know until we go in and see."
"If you were running your namesake deli, would you stock prune juice?"
I thought quickly over the inventory that I would purchase for my bodega: Heineken, imported cheese, other beers, sausage, frozen pizza, toilet paper, Beneful, ice cream, and rolling papers were the first things that came to mind--not prune juice.
"Good point," I said. "But maybe we should get some beer here?"
"We still have a ways to go...you don't want to carry the beer all that way, do you?" KatieScarlett asked cheerfully.
I groaned. "A ways to go" probably equals three miles in Brooklynese. We kept walking. Finally we found a grocery store that sold prune juice but NO COLD BEER. "We should have gone to Angie's Deli," I grumbled as we checked out. We stopped at another store for beer, and then we were on the home stretch to Miss Corbutt's.
We kept passing these young lesbian couples everywhere we went. After passing the last pair of pixie cuts, I was so strongly reminded of Smith that I asked, "God, did some wrinkle in space-time or whatever result in half of Northampton, Ass being mystically transported to Park Slope, or what?"
"I know, it's pretty lesbish around here," KatieScarlett agreed.
"Smith should open a fucking satellite office of the alumnae association here--if they haven't already. Now I see why you and Bienvenido-a-Miami moved here."
"Miss Corbutt lives here too and she's not a lesbian."
"Yeah, because she's from Northampton! Lesbians probably make her feel as comfortable as mountains, smoked salmon, and Starbucks make me, and decrepit steel mills, scrapple, and Christmas music makes you" (KatieScarlett is from Bethlehem, PA). "Are we there yet?" I added.
"Almost," said KatieScarlett in a quit-your-bitching type of tone.
We arrived at Miss Corbutt's and spent a while visiting with her and her boyfriend. Then she was feeling a bit strained, and since she just had her guts rearranged (her surgery required a lot of digging around in her abdomen), we left her to get some rest. I went over to KatieScarlett's and Bienvenido-a-Miami's for dinner, and afterward, was feeling very full and content and not at all like doing anything besides getting horizontal.
"You can stay the night here, Razzy," offered Bienvenido-a-Miami.
"I can't...you know, the dogs need walking. How the hell do I find the D train again?"
They gave me directions to the train and I sucked it up and trudged off alone into the misty night, hoping that I would not get lost in this most confusing of boroughs. Fortunately, I found the train, and even more fortunately, a Manhattan-bound D train zoomed up within five minutes of my arrival on the platform. I boarded and sank contentedly into an empty seat with my book about Genghis Khan, confident that all my troubles would subside now that Brooklyn was almost behind me.
Sadly, my hopes of a nice, quiet, Mongol horde-filled ride the whole way back to Sugar Hill were dashed almost immediately. Across from me were two short dudes that were obviously completely shitfaced. They were passed out and leaning against each other. I wasn't paying them much attention since they were both asleep. As the train emerged from the subway tunnel to cross the Manhattan Bridge, I looked across the East River to the city full of its tall buildings and bright lights and felt very pleased and relieved; I was returning to my home borough. I'd be home in twenty minutes.
**THUNK**
A loud noise snapped me out of my reverie and I saw that one of the drunk guys had fallen smack into the middle of the floor of the train. He didn't move, and I wondered if he was even alive. Everyone around him was trying to decide if this situation warranted a break from the typical New Yorker apathy concerning crazy and/or drunk people on the train. Finally, some dude on the train stood up, appraised the situation, and said to some guy a few seats over, "I guess we'd better pick him up."
The other guy made like he was going to protest, but the first guy reiterated, "We gotta pick him up. Come on, we can't just leave him there on the ground."
I vacated my prized seat so these guys could haul the drunk motherfucker up and lay him down across the bench where I'd been sitting. In spite of the drunk guy's petite size, they were having a difficult time getting him to stay put on the bench. Even though he was totally unconscious, his limbs were sprawled out like he was playing some bizarre static game of Twister.
"Holy shit!" one of the Good Samaritan lifters exclaimed, and they both released the man, who slipped back on the floor, this time with a slightly less pronounced thumping noise. Blood had started gushing from the guy's head, presumably from splitting his head open when he initially fell. There was blood all over the seat, and now it was pooling on the floor. Everyone was backing up as though they were going to get hepatitis just looking at him.
"I think we should call 911," said one of the lifters.
"Tell them to send a Hazmat team," quipped another passenger.
"Fuck, no, are you crazy?! They'll stop the train!"
While the prospect of being stuck with Bloody Mario for an indeterminate amount of time was unappealing, the guy was bleeding profusely and was generally unresponsive. I grudgingly sided with the guy who wanted to call 911.
"We have to get the cops or something," I offered.
"I know, I know," said pro-911 guy. "I don't want to be stuck here either. But, Jesus Christ, look at him! He's still fucking bleeding!"
The train pulled into the Grand Street station and I went with pro-911 guy to tell the conductor to call an ambulance. The conductor did indeed stop the train. When I returned to the car, the dude was now sitting upright although whether or not he was aware of his surroundings AT ALL was unclear. Blood was now pouring down his face onto his shirt, and given his dirty appearance, he looked like he'd just survived a roadside bomb in Iraq. People were shouting at him to wake up, I think because nobody was sure if he was just dead drunk or actually dying. Someone decided to try and appeal to his equally drunken but thus far uninjured friend.
The friend finally looked up with a bleary eye, announced something semi-intelligible about needing to piss, and started unzipping his fly.
"NO!" the entire train car shouted, practically in unison. "NO! NO! NO!"
"Eh?" he squinted up at everyone, apparently not believing that the subway car was an inappropriate place to urinate.
"You pull anything out of those pants and you'll be lookin' like your friend there," said the conductor menacingly, having just arrived at the car to assess the situation.
Meanwhile, one of the other passengers found an empty fifth of vodka under the drunks' original seat and showed it to the conductor.
"Here's what they were drinking," he announced. "Leeds Vodka. Christ, I've never even heard of that."
The conductor turned around and said, "I wouldn't touch that, sir. It could be a health risk."
The guy dropped the bottle immediately. I offered him some hand sanitizer. At that moment, two of New York's finest arrived. They took one look around and immediately shouted, "Okay, people, please exit the car! This car is being isolated!"
We all moved to a different car, and about 15 minutes later, the train was on its way. As we moved past the platform, I saw the two drunk dudes facing the wall as the cops fitted them each with a pair of lovely silver bracelets.
When I got home, I thought about all my trials, ranging from not being able to track down prune juice to nearly being spattered with possibly HIV-loaded blood, and I realized that ONCE AGAIN, everything was going fine until I ventured into that accursed borough across the river. It's all Brooklyn's fault.
Labels: BK, crazies, gross, MTA, NYC, oh the horror
Not on my watch
A landmark year, 2007, for many reasons, up to and including global warming/a first-time-in-a-long-motherfuckin-time Groundhound day winter-shortening self-sighting, and the extension of Daylight Saving Time that has threatened the functionality of Microsoft Office calendar tracking the nation over. As the new Y2K, I bow down to respect it by a) being late for work and b) reflecting on my own tender history with this crackpot way of asserting America's independence.
I don't care about DST. I'm late to everything so it doesn't fucking matter what time the clock says. I will find a way to arrive between 5 minutes and 2 hours after the time anything begins. It's a disease I inherited from my mother. I have great blood pressure, I help old people, my IQ can benchpress 350, I give alms to the poor so on and on, but I am categorically incapable of punctuality. So what.
One thing I did not inherit from aforementioned Mom, though, is a conspiracy theory gene that extends through her neurons to target and connect the most incredible nonsequitors of all time. And, you guessed it, one 'a them happens to be Daylight Saving Time, and [according to Momz] its sister conspiracy, the demon Algebra.
The first half of this theory is fairly familiar: Daylight Saving Time is a construct intended to maniuplate the physchology of we in the Land of the Free. Clocks are already contrived mechanisms to measure the exterior universal principle of Time, blah blah, and the government took a cue from Ben Franklin's noodling on the economy of time bending to create Summer Time. In World War II, we get a super boost with Double Daylight Saving Time and while the boys abroad fall back, the nation springs forward by two hours at home. I had not realized there was an inverse ratio of DST to conscription and/or consumer rationing, but there you have it. Lose husband/two pair hose/one pound butter, gain extra sunlight. Brilliant.
But this is nothing new. DST is at least a pain in the ass, and at best a Masonic-inspired attempt at control of the populace. Arizona bucks this system as the bullshit it is, just to make things interesting, but all in all, it's a liveable quirk of Western time management. Fine.
What's interesting, though, is that in the World According to Goober, the DST phenomenon is intimately interrelated to that bellweather of higher math, Algebra. The study of relation and quantity. A gift to we middle children of history from the great Arab nations of antiquity. In the deductive province of my mind, algebra's a gift horse, without which we don't make it to calculus, so we don't get, say, roads, binary systems, 7th grade math class crushes, so on and on. For Momz, though, it is the selfsame sinister stuff as our Wrinkle in Time known as "setting the clock back" - a construct introduced precisely to muddle the minds of the people about structure and numerical relationships. She has a particular trigger from LBJ on this count, as the architect of our deception: a seemingly well intentioned leader with secret back-room plans to confound our higher brain power with such trifles as Learning Math. Algebra, she postures, is a force-fit manner of arimethic that skews our world view and sends countless schoolchildren into a Sisyphusian battle against fake numbers with no productive end. The classic line to bridge these two ideas, in the standard dialogue is "And what is 'x'? No one could ever tell me what 'x' is - it's a system no one understands, but they masquerade as though they do. They set their clocks, they find 'x'. Mind control is what it is."
Confronting my mother on this topic is my favorite sport. I've heard it all before, but I set the trap when new people come over so they can witness it in the flesh. You start her on Daylight Saving Time and inside of five minutes, you've got Master Math coming at you like wildfire. Same in reverse. These ideas are organically bound in Momz' mind. My father studied math, just so you know, but he gave up about 20 years ago on trying to reason this one out. But I can't help myself. In a world of variables, this is an unflinching constant, a beacon in the shifting landscape: My Mom hates clocks and hates algebra, and so for her they are twin evils inflicted upon us/her by a malicious governing body.
And so. Exactly one hour late in getting ready, I tip my hat to Timeliness, Doing the Math - and my libertarian mother. Go 'head, girl, go 'head get down.
I don't care about DST. I'm late to everything so it doesn't fucking matter what time the clock says. I will find a way to arrive between 5 minutes and 2 hours after the time anything begins. It's a disease I inherited from my mother. I have great blood pressure, I help old people, my IQ can benchpress 350, I give alms to the poor so on and on, but I am categorically incapable of punctuality. So what.
One thing I did not inherit from aforementioned Mom, though, is a conspiracy theory gene that extends through her neurons to target and connect the most incredible nonsequitors of all time. And, you guessed it, one 'a them happens to be Daylight Saving Time, and [according to Momz] its sister conspiracy, the demon Algebra.
The first half of this theory is fairly familiar: Daylight Saving Time is a construct intended to maniuplate the physchology of we in the Land of the Free. Clocks are already contrived mechanisms to measure the exterior universal principle of Time, blah blah, and the government took a cue from Ben Franklin's noodling on the economy of time bending to create Summer Time. In World War II, we get a super boost with Double Daylight Saving Time and while the boys abroad fall back, the nation springs forward by two hours at home. I had not realized there was an inverse ratio of DST to conscription and/or consumer rationing, but there you have it. Lose husband/two pair hose/one pound butter, gain extra sunlight. Brilliant.
But this is nothing new. DST is at least a pain in the ass, and at best a Masonic-inspired attempt at control of the populace. Arizona bucks this system as the bullshit it is, just to make things interesting, but all in all, it's a liveable quirk of Western time management. Fine.
What's interesting, though, is that in the World According to Goober, the DST phenomenon is intimately interrelated to that bellweather of higher math, Algebra. The study of relation and quantity. A gift to we middle children of history from the great Arab nations of antiquity. In the deductive province of my mind, algebra's a gift horse, without which we don't make it to calculus, so we don't get, say, roads, binary systems, 7th grade math class crushes, so on and on. For Momz, though, it is the selfsame sinister stuff as our Wrinkle in Time known as "setting the clock back" - a construct introduced precisely to muddle the minds of the people about structure and numerical relationships. She has a particular trigger from LBJ on this count, as the architect of our deception: a seemingly well intentioned leader with secret back-room plans to confound our higher brain power with such trifles as Learning Math. Algebra, she postures, is a force-fit manner of arimethic that skews our world view and sends countless schoolchildren into a Sisyphusian battle against fake numbers with no productive end. The classic line to bridge these two ideas, in the standard dialogue is "And what is 'x'? No one could ever tell me what 'x' is - it's a system no one understands, but they masquerade as though they do. They set their clocks, they find 'x'. Mind control is what it is."
Confronting my mother on this topic is my favorite sport. I've heard it all before, but I set the trap when new people come over so they can witness it in the flesh. You start her on Daylight Saving Time and inside of five minutes, you've got Master Math coming at you like wildfire. Same in reverse. These ideas are organically bound in Momz' mind. My father studied math, just so you know, but he gave up about 20 years ago on trying to reason this one out. But I can't help myself. In a world of variables, this is an unflinching constant, a beacon in the shifting landscape: My Mom hates clocks and hates algebra, and so for her they are twin evils inflicted upon us/her by a malicious governing body.
And so. Exactly one hour late in getting ready, I tip my hat to Timeliness, Doing the Math - and my libertarian mother. Go 'head, girl, go 'head get down.
Labels: epidemic geekery, FalloniusMonk, family matters, hilarious shit, libertarians rule
Saturday, March 10, 2007
John Duddy is the Hotness Monster
Not a boxing fan, I'll be honest. But there's something profound about the neanderthal experience of two men beating the sweet fuck out of eachother. There are rules, there's ceremony, but you can't erase the fact that it's a trashy way to roll. Step aside street fights. These men are serious.
Last night, Kitten and I kicked it in Woodside to do some research on boxing, Irish boxing, by going straight to the source: Irish people. I stood in as the stunt-drinker and general wingman, given my strong proclivity toward whisky and strangers. She did the talking, writing - the work - while I just perched on my barstool lookin pretty to keep up convesation while she dug for quotes. I also had an important job as translator: Kitten has had to swear off drinking these days, so as the only one drinking, I was at moments the only one with enough alcohol in my ears to understand the brogue. A fine time had by all - we met an actual retired Irish boxer, 21 and a grill peppered with pronounced gaps, in addition to many boxing fans that produced some substantial, albeit eclectic, research for write ups. Stay tuned.
As the non-journalist of the pair, though, here's what *I learned: John Duddy is smokin fuckin fine. Check him out here, in his press releases-with-pics, where you can see those baby blues sparkling in front of the Irish Ropes step-and-repeat backdrop. His opponent for the Erin-Go-Brawl next weekend is pushing the boxing age - a seasoned 36, versus hottie's 27 - so my man is poised to conquer. You never know with boxing, a lot like cock fighting (in more ways than one), but Duddy is the delicious ladies' choice for victory.
A pre-fight aired while we were there, with the bonny lad bedecked in emerald Irish green, and I also discovered that, despite a brief hiatus from the ring, this cat moves like lightening. The bob and weave, for we inexperienced. There's certainly a technical name attached to his style that I can't even bother to look up. But dang, y'all, there's no pause in his punch. Glad I'm not a Hell-Cat-Katie, Gangs of New York-era broad. I'd crumble like a Confederate Solider if I faced that in a back alley. Other lessons: the Irish are leaving New York. The World Cup adventure in 2K6/Year of the Slut had me convinced that the population was running strong, but some inside intel reveals the fact that the stand-by supply of Irish immigrants have fled their usual neighborhoods of Woodlawn and Woodside to, well, the actual woods of Ireland. The economy is on the up and up and the OOO-Ess-Ah Patriot Act makes it tough to get a driver's license, so it's back to the bonny isles for some real living. Woodside - and I remember this from my former hood hang out days in 2003 - was once crawling with fresh-off-the-boat faces. Now, the bars are vacant, you can actually sit down. A few blokes hurling darts at the board, the erstwhile viewer of the Rogue and Pogue show, the occasional Hurling afficiando and the mandatory four-old-guys-at-the-end-of-the-bar. Otherwise, you can walk in and obtain a drink on a Friday night in about 7 seconds. Bodes well for the boozehounds but bad for the bar. Journalists break even.
Next assignment: off to Dublin to top-of-the-mornin some Gaelic honies. Nothing quite like some Catholic trouble. Boo ya.
Last night, Kitten and I kicked it in Woodside to do some research on boxing, Irish boxing, by going straight to the source: Irish people. I stood in as the stunt-drinker and general wingman, given my strong proclivity toward whisky and strangers. She did the talking, writing - the work - while I just perched on my barstool lookin pretty to keep up convesation while she dug for quotes. I also had an important job as translator: Kitten has had to swear off drinking these days, so as the only one drinking, I was at moments the only one with enough alcohol in my ears to understand the brogue. A fine time had by all - we met an actual retired Irish boxer, 21 and a grill peppered with pronounced gaps, in addition to many boxing fans that produced some substantial, albeit eclectic, research for write ups. Stay tuned.
As the non-journalist of the pair, though, here's what *I learned: John Duddy is smokin fuckin fine. Check him out here, in his press releases-with-pics, where you can see those baby blues sparkling in front of the Irish Ropes step-and-repeat backdrop. His opponent for the Erin-Go-Brawl next weekend is pushing the boxing age - a seasoned 36, versus hottie's 27 - so my man is poised to conquer. You never know with boxing, a lot like cock fighting (in more ways than one), but Duddy is the delicious ladies' choice for victory.
A pre-fight aired while we were there, with the bonny lad bedecked in emerald Irish green, and I also discovered that, despite a brief hiatus from the ring, this cat moves like lightening. The bob and weave, for we inexperienced. There's certainly a technical name attached to his style that I can't even bother to look up. But dang, y'all, there's no pause in his punch. Glad I'm not a Hell-Cat-Katie, Gangs of New York-era broad. I'd crumble like a Confederate Solider if I faced that in a back alley. Other lessons: the Irish are leaving New York. The World Cup adventure in 2K6/Year of the Slut had me convinced that the population was running strong, but some inside intel reveals the fact that the stand-by supply of Irish immigrants have fled their usual neighborhoods of Woodlawn and Woodside to, well, the actual woods of Ireland. The economy is on the up and up and the OOO-Ess-Ah Patriot Act makes it tough to get a driver's license, so it's back to the bonny isles for some real living. Woodside - and I remember this from my former hood hang out days in 2003 - was once crawling with fresh-off-the-boat faces. Now, the bars are vacant, you can actually sit down. A few blokes hurling darts at the board, the erstwhile viewer of the Rogue and Pogue show, the occasional Hurling afficiando and the mandatory four-old-guys-at-the-end-of-the-bar. Otherwise, you can walk in and obtain a drink on a Friday night in about 7 seconds. Bodes well for the boozehounds but bad for the bar. Journalists break even.
Next assignment: off to Dublin to top-of-the-mornin some Gaelic honies. Nothing quite like some Catholic trouble. Boo ya.
Labels: alcoholism, boyfriends, FalloniusMonk, NYC
Friday, March 09, 2007
Bombs over beer gut
Rac has been trying to tell me for years. I should have listened. I should have known. Alas, like all things, I had to come to it myself.
What is this revelation, you ask? Pretty easy.
THE PUSHUP BRA IS AN ENGINEERING MARVEL. Like the Hoover Dam. La Tour Eiffel. The Ferris Wheel. I don't know what clever bastard finally made the link between the braziere and the suspension-bridge, but I salute said person. Goddamn brilliant.
And don't you dare call me stupid that it took me three decades to learn this. I am a foreigner to some very basic traditional female rituals. It's just how I roll. I like painting my fingernails and I've grown to love high heels in the last few years, but I don't know shit about hair, makeup or lingerie. I'd be better off in the hands of an armless Nam Vet when it comes to cosmetics than left to my own devices. As for bras, well, I have two: a sports bra for the gym (feel the burn!) and a tube-top number for keeping my shit under wraps at work.
With LL Cool Jew's nuptials on the horizon, though, I'm in Lady Training. I gotta wear a dress - a hot one at that, but a mystery, with strange descriptions like "A-line." I have to wear silver shoes. Get my hair did and draped with florals. Buy gel cup boosty things because I boast THE smallest tits in the whole wedding party.
So it's Chick 101 for me. As Hammer says, Ring the bell - school's in, sucka!
Items on the agenda:
First, call 1-800-STORAGE for my beer gut. Switch to whisky. Cut down on the bread. Do not be the pregnant-lookin'-fat-girl in the wedding. It's been an interesting experiment - challenging, certainly, but I'm a little bit OCD, so there's a degree of self-discipline that I actually enjoy. And the diet is working. Not that there's a single person speaking English and alive today who *doesn't know this, just sayin.
Second mission. Handle my tits. Hence the pushup bra. Again, I know the ladies have been telling me about this, yet somehow it didn't hit my ears. But hold the fucking phone, I'm a believer. THIS BRA IS FUCKING AMAZING. There is now, for the first time in my natural lifetime, a shadow that comes somewhere near the word "cleavage." Me, President of the Tiny Titty Committee. I have no problem with that - it simply means that I am unaccustomed to seeing boobs on myself. This changes everything. It makes me think - can you do this with ass? Love handles? Beer guts? Is there someway to resling all this shit so you, er, redistribute the chunky wealth?
And then it hits me - THIS is what they mean when they say *silhouette. OHHHHHH...
Mission after this.
Alteration. I don't want to talk about it. Just let me know if you know a tailor.
Mission, what are we on, four?
Touch up my dye job so I don't look like Madonna.
Mission 5
Go back into booze boot camp a few weeks before the wedding so I don't fall over in them aforementioned heels.
Nummer 6
Make it to wedding etc
and lucky Number 7
Get a fucking photo of myself looking every inch like a lady and print the shit on a shirt to wear to the gym.
To remind us all that it is in fact possible, it did in fact happen, it is true: I'm a girl, and I can act like one.
What is this revelation, you ask? Pretty easy.
THE PUSHUP BRA IS AN ENGINEERING MARVEL. Like the Hoover Dam. La Tour Eiffel. The Ferris Wheel. I don't know what clever bastard finally made the link between the braziere and the suspension-bridge, but I salute said person. Goddamn brilliant.
And don't you dare call me stupid that it took me three decades to learn this. I am a foreigner to some very basic traditional female rituals. It's just how I roll. I like painting my fingernails and I've grown to love high heels in the last few years, but I don't know shit about hair, makeup or lingerie. I'd be better off in the hands of an armless Nam Vet when it comes to cosmetics than left to my own devices. As for bras, well, I have two: a sports bra for the gym (feel the burn!) and a tube-top number for keeping my shit under wraps at work.
With LL Cool Jew's nuptials on the horizon, though, I'm in Lady Training. I gotta wear a dress - a hot one at that, but a mystery, with strange descriptions like "A-line." I have to wear silver shoes. Get my hair did and draped with florals. Buy gel cup boosty things because I boast THE smallest tits in the whole wedding party.
So it's Chick 101 for me. As Hammer says, Ring the bell - school's in, sucka!
Items on the agenda:
First, call 1-800-STORAGE for my beer gut. Switch to whisky. Cut down on the bread. Do not be the pregnant-lookin'-fat-girl in the wedding. It's been an interesting experiment - challenging, certainly, but I'm a little bit OCD, so there's a degree of self-discipline that I actually enjoy. And the diet is working. Not that there's a single person speaking English and alive today who *doesn't know this, just sayin.
Second mission. Handle my tits. Hence the pushup bra. Again, I know the ladies have been telling me about this, yet somehow it didn't hit my ears. But hold the fucking phone, I'm a believer. THIS BRA IS FUCKING AMAZING. There is now, for the first time in my natural lifetime, a shadow that comes somewhere near the word "cleavage." Me, President of the Tiny Titty Committee. I have no problem with that - it simply means that I am unaccustomed to seeing boobs on myself. This changes everything. It makes me think - can you do this with ass? Love handles? Beer guts? Is there someway to resling all this shit so you, er, redistribute the chunky wealth?
And then it hits me - THIS is what they mean when they say *silhouette. OHHHHHH...
Mission after this.
Alteration. I don't want to talk about it. Just let me know if you know a tailor.
Mission, what are we on, four?
Touch up my dye job so I don't look like Madonna.
Mission 5
Go back into booze boot camp a few weeks before the wedding so I don't fall over in them aforementioned heels.
Nummer 6
Make it to wedding etc
and lucky Number 7
Get a fucking photo of myself looking every inch like a lady and print the shit on a shirt to wear to the gym.
To remind us all that it is in fact possible, it did in fact happen, it is true: I'm a girl, and I can act like one.
Labels: exercise drama, FalloniusMonk, holy fucking matrimony
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Yet another blow to my dreams of modeling
Because grad students make no money, I'm always on the lookout for some easy extra work to subsidize my alcoholism. My mother is also on the lookout on my behalf, because when extra work is hard to come by, she ends up arranging yet another specialty interest-free loan from the Bank of Razzy. She called me a while ago to tell me that she'd pimped out my services professionally to one of her friends.
My mother is an ultrasound technician by trade, and one of her favorite ultrasound-manufacturers is a company that is hilariously called Siemens (and yes, it's pronounced "semens".) I'm always making jokes to her about how she takes classes to improve her handling of Siemens probes and how she thinks every radiology department should have Siemens machines in them. I've covered this topic with her so much that at Christmas she actually dug out a t-shirt that says "You can't afford to gamble on your ultrasound purchase--INVEST IN SIEMENS."
Anyway, Siemens apparently hires models for ultrasound conferences to demonstate their superior ultrasound equipment, and they pay like $150 an hour. My mom gave me some woman's name and insisted that I e-mail her to offer my services. After all, my mom has scanned me a zillion times (when I was a kid and she was getting some new certification, she would practice on me and my little brother), and knows that I'm comfortable with it. In the course of doing all these abdominal ultrasounds on me, she has established that I have a "textbook pancreas." It would be easy money for me to just lay there and let the Siemens people demonstrate on me. Since I was talking to my mother, I refrained from any cracks about how I'm also accustomed to having Siemens all over my torso. I told my mother, "What does this involve? Because with my luck I'll end up on the vagina machine."
"Oh, Razzy, I doubt they do public demonstrations of the transvaginal probe. Besides, that's usually for pregnant women....you aren't pregnant are you?"
"No! I just don't feel like having all the people at the ultrasound conference getting a weiner's eye view of my cooch and female plumbing."
"Razzy!" I don't know why my mother is shocked any more when I say shit like this.
"Well, I don't! I'll do abdominal, or vascular, or an echo, or even breast, but I don't want to spend the day in a pair of stirrups."
"Just e-mail the Siemens lady and find out if there are any modeling jobs available. I'm sure you won't have to do anything besides pull up your shirt."
So I e-mailed this woman and finally heard back from her about modeling. The response was negative. Last night I was talking to my mom on the phone, and the first question was not "How are you?" or "Are you busy?", but "Did you hear back from the Siemens people yet about modeling?"
"Yes, Mom. They e-mailed me back last Friday and rejected me."
"Why? Do they already have enough people? Did you tell them you're used to being scanned?"
"Yes, Mom, I totally sold myself. I said that I have no modesty or shame and that I am an old veteran of being ultrasounded for demonstrative purposes. I even bragged about my sexy pancreas."
"Well, what was the problem?"
"Gender discrimination. Not that it's surprising given their name, but Siemens is biased toward men. They only hire male models for their trade shows."
"I wonder why that is?"
"Probably so nobody has to see my offensive tits when they're trying to do show their Doppler heart valve thingies on their echocardiogram machine."
"Razzy! It is a conference of medical professionals. I don't think they find the sight of breasts offensive." She had a somewhat accusatory tone, like it was my ideas or uncouth behavior that discouraged Siemens from hiring women.
"Well, it wasn't my idea not to hire chicks. That's just their policy for this upcoming conference, anyway."
"What about other conferences besides the one coming up?" I could see where this was going. My mom wanted me to pester the Siemens model scout about future work.
"I don't know, Mom, she said she would keep me in mind," I replied. The Siemens rep had said that, but given that this is one of the greatest blowoff lines of all time, I wasn't particularly hopeful. "What else am I supposed to do? I'm not e-mailing her every day to ask if there's another conference coming up. She knows I'm interested and she has my contact information."
My mother sounded slightly crestfallen. I wonder if she thought that, in addition to me hitting her up for less extra cash, she'd be able to boast in her office break room that her daughter is a Siemens girl. I guess Siemens is the Prada of ultrasounds, and getting paid to let them image my internal organs is the equivalent of a runway show at fashion week in Milan.
"I'll tell you what, Mom. Next time I'm home I'll go into your office and you can scan me and we'll shoot a portfolio. Then I can get an agent, and hopefully I'll be America's Next Top Ultrasound Model."
"You're making fun of me, aren't you, Razzy?"
"Just a little. As you know, I use humor to disguise the pain of being rejected. I have to make jokes to compensate for my crushed spirit pursuant to having my dream of being a Siemens model cruelly snatched away."
"Stop it! I get it, I get it."
"Don't worry, Mom, I can make money on the side other ways. I have that part-time job as an technology analyst for the university's patent office, and any day now my website will take off."
"So anyway, what are you up to now?" she asked. The quickest way to initiate a subject change with my parents is to act like I'm about to start telling them about my website. My mom read it once in summer 2005, when it was basically nothing but a review of a 50 Cent album and a biography page, and there were too many "f-words" then. Fortunately, at that time she swore off reading it ever again, and now pretends like it doesn't exist, because I shudder to think what she would say if she decided to catch up on my blog archives.
In any event, I'm too short to model based on my external features and too female to model based on my internal features, so it looks like I must placate myself with dreams of what it would be like to use my legendary features selling Siemens machines while I toil away doing virology research. And on that note, I have to go to lab now.
My mother is an ultrasound technician by trade, and one of her favorite ultrasound-manufacturers is a company that is hilariously called Siemens (and yes, it's pronounced "semens".) I'm always making jokes to her about how she takes classes to improve her handling of Siemens probes and how she thinks every radiology department should have Siemens machines in them. I've covered this topic with her so much that at Christmas she actually dug out a t-shirt that says "You can't afford to gamble on your ultrasound purchase--INVEST IN SIEMENS."
Anyway, Siemens apparently hires models for ultrasound conferences to demonstate their superior ultrasound equipment, and they pay like $150 an hour. My mom gave me some woman's name and insisted that I e-mail her to offer my services. After all, my mom has scanned me a zillion times (when I was a kid and she was getting some new certification, she would practice on me and my little brother), and knows that I'm comfortable with it. In the course of doing all these abdominal ultrasounds on me, she has established that I have a "textbook pancreas." It would be easy money for me to just lay there and let the Siemens people demonstrate on me. Since I was talking to my mother, I refrained from any cracks about how I'm also accustomed to having Siemens all over my torso. I told my mother, "What does this involve? Because with my luck I'll end up on the vagina machine."
"Oh, Razzy, I doubt they do public demonstrations of the transvaginal probe. Besides, that's usually for pregnant women....you aren't pregnant are you?"
"No! I just don't feel like having all the people at the ultrasound conference getting a weiner's eye view of my cooch and female plumbing."
"Razzy!" I don't know why my mother is shocked any more when I say shit like this.
"Well, I don't! I'll do abdominal, or vascular, or an echo, or even breast, but I don't want to spend the day in a pair of stirrups."
"Just e-mail the Siemens lady and find out if there are any modeling jobs available. I'm sure you won't have to do anything besides pull up your shirt."
So I e-mailed this woman and finally heard back from her about modeling. The response was negative. Last night I was talking to my mom on the phone, and the first question was not "How are you?" or "Are you busy?", but "Did you hear back from the Siemens people yet about modeling?"
"Yes, Mom. They e-mailed me back last Friday and rejected me."
"Why? Do they already have enough people? Did you tell them you're used to being scanned?"
"Yes, Mom, I totally sold myself. I said that I have no modesty or shame and that I am an old veteran of being ultrasounded for demonstrative purposes. I even bragged about my sexy pancreas."
"Well, what was the problem?"
"Gender discrimination. Not that it's surprising given their name, but Siemens is biased toward men. They only hire male models for their trade shows."
"I wonder why that is?"
"Probably so nobody has to see my offensive tits when they're trying to do show their Doppler heart valve thingies on their echocardiogram machine."
"Razzy! It is a conference of medical professionals. I don't think they find the sight of breasts offensive." She had a somewhat accusatory tone, like it was my ideas or uncouth behavior that discouraged Siemens from hiring women.
"Well, it wasn't my idea not to hire chicks. That's just their policy for this upcoming conference, anyway."
"What about other conferences besides the one coming up?" I could see where this was going. My mom wanted me to pester the Siemens model scout about future work.
"I don't know, Mom, she said she would keep me in mind," I replied. The Siemens rep had said that, but given that this is one of the greatest blowoff lines of all time, I wasn't particularly hopeful. "What else am I supposed to do? I'm not e-mailing her every day to ask if there's another conference coming up. She knows I'm interested and she has my contact information."
My mother sounded slightly crestfallen. I wonder if she thought that, in addition to me hitting her up for less extra cash, she'd be able to boast in her office break room that her daughter is a Siemens girl. I guess Siemens is the Prada of ultrasounds, and getting paid to let them image my internal organs is the equivalent of a runway show at fashion week in Milan.
"I'll tell you what, Mom. Next time I'm home I'll go into your office and you can scan me and we'll shoot a portfolio. Then I can get an agent, and hopefully I'll be America's Next Top Ultrasound Model."
"You're making fun of me, aren't you, Razzy?"
"Just a little. As you know, I use humor to disguise the pain of being rejected. I have to make jokes to compensate for my crushed spirit pursuant to having my dream of being a Siemens model cruelly snatched away."
"Stop it! I get it, I get it."
"Don't worry, Mom, I can make money on the side other ways. I have that part-time job as an technology analyst for the university's patent office, and any day now my website will take off."
"So anyway, what are you up to now?" she asked. The quickest way to initiate a subject change with my parents is to act like I'm about to start telling them about my website. My mom read it once in summer 2005, when it was basically nothing but a review of a 50 Cent album and a biography page, and there were too many "f-words" then. Fortunately, at that time she swore off reading it ever again, and now pretends like it doesn't exist, because I shudder to think what she would say if she decided to catch up on my blog archives.
In any event, I'm too short to model based on my external features and too female to model based on my internal features, so it looks like I must placate myself with dreams of what it would be like to use my legendary features selling Siemens machines while I toil away doing virology research. And on that note, I have to go to lab now.
Labels: America's Next Top Model, family matters, science, vanity
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Bono should be fi(RED)
Wow...it's been a year since that stupid Project (RED) campaign kicked off? You know, the one that was supposed to inspire me go to the Gap and pay $30 for a shitty-ass sweatshop-made t-shirt I can buy at H&M for five bucks? I'm supposed to love doing this because red is now the color of AIDS, not communism. It was stupid Bono's idea, because he knows everything there is to know about AIDS and Africa. Presumably everyone with a sliver of social consciousness was supposed to get all excited about the opportunity to pay for overpriced crap that would go towards the fight against AIDS. I wouldn't ever buy any of that RED stuff (partly because I'm secretly rooting for HIV because I love viruses and hate people), but I did think that this ad campaign was so fitting coming from a millionaire rock star who lectures people about poverty and overconsumption from behind a pair of $500 racquetball goggles.
Well, I laughed scornfully today when, as usual, I decided to catch up on the trade publications of the advertising industry (and by trade publications I mean Perez Hilton), and came across this article.
This article rules, because not only does it point out Bono's catastrophic failure in harnessing consumer power to combat "global" (translation: subsaharan Africa) AIDS, but it also points out what a fucking hypocrite his smug, patronizing ass is. Some watchdog dude noted, "The Red campaign proposes consumption as a cure to the world's evils" and apparently has put up a Bono parody on its website or something to illustrate this. I'm glad someone besides me is intolerant of assholes who charter private jets to go to poverty-stricken countries for the purpose of getting material with which to lecture everyone else on being greedy sons-a-bitches. I guarantee it's only a matter of time before he makes like Angelina and Madonna and starts stealing foreign orphans to prove what a dedicated humanitarian he is. In the meantime, though, Bono's comeuppance in terms of actually managing to LOSE money with this bullshit RED scheme is so, so sweet. No Nobel peace prize nomination for that fucktard this year!
Well, I laughed scornfully today when, as usual, I decided to catch up on the trade publications of the advertising industry (and by trade publications I mean Perez Hilton), and came across this article.
Labels: assholes, capitalism, celebrities, comeuppance, gluttony, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, viruses rule
Monday, March 05, 2007
Here's the beef
Most of the e-mail I get can be classified into several general categories:
1. People disputing or encouraging incorporation of various Hot Jews on the list
2. People telling me they love the site because X blog posting was hilarious
3. People telling me they hate the site because X blog posting was offensive
4. People taking issue with the extended coverage of 50 Cent on my "rap beefs" page
Today I received an e-mail from the latter category. These "rap beefs" e-mails are always pretty similar in that, after sifting through a sea of misspellings and aberrant punctuation, I glean that the author is trying to prove to me that my boyfriend Curtis Jackson is insincere, untalented, and a snitch because either Jadakiss/the Game/Fat Joe/Nas beat him in a mythical rap battle that may or may not have happened. In particular, the Jadakiss supporters are especially feisty, and I'm often about this close to reminding them that despite having all sorts of "realness" attributed to him by his fans, he did appear on the aural abortion known as "Jenny from the Block". When your ass appears in a video where the main storyline includes Ben Affleck pumping gas into his and J-Lo's Bentley, I think you should lose a few points for street credibility, but whatever.
In any event, these e-mails are all usually really indignant, question my taste in music and my intellect, and demand that I change it. Then there's some sort of vaguely threatening sign-off, such as "quit suckin fiddys dick bitch" or "i dare u 2 respond u probly a chickenhead snitch just like 50 u fuckin fag". I always respond, inform the e-mailer that my website contains MY opinion, and if they think something different should be on the internet, they should start their own fucking website. I also typically make a choice remark or two about their literacy. Today's e-mail was no exception, although, judging from the e-mail address, this hater is Canadian:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: Peta Pemberton (nakitap@shaw.ca)
Subject: This is from Tony Vedovato
I'm sayen that your fucken veiw on the beefs are wack I think you need
to get of 50's dick and you sound like a fag Fat Joe Jadakiss and
especially the mothafucken game ripped 50 to peices he is a snitch he
does live in conneticut haven you ever seen stop snitchin stop lien,
shit if you have the balls email me back justify your faggy ass reviews
Okay, Tony Vedovato/Peta Pemberton (and by the way, don't BOTH of those names sound like comic book characters?), no problem. I'll e-mail your ass back AND post your correspondence on my website.
To: Peta Pemberton (nakitap@shaw.ca)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: RE: This is from Tony Vedovato
Well, I don't "have the balls" because I'm not male (and I think my status as a female
likewise answers your charges that I am a gay man), but certainly I have the courage to
respond via e-mail to your assertion that my opinions are "wack." I can justify my
"faggy ass reviews" quite easily and succinctly: it's my website, and they're my
opinions. If you wish to figuratively fellate Fat Joe, Jadakiss, and "especially the
mothafucken Game" and talk shit about my boyfriend Curtis, then I suggest starting your
own online monument to useless bullshit, because I don't change my opinions based on
getting partially incomprehensible e-mails (ie: I have no idea what a "lien" has to do in
relation to snitching, but somehow I suspect it's not the legal freezing of an account or
property to secure payment of a debt).
Another opinion I have is that you need to come up with a more diverse array of insults
than simply the several variations of "fag" you use here. I would also strongly suggest
a review of basic grammar and spelling, starting with "i before e except after c."
Those are my "fucken veiws".
Razzy
I can't wait to see if Peta/Tony likewise has the requisite balls to respond. Man, I love me a good e-mail freestyle battle.
1. People disputing or encouraging incorporation of various Hot Jews on the list
2. People telling me they love the site because X blog posting was hilarious
3. People telling me they hate the site because X blog posting was offensive
4. People taking issue with the extended coverage of 50 Cent on my "rap beefs" page
Today I received an e-mail from the latter category. These "rap beefs" e-mails are always pretty similar in that, after sifting through a sea of misspellings and aberrant punctuation, I glean that the author is trying to prove to me that my boyfriend Curtis Jackson is insincere, untalented, and a snitch because either Jadakiss/the Game/Fat Joe/Nas beat him in a mythical rap battle that may or may not have happened. In particular, the Jadakiss supporters are especially feisty, and I'm often about this close to reminding them that despite having all sorts of "realness" attributed to him by his fans, he did appear on the aural abortion known as "Jenny from the Block". When your ass appears in a video where the main storyline includes Ben Affleck pumping gas into his and J-Lo's Bentley, I think you should lose a few points for street credibility, but whatever.
In any event, these e-mails are all usually really indignant, question my taste in music and my intellect, and demand that I change it. Then there's some sort of vaguely threatening sign-off, such as "quit suckin fiddys dick bitch" or "i dare u 2 respond u probly a chickenhead snitch just like 50 u fuckin fag". I always respond, inform the e-mailer that my website contains MY opinion, and if they think something different should be on the internet, they should start their own fucking website. I also typically make a choice remark or two about their literacy. Today's e-mail was no exception, although, judging from the e-mail address, this hater is Canadian:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: Peta Pemberton (nakitap@shaw.ca)
Subject: This is from Tony Vedovato
I'm sayen that your fucken veiw on the beefs are wack I think you need
to get of 50's dick and you sound like a fag Fat Joe Jadakiss and
especially the mothafucken game ripped 50 to peices he is a snitch he
does live in conneticut haven you ever seen stop snitchin stop lien,
shit if you have the balls email me back justify your faggy ass reviews
Okay, Tony Vedovato/Peta Pemberton (and by the way, don't BOTH of those names sound like comic book characters?), no problem. I'll e-mail your ass back AND post your correspondence on my website.
To: Peta Pemberton (nakitap@shaw.ca)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: RE: This is from Tony Vedovato
Well, I don't "have the balls" because I'm not male (and I think my status as a female
likewise answers your charges that I am a gay man), but certainly I have the courage to
respond via e-mail to your assertion that my opinions are "wack." I can justify my
"faggy ass reviews" quite easily and succinctly: it's my website, and they're my
opinions. If you wish to figuratively fellate Fat Joe, Jadakiss, and "especially the
mothafucken Game" and talk shit about my boyfriend Curtis, then I suggest starting your
own online monument to useless bullshit, because I don't change my opinions based on
getting partially incomprehensible e-mails (ie: I have no idea what a "lien" has to do in
relation to snitching, but somehow I suspect it's not the legal freezing of an account or
property to secure payment of a debt).
Another opinion I have is that you need to come up with a more diverse array of insults
than simply the several variations of "fag" you use here. I would also strongly suggest
a review of basic grammar and spelling, starting with "i before e except after c."
Those are my "fucken veiws".
Razzy
I can't wait to see if Peta/Tony likewise has the requisite balls to respond. Man, I love me a good e-mail freestyle battle.
Labels: 50 cent, correspondence, defiance, grammar gestapo, rap, Razzy Haters, retard rage, scathing indictments
Friday, March 02, 2007
Different class, same old bullshit
Yesterday I got an email from JerseyGirl:
To: Rack (rack@fashiondesigncompany.com), LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com), FalloniusMonk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com), Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: JerseyGirl (jerseygirl@freedomlovingnewsnetwork.com)
this makes me upset. why couldn't we have gloria steinem? as i recall, ll cool jew, you and i had someone named lani gunier and i literally do not remember one word that she spoke. oh yes and then there was the infamous vagina artist. this sucks, i'm jealous.
After getting over my initial amusement that JerseyGirl is still a regular reader of the Sophian five years after her stint as editor-in-chief of that illustrious publication, I experienced indignance of a different sort about my alma mater's choice of commencement speaker. That's the laziest, most uninspired selection of speaker ever. It's even worse than when they booked Judy Chicago, the aforementioned "infamous vagina artist", for my commencement because Jodie Foster bailed at the last minute out of concern that Hollywood's worst kept secret (that she's a dyke) might get out if she wished my class at Ugly Bitch U lots of success. (And incidentally, our Sophian coverage was way better than the boring sycophantic article above; I believe we put the headline "Can you hear the Smithies crying, Claireeeece?" above Foster's picture on the front page.) Scheduling Gloria Steinem is like the people who kiss celebrity ass for commencement speaker gigs didn't even try.
Gloria Steinem, "feminist icon" (which I'm is what she lists as her occupation on her tax return), went to Smith, is on the Smith Board of Trustees, and was always rustling her hideous high-waisted corduroy pants and batik peasant blouses all over campus. I've personally seen Gloria Steinem like 50 fucking times skulking about College Hall. I even dressed up as her for Halloween once. She might as well have been the Smith College mascot. The lazy administrators and trustees on the speaker-choosing committee probably were like, "Hmm...let's see. Madeline Albright? Oh, she's already booked for UNC? Well, what about Hillary Clinton? Oh, right...she's busy running for president. And she went to Wellesley. Bitch. Umm...shit, I can't think of anyone. Fuck it, let's just call up Gloria. I'm sure she's available."
Who really cares about commencement speakers anyway? I found out from her speech last year at Penn that the only thing Jodie Foster would have done was sing Eminem songs at us badly. I ignored Vagina Ashtray's speech at my commencement because she seemed like a busted loser and I didn't need her advice; at LL Cool Jew and JerseyGirl's graduation, I got so staggeringly drunk thanks to FalloniusMonk's toolbox full of Mr. Boston vodka that I fell down several times and fucked Motherbucker's friend Fergus in some bitch's freshly vacated room in Chase House. The only thing I would care about hearing from Gloria is what it was like to be stepmother to the hotness that is Christian Bale for three years, and somehow I doubt she'll cover that. She'll probably lecture everyone about how it's their duty to break the glass ceiling and demand equal pay as our male colleagues and generally be pushy, disagreeable bitches in order to get anywhere, or some similarly useless advice. Lame.
On the bright side, though, I am SO glad that they hired a professional uptight slag to mark the finale of Tej Bindra's matriculation.
To: Rack (rack@fashiondesigncompany.com), LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com), FalloniusMonk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com), Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: JerseyGirl (jerseygirl@freedomlovingnewsnetwork.com)
this makes me upset. why couldn't we have gloria steinem? as i recall, ll cool jew, you and i had someone named lani gunier and i literally do not remember one word that she spoke. oh yes and then there was the infamous vagina artist. this sucks, i'm jealous.
After getting over my initial amusement that JerseyGirl is still a regular reader of the Sophian five years after her stint as editor-in-chief of that illustrious publication, I experienced indignance of a different sort about my alma mater's choice of commencement speaker. That's the laziest, most uninspired selection of speaker ever. It's even worse than when they booked Judy Chicago, the aforementioned "infamous vagina artist", for my commencement because Jodie Foster bailed at the last minute out of concern that Hollywood's worst kept secret (that she's a dyke) might get out if she wished my class at Ugly Bitch U lots of success. (And incidentally, our Sophian coverage was way better than the boring sycophantic article above; I believe we put the headline "Can you hear the Smithies crying, Claireeeece?" above Foster's picture on the front page.) Scheduling Gloria Steinem is like the people who kiss celebrity ass for commencement speaker gigs didn't even try.
Gloria Steinem, "feminist icon" (which I'm is what she lists as her occupation on her tax return), went to Smith, is on the Smith Board of Trustees, and was always rustling her hideous high-waisted corduroy pants and batik peasant blouses all over campus. I've personally seen Gloria Steinem like 50 fucking times skulking about College Hall. I even dressed up as her for Halloween once. She might as well have been the Smith College mascot. The lazy administrators and trustees on the speaker-choosing committee probably were like, "Hmm...let's see. Madeline Albright? Oh, she's already booked for UNC? Well, what about Hillary Clinton? Oh, right...she's busy running for president. And she went to Wellesley. Bitch. Umm...shit, I can't think of anyone. Fuck it, let's just call up Gloria. I'm sure she's available."
Who really cares about commencement speakers anyway? I found out from her speech last year at Penn that the only thing Jodie Foster would have done was sing Eminem songs at us badly. I ignored Vagina Ashtray's speech at my commencement because she seemed like a busted loser and I didn't need her advice; at LL Cool Jew and JerseyGirl's graduation, I got so staggeringly drunk thanks to FalloniusMonk's toolbox full of Mr. Boston vodka that I fell down several times and fucked Motherbucker's friend Fergus in some bitch's freshly vacated room in Chase House. The only thing I would care about hearing from Gloria is what it was like to be stepmother to the hotness that is Christian Bale for three years, and somehow I doubt she'll cover that. She'll probably lecture everyone about how it's their duty to break the glass ceiling and demand equal pay as our male colleagues and generally be pushy, disagreeable bitches in order to get anywhere, or some similarly useless advice. Lame.
On the bright side, though, I am SO glad that they hired a professional uptight slag to mark the finale of Tej Bindra's matriculation.
Labels: Dumb Smith bitches, feminazism, overcompensation, you're ugly
Thursday, March 01, 2007
No, in Diddy
I was unaware of this, but apparently Diddy was banned from going by "Diddy" in the United Kingdom, because there's already some DJ who goes by that name. He's that guy in the inset who looks like the bastard child of Chris Elliot and the construction worker from The Village People.
The existence of this old Diddy makes sense, because I have this Blondie CD where there's something called the "Diddy remix" of "Rapture", and it always puzzled me because it sounded more like gay club music than anything else, and it lacked the requisite "take that take that take that", "uh" sounds, and shout outs to Bad Boy that are a necessary part of any Sean Combs-produced song. I've now realized that version of "Rapture" must be a Eurotrash house remix engineered by the original British Diddy.
Anyway, the more famous Diddy promised to go by something else in England, but apparently decided that he could get away with reverting to using the name Diddy in his song "The Future." The British Diddy sued for breaching the agreement, and the judge handed American Diddy his ass in a London court. Not that I really care what name this asshole gets to go by (I mean, he's due to change it again anyway), but the judge's ruling is priceless:
In fairness, really, what is poor Puffy to do? "Mainline this new Sean Combs heroin" is even more ridiculous, and you'd be hard-pressed to find a song by him that ISN'T overtly self-referential. I'm amazed that there's only one song on this album that says "Diddy" or exhorts listeners to buy his crappy-ass music. Can you think of a single Diddy song not involving the Notorious BIG that's remotely worth listening to and that was produced post-1997? All I can come up with is "Pass the Courvoisier," and that's only because that song brings the word "cho-cha" to mainstream radio (although his lyrics will never be as deft as those belonging to the pioneer of "cho-cha"-containing verse, my boyfriend Robert Sylvester Kelly).
The judge is really throwing the book at him, as he wants a full trial to address his repeated use of "Diddy" on YouTube and MySpace, and if Puffy doesn't excise all Diddy references from any material of his that might make it into the UK, he won't be allowed to perform his SOLD-OUT SHOW at Wembley Arena. Diddy can sell out an arena? I know he's like an entertainment mogul, but I thought that was just due to his shameless exploitation of the late Christopher Wallace and his ability to make popular sweatsuits, not because people actually want to hear HIS music. Since when did Diddy have the ability to sell out arena shows like it's 1985 and he's the original lineup of Van Halen? Since at least a few thousand Brits are eagerly mainlining this Diddy heroin, combined with my existing suspicions about whether the popularity of Jordan is the result of a pact between Katie Price and the devil, the re-election of their prime ministerGollum Tony Blair, and the disturbing trend of uber-asshole celebrities (Madonna and Gwyneth Paltrow) moving there and talking shit about America, I'm beginning to wonder whether there are any sane people in England at all. Oh wait...there's at least two. J.K Rowling, and the guy who came up with this idea to sell tickets to Equus.
The existence of this old Diddy makes sense, because I have this Blondie CD where there's something called the "Diddy remix" of "Rapture", and it always puzzled me because it sounded more like gay club music than anything else, and it lacked the requisite "take that take that take that", "uh" sounds, and shout outs to Bad Boy that are a necessary part of any Sean Combs-produced song. I've now realized that version of "Rapture" must be a Eurotrash house remix engineered by the original British Diddy.
Anyway, the more famous Diddy promised to go by something else in England, but apparently decided that he could get away with reverting to using the name Diddy in his song "The Future." The British Diddy sued for breaching the agreement, and the judge handed American Diddy his ass in a London court. Not that I really care what name this asshole gets to go by (I mean, he's due to change it again anyway), but the judge's ruling is priceless:
“The second verse refers to Mr. Combs as ‘Diddy’ as he invites the listener to ‘mainline this new Diddy heroin’. Mr. Combs expressly refers to iTunes and asks the listener to ‘Download me in every resident’. He refers to his CD as ‘my CD’s in 3-D holograms’, and finally refers to his shows with the words, ‘the live show’s a hard act to follow man’.The phrase "mainline this new Diddy heroin" is absurd enough on its own (and I'm snickering at my computer just typing it), but imagining a British judge, complete with powdered wig, saying this out loud to room full of stiff upper-lipped barristers is fucking hilarious. Was there a single straight face in the room as the judge laid down his ruling?
“I see this as straightforward advertisement by Mr. Combs of his CD, his songs which can be downloaded from iTunes and his live shows, all under and by reference to the word ‘Diddy’.
“The listener will understand he is being encouraged to buy the Press Play CD, to download the songs, and that the live show is an event well worth attending.”
In fairness, really, what is poor Puffy to do? "Mainline this new Sean Combs heroin" is even more ridiculous, and you'd be hard-pressed to find a song by him that ISN'T overtly self-referential. I'm amazed that there's only one song on this album that says "Diddy" or exhorts listeners to buy his crappy-ass music. Can you think of a single Diddy song not involving the Notorious BIG that's remotely worth listening to and that was produced post-1997? All I can come up with is "Pass the Courvoisier," and that's only because that song brings the word "cho-cha" to mainstream radio (although his lyrics will never be as deft as those belonging to the pioneer of "cho-cha"-containing verse, my boyfriend Robert Sylvester Kelly).
The judge is really throwing the book at him, as he wants a full trial to address his repeated use of "Diddy" on YouTube and MySpace, and if Puffy doesn't excise all Diddy references from any material of his that might make it into the UK, he won't be allowed to perform his SOLD-OUT SHOW at Wembley Arena. Diddy can sell out an arena? I know he's like an entertainment mogul, but I thought that was just due to his shameless exploitation of the late Christopher Wallace and his ability to make popular sweatsuits, not because people actually want to hear HIS music. Since when did Diddy have the ability to sell out arena shows like it's 1985 and he's the original lineup of Van Halen? Since at least a few thousand Brits are eagerly mainlining this Diddy heroin, combined with my existing suspicions about whether the popularity of Jordan is the result of a pact between Katie Price and the devil, the re-election of their prime minister
Labels: boyfriends, celebrities, crime and punishment, Diddy, rap, ridiculous absurdity
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