Monday, April 30, 2007
Prospective swingers will be disappointed
I was busy cruising the various gossip sites on the web today (after looking up about 9000 hot pics of Sigurd "The Hotness" Hansen on the internet, of course), and came across an ad in the sidebar that completely distracted me from the critique of Victoria Beckham's astoundingly pointy nipples I was reading. The ad must have determined my location based on my parents' computer's IP address, and customized its wares accordingly, which were cheap sex hookups with losers who can only get laid on the internet. I think you'll agree that this ad is most misleading.
I have yet to see a thin, seemingly well-groomed (for a skank advertising an online sex clearinghouse, anyway), corset-wearing, moderately attractive golf slut in Puyallup. Puyallup is full of fat bitches with prominent moose knuckles hanging out of their Wal-Mart stretch pants, spiral perms, and Taco Bell stains on their vintage Unionbay sweatshirts. It's also full of skinny, balding, meth-mouthed hookers with a penchant for double negatives and, despite the lack of a formal education, a talent for performing organic chemistry using Sudafed, anhydrous ammonia, and muriatic acid in a rudimentary lab setup composed of a gas can, funnel, and rusting truck bed of a 1994 Ford Ranger. In other words, while nasty whores abound, I have yet to see any of them who look REMOTELY like the woman in the above photograph.. There was an indie film based on Puyallup called Mulletville, for God's sake! I think that any men hopeful that a membership at Mate1 "Intimate Dating" (again, translation: online loser fucking forum) will yield a specimen like the one above need a serious reality check. If they are too lazy to Google "Puyallup" and examine some of the women's pictures that pop up, let me oblige:
Okay, so this picture MAY be 100 years old, but not much has changed in the way of skin care since then around here. And in fact, the picnic tablecloth-for-a-skirt thing is still going strong out in the more rustic areas.
These heifers are professors at the local community college. I think it's safe to say that when David Lee Roth penned the lyrics to "Hot for Teacher," this is NOT the variety of teacher he had in mind.
This bitch is some sort of anti-meth activist when she's not busy licking snatch, getting her hair cut at Fantastic Sam's, and purchasing horrific ill-fitting shirts with shoulder pads. This is approximately the same style that I was rocking at the age of 12. I bet she's got a hot pair of elastic waistband rayon culottes underneath.
Here's some dumb kid engaged in what is known as "doing the Puyallup." The Puyallup Fair is an annual testament to overpriced rides, scones, onion burgers, the 4H club, and horrific dreamcatchers and airbrush paintings of wolves which masquerade as artwork. The classic Puyallup Fair ads advise locals that they "can do it at a trot, or do it at a gallop, or do it real slow so your heart don't palpitate...just don't be late...DO THE PUYALLUP!" Clearly this kid (who I'm estimating to be 15 based on body mass index but who is probably actually 8 and what appears to be pubescent development is just her fat rolls) ate one too many Earthquake burgers and is now forced to do it real slow so her heart don't palpitate and result in a massive coronary. And yes, I know I'm making fun of a child and that's not very nice, but it's for her own good. Ho needs to drop a pound or twenty.
This woman is concerned that she might drop beneath the mass of a WWII-era Panzer tank and is drinking Sunkist by the 2-liter to ensure that she consumes at least 10,000 calories per day. Her daughter can fit into that edgy Hot Topic shirt that clashes so horribly with her red faux punk hair NOW, but give her a few years and she'll make the ground thunder when she stomps into the South Hill Mall Sam Goody to purchase her next Gym Class Heroes CD.
Did you ever hear that creepy story about the dude whose car breaks down by this farm and the farmer will fix it if he agrees to marry his daughter, and the daughter winds up being dead? Well, feast your eyes on the corpse bride of urban legend, right here in P-town.
Remember when I mentioned that they sell some really fucking ugly dreamcatcher-based artwork at the Puyallup Fair? Meet one of the artists.
Okay, that's my Aunt Jesus. I couldn't resist. You won't meet her on any sex/swinger personals websites, but if you go to a dating website geared toward judgmental neo-conservative fundamentalist Christians, you can probably win her over with some choice commentary in an evolution-bashing forum.
My point has been made. If you want to use Mate1 Intimate Dating to find women in Puyallup, you're much more likely to have Virgie Arthur or Aileen Wuornos's long-lost cousin show up at your door ready to rock your world than Fake Titted Golf Skank up there. Consider yourself warned, horny internet-scouring men of Puyallup.
This woman is concerned that she might drop beneath the mass of a WWII-era Panzer tank and is drinking Sunkist by the 2-liter to ensure that she consumes at least 10,000 calories per day. Her daughter can fit into that edgy Hot Topic shirt that clashes so horribly with her red faux punk hair NOW, but give her a few years and she'll make the ground thunder when she stomps into the South Hill Mall Sam Goody to purchase her next Gym Class Heroes CD.
Did you ever hear that creepy story about the dude whose car breaks down by this farm and the farmer will fix it if he agrees to marry his daughter, and the daughter winds up being dead? Well, feast your eyes on the corpse bride of urban legend, right here in P-town.
Remember when I mentioned that they sell some really fucking ugly dreamcatcher-based artwork at the Puyallup Fair? Meet one of the artists.
Okay, that's my Aunt Jesus. I couldn't resist. You won't meet her on any sex/swinger personals websites, but if you go to a dating website geared toward judgmental neo-conservative fundamentalist Christians, you can probably win her over with some choice commentary in an evolution-bashing forum.
My point has been made. If you want to use Mate1 Intimate Dating to find women in Puyallup, you're much more likely to have Virgie Arthur or Aileen Wuornos's long-lost cousin show up at your door ready to rock your world than Fake Titted Golf Skank up there. Consider yourself warned, horny internet-scouring men of Puyallup.
Labels: fat fucks, oh the horror, P-N-Dub, perversion, PWT, sex, sluts, you're ugly
I'm a Sig girl
For the last several days, I have found myself acting as an apologist of "Deadliest Catch" and particularly my new boyfriend Sig Hansen. Yesterday, HotLawyer and Princess HotLawyer were over at my house with my brother and a couple of his friends, and while we stuffed our faces with bratwurst and steak, HotLawyer said, "I watched 'Deadliest Catch' the other day and that Sig guy you're always raving about is a total douche. He's always sitting around with his jacket sleeves pushed up to his elbows, smoking, trying to be funny, and acting like a grade A TOOL."
Immediately I became incensed and feel compelled to defend the smoldering hotness that is this fourth-generation Norwegian fisherman, who learned his profession working on a salmon gillnetter when he was just fifteen. Fortunately, there's ample pictures of his hot young rubber overall-wearing ass on his MySpace page. Check out the intensity of that gaze, even at a young age, as he plies his trade on the Alaskan seas (most likely to stack paper and ball outrageous...ie: score mad Scandinavian pussy upon returning to Seattle in the off-season):
Because he was so damn good at salmon fishing (and I would gladly go plug herring and tie leaders on his salmon boat any day) and because he's a towheaded Viking fox, he got promoted to Bering Sea crab boat captain at the tender age of 22 and has been mining its violent and unpredictable waters for "red gold" ever since.
Okay, so he might be a little rougher around the edges 15 years later, and his fashion sense might not be fresh off the catwalks of Milan, and his haircut might be a little on the unkempt side, but I find him so fucking sexy it's unreal. He's always sitting around in the wheelhouse, steering the Northwestern through rogue waves and the various other hazards of the Bering Sea, pondering his aggressive and unconventional crabbing strategies, chain smoking cowboy killers (although I think he may have switched to Marb Lights this season), and plotting diabolical pranks designed to fuck with Blake, the cute but date-rapist-y greenhorn captain of the Maverick:
Sig has indirectly influenced my feelings about the fine region of the country in which I came up in surprising ways. There are a lot of things I miss about living in the P-N-Dub, and one that I never thought I would miss is seeing "Northwest Afternoon." This show, known colloquially as "NWA" (the show's producers apparently never listened to "Fuck Tha Police" or anything else by Eazy-E, Ice Cube, Dr. Dre, MC Ren, and DJ Yella, because there are no Niggaz with Attitude to be found anywhere among its TV personalities) is an afternoon talk show about Seattle. The first half is this fat bitch named Cindi Rinehart who gives a Cliff Notes version of what happened on various soap operas that day, followed by the other two hosts, who are a he-she team of smarmy, guffawing morons, doing some sort of lame feature story. Normally I'd always be on SoapNet watching reruns of "Beverly Hills, 90210" at 3 p.m. when this shitshow airs, but I was crushed to see that I'd missed this must-see episode which aired while I was back in the Big Apple:
Yes, for once they actually had some guests worth watching: Sig, raising the temperature on set about 50,000 degrees with his blazing hotness, and his brother Edgar, head deckhand on the Northwestern. Check out that gold chain Sig is rocking around his neck like the straight-up PIMP that he is.
And if I were "Deadliest Catch" narrator Mike Rowe, who also hosts a show called "Dirty Jobs", I'd be thinking dirtier thoughts than occupations if I were tossing back a few cocktails with Sig at the Dutch Harbor watering hole. Seemingly Mike Rowe was, because in this picture he seems upset that Sig is laughing at his clumsy advances. Obviously Sig is a ladies-only man, and he's saving himself for a fine Norse crab connoisseur babe like myself. Denied, Mike Rowe!
If by now I haven't convinced you that Sig Hansen is the Adonis of Alaskan crab fishermen, I probably never will, but you'll see what I'm talking about if you watch a little "DC" and see the master in action. Sig is so smoking hot that come Opilio season, he'll melt all the frozen sea spray off the rigging of the Northwestern just by standing near it. Seriously, I am getting this picture made into a poster and hung over my bed, so that I can gaze into his piercing, determined blue eyes as I fall asleep at night:
I'm a Sig girl for life.
Immediately I became incensed and feel compelled to defend the smoldering hotness that is this fourth-generation Norwegian fisherman, who learned his profession working on a salmon gillnetter when he was just fifteen. Fortunately, there's ample pictures of his hot young rubber overall-wearing ass on his MySpace page. Check out the intensity of that gaze, even at a young age, as he plies his trade on the Alaskan seas (most likely to stack paper and ball outrageous...ie: score mad Scandinavian pussy upon returning to Seattle in the off-season):
Okay, so he might be a little rougher around the edges 15 years later, and his fashion sense might not be fresh off the catwalks of Milan, and his haircut might be a little on the unkempt side, but I find him so fucking sexy it's unreal. He's always sitting around in the wheelhouse, steering the Northwestern through rogue waves and the various other hazards of the Bering Sea, pondering his aggressive and unconventional crabbing strategies, chain smoking cowboy killers (although I think he may have switched to Marb Lights this season), and plotting diabolical pranks designed to fuck with Blake, the cute but date-rapist-y greenhorn captain of the Maverick:
And if I were "Deadliest Catch" narrator Mike Rowe, who also hosts a show called "Dirty Jobs", I'd be thinking dirtier thoughts than occupations if I were tossing back a few cocktails with Sig at the Dutch Harbor watering hole. Seemingly Mike Rowe was, because in this picture he seems upset that Sig is laughing at his clumsy advances. Obviously Sig is a ladies-only man, and he's saving himself for a fine Norse crab connoisseur babe like myself. Denied, Mike Rowe!
Labels: Deadliest Catch, hot dudes, HotLawyer, P-N-Dub, Razzification, sex
Three's company
It appears that 2007 is the year of the threesome for me. I've had threesomes before this, but never so many in such a concentrated period of time. Normally threesomes are like solar eclipses, and I'll go years without having them, but nowadays I seem to participate in one on a quarterly basis. I suppose that part of it is that this year my latent lesbish qualities have emerged in full fingerbanging force (the other day someone referred to me as "bisexual," which I suppose I technically am, although ain't no way I'm having any kind of damn relationship with a girl...too much processing) and I seem to be getting an inordinate amount of pussy. I suppose that's how I end up in a menage a trois in the first place; so much willing pussy is throwing itself in my direction that I have to literally beat it off with a stick. God damn, I am lecherous and depraved, but in a totally awesome way.
Threesomes are an interesting phenomenon, and allow you to make interesting observations about people. To a certain degree, you can tell a lot about a person by the way they fuck, and a threesome adds another dimension. I know some people who are not fond of this. One of my buddies discussed this over IM one time a while ago. I don't remember the conversation verbatim, but it was along these lines:
1. There's always a third wheel. My most recent threesome was this way, and I was the third wheel. Granted, while the action started I was all up in that shit getting equal attention. Later, however, I was jarred from a deep alcoholic slumber by the other two fucking vigorously next to me and not indicating at all that I should join in. Later, when I took off, I gave the dude a hug and a friendly peck on the cheek, but he and the other girl had this long, passionate goodbye kiss. There's always going to be two people who are more interested in each other than the third party, and this is just the way it goes. It didn't bother me to the back-up snatch; the other two had been all over each other all night before heading toward the bedroom, and I was participating just because threesomes are fun. Besides, I am the center of attention on PLENTY of other occasions, so I can swallow my sense of self-adulation for a minute to let my friends get off if they're feeling so inclined. I can see how people with different expectations than myself might feel hurt or left out by this and thus steer clear of hot group action in the future.
2. Nerves. A lot of people get nervous about threesomes, even if they've had lots of casual sex with one person at a time before. Why nerves are a major issue once you're all naked in bed together and, say, getting a blowjob from two chicks simultaneously is beyond me, but it happens. I've seen guys have performance problems in these situations where by all accounts they SHOULD have a raging hard-on, and I attribute that to nerves. Frankly, the first time I had group sex I could barely compose myself enough to even touch the other chick, much less stick a finger in her vadge. However, I chalked it up as a learning experience and was soon muff-diving like an accomplished porn star. Not everyone has my can-do attitude, however, and I can see how this culminates in being put off.
3. Embarrassment. I have a hard time relating to this one, being that I failed guilt class in Catholic school. While sometimes I feel a slight sense of emotional discomfort that people tell me is embarrassment or humiliation, it's usually because I fuck up some useless piece of trivia and might potentially look somewhat stupid. I was mortified, for example, when I confused Bob Uecker ("Mr. Baseball", sportscaster, and dad on "Mr. Belvedere") with Bob Eubanks (former host of "The Newlywed Game") while writing about Tom Berenger and the movie Major League a while back. My ex-boyfriend Benzo called me on it immediately and I was horrified that I had made such a foolish mistake. However, I can talk about how I got shit on the sheets after a particularly forceful anal ramming in a by-the-hour motel in Renton with only a slight sense of abashedness. Not everyone is as comfortable being an unrepentant slut, and sometimes being in a particularly skanky situation, such as a threesome, might embarrass those with a better developed sense of shame than myself. I suppose they might feel like some sort of deviant pervert, and that the sexually repressed, moralistic (ie: lame) members of society might think less of them. I think people shouldn't be worried about the consequence of a nice, relaxing, healthy menage a trois being judgment by a bunch of tightasses, because those people are usually the biggest creeps of them all. If you've ever watched "To Catch a Predator," you know that there's no shortage of sanctimonious ministers, rabbis, and assorted other men of the cloth cruising the internet looking for kids to fuck. What's worse, having sex with a plurality of consenting adults, or soliciting underage girls to let you take their virginity? Don't be embarrassed...having a threesome is wholesome as apple pie compared to online solicitation of child rape.
4. Um....well, I can't really think of anything else that might be wrong with having a threesome. Threesomes rule. As Motherbucker just advised me via instant message, "Threesomes are for winners." I couldn't agree more. Clearly, I am having a winning year.
Threesomes are an interesting phenomenon, and allow you to make interesting observations about people. To a certain degree, you can tell a lot about a person by the way they fuck, and a threesome adds another dimension. I know some people who are not fond of this. One of my buddies discussed this over IM one time a while ago. I don't remember the conversation verbatim, but it was along these lines:
Him: So Razzy, I had my first threesome last weekend.I've never had that "too many parts" dilemma, because I think that problem can be overcome with some creative positioning and a deft application of oral and/or manual work where warranted. However, his position got me thinking. I always figured dudes would be fucking ridiculously thrilled about having sex with two chicks at the same time. Guys often seem to LOVE hearing details about my Sapphic misadventures, so it was strange to me that a dude would find himself in the middle of a hot female sandwich and describe the experience as awkward, unimpressive, and not particularly enjoyable. Since the adjectives I usually select for describing threesomes are "awesome", "asskicking", and "ruling like Genghis Khan", it is somewhat astonishing to me that among the world's population of threesome-having libertines, there are people who characterize it as an uncomfortable and generally unpleasant experience, on par with having a colonoscopy or being urethrally catheterized. I forget that not everyone shares my "the more the merrier", pro-excess attitude about sexuality. I started trying to think about it from the perspective of the anti-threesome contingents, and came up with a short list of things that people might not like about threesomes.
Me: That's my boy...good for you!
Me: With who? Two chicks?
Him: My ex and her new girlfriend
Me: Your ex is a dyke?
Him: She's bi!
Me: Well, clearly. Was it fun?
Him: It was awkward.
Me: Why? Not everyone fully on board?
Him: No, it was physically awkward. Too many parts.
Me: What do you mean, too many parts?
Him: Think about it...there's always someone left out.
Him: All that stuff doesn't fit together very easily. It was just too challenging.
Him: It was unimpressive. Not my favorite thing ever.
1. There's always a third wheel. My most recent threesome was this way, and I was the third wheel. Granted, while the action started I was all up in that shit getting equal attention. Later, however, I was jarred from a deep alcoholic slumber by the other two fucking vigorously next to me and not indicating at all that I should join in. Later, when I took off, I gave the dude a hug and a friendly peck on the cheek, but he and the other girl had this long, passionate goodbye kiss. There's always going to be two people who are more interested in each other than the third party, and this is just the way it goes. It didn't bother me to the back-up snatch; the other two had been all over each other all night before heading toward the bedroom, and I was participating just because threesomes are fun. Besides, I am the center of attention on PLENTY of other occasions, so I can swallow my sense of self-adulation for a minute to let my friends get off if they're feeling so inclined. I can see how people with different expectations than myself might feel hurt or left out by this and thus steer clear of hot group action in the future.
2. Nerves. A lot of people get nervous about threesomes, even if they've had lots of casual sex with one person at a time before. Why nerves are a major issue once you're all naked in bed together and, say, getting a blowjob from two chicks simultaneously is beyond me, but it happens. I've seen guys have performance problems in these situations where by all accounts they SHOULD have a raging hard-on, and I attribute that to nerves. Frankly, the first time I had group sex I could barely compose myself enough to even touch the other chick, much less stick a finger in her vadge. However, I chalked it up as a learning experience and was soon muff-diving like an accomplished porn star. Not everyone has my can-do attitude, however, and I can see how this culminates in being put off.
3. Embarrassment. I have a hard time relating to this one, being that I failed guilt class in Catholic school. While sometimes I feel a slight sense of emotional discomfort that people tell me is embarrassment or humiliation, it's usually because I fuck up some useless piece of trivia and might potentially look somewhat stupid. I was mortified, for example, when I confused Bob Uecker ("Mr. Baseball", sportscaster, and dad on "Mr. Belvedere") with Bob Eubanks (former host of "The Newlywed Game") while writing about Tom Berenger and the movie Major League a while back. My ex-boyfriend Benzo called me on it immediately and I was horrified that I had made such a foolish mistake. However, I can talk about how I got shit on the sheets after a particularly forceful anal ramming in a by-the-hour motel in Renton with only a slight sense of abashedness. Not everyone is as comfortable being an unrepentant slut, and sometimes being in a particularly skanky situation, such as a threesome, might embarrass those with a better developed sense of shame than myself. I suppose they might feel like some sort of deviant pervert, and that the sexually repressed, moralistic (ie: lame) members of society might think less of them. I think people shouldn't be worried about the consequence of a nice, relaxing, healthy menage a trois being judgment by a bunch of tightasses, because those people are usually the biggest creeps of them all. If you've ever watched "To Catch a Predator," you know that there's no shortage of sanctimonious ministers, rabbis, and assorted other men of the cloth cruising the internet looking for kids to fuck. What's worse, having sex with a plurality of consenting adults, or soliciting underage girls to let you take their virginity? Don't be embarrassed...having a threesome is wholesome as apple pie compared to online solicitation of child rape.
4. Um....well, I can't really think of anything else that might be wrong with having a threesome. Threesomes rule. As Motherbucker just advised me via instant message, "Threesomes are for winners." I couldn't agree more. Clearly, I am having a winning year.
Labels: lezbollah, perversion, Razzification, sex, sluts
Friday, April 27, 2007
Off to Assassinated Hot Adulterous Catholic President International Airport
So I am about to lug Chingy!'s fat ass off to JFK for a desperately needed week of vacay in the P-N-Dub, where I will undoubtedly spend a lot of time watching trashy television, drinking Vitamin R at the Roadhouse Tavern, and, as JerseyGirl put it, "effing mad guys." Well, that last part might not be true...YET, but I have high hopes and a tight enough game to make my boyfriend Robert Sylvester Kelly jealous. Okay, that last part isn't true, either, but prospects are good.
Tomorrow night is the Bell Prep Boosters Crab Feed (LION PRIDE, BABY!), a fundraiser I attend every year at my high school alma mater, where along with MillerTime, HotLawyer, Mrs. HotLawyer, M-Boner, her husband McBoner, and Sexxxica, I will partake in what the "Deadliest Catch" narrator calls "red gold from the Bering Sea." They also serve all-you-can-drink beer, and this facilitated laid like what on MillerTime's living room couch last year post-Feed, so I'm positively buoyant with optimism.
Expect occasional reports about this and other interesting P-N-Dubby things, like smoked salmon, microbrews, coffee, and Windows Vista. Oh, and the Seahawks' taste in draft choices. Of course.
[UPDATE: My flight is now two and a half hours late, and American Airlines just impressed the shit out of me by calling me to advise me of this so I didn't get too drunk to fly while waiting with a squealing and ill-tempered Chingy! in the airport bar. Now I can wait at home, passing the time sipping on a considerably more cost-effective double deuce of Heineken. As an added bonus, the Discovery Channel is presently airing a vintage season 1 episode of "Deadliest Catch." Kick ass.]
Tomorrow night is the Bell Prep Boosters Crab Feed (LION PRIDE, BABY!), a fundraiser I attend every year at my high school alma mater, where along with MillerTime, HotLawyer, Mrs. HotLawyer, M-Boner, her husband McBoner, and Sexxxica, I will partake in what the "Deadliest Catch" narrator calls "red gold from the Bering Sea." They also serve all-you-can-drink beer, and this facilitated laid like what on MillerTime's living room couch last year post-Feed, so I'm positively buoyant with optimism.
Expect occasional reports about this and other interesting P-N-Dubby things, like smoked salmon, microbrews, coffee, and Windows Vista. Oh, and the Seahawks' taste in draft choices. Of course.
[UPDATE: My flight is now two and a half hours late, and American Airlines just impressed the shit out of me by calling me to advise me of this so I didn't get too drunk to fly while waiting with a squealing and ill-tempered Chingy! in the airport bar. Now I can wait at home, passing the time sipping on a considerably more cost-effective double deuce of Heineken. As an added bonus, the Discovery Channel is presently airing a vintage season 1 episode of "Deadliest Catch." Kick ass.]
Labels: P-N-Dub
And speaking of Captain Cook
LL Cool Jew and BigBagel were both thrilled by that last entry about their postcard, and decided to send me some pictures to verify their story. For example, this one, where LL Cool Jew nestled up into the crotch of a friendly native toting (what else?) some breadfruit. No roasted pigs, bouncing boobies, or massively tatted asses, though, so it's not the same reception Captain Cook got after he parallel parked the HMS Endeavour up in that bitch. Nonetheless, given my tastes in men, I think I'd be pretty stoked to be in LL Cool Jew's high heeled flip-flops in this photo:
And I think that if and when LL Cool Jew and I get our VOC tattoos, we'll have to do it the Polynesian way for a more authentic experience. I think they hammer inked up fish bones into your skin. I saw it done in Hawaii, which, incidentally, were also discovered by Captain Cook and named the Sandwich Islands for his patron, the Earl of Sandwich. Bone-tattooing sounds painful, but it's a small price to pay for our seafaring fetish. LL Cool Jew and BigBagel both seem to approve of this idea:
(And does BigBagel ever take that damn Jason Kidd jersey off? Probably only to put on his Strahan jersey come fall. I'm amazed he didn't wear it at his wedding.)
(And does BigBagel ever take that damn Jason Kidd jersey off? Probably only to put on his Strahan jersey come fall. I'm amazed he didn't wear it at his wedding.)
Labels: BigBagel, LL Cool Jew
Thursday, April 26, 2007
My friends are also nerds
LL Cool Jew is the world's most prolific postcard writer, and even on her honeymoon in Tahiti, where presumably she was busy snorkeling and fucking her new husband BigBagel, she found time to send me a postcard featuring a picture of a tranquil South Pacific scene (lush mountains, lagoons, thatched cabanas, etc.). I was delighted to turn it over and see the entire back covered with her distinctive and lovely handwriting.
I should mention here that one thing LL Cool Jew and I bond over BIG TIME is our mutual love for anything having to do with historical maritime exploits, especially those involving pirates, Her/His Majesty's Royal Navy (depending on the time period), exploration, and colonial intrigue. She once tried to convince me to get the "VOC" logo used by the Gentlemen XVII, the aristocrats overseeing the Vereenigde Oostindische Compagnie (AKA the Dutch East India Company), to stamp their official correspondence on my ass. That didn't happen, but it would have totally ruled:
I can only imagine what the expression would be on any random lay's face upon being informed that the "VOC" on my (extremely hot) ass wasn't some ex-boyfriend's initials but the calling card of the seventeenth century merchant guild elite. Anyway, being in Tahiti, site of the HMAV Bounty's ill-fated breadfruit-acquiring mission and Captain James Cook's favorite port of call, she spent most of the postcard regaling me with thrilling tales related to its historical particulars. Not to neglect modern times, however, that clever bitch still managed to work in a reference to a scene from the finale of Vh1's (finest achievement of all time) "I Love New York:"
I should mention here that one thing LL Cool Jew and I bond over BIG TIME is our mutual love for anything having to do with historical maritime exploits, especially those involving pirates, Her/His Majesty's Royal Navy (depending on the time period), exploration, and colonial intrigue. She once tried to convince me to get the "VOC" logo used by the Gentlemen XVII, the aristocrats overseeing the Vereenigde Oostindische Compagnie (AKA the Dutch East India Company), to stamp their official correspondence on my ass. That didn't happen, but it would have totally ruled:
I can only imagine what the expression would be on any random lay's face upon being informed that the "VOC" on my (extremely hot) ass wasn't some ex-boyfriend's initials but the calling card of the seventeenth century merchant guild elite. Anyway, being in Tahiti, site of the HMAV Bounty's ill-fated breadfruit-acquiring mission and Captain James Cook's favorite port of call, she spent most of the postcard regaling me with thrilling tales related to its historical particulars. Not to neglect modern times, however, that clever bitch still managed to work in a reference to a scene from the finale of Vh1's (finest achievement of all time) "I Love New York:"
April 12, 2007~DOOD!! OK, see that little bay inlet between those near-vertical peaks so strictly evocative of the South Pacific? That's where a stinking, syphilitic, and exhausted James Cook pulled in in 1777, greeted in all likelihood by a horde of bouncing brown boobies and massively tatted asses toting roasted pigs and fried breadfruit, and decided then and there that this place would make him famous. I mean, honestly, this place is completely ridiculous. We can jump off our terrace into a placid lagoon chock full of fish, and every time I turn around and see these frickin mountains I just about soil myself. Also, behind our bungalow is the dolphin center, so I can totally look up and see what Chance would call "the water dogs" doing their sweet dolphiny thing. If I could just see one inbred descendent of Fletcher Christian it would be complete. PRESS! Love, LL Cool Jew and BigBagel.I can always count on my friends, and ESPECIALLY on LL Cool Jew, to remind me that I am not alone in my pursuit of useless but fascinating geekified historical knowledge concerning the intrigue of seamen past. Maybe she'll go get that VOC tattoo with me, as a show of nerd solidarity.
Labels: BigBagel, correspondence, epic geekery, I LOVE IT, LL Cool Jew, Razzification
Extra, extra! I have a new reject
Since I have not done much with the remainder of my site excepting this blog in the past month or nine, it doesn't get very much traffic. To make a halfassed attempt at improving this, I added a new Reject to the Razzy's Rejects page. If you click on those links, it will take you there, and you can scroll all the way down to see the new guy, "TT Boy/Krishna," who, much to my chagrin, briefly appointed himself my "Guru." I advised him that I was posting his shit, which prompted a grovelling apology. However, I'm not taking it down, because he is an asshole, and it serves him right for being a disingenuous, adulterous douchebag whose primary coping skill is name-calling. Hopefully he'll think twice about peddling his unattractive wares around the social cesspool known as Friendster, and it will spare some other unsuspecting woman the hassle of dealing with his bullshit propositions.
I actually have a whole folder full of potential rejects from Friendster that I intend to post to the Rejects page eventually, but this guy actually managed to piss me off by having the audacity to insult me on a professional, moral, and gender-based level when I declined his repeated requests for a movie date on the basis of him being old, ugly, and married. So go check it out, as it's a preview of more Reject fun to come (in a month or two or twelve).
I actually have a whole folder full of potential rejects from Friendster that I intend to post to the Rejects page eventually, but this guy actually managed to piss me off by having the audacity to insult me on a professional, moral, and gender-based level when I declined his repeated requests for a movie date on the basis of him being old, ugly, and married. So go check it out, as it's a preview of more Reject fun to come (in a month or two or twelve).
Labels: Razzification, real-life rejects, you're ugly
Bad Dreamgirls
Last night I was watching the finale "Search for the Next Pussyclot Doll," and while I stand by my opinion that it is the worst show on television, I've now become morbidly fascinated by its overwhelming shitshowiness in a manner that is almost pathological. It invokes the kind of feelings in me that I imagine would ensue if I watched a scat porn starring Dennis Hastert and Rosie O'Donnell: totally consuming fascinated horror. Between Lil' Kim's dramatically fluctuating BMI and questionable rayon shirt choices, the Stepford Ho contestants who, when asked "What do you like about the product you're selling?" respond with "Yes," the SUPER bitchy gay choreographer who shrieks with horror when the dumb bitches fuck up subtly while shaking their pussies at each other, and former Sugar Ray frontman Mark McGrath's smarmy and unnecessarily arrogant hosting and interviewing demeanor, this show is the most explosive trainwreck to hit the C-Dub network ever. Or the WB/UPN, for that matter.
To validate how outrageously bad this show is, it also has the worst commercials. As I was contemplating whether or not to flip to the Anna Nicole "THS" that I've already seen 50 times during the ads, this particular solicitation perked my attention. "Something amazing is coming," it cautioned me.
Okay, I'm in. What's amazing? I minimized this channel guide and was hit with a very bad, very anti-Razzified sight: Beyonce, fat ass Jennifer Hudson, and that other bitch dancing around in their Supremes outfits and hawking the DVD release of Dreamgirls. I think that Dreamgirls may be the most repellant movie ever committed to film, and the mere idea of seeing it, much less purchasing the DVD, is causing my blood pressure to spike alarmingly high. Dreamgirls combines two movie genres that I despise: musicals and chick flicks. I have a very strict hierarchy for types of movies I like and it goes something like this:
Best: horror, old school Schwarzenegger, and Varsity Blues have a three-way tie. I'd watch C.H.U.D. or Predator with equal relish. PG-13 horror movies (ie: Boogeyman) do not count. However, anything with a giant shark, interplanetary Earth-Mars political machinations, some senseless slasher with awesome accessories (chainsaw/meat apron, hockey mask, fancy knife-wielding flying ball, etc.), hookers with three boobs, time-traveling killer cyborgs, murderous pun-spewing leprechauns, rocket launchers, Cold War nuclear intrigue, Paris Hilton getting a steel pole driven through her head, evil Communists, teenagers having their faces eaten off, or Japanese ghosts can pique my interest.
Second Best: Historical or Tolkien-based epic adventure. This genre would be top if it didn't disappoint me so much and so often. For every Gladiator, Master and Commander, and all sixteen hours of the sublime extended edition Lord of the Rings, there is a King Arthur, Eragon, Kingdom of Heaven, Alexander, and 300, where the magnificent and commendable Xerxes was reduced to what the bastard child of Yul Brynner and RuPaul would look like if he dressed in leather drag and worked as a sadistic dom at some underground gay bar catering to pain fetishists.
Third Best: Action movies that don't have Nicolas Cage and/or John Travolta in them. I welcome explosions, fully automatic assault rifles doing lots of shooting, and generally large special effects budgets, but if I ever have to watch Face/Off or Con Air again, there will be another type of explosion. A derisively verbal explosion. From me.
Fourth Best: Movies that amuse me. Specifically, The Naked Gun, Blazing Saddles, Airplane, Spaceballs, Trading Places, Three Amigos, Dirty Work, Ghostbusters, Fletch, Caddyshack, The Big Lebowski, and Ruthless People.
Fifth Best: Harry Potter movies. Fuck all you HP haters. Harry Potter kicks ass. And I wouldn't kick Daniel Radcliffe out of bed either, after his 18th birthday, anyway.
Tolerable and I might like it once in a while: Documentaries about interesting things like war, sex, or guns, movies about disturbing crimes, historical movies without epic military combat (ie: Elizabeth), and cautionary tales about the dangers of scientists playing God.
Bad: Children's movies, cartoons, anything involving Celine Dion theme songs, and movies about dance contests. The best part of Titanic was when the fucking boat sank, but the two and a half hours preceding that made me want to go down with the damn ship.
Worse: Christmas movies. If my cranky, incompetent, pussified father informed me that every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings, I would have told him to cut the bullshit, sober up, and go beat the crap out of that asshole Mr. Potter. None of this wandering aimlessly around town being a loser until you happen to discover the spirit of Christmas or whatever. And while It's a Wonderful Life gets most of my ire in this genre, I don't like ANY Christmas movies. I don't like that Christmas Story movie about Ralphie and his gun that everyone thinks is so great, and don't get me started on Jim Carrey's bastardized portrayal of the Grinch. Unless the Christmas movie stars a puppet elf with aspirations of becoming a dentist, count me out.
Much Worse: Movies where awesome dogs die. DO NOT get me started about Old Yeller, White Fang, or Where the Red Fern Grows, because this results in me starting to cry, which is both highly embarrassing and annoying to the person talking with me about it. Old Yeller, AKA the best doggone dog in the West, sacrificed himself to save his human family from an angry she-bear afflicted with the hydrophobia and all he got in return was the standard 19th century frontier treatment for rabies: a 12-gauge shotgun shell in the face. It is one of the greatest tragedies of the American cinema.
Hell on earth: a tie between musicals and chick flicks. I may have been the only girl in American history to hate both Dirty Dancing and Grease. When I was a tween and attending slumber parties was the social activity of choice, Dirty Dancing and Grease were the must-rent movies. In spite of the slightly raunchy subtext of both films (pregnancy and underage substance abuse), these movies make me want to commit seppuku because they are so fucking irritating. For one thing, in Dirty Dancing, Jennifer Grey and Patrick Swayze were unable to recapitulate the magical chemistry they exuded onscreen while leading the guerilla insurgency against the invading Soviet hordes in Red Dawn. For another, every time I see John Travolta, I just want to punch him in that stupid asshole-shaped dimple in his chin, and I certainly don't need to see him singing about Sandra Dee. I hate all the boring processing and the completely contrived representation of the way love and relationships work in chick flicks, and most of these movies are veritable Lord of the Rings-esque in length. Beaches and Steel Magnolias were both fucking interminable, and the only part about those movies that cheered me up in the end was the death of a main character. They would have been significantly improved if ALL the main characters died, preferably in a gas main explosion, a weaponized anthrax attack, or a horrible riding lawnmower accident. Nothing would be more satisfying than seeing Bette Midler get cut to ribbons by a rampaging John Deere, but apparently that ending didn't test well with the audience of middle-aged fat women that Beaches was obviously geared towards. My mother loves musicals, and those are also all like three hours long. I just don't get why people enjoy a character who, when faced with a major life decision, bursts into song about it. Are you a disfigured loser living in the catacombs beneath the Paris opera who spends all his time orchestrating a diabolical plan to kidnap and rape the understudy soprano and posing as a ghost? Well, light some candles and hit the pipe organ for some melodious lamentation, by all means. Got AIDS? ...And a one...and a two...time for some jazzy dance numbers! Nazis in Austria got you down? Well, gather the family and and sing "Edelweiss." What sort of retard uses showtunes to compensate for a lack of effective coping skills? Even more despicable is that the songs always totally suck. To date, the only song in a musical I've ever enjoyed was that "Springtime for Hitler" song in The Producers, and that was because it was slightly offensive. Seeing musicals and/or chick flicks fills me with all sorts of Seung-hui Cho-esque urges, so it is best for everyone if I just avoid these types of movies entirely.
Dreamgirls: Dreamgirls now gets its own category for managing to amalgamate the most horrible qualities of both the movies above. Furthermore, it also stars Beyonce, who has been on my shit list for a long time. In spite of my weakness for some good old-fashioned Destiny's Child once in awhile (I will never stop loving "can you pay my automo-bills?", nor will I ever be ashamed enough to do so), I cannot stand Beyonce. Her solo career has annoyed me ever since that stupid "Crazy in Love" song was torturing listeners of everything save talk radio and country ad nauseum throughout summer 2003, and I would rather wear a Nazi uniform to church than so much as try on one of her shiteously tacky rap video hooker costumes from her "coutoure" fashion line. If I want to look like a clap-dribbling prostitute, I can find something way cheaper at any local Ricky's store. In addition to Beyonce, Dreamgirls also features the supremely repugnant asshole Jamie Foxx. My feelings concerning Jamie Foxx, his overwhelmingly large veneers, and his general demeanor of insufferable smugness are well-documented. If there was ever a way to make a combined musical-chick flick even worse, it's to cast Beyonce and Jamie Foxx in major roles alongside a fat "American Idol" castoff and a tranny-loving deadbeat dad like Eddie Murphy. Dreamgirls is the stuff of my nightmares, and the only way it can be considered "something amazing" is in the sense that my eyes melting out their sockets upon seeing it would indeed be amazing. Shitty for me, but amazing nonetheless.
To validate how outrageously bad this show is, it also has the worst commercials. As I was contemplating whether or not to flip to the Anna Nicole "THS" that I've already seen 50 times during the ads, this particular solicitation perked my attention. "Something amazing is coming," it cautioned me.
Okay, I'm in. What's amazing? I minimized this channel guide and was hit with a very bad, very anti-Razzified sight: Beyonce, fat ass Jennifer Hudson, and that other bitch dancing around in their Supremes outfits and hawking the DVD release of Dreamgirls. I think that Dreamgirls may be the most repellant movie ever committed to film, and the mere idea of seeing it, much less purchasing the DVD, is causing my blood pressure to spike alarmingly high. Dreamgirls combines two movie genres that I despise: musicals and chick flicks. I have a very strict hierarchy for types of movies I like and it goes something like this:
Best: horror, old school Schwarzenegger, and Varsity Blues have a three-way tie. I'd watch C.H.U.D. or Predator with equal relish. PG-13 horror movies (ie: Boogeyman) do not count. However, anything with a giant shark, interplanetary Earth-Mars political machinations, some senseless slasher with awesome accessories (chainsaw/meat apron, hockey mask, fancy knife-wielding flying ball, etc.), hookers with three boobs, time-traveling killer cyborgs, murderous pun-spewing leprechauns, rocket launchers, Cold War nuclear intrigue, Paris Hilton getting a steel pole driven through her head, evil Communists, teenagers having their faces eaten off, or Japanese ghosts can pique my interest.
Second Best: Historical or Tolkien-based epic adventure. This genre would be top if it didn't disappoint me so much and so often. For every Gladiator, Master and Commander, and all sixteen hours of the sublime extended edition Lord of the Rings, there is a King Arthur, Eragon, Kingdom of Heaven, Alexander, and 300, where the magnificent and commendable Xerxes was reduced to what the bastard child of Yul Brynner and RuPaul would look like if he dressed in leather drag and worked as a sadistic dom at some underground gay bar catering to pain fetishists.
Third Best: Action movies that don't have Nicolas Cage and/or John Travolta in them. I welcome explosions, fully automatic assault rifles doing lots of shooting, and generally large special effects budgets, but if I ever have to watch Face/Off or Con Air again, there will be another type of explosion. A derisively verbal explosion. From me.
Fourth Best: Movies that amuse me. Specifically, The Naked Gun, Blazing Saddles, Airplane, Spaceballs, Trading Places, Three Amigos, Dirty Work, Ghostbusters, Fletch, Caddyshack, The Big Lebowski, and Ruthless People.
Fifth Best: Harry Potter movies. Fuck all you HP haters. Harry Potter kicks ass. And I wouldn't kick Daniel Radcliffe out of bed either, after his 18th birthday, anyway.
Tolerable and I might like it once in a while: Documentaries about interesting things like war, sex, or guns, movies about disturbing crimes, historical movies without epic military combat (ie: Elizabeth), and cautionary tales about the dangers of scientists playing God.
Bad: Children's movies, cartoons, anything involving Celine Dion theme songs, and movies about dance contests. The best part of Titanic was when the fucking boat sank, but the two and a half hours preceding that made me want to go down with the damn ship.
Worse: Christmas movies. If my cranky, incompetent, pussified father informed me that every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings, I would have told him to cut the bullshit, sober up, and go beat the crap out of that asshole Mr. Potter. None of this wandering aimlessly around town being a loser until you happen to discover the spirit of Christmas or whatever. And while It's a Wonderful Life gets most of my ire in this genre, I don't like ANY Christmas movies. I don't like that Christmas Story movie about Ralphie and his gun that everyone thinks is so great, and don't get me started on Jim Carrey's bastardized portrayal of the Grinch. Unless the Christmas movie stars a puppet elf with aspirations of becoming a dentist, count me out.
Much Worse: Movies where awesome dogs die. DO NOT get me started about Old Yeller, White Fang, or Where the Red Fern Grows, because this results in me starting to cry, which is both highly embarrassing and annoying to the person talking with me about it. Old Yeller, AKA the best doggone dog in the West, sacrificed himself to save his human family from an angry she-bear afflicted with the hydrophobia and all he got in return was the standard 19th century frontier treatment for rabies: a 12-gauge shotgun shell in the face. It is one of the greatest tragedies of the American cinema.
Hell on earth: a tie between musicals and chick flicks. I may have been the only girl in American history to hate both Dirty Dancing and Grease. When I was a tween and attending slumber parties was the social activity of choice, Dirty Dancing and Grease were the must-rent movies. In spite of the slightly raunchy subtext of both films (pregnancy and underage substance abuse), these movies make me want to commit seppuku because they are so fucking irritating. For one thing, in Dirty Dancing, Jennifer Grey and Patrick Swayze were unable to recapitulate the magical chemistry they exuded onscreen while leading the guerilla insurgency against the invading Soviet hordes in Red Dawn. For another, every time I see John Travolta, I just want to punch him in that stupid asshole-shaped dimple in his chin, and I certainly don't need to see him singing about Sandra Dee. I hate all the boring processing and the completely contrived representation of the way love and relationships work in chick flicks, and most of these movies are veritable Lord of the Rings-esque in length. Beaches and Steel Magnolias were both fucking interminable, and the only part about those movies that cheered me up in the end was the death of a main character. They would have been significantly improved if ALL the main characters died, preferably in a gas main explosion, a weaponized anthrax attack, or a horrible riding lawnmower accident. Nothing would be more satisfying than seeing Bette Midler get cut to ribbons by a rampaging John Deere, but apparently that ending didn't test well with the audience of middle-aged fat women that Beaches was obviously geared towards. My mother loves musicals, and those are also all like three hours long. I just don't get why people enjoy a character who, when faced with a major life decision, bursts into song about it. Are you a disfigured loser living in the catacombs beneath the Paris opera who spends all his time orchestrating a diabolical plan to kidnap and rape the understudy soprano and posing as a ghost? Well, light some candles and hit the pipe organ for some melodious lamentation, by all means. Got AIDS? ...And a one...and a two...time for some jazzy dance numbers! Nazis in Austria got you down? Well, gather the family and and sing "Edelweiss." What sort of retard uses showtunes to compensate for a lack of effective coping skills? Even more despicable is that the songs always totally suck. To date, the only song in a musical I've ever enjoyed was that "Springtime for Hitler" song in The Producers, and that was because it was slightly offensive. Seeing musicals and/or chick flicks fills me with all sorts of Seung-hui Cho-esque urges, so it is best for everyone if I just avoid these types of movies entirely.
Dreamgirls: Dreamgirls now gets its own category for managing to amalgamate the most horrible qualities of both the movies above. Furthermore, it also stars Beyonce, who has been on my shit list for a long time. In spite of my weakness for some good old-fashioned Destiny's Child once in awhile (I will never stop loving "can you pay my automo-bills?", nor will I ever be ashamed enough to do so), I cannot stand Beyonce. Her solo career has annoyed me ever since that stupid "Crazy in Love" song was torturing listeners of everything save talk radio and country ad nauseum throughout summer 2003, and I would rather wear a Nazi uniform to church than so much as try on one of her shiteously tacky rap video hooker costumes from her "coutoure" fashion line. If I want to look like a clap-dribbling prostitute, I can find something way cheaper at any local Ricky's store. In addition to Beyonce, Dreamgirls also features the supremely repugnant asshole Jamie Foxx. My feelings concerning Jamie Foxx, his overwhelmingly large veneers, and his general demeanor of insufferable smugness are well-documented. If there was ever a way to make a combined musical-chick flick even worse, it's to cast Beyonce and Jamie Foxx in major roles alongside a fat "American Idol" castoff and a tranny-loving deadbeat dad like Eddie Murphy. Dreamgirls is the stuff of my nightmares, and the only way it can be considered "something amazing" is in the sense that my eyes melting out their sockets upon seeing it would indeed be amazing. Shitty for me, but amazing nonetheless.
Labels: movies, musicals suck, oh the horror, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
A warning to the P-N-Dub
My several possible dogsitters fell through, so a certain stank, grotesquely obese, Pugged-out asshole of a dog will be accompanying me back to the P-N-Dub this weekend. That's right, Chingy! will be waddling insolently into Seattle-Tacoma International Airport this Friday, and will probably do something to disrupt my plans to visit a Tacompton cocktail establishment with MillerTime and HotLawyer upon arrival. Mercifully, this time around he at least doesn't have a yeast infection in his ears.
I'll be taking advantage of everything my parents' house has to offer in the way of canine weight loss including my brother Lil' Tevie's Pug-herding dog Kylee and the infrequently used treadmill, so expect more pictures like this:
CHONGAY CHONG, P-N-Dub!
I'll be taking advantage of everything my parents' house has to offer in the way of canine weight loss including my brother Lil' Tevie's Pug-herding dog Kylee and the infrequently used treadmill, so expect more pictures like this:
CHONGAY CHONG, P-N-Dub!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, P-N-Dub
More dumbfuckery on the Lower East Side
All the kids on MySpace are probably wishing they were 21 and living in NYC, because this tool is opening a bar on the Lower East Side:
That's Pete Wentz. When he's not challenging Jared Leto for the Honorary Robert Smith Excellence in Excessive Eyeliner Award, he plays bass for Fall Out Boy, this crybaby band of "punk" male lesbians who write songs about their feelings and whine about their relationship problems. He's also famous for sticking his dick into Ashlee Simpson, who should advise him to get those caterpillars waxed off his brow next time he gets those feathered layers touched up at the salon.
New York magazine interviewed this douche about his new business venture, and it turns out that Pete Wentz simply had to open a bar because there aren't any that are cool enough for him in all of Nueva York, as all the bars are apparently "for dudes with Rod Stewart hair and white belts to go hang out at." Therefore, he's opening his own place called Angels and Kings, and let me tell you, there's NO PLACE along Avenue A anything like this joint:
I guess I really shouldn't expect much more than stuck-up rambling about his contrived concept dive bar from a dude who whacks off to Morrissey posters (for that extra dose of emo bitch credibility) and takes pictures of same with his Sidekick:
I think I speak for everyone when I compliment the friendship bracelet/Swatch combo for really underscoring the fact that Pete Wentz has the maturity and originality of a twelve-year-old girl in 1992. That's some really SUPER kewl fashion sense right there. It's the perfect accompaniment to that badass flaming yin-yang heart tattoo on his happy trail, which got the waxing his eyebrows so desperately need.
Regrettably, I won't be able to go discuss the Cliff Notes of No Exit on April 30th and drink Fall Out Boy-inspired shots alongside the rest of the studded belt-wearing pseudo-intellectual crowd when this place opens. I'll be back in the P-N-Dub, eating lots of salmon, and, most likely, lots of Tacoma dick.
[Razzy Edit: Okay, so this bar is on 11th and Ave A, which is technically the Village of the East, but same difference. I'm still calling it the Lower East Side, so all you New Yorkers, don't rush to fucking correct me.]
New York magazine interviewed this douche about his new business venture, and it turns out that Pete Wentz simply had to open a bar because there aren't any that are cool enough for him in all of Nueva York, as all the bars are apparently "for dudes with Rod Stewart hair and white belts to go hang out at." Therefore, he's opening his own place called Angels and Kings, and let me tell you, there's NO PLACE along Avenue A anything like this joint:
"Dudes can use the chicks’ bathroom and vice versa, so that girls don’t have to wait in line. And we’re raising the D.J. booth because the D.J. should be like God. He shouldn’t have to deal with anyone trying to talk to him....We’re putting up mug shots on the wall of people we’re fans of. Like we have this awesome Sid Vicious mug shot where you can tell he’s just like a fucked-up kid, like everyone had him pegged wrong. It speaks to me...This communal thing, it’s a lost narrative in pop culture. You don’t have anything like the Factory anymore, and where people can come together and talk and get wasted. I want it to be like Shredder’s hangout in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles 2."Yes, I can't think of ANY places down on the LES where the bathrooms are functionally unisex, or that feature a fucked-up looking picture of (junkie wife-beating murderer) Sid Vicious hanging on the wall, or that have some pretentious fucktard running the music, or that welcome hipster assholes who will drop Andy Warhol references while drinking PBR out of a can, comparing facial piercings, and competing to see who has the most ennui. I don't remember what Shredder's hangout was like in Secret of the Ooze, but I sincerely doubt that the commander of the evil ninja underworld was rocking Gym Class Heroes or Avril Lavigne on the fucking jukebox.
I guess I really shouldn't expect much more than stuck-up rambling about his contrived concept dive bar from a dude who whacks off to Morrissey posters (for that extra dose of emo bitch credibility) and takes pictures of same with his Sidekick:
I think I speak for everyone when I compliment the friendship bracelet/Swatch combo for really underscoring the fact that Pete Wentz has the maturity and originality of a twelve-year-old girl in 1992. That's some really SUPER kewl fashion sense right there. It's the perfect accompaniment to that badass flaming yin-yang heart tattoo on his happy trail, which got the waxing his eyebrows so desperately need.
Regrettably, I won't be able to go discuss the Cliff Notes of No Exit on April 30th and drink Fall Out Boy-inspired shots alongside the rest of the studded belt-wearing pseudo-intellectual crowd when this place opens. I'll be back in the P-N-Dub, eating lots of salmon, and, most likely, lots of Tacoma dick.
[Razzy Edit: Okay, so this bar is on 11th and Ave A, which is technically the Village of the East, but same difference. I'm still calling it the Lower East Side, so all you New Yorkers, don't rush to fucking correct me.]
Labels: alcoholism, assholes, capitalism, masturbation, media whores, NYC, oh the horror, overcompensation, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts, weiners
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Almost a reunion
I've always had a weakness for the Spice Girls. They were so ridiculous it was impossible not to love them: those Union Jack minidresses, their cheesetastic marketing, the absurd "music" they created which lyrically consists of the bastard child of a phonics lesson and the more salient points of a Cathy page-a-day calendar. I even saw their mockumentary Spice World, which follows the Spice Girls around as they promote girl power and hilarity ensues. According to this movie, a typical day for the Spice Girls involves bickering about which dresses to wear, playing chess on the tour bus (except without knowing the rules of chess, like what "check" means, and prefacing killer moves with zingers like, "Well, I'll move my fairground horse over there...sort that out!"), moonlighting as obstetricians, speculating whether or not their male dancers stuff their aptly named banana hammocks with fruit, exorcise a haunted house, go for an impromptu dip in the Thames, and attempt to drive a bus, thus causing massive automotive chaos throughout London. Does it make sense? Not at all. Is it awesome? FUCK, YES!
As an added bonus, the Spice World viewer also gets a little insight as to the forces driving Posh's famous taste in fashion with insightful dialogue such as this:
I am surprised to see that most of the Spice Girls are looking better than I expected. Fortunately, both Sporty and Posh invested in a set of veneers to improve what were some seriously busted British smiles. Sporty also is femming it up compared to the athletic dyke look she desperately clung to even after her Spice alter-ego was no longer relevant. Baby Spice, on the other hand, needs to lay off the bangers and mash and hit the gym. Ginger looks like an aged porn star who got bukkaked one too many times and needs new highlights, but she's in better shape than I thought she would be. It may also have been a bad idea to make Posh the godmother because she's apparently already taught the kid, who Ginger actually named "Bluebell Madonna" in all seriousness, how to make mean-face for the press. Overall, though, I expected at least one Spice death and/or one Spice junkie, so the absence of either is a positive thing. Girl power!
Sadly, Scary Spice was not able to attend. This is currently because she's busy negotiating a huge payout for a tell-all book about how Eddie Murphy dumped her after discovering she was actually a real woman, and not a pre-op tranny. Eddie likes his ladies on the manly side. Somehow, Scary was able to deceive him long enough to harvest his baby batter, and now is otherwise occupied taking that all the way to the bank. I'm sure she sent her most sincere regrets.
As an added bonus, the Spice World viewer also gets a little insight as to the forces driving Posh's famous taste in fashion with insightful dialogue such as this:
Posh: It's always the same. I never know what to wear.It's a shame the girls couldn't keep the magic alive, because I think the Spice Girls should have been bigger than the Beatles. Alas, that's not how it worked out, but fortunately the Spice Girls are still "friends," by which I mean "desperate media whores," so they invited the press to their reunion/Ginger Spice's baby's christening. To ensure that the tabloids pay top dollar for the photos, of course Posh, being the current most-famous Spice Girl, acted as the godmother.
Sporty: It must be so hard for you, Victoria. I mean, having to decide whether to wear the little Gucci dress, the little Gucci dress, or... the little Gucci dress!
Posh: Exactly.
Baby: I know, why don't you wear the little Gucci dress?
Posh: Good idea. Thanks, Em.
Sadly, Scary Spice was not able to attend. This is currently because she's busy negotiating a huge payout for a tell-all book about how Eddie Murphy dumped her after discovering she was actually a real woman, and not a pre-op tranny. Eddie likes his ladies on the manly side. Somehow, Scary was able to deceive him long enough to harvest his baby batter, and now is otherwise occupied taking that all the way to the bank. I'm sure she sent her most sincere regrets.
Labels: aging, celebrities, international intrigue, media whores, sluts
Monday, April 23, 2007
This one's for MillerTime
For some inexplicable reason, my buddy MillerTime is obsessed with "The Girls Next Door." When she was visiting me a while back, she wanted to watch TGND all the fucking time, even though she'd already seen all the episodes. One night, I was trying to fall asleep, but MillerTime likes to fall asleep to the sound of these bitches giggling about their trip horseback riding with all of last year's Playmates, and finally I had to put my foot down and confiscate the remote. I just could not tolerate the nasal whine of GND #1, Holly, as she snickered about what "puffin" (her pet name for decrepit old Hef) would think of her riding a horse with no pants on.
That incident made me dislike the GND even more than I already do for being a bunch of vapid fake-titted hookers, because I now associate Holly's voice with insomnia. Even worse, as I was cruising the internets, I realized that Holly has joined up with an organization I loathe and despise almost as much as the Bush administration to further their non-animal killing agenda. It's pretty stupid, because it's not like going naked is that much of a stretch for this ho...she's been in Playboy like six or seven times. She practically goes naked for a living:
I figured MillerTime would like that even though that bitch would put on a mink coat faster than the above-pictured Holly can bring up how great it is sitting on Hef's shriveled little weiner. So I figured I would make up an alternative for her. Given her fondness for the GND belies an attraction to naked blondes, and particularly to yours truly (her and the rest of the world), I made my own PETA poster.
Good thing I had a naked picture of myself in a fur shrug laying around! I knew that was going to come in handy some day. Frankly, I can't think of anything handier than using it to say a big giant FUCK YOU to PETA!
That incident made me dislike the GND even more than I already do for being a bunch of vapid fake-titted hookers, because I now associate Holly's voice with insomnia. Even worse, as I was cruising the internets, I realized that Holly has joined up with an organization I loathe and despise almost as much as the Bush administration to further their non-animal killing agenda. It's pretty stupid, because it's not like going naked is that much of a stretch for this ho...she's been in Playboy like six or seven times. She practically goes naked for a living:
I figured MillerTime would like that even though that bitch would put on a mink coat faster than the above-pictured Holly can bring up how great it is sitting on Hef's shriveled little weiner. So I figured I would make up an alternative for her. Given her fondness for the GND belies an attraction to naked blondes, and particularly to yours truly (her and the rest of the world), I made my own PETA poster.
Good thing I had a naked picture of myself in a fur shrug laying around! I knew that was going to come in handy some day. Frankly, I can't think of anything handier than using it to say a big giant FUCK YOU to PETA!Labels: hot chicks, media whores, MillerTime, nudity, Razzification, sexy delicious animals, sluts
Over it
So this guy contacted me about doing a link exchange with his website. I get a lot of weird requests for link exchanges with limousine companies in the UK and online medical dictionaries, and usually I tell them to take what they call a "Quality Link Offer" and shove it up their asses. However, this guy, Ryle, opened his e-mails with "hey hot bitch", so I checked out his website, OverAdulthood.com, and thought it wasn't half bad. I agreed to a link exchange.
Then, he wanted to know if every day we could each write posts linking to each other. I thought that would be a bit much since unlike him, I don't live in my parents' basement and thus don't have the time for a daily writeup. I'm sure there's a way to automate this, but I have no idea how, and that precipitated a friendly-natured e-mail battle about which of us is the more incompetent site administrator. So we agreed instead to write brief "reviews" of the other's site, and here is my review of his:
OverAdulthood.com is the efforts of Ryle and a bunch of his recent college graduate friends who have realized the unpleasant reality of post-collegiate life: work sucks, and people expect you to act like an adult. Therefore they live with their parents, work for vacuum cleaner companies, and make fun of the news. Well, at least Ryle does. He claims in his "About" section that he started the site to post naked pictures of his ex, but probably realized that was a bad idea because she's either fat or she's really hot, either of which would make him look bad. So instead, he started making fun of the news because...why the hell not? Lacking any other intellectual stimulation besides that achieved by drinking beer and complaining about the post-undergraduate slump with his co-authors, he makes funny Seung Cho compilation videos set to the tune of Meat Loaf's "I'd Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do That)", writes snarky posts about Alec Baldwin, and features amusingly captioned photographs featuring Bijou Phillips inquiring as to the size of Barak Obama's penis. When he's not doing that, he's busy e-chatting up old useless bullshit-slinging cougars like myself. In his last e-mail he asked if, in relation to photos of me killing mice, I was a "huntress." If I ever meet this dude, I might just fuck him for his efforts at flattery. In the meantime, I'll just finish up with this shout-out: go read OverAdulthood.com. It's funny.
Then, he wanted to know if every day we could each write posts linking to each other. I thought that would be a bit much since unlike him, I don't live in my parents' basement and thus don't have the time for a daily writeup. I'm sure there's a way to automate this, but I have no idea how, and that precipitated a friendly-natured e-mail battle about which of us is the more incompetent site administrator. So we agreed instead to write brief "reviews" of the other's site, and here is my review of his:
OverAdulthood.com is the efforts of Ryle and a bunch of his recent college graduate friends who have realized the unpleasant reality of post-collegiate life: work sucks, and people expect you to act like an adult. Therefore they live with their parents, work for vacuum cleaner companies, and make fun of the news. Well, at least Ryle does. He claims in his "About" section that he started the site to post naked pictures of his ex, but probably realized that was a bad idea because she's either fat or she's really hot, either of which would make him look bad. So instead, he started making fun of the news because...why the hell not? Lacking any other intellectual stimulation besides that achieved by drinking beer and complaining about the post-undergraduate slump with his co-authors, he makes funny Seung Cho compilation videos set to the tune of Meat Loaf's "I'd Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do That)", writes snarky posts about Alec Baldwin, and features amusingly captioned photographs featuring Bijou Phillips inquiring as to the size of Barak Obama's penis. When he's not doing that, he's busy e-chatting up old useless bullshit-slinging cougars like myself. In his last e-mail he asked if, in relation to photos of me killing mice, I was a "huntress." If I ever meet this dude, I might just fuck him for his efforts at flattery. In the meantime, I'll just finish up with this shout-out: go read OverAdulthood.com. It's funny.
Labels: computer incompetence, down with OPB (other people's blogs), hilarious shit, internet domination
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Impossible is hilarious
I just returned from my race, and am patting myself on the back for finishing in 43:09. Considering that my training the past couple weeks has consisted of sitting on my ass, drinking lots of Heineken, watching "Deadliest Catch" reruns, and occasionally going for a jog, I'm not at all ashamed of averaging 10:47 a mile. In spite of my "Sabado Gigante" hangover-related concerns that this race would be gigantically bad, I perked up once I got to the park and picked up my number and ChampionChip, because today is a beautiful spring day. The sky is blue, the sun is blazing, the humidity is low, the cherry and magnolia trees are blooming, there was a larger-than-life size decal of Reggie (Get in my) Bush on the side of the "Impossible is Nothing" Adidas promotional trailer, and I stole a banana meant for the kids finishing their 1K fun run. I have to say that so far, it was a good day. I walked over to the starting area to finish the pilfered banana, stretch, and do a little people watching.
This race is the first event I've actually participated in. I joined the New York Road Runners because you have to in order to get into the marathon in the fall, which I intend to do. Even though I have to brave the lottery or raise money for charity to get into the marathon this year, if I run nine races this year I'll have guaranteed entry for the 2008 marathon. I figure that's a reasonable training regimen, so I plan to run eight more of these bad boys before year's end. I realized after today, though, that I am going to have to prepare myself for the ridiculousness I will be confronted with at each of these competitions.
The world of runners is an absurd social scene populated by a variety of characters. Being that I was alone at this event, I was not distracted from observing the cavalcade of runner-types parading past, and noted that there are several distinct categories that runners can be lumped into:
The self-proclaimed running elite: they might still run a ten minute mile, but that doesn't stop these people from thinking they are one race away from the Olympics. They usually have some type of high-tech running outfit on, which is covered with unnecessary vents and probably has a sponsor's logo on it. They wear those ugly Lance Armstrong Oakley sunglasses and do a lot of complicated stretching and bouncing around to prepare for the race. They ask nearby strangers dumb questions like "When is the race going to start?", not because they don't know, but because they are creating an opportunity to regale the questioned with tales of previous race triumphs and provide unsolicited running tips.
Old people: old people always wear the free race t-shirt, even though it may be ill-fitting and wholly unflattering. They also often are sporting a fanny pack, and not a high tech runner's fanny pack, but the giant, old-school kind in some type of Hypercolor fluorescent hue. They run in packs and are aggravatingly slow.
Tech people: in spite of the fact that running requires one piece of equipment (shoes), there are people who buy all these accoutrements to ensure that all the comforts of home can run with them. They have all manner of arm-or-torso-based iPod holders, wallet caddies, and water bottle holders. I saw one dude doing jumping jacks wearing what looked like a cross between one of Schwarzenegger's Commando-era grenade strings and Batman's utility belt around his waist; when I looked closer, it turned out to be a secured water bottle carrier, complete with a COMPASS. I guess that's in case you get lost while running across the 72nd Street Park Transverse and have to get all Bear Grills to find your way back to the Upper West Side.
Desperate single people: I suppose the haters will try to fit me into this category, but it hadn't actually occurred to me that people would use these races to meet potential mates. I certainly don't want to try to mack it to some hot dude while panting and covered with sweat...in my world, the panting and sweating part usually comes after a candidate is taken in by my many crude charms. Nonetheless, there were a lot of chicks in well-thought-out running outfits, makeup, and jewelry, and there were even more dudes trying to spark up conversation in hopes of leading to a running partner. The dude who made the unfortunate decision to chat me up looked like a fat Frodo Baggins in a "Life is Good" shirt, and after I got away from him by pointing out a pile of horse shit in the road and moving away from it and him, he started chatting up this bitch who was at least sixty.
Couples: I assume these are former members of the above group, who were successful in finding a love interest with a NYRR membership, and who now enjoy dates running in races, rather than doing normal shit like eating steak, watching movies, and having dirty backdoor sex. This one couple was so lame they were trying to SHARE iPOD HEADPHONES WHILE THEY RAN.
Firemen: They weren't running in the race, but were ubiquitous along the race course, sitting around in their emergency vehicles watching people and waiting for a runner to keel over. I've spoken many times about the hotness of New York's Bravest, so when I ran past a fire truck at a water station later in the race, I threw a cup of water all over myself. I was wearing a white wife-beater and white unlined sports bra underneath, and from the shouts of encouragement from the boys of Ladder 12 or whatever, my nipples looked awesome.
Pathetic single women trying to feel accomplished: A while back, when I announced my marathon-running ambitions, some readers commented that, to paraphrase, I had sold out:
Fat people: There are obviously a lot of fat people who have realized that running is an efficient method of weight loss. This one group of heifers even had shirts made to commemorate their road running exercise regimen. The back of their shirts said, "Outta my way...I've got goals to achieve!", and they were asking people nearby to take a picture of all three of them from behind to showcase their matching shirts. I would think that the amount of cellulite hanging below the hemline of their appallingly abbreviated running shorts would be enough to motivate them when they take a look at that photograph. After the race started, I got stuck behind one of these cows as she lumbered gaspingly up a hill, and it was my turn to say, "Outta my way, I've got goals to achieve." One goal, for example, is finishing the race in less than five hours.
Business people: Despite the fact that it was Sunday morning, there was a slew of Wall Street-type dudes who were busy Blackberrying right up until the race started. Losers.
Track teams: There were these monstrous groups of teenagers wearing team gear running in packs and generally annoying me.
Underdressed old men: I saw at least fifty dudes who were inadvisably shirtless. These are the types who have strange bodies (skinny with a set of C-cup man-tits) and look like those gasping, emaciated dudes at the end of 28 Days Later who were dying of the rage virus in the middle of the street, covered with badly distributed body hair, and oozing a toxic film of sweat to splash on anyone unwise enough to attempt to pass them. I was contaminated at milepost 3, but fortunately there was a water stand there, so I was able to reenter the Central Park wet t-shirt contest and rid myself of nasty old man running funk at the same time.
Kids: These snotty little overachievers are too athletic for the "Kids Race," the purpose of which I thought was to segregate the children from people like myself who hate them. Apparently, kids can still run the adult race if they want to, and a lot did. I made sure I stepped on as many of their feet as possible. At the end of the race, I decided to take the advice of this random dude I boned a month ago who happens to be a runner. He suggested sprinting at the end of the race. I did, and as I passed a cluster of sweaty, miserable-looking kids, I told them to eat my dust. Suckers!
I can't wait until the next race event, when I get to do even more race culture anthropology, and will hopefully be clever enough to bring a camera to document the ridiculousness. You know these assholes are just going to get more obviously but unintentionally hilarious as the marathon gets closer.
This race is the first event I've actually participated in. I joined the New York Road Runners because you have to in order to get into the marathon in the fall, which I intend to do. Even though I have to brave the lottery or raise money for charity to get into the marathon this year, if I run nine races this year I'll have guaranteed entry for the 2008 marathon. I figure that's a reasonable training regimen, so I plan to run eight more of these bad boys before year's end. I realized after today, though, that I am going to have to prepare myself for the ridiculousness I will be confronted with at each of these competitions.
The world of runners is an absurd social scene populated by a variety of characters. Being that I was alone at this event, I was not distracted from observing the cavalcade of runner-types parading past, and noted that there are several distinct categories that runners can be lumped into:
The self-proclaimed running elite: they might still run a ten minute mile, but that doesn't stop these people from thinking they are one race away from the Olympics. They usually have some type of high-tech running outfit on, which is covered with unnecessary vents and probably has a sponsor's logo on it. They wear those ugly Lance Armstrong Oakley sunglasses and do a lot of complicated stretching and bouncing around to prepare for the race. They ask nearby strangers dumb questions like "When is the race going to start?", not because they don't know, but because they are creating an opportunity to regale the questioned with tales of previous race triumphs and provide unsolicited running tips.
Old people: old people always wear the free race t-shirt, even though it may be ill-fitting and wholly unflattering. They also often are sporting a fanny pack, and not a high tech runner's fanny pack, but the giant, old-school kind in some type of Hypercolor fluorescent hue. They run in packs and are aggravatingly slow.
Tech people: in spite of the fact that running requires one piece of equipment (shoes), there are people who buy all these accoutrements to ensure that all the comforts of home can run with them. They have all manner of arm-or-torso-based iPod holders, wallet caddies, and water bottle holders. I saw one dude doing jumping jacks wearing what looked like a cross between one of Schwarzenegger's Commando-era grenade strings and Batman's utility belt around his waist; when I looked closer, it turned out to be a secured water bottle carrier, complete with a COMPASS. I guess that's in case you get lost while running across the 72nd Street Park Transverse and have to get all Bear Grills to find your way back to the Upper West Side.
Desperate single people: I suppose the haters will try to fit me into this category, but it hadn't actually occurred to me that people would use these races to meet potential mates. I certainly don't want to try to mack it to some hot dude while panting and covered with sweat...in my world, the panting and sweating part usually comes after a candidate is taken in by my many crude charms. Nonetheless, there were a lot of chicks in well-thought-out running outfits, makeup, and jewelry, and there were even more dudes trying to spark up conversation in hopes of leading to a running partner. The dude who made the unfortunate decision to chat me up looked like a fat Frodo Baggins in a "Life is Good" shirt, and after I got away from him by pointing out a pile of horse shit in the road and moving away from it and him, he started chatting up this bitch who was at least sixty.
Couples: I assume these are former members of the above group, who were successful in finding a love interest with a NYRR membership, and who now enjoy dates running in races, rather than doing normal shit like eating steak, watching movies, and having dirty backdoor sex. This one couple was so lame they were trying to SHARE iPOD HEADPHONES WHILE THEY RAN.
Firemen: They weren't running in the race, but were ubiquitous along the race course, sitting around in their emergency vehicles watching people and waiting for a runner to keel over. I've spoken many times about the hotness of New York's Bravest, so when I ran past a fire truck at a water station later in the race, I threw a cup of water all over myself. I was wearing a white wife-beater and white unlined sports bra underneath, and from the shouts of encouragement from the boys of Ladder 12 or whatever, my nipples looked awesome.
Pathetic single women trying to feel accomplished: A while back, when I announced my marathon-running ambitions, some readers commented that, to paraphrase, I had sold out:
are you getting your botox before or after the race? razzy, don't you know that every fucking manhattan single woman above 28 caves to peer-pressure and runs the marathon? and these same women date older rich men with committment issues, rent in the hamptons, run up debt on fancy handbags, bi-weekly beauty salon visits, and talking to their shrinks.I'm running the marathon to QUIT SMOKING, people! This is not me, and I could write a fucking book about how wrong all these assertions are. However, there were a variety of women of this ilk there. Some of them were mingling with the "Desperate Single People" crowd, and others were busy bragging to anyone who would listen about all the races they've signed up for, their chances in the lottery, their injuries, etc. The worst was this ho decrying the nectar of the gods (AKA booze) because it was so much harder to train after a night of drinking. Well, try training after a night of drinking AND "Sabado Gigante", bitch...you'll be wrecked.
You have now officially an aging single Manhattan girl looking for something meaningful in her life to replace having a relationship. I used to think you were a fun loving free spirited grad student, now I know you are typical narcissistic Manhattan girl. Can I suggest a Post Doc at Cold Spring Harbor so you can move to long island with an older man and live in your "dream house."
Fat people: There are obviously a lot of fat people who have realized that running is an efficient method of weight loss. This one group of heifers even had shirts made to commemorate their road running exercise regimen. The back of their shirts said, "Outta my way...I've got goals to achieve!", and they were asking people nearby to take a picture of all three of them from behind to showcase their matching shirts. I would think that the amount of cellulite hanging below the hemline of their appallingly abbreviated running shorts would be enough to motivate them when they take a look at that photograph. After the race started, I got stuck behind one of these cows as she lumbered gaspingly up a hill, and it was my turn to say, "Outta my way, I've got goals to achieve." One goal, for example, is finishing the race in less than five hours.
Business people: Despite the fact that it was Sunday morning, there was a slew of Wall Street-type dudes who were busy Blackberrying right up until the race started. Losers.
Track teams: There were these monstrous groups of teenagers wearing team gear running in packs and generally annoying me.
Underdressed old men: I saw at least fifty dudes who were inadvisably shirtless. These are the types who have strange bodies (skinny with a set of C-cup man-tits) and look like those gasping, emaciated dudes at the end of 28 Days Later who were dying of the rage virus in the middle of the street, covered with badly distributed body hair, and oozing a toxic film of sweat to splash on anyone unwise enough to attempt to pass them. I was contaminated at milepost 3, but fortunately there was a water stand there, so I was able to reenter the Central Park wet t-shirt contest and rid myself of nasty old man running funk at the same time.
Kids: These snotty little overachievers are too athletic for the "Kids Race," the purpose of which I thought was to segregate the children from people like myself who hate them. Apparently, kids can still run the adult race if they want to, and a lot did. I made sure I stepped on as many of their feet as possible. At the end of the race, I decided to take the advice of this random dude I boned a month ago who happens to be a runner. He suggested sprinting at the end of the race. I did, and as I passed a cluster of sweaty, miserable-looking kids, I told them to eat my dust. Suckers!
I can't wait until the next race event, when I get to do even more race culture anthropology, and will hopefully be clever enough to bring a camera to document the ridiculousness. You know these assholes are just going to get more obviously but unintentionally hilarious as the marathon gets closer.
Labels: exercise drama, fat fucks, hilarious shit, NYC, Reggie (Get In My) Bush, ridiculous absurdity
Gigantically Bad Sunday
I should have cut myself off earlier last night. Not from drinking, because I only had two beers, which for me is about as intoxicating as taking a deep breath. No, I mean I shouldn't have watched two straight hours of "Sabado Gigante," because I think I have a hangover from the experience. I'm running late (of course) to get to Central Park for the race I'm running, and I have a headache and a queasy stomach similar to that I'd get from drinking around 10 beers with some interspersed Jaeger shots. It's not an I-wish-I-were-dead hangover, but it's a hangover nonetheless, and it means I'm off to a rough start on Domingo Gigante. Even rougher will be the 4 mile Central Park loop I'm set to trot around.
If you dare to watch "Sabado Gigante" next weekend, I strongly recommend making sure you can sleep late on Sunday to minimize the unpleasant effects consequent to overstimulating oneself with frenzied absurdity.
If you dare to watch "Sabado Gigante" next weekend, I strongly recommend making sure you can sleep late on Sunday to minimize the unpleasant effects consequent to overstimulating oneself with frenzied absurdity.
Labels: comeuppance, oh the horror, que magnifico, Razzification
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Gigantic Saturday
As part of my effort to train for a marathon in several months, I am running races. Tomorrow, I have to run 4 miles in the New York Road Runners/Adidas Run for the Parks race in Central Park, and I have to haul my ass out of bed at 6:30 a.m. to stand in line to get my number and ChampionCHIP (a microchip that will digitally record what will undoubtedly be an extraordinarily slow race time). Therefore, I decided to stay home tonight to ensure that I am in as little pain as possible while running under the "Impossible is Nothing" finish line. Impossible will be impossible if I make a date with my boyfriend Johnnie Walker and run all over New York tonight, so I'm having a quiet night of sobriety (or at least beer instead of whiskey) at home watching TV. I ended up flipping to this show called "Sabado Gigante" during a commercial on E!'s "THS Investigates Spring Break Nightmares," and gratitude for the large quantity of cerveza in my fridge ensued.
"Sabado Gigante," which translates literally to "Gigantic Saturday," is this variety show on Univision that may be the craziest shit I've ever seen on TV. Granted, my Spanish is muy mal, but it's not hard to figure out that this show is totally and completely FUCKING RIDICULOUS. It's a talk/game show that's probably best described as a combination of Maury Povich, The Man Show, Jeopardy, General Hospital, Hollywood Squares, a Daddy Yankee video, Barney and Friends, a Suzanne Somers infomercial, The Newlywed Game, Showtime at the Apollo, and the Price is Right, except en espanol and on some type of mind-blowing crack. I have been on the edge of my seat since I happened upon this gem.
The show moves at a rapid pace and is full of surprises. It's hard to keep track of all the ridiculous absurdity that has transpired in the last 30 minutes of this show:
1.When I started watching, host Don Francisco, whose look can best be described as part-Vince McMahon, part-greasy uncle that creeps everyone out, is quizzing a couple named Jose y Erika having some type of marital disagreement.
From what I could glean, the main problem was Jose's habit of lying about his substance abuse problems. Then the host asked the audience to decide who was right. The audience decided that Erika's argument was superior to her husband Jose's.
2. El senor Don Francisco is surrounded by dancing hoochies that look like really slutted out Fanta girls for no good reason for about thirty seconds. The dancing hoochies are like ghosts, for they disappear just as quickly.
3. A segment featuring a surprise paternidad test with this old deadbeat fat man. It turns out the deadbeat is el padre, but his daughter hates his guts, so the point is moot. After that is some sort of contest where panels of couples quiz a bunch of bride-groom pairings about their sex lives and values, and win money where they guess which is the most depraved.
4. Don Francisco has some ho show off a Ford Fusion, which is apparently being offered as a prize for some to-be-determined contest.
5. Don Francisco and some hooker wearing an outfit so reminiscent of a gaudily sequined full-body submissive harness that I wondered where her ball gag was hawk some DVDs in which Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse teach kids English, "El mundo del ingles de Disney," so they can speak the language of Disneyland.
6. More dancing hoochies in different outfits. Another shot of a different hoochie reclining on the shiny Fusion.
7. A guy dressed like some sort of sheik in a Pride parade runs through the audience, stirring up excitement, and then onstage, where he good-naturedly harasses Don Francisco. He drags some woman from the audience who looks as though her excitement might cause some type of cerebrovascular accident at any moment, some hos come out and give her money, and the sheik escorts her back to her seat.
8. A band of mariachis plays. The crowd goes insane.
9. A woman came out running around in a Pocahontas outfit pretending to rain dance, shrieking woo-woo-woo-woo, talking shit about the Apaches, and doing everything possible that might be offensive to Native Americans. She had an argument with Don Francisco about whether or not she would move to Hollywood and star in a movie about Indians which amused the audience greatly, then confessed her love for him, he tried to kick her off the set for making lewd jokes, the audience booed, and she declared him "el vaquero mas guapo."
10. Some bitch wins five grand. I have no idea how.
11. Don Francisco is gasping for no apparent reason as he interviews a woman whose mother was Dominican and father was Pakistani. Don Francisco jumps to a scene of the Dominicana-Pakistani at work. He gives her some money and her entire family, including distant cousins, appears in the audience and runs out, hugging her and weeping.
12. Don Francisco and this chick who looks like an alien drag hooker trying to impersonate Mariah Carey advertise elastic body shapers called "Molding Up", that suck in unsightly fat bulges. Chick raves about Molding Up, and they encourage women to call and get a perfect body in less than one minute.
13. Don Francisco, wearing a giant feathered hat with a donkey's head on top introduces a guy dressed like an Inquisition torturer at a gay leather bar with a trumpet slung around his shoulders carrying a pitchfork, who runs through the audience pretend-pitchforking delighted women in the head. The Inquisition torturer returns to a medieval set and proceeds to officiate a singing contest. Don Francisco dons a white easter bonnet covered with lace embellished with hearts for this contestant. Then some chick sings and he wears a baseball hat that looks like the Mexican flag. The next contestant sucks, and Don Francisco wears a jester cap. The reason for the Inquisition torturer's trumpet becomes apparent, as he drives the shitty singer from the stage with a resounding blast of that song bands play at college sports events which is generally followed by a communal shout of "CHARGE!".
14. Don Francisco hawks some type of snake oil face cream called Botulex. The chick is claiming that it has the same effects as Botox without a prescription. I sincerely doubt that it degrades SNARE protein SNAP-25 in neurons, thus blocking vesicular transport and preventing the release of neurotransmitters at the synapse, but Don Francisco and the Botulex ho are vigorously endorsing it nonetheless.
15. Some fat chick sings to her husband Miguel. Don Francisco puts on a hat with flowers on it. Apparently the singing contest continues. Don Francisco reveals that the chick who warranted the Mexican hat won. Her prize seems to be a date with some mariachi singer named David.
16. Don Francisco interviews an immigration lawyer in the audience. He provides counsel to a couple trying to sort out their niece's visa problems. He suggests she marry an American immediately. Then he tells another woman who is evading an order for deportation that her problem is very serious, but he applauds her enduring love for her husband and informs her that she won the Fusion.
17. A couple is pulled out of the audience and Don Francisco proceeds to give the guy some type of high pressure, rapid fire timed series of questions. Then he wins money and everyone sings.
18. The crowd is treated to a sad story about some woman whose husband was a 9/11 hero, but who has been in jail for four years because of some paperwork error at INS, and Don Francisco interviews her, her husband, and her lawyer, Don Edward Sapone. The lawyer bitches passionately about immigration policy, the chick cries, and Don Francisco observes that la migra's bureaucracy is slow as shit, highly inefficient, and generally fucked up. Then the lawyer starts talking about blood in an apartment and I'm very confused, because I thought this about immigration. I need to brush up on my Spanish is a serious way.
19. Don Francisco teases the audience by announcing that some dude named Miguel Bose will be on after the commercial, which is for "La Fea mas Bella," a telenovela similar to "Ugly Betty."
20. Miguel Bose appears, talks to Don Francisco about his music and his videos starring some Shakira wannabe chick in a bikini, and drives the women crazy. I have no idea why, because he looks like Donny Deutsch.
21. Some type of live sketch comedy happens in which an old woman is dissuaded from leaping off her roof, a smooth-talking lothario is prevented from sleeping with a very Kelly Bundy-esque teenager, the now non-suicidal old woman runs in stuck to a decorative cactus and ruins a priceless painting, a handyman gets slapped and responds by dressing in a full Three Musketeers-style outfit complete with rakishly tilted plumed cap, and the smooth-talker steals some guys money. The audience guffaws its approval.
22. A group of hoochies dance around pretending to play long trumpets. This ushers in some type of Home Depot-sponsored contest in which singing, dancing, and image consultants judge a mariachi contest. Mariachis are super popular on this show. La profesora del canto is giving serious fuck-me eyes to a male contestant named Zineb who looks like Ray Liotta's bastard Mexican son.
I have to stop now, because I don't think it's a good idea watch that much more of "Sabado Gigante." Don Francisco's Kool-Aid is intoxicating, and this show is like four hours long, and I'm not sure I can survive that. I'm so excited by this craziness that I feel like my head will explode if I watch another second. Gigantic Saturday is about to give me a gigantic coronary. As far as a relaxing night of healthy rest goes for me, I'm starting to think that maybe it would have been more prudent to drink my body's liquid volume in scotch. Impossible is "Sabado Gigante."
The show moves at a rapid pace and is full of surprises. It's hard to keep track of all the ridiculous absurdity that has transpired in the last 30 minutes of this show:
1.When I started watching, host Don Francisco, whose look can best be described as part-Vince McMahon, part-greasy uncle that creeps everyone out, is quizzing a couple named Jose y Erika having some type of marital disagreement.
2. El senor Don Francisco is surrounded by dancing hoochies that look like really slutted out Fanta girls for no good reason for about thirty seconds. The dancing hoochies are like ghosts, for they disappear just as quickly.
3. A segment featuring a surprise paternidad test with this old deadbeat fat man. It turns out the deadbeat is el padre, but his daughter hates his guts, so the point is moot. After that is some sort of contest where panels of couples quiz a bunch of bride-groom pairings about their sex lives and values, and win money where they guess which is the most depraved.
4. Don Francisco has some ho show off a Ford Fusion, which is apparently being offered as a prize for some to-be-determined contest.
5. Don Francisco and some hooker wearing an outfit so reminiscent of a gaudily sequined full-body submissive harness that I wondered where her ball gag was hawk some DVDs in which Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse teach kids English, "El mundo del ingles de Disney," so they can speak the language of Disneyland.
6. More dancing hoochies in different outfits. Another shot of a different hoochie reclining on the shiny Fusion.
7. A guy dressed like some sort of sheik in a Pride parade runs through the audience, stirring up excitement, and then onstage, where he good-naturedly harasses Don Francisco. He drags some woman from the audience who looks as though her excitement might cause some type of cerebrovascular accident at any moment, some hos come out and give her money, and the sheik escorts her back to her seat.
8. A band of mariachis plays. The crowd goes insane.
9. A woman came out running around in a Pocahontas outfit pretending to rain dance, shrieking woo-woo-woo-woo, talking shit about the Apaches, and doing everything possible that might be offensive to Native Americans. She had an argument with Don Francisco about whether or not she would move to Hollywood and star in a movie about Indians which amused the audience greatly, then confessed her love for him, he tried to kick her off the set for making lewd jokes, the audience booed, and she declared him "el vaquero mas guapo."
10. Some bitch wins five grand. I have no idea how.
11. Don Francisco is gasping for no apparent reason as he interviews a woman whose mother was Dominican and father was Pakistani. Don Francisco jumps to a scene of the Dominicana-Pakistani at work. He gives her some money and her entire family, including distant cousins, appears in the audience and runs out, hugging her and weeping.
12. Don Francisco and this chick who looks like an alien drag hooker trying to impersonate Mariah Carey advertise elastic body shapers called "Molding Up", that suck in unsightly fat bulges. Chick raves about Molding Up, and they encourage women to call and get a perfect body in less than one minute.
13. Don Francisco, wearing a giant feathered hat with a donkey's head on top introduces a guy dressed like an Inquisition torturer at a gay leather bar with a trumpet slung around his shoulders carrying a pitchfork, who runs through the audience pretend-pitchforking delighted women in the head. The Inquisition torturer returns to a medieval set and proceeds to officiate a singing contest. Don Francisco dons a white easter bonnet covered with lace embellished with hearts for this contestant. Then some chick sings and he wears a baseball hat that looks like the Mexican flag. The next contestant sucks, and Don Francisco wears a jester cap. The reason for the Inquisition torturer's trumpet becomes apparent, as he drives the shitty singer from the stage with a resounding blast of that song bands play at college sports events which is generally followed by a communal shout of "CHARGE!".
14. Don Francisco hawks some type of snake oil face cream called Botulex. The chick is claiming that it has the same effects as Botox without a prescription. I sincerely doubt that it degrades SNARE protein SNAP-25 in neurons, thus blocking vesicular transport and preventing the release of neurotransmitters at the synapse, but Don Francisco and the Botulex ho are vigorously endorsing it nonetheless.
15. Some fat chick sings to her husband Miguel. Don Francisco puts on a hat with flowers on it. Apparently the singing contest continues. Don Francisco reveals that the chick who warranted the Mexican hat won. Her prize seems to be a date with some mariachi singer named David.
16. Don Francisco interviews an immigration lawyer in the audience. He provides counsel to a couple trying to sort out their niece's visa problems. He suggests she marry an American immediately. Then he tells another woman who is evading an order for deportation that her problem is very serious, but he applauds her enduring love for her husband and informs her that she won the Fusion.
17. A couple is pulled out of the audience and Don Francisco proceeds to give the guy some type of high pressure, rapid fire timed series of questions. Then he wins money and everyone sings.
18. The crowd is treated to a sad story about some woman whose husband was a 9/11 hero, but who has been in jail for four years because of some paperwork error at INS, and Don Francisco interviews her, her husband, and her lawyer, Don Edward Sapone. The lawyer bitches passionately about immigration policy, the chick cries, and Don Francisco observes that la migra's bureaucracy is slow as shit, highly inefficient, and generally fucked up. Then the lawyer starts talking about blood in an apartment and I'm very confused, because I thought this about immigration. I need to brush up on my Spanish is a serious way.
19. Don Francisco teases the audience by announcing that some dude named Miguel Bose will be on after the commercial, which is for "La Fea mas Bella," a telenovela similar to "Ugly Betty."
20. Miguel Bose appears, talks to Don Francisco about his music and his videos starring some Shakira wannabe chick in a bikini, and drives the women crazy. I have no idea why, because he looks like Donny Deutsch.
22. A group of hoochies dance around pretending to play long trumpets. This ushers in some type of Home Depot-sponsored contest in which singing, dancing, and image consultants judge a mariachi contest. Mariachis are super popular on this show. La profesora del canto is giving serious fuck-me eyes to a male contestant named Zineb who looks like Ray Liotta's bastard Mexican son.
I have to stop now, because I don't think it's a good idea watch that much more of "Sabado Gigante." Don Francisco's Kool-Aid is intoxicating, and this show is like four hours long, and I'm not sure I can survive that. I'm so excited by this craziness that I feel like my head will explode if I watch another second. Gigantic Saturday is about to give me a gigantic coronary. As far as a relaxing night of healthy rest goes for me, I'm starting to think that maybe it would have been more prudent to drink my body's liquid volume in scotch. Impossible is "Sabado Gigante."
Labels: hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, que magnifico, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity, TV
Don't be so fucking stupid
I got a newsflash for y'all. This is mostly for the gentlemen, but ladies, listen up in case this applies to you too.
Strippers do not like you.
It's not a big deal and it shouldn't be a mystery. The only single thing about you they find remotely interesting is your back left pocket - assuming that's where you keep your wallet. So get the message with a quickness: they're not attracted to you. They don't want to leave with you at 5 am to make whoopie. If you saw them on the street they'd flat out ignore you. In fact, cut the bullshit, they probably hate you. The point is this: you walked in with money that they'd like walk out with. For this reason and this reason alone will they rub their perfumed and sparkly persons all over you in ten-minute increments. And then they want you to go the fuck home.
If you want to date a stripper, buy a drink for any girl who says she's a dancer. BUT NOT AT THE STRIP JOINT. It is not match.com, nor is it eharmony. It's not even like friendster. It's a place you soberly waltzed into in search of titties, and you simply cannot can't take it with you when you go. End of story.
With this thesis, allow me to share an anecdote that both illustrates my point and explains the inspiration:
I work right around the corner from a gentlemen's establishment - as a matter of interest, it's right next door to the firing range that Raz and I frequent. After a particularly grueling day in the mines of experiential marketing, two guys I work with invite me out to, er, blow off some steam with cocktails and lap dances from some near-nekkid girls.
It's a Monday night so the place looks like a dollar-theater-run of Earnest Goes to Camp. One cat, this lone Asian businessman, is noncommitally inspecting the wares. Otherwise we're the only billfolds in the whole place, and one of us is female, so every girl workin 5 to 9 spots us right out of the gate and heads to our table. My two compatriots - Van Basketcase and Baldy - notice that the girl on stage is giving us the eye, and nudge me with that dumbstruck grin. "Truck, she likes you."
"You're hopeless, homies," I reply, and toss in the kicker. "Just so we're clear, this night's on you cuz I gots no money for this."
The rules so stated, the evening starts out innocently enough, and, as expected, a slow process of degeneration follows. Patron. Vodka Red Bulls. More Patron, more VRB, so on and on, interspersed with dances all 'round. The girl-on-the-stage, a slim Russian number in a hot pink dress, made a beeline for me the hot second she hopped off the the pole, and proceeds to stay with us throughout the evening. The boys wink at me knowingly as they peel off twenties for her to dance on my lap. I shake my head and focus on the task at hand, marveling at how dumb boys can be.
Finally, seduced by the nonstop flow of booze and boobies, Baldy gets the bright idea to hit the back room. Me and him with our Soviet sweetheart. So he negotiates with her, hands over the dough, and we head upstairs for a flatly embarrassing moment when he tries to convince her actually to hook up with me. I put an end to the nonsense when he won't let it go, and we head back down.
As soon as we hit the main floor, she disappears to the back another dancer, and we are left at the table with a fresh drink to tell of our misadventures. We recap for Van Basketcase, who has befriended the Asian guy in our absence and had a fine, less ridiculous experience for himself.
At the end of our sad tale, Baldy realizes she's missing and says, "Hey where did she go?"
"Home, motherfucker, it's quittin time."
He glances at his watch and takes in the inescable reality: it's 5:30 am. It dawns on his face slowly, as comprehension breast-strokes its way through the puddle of booze in his brain: first a pause, then a look of wonder, then a slight furrowing of the brow. His mind struggles to communicate with his face, until at last he speaks. "But I thought she liked us!" He proceeds to go on a tear about HOW SHE LED US ON, how she seduced us falsely all night, blah blah blah. This rant does not end for the next hour, as we close down the club and settle whatever unholy tab we racked up during our visit.
This rant does not end when it becomes tomorrow, as he picks it up periodically between meetings. He even adds the stinger - this isn't the first time he's experienced this, and WITH VAN BASKETCASE. He truly belives these girls like him, and cannot absorb the enduring, repated fact of his own empirical data. After about the fourth installment of this, I submit to mercy and annoyance and break it down for him, to save him and the world from this ludicrous douchebaggery. He is genuinely, shockingly surprised, and I am, again, genuinely embarrassed for his stupidity. We agree to leave it at that. I don't know if he took it to heart. And I will hopefully never know. Because I will never walk into any den of sin with him again. It's too bad for him, really - strippers are always nicer to tables that boast a female. It's a show of good faith. If you're cool enough to have your/a girl in tow when you go out to get rowdy, they will give you props. Just as, if you show your ass, they will leave your table so fast it'll make your drunk head spin.
In summary, let's recap the lesson.
SHE DON'T LIKE YOU.
So don't play.
Your stripper is like your dentist, less the schooling. Your stripper is like your mechanic, less the socket wrench. The very next time you find yourself faced with contracted labor of this variety, remember ye the simple arrangement: she provides a service, you pay for it. Don't be a jackass. Simply thank the maker for these symmetrical beauties-for-hire, and hail a cab home before you make a fool of yourself.
Strippers do not like you.
It's not a big deal and it shouldn't be a mystery. The only single thing about you they find remotely interesting is your back left pocket - assuming that's where you keep your wallet. So get the message with a quickness: they're not attracted to you. They don't want to leave with you at 5 am to make whoopie. If you saw them on the street they'd flat out ignore you. In fact, cut the bullshit, they probably hate you. The point is this: you walked in with money that they'd like walk out with. For this reason and this reason alone will they rub their perfumed and sparkly persons all over you in ten-minute increments. And then they want you to go the fuck home.
If you want to date a stripper, buy a drink for any girl who says she's a dancer. BUT NOT AT THE STRIP JOINT. It is not match.com, nor is it eharmony. It's not even like friendster. It's a place you soberly waltzed into in search of titties, and you simply cannot can't take it with you when you go. End of story.
With this thesis, allow me to share an anecdote that both illustrates my point and explains the inspiration:
I work right around the corner from a gentlemen's establishment - as a matter of interest, it's right next door to the firing range that Raz and I frequent. After a particularly grueling day in the mines of experiential marketing, two guys I work with invite me out to, er, blow off some steam with cocktails and lap dances from some near-nekkid girls.
It's a Monday night so the place looks like a dollar-theater-run of Earnest Goes to Camp. One cat, this lone Asian businessman, is noncommitally inspecting the wares. Otherwise we're the only billfolds in the whole place, and one of us is female, so every girl workin 5 to 9 spots us right out of the gate and heads to our table. My two compatriots - Van Basketcase and Baldy - notice that the girl on stage is giving us the eye, and nudge me with that dumbstruck grin. "Truck, she likes you."
"You're hopeless, homies," I reply, and toss in the kicker. "Just so we're clear, this night's on you cuz I gots no money for this."
The rules so stated, the evening starts out innocently enough, and, as expected, a slow process of degeneration follows. Patron. Vodka Red Bulls. More Patron, more VRB, so on and on, interspersed with dances all 'round. The girl-on-the-stage, a slim Russian number in a hot pink dress, made a beeline for me the hot second she hopped off the the pole, and proceeds to stay with us throughout the evening. The boys wink at me knowingly as they peel off twenties for her to dance on my lap. I shake my head and focus on the task at hand, marveling at how dumb boys can be.
Finally, seduced by the nonstop flow of booze and boobies, Baldy gets the bright idea to hit the back room. Me and him with our Soviet sweetheart. So he negotiates with her, hands over the dough, and we head upstairs for a flatly embarrassing moment when he tries to convince her actually to hook up with me. I put an end to the nonsense when he won't let it go, and we head back down.
As soon as we hit the main floor, she disappears to the back another dancer, and we are left at the table with a fresh drink to tell of our misadventures. We recap for Van Basketcase, who has befriended the Asian guy in our absence and had a fine, less ridiculous experience for himself.
At the end of our sad tale, Baldy realizes she's missing and says, "Hey where did she go?"
"Home, motherfucker, it's quittin time."
He glances at his watch and takes in the inescable reality: it's 5:30 am. It dawns on his face slowly, as comprehension breast-strokes its way through the puddle of booze in his brain: first a pause, then a look of wonder, then a slight furrowing of the brow. His mind struggles to communicate with his face, until at last he speaks. "But I thought she liked us!" He proceeds to go on a tear about HOW SHE LED US ON, how she seduced us falsely all night, blah blah blah. This rant does not end for the next hour, as we close down the club and settle whatever unholy tab we racked up during our visit.
This rant does not end when it becomes tomorrow, as he picks it up periodically between meetings. He even adds the stinger - this isn't the first time he's experienced this, and WITH VAN BASKETCASE. He truly belives these girls like him, and cannot absorb the enduring, repated fact of his own empirical data. After about the fourth installment of this, I submit to mercy and annoyance and break it down for him, to save him and the world from this ludicrous douchebaggery. He is genuinely, shockingly surprised, and I am, again, genuinely embarrassed for his stupidity. We agree to leave it at that. I don't know if he took it to heart. And I will hopefully never know. Because I will never walk into any den of sin with him again. It's too bad for him, really - strippers are always nicer to tables that boast a female. It's a show of good faith. If you're cool enough to have your/a girl in tow when you go out to get rowdy, they will give you props. Just as, if you show your ass, they will leave your table so fast it'll make your drunk head spin.
In summary, let's recap the lesson.
SHE DON'T LIKE YOU.
So don't play.
Your stripper is like your dentist, less the schooling. Your stripper is like your mechanic, less the socket wrench. The very next time you find yourself faced with contracted labor of this variety, remember ye the simple arrangement: she provides a service, you pay for it. Don't be a jackass. Simply thank the maker for these symmetrical beauties-for-hire, and hail a cab home before you make a fool of yourself.
Labels: assholes, FalloniusMonk, hilarious shit, hot chicks, nudity, ridiculous absurdity, sluts, small penises
Friday, April 20, 2007
Four-twenty/the Palmetto State
If your day ran anything like Rac's and mine, you received about four hundred and twenty "This is a virtual blunt - puff, puff, give! Pass it on!" text messages, during the course of your workaday dealings.
But I - I was so fortunate as to step outside of the virtual during my first smoke [cigarette] break of the day.
As I cruise out of the elevator, the sunglasses-sportin' guy next to me sees the full sun of spring outside and begins to exclaim "Sunshine!" repeatedly. He gently takes my arm and escorts me out of the door, across the oncoming traffic of the sidewalk, and into the rays of morning sun. We exchange some odd pleasantries, thank Jehosephat it's Spring etc etc, and I spark my Camel Light.
As we gaze at the traffic - scenic New York - we witness a usual scene: the man parallel parking across the street runs into a parked motorcycle and knocks the shit clean over. As he backs up for clear space, he rams into the stationary sedan behind him. Without bothering to inch off of this new crushed car, this motherfucker parks, gets out and tries to right the bike. He picks it up... but fails to grasp the technology of the kickstand. So when he lets go, it crashes to the ground anew, helmet bouncing across the pavement.
He muses but swiftly loses interest, instead turning his eyes to inspect his own semi-SUV for damage.
An onlooking 60-year-old jumps into assist, and tries his own hand at propping up the battered cycle. As this happens, the sun-marveling man next to me asks, "Do you have a lighter that works?" as he tosses away his now-beaten source of fire. Sure, I says, hand him mine, and return my attention quickly to the trainwreck across the avenue, where the struggle continues and new characters lend a hand with the bike.
Again, my would-be smoker-in-arms turns to me and asks, "Is it me?" as he tries in vain to light his own cigarette.
Yes, I says to him, yes it's you. I take the thing back and light it in one flick of the Bic, holding it up for him, when I realize that ain't no cigarette. It's a one-hitter, making this douchebag my new favorite one-hit wonder. I let out a small giggle and he smiles, says in all honesty, "It's 4-20."
"It is, in fact, 4-20, and apparently all day," says me.
He grins, takes a hit, and then begins to shadow-golf as he asks questions about me and my job.
"Um, do you work upstairs?" I ask, not sure what to make of this flirtatious minor felon.
"I do," says guy, and proceeds to tell me about how his work with casinos "on their advertising." Denies ever having sampled their wares, "never gambled, never watched the dancing girls," so on and on. I make glib reply and he says, "You just had to throw that Southern in on the end of it, didn't you?" With this, he removes his sunglasses and looks me dead in the eyes, smiling, whatever. "Where you from?" he asks, gaze steady.
"South Carolina." What part? Columbia.
Now, the standard response for this is, as we all well know: GO COCKS! So that's what I'm waiting for, be it commisseration or lambast to follow.
Not so.
He pulls in close, our faces about six inches apart, and lowers his voice to say, "I wanna Palmetto State you. All... night... long."
And with that, he squeezes my arm, winks, and says, "I will see you later," and heads off the curb to cross the street.
The cycle is upright, the crowd gone, the semu-SUV parked, and 4-20 started in style. Pipes raised to the rest of y'all - may your day include a puff, puff, give of summa that.
But I - I was so fortunate as to step outside of the virtual during my first smoke [cigarette] break of the day.
As I cruise out of the elevator, the sunglasses-sportin' guy next to me sees the full sun of spring outside and begins to exclaim "Sunshine!" repeatedly. He gently takes my arm and escorts me out of the door, across the oncoming traffic of the sidewalk, and into the rays of morning sun. We exchange some odd pleasantries, thank Jehosephat it's Spring etc etc, and I spark my Camel Light.
As we gaze at the traffic - scenic New York - we witness a usual scene: the man parallel parking across the street runs into a parked motorcycle and knocks the shit clean over. As he backs up for clear space, he rams into the stationary sedan behind him. Without bothering to inch off of this new crushed car, this motherfucker parks, gets out and tries to right the bike. He picks it up... but fails to grasp the technology of the kickstand. So when he lets go, it crashes to the ground anew, helmet bouncing across the pavement.
He muses but swiftly loses interest, instead turning his eyes to inspect his own semi-SUV for damage.
An onlooking 60-year-old jumps into assist, and tries his own hand at propping up the battered cycle. As this happens, the sun-marveling man next to me asks, "Do you have a lighter that works?" as he tosses away his now-beaten source of fire. Sure, I says, hand him mine, and return my attention quickly to the trainwreck across the avenue, where the struggle continues and new characters lend a hand with the bike.
Again, my would-be smoker-in-arms turns to me and asks, "Is it me?" as he tries in vain to light his own cigarette.
Yes, I says to him, yes it's you. I take the thing back and light it in one flick of the Bic, holding it up for him, when I realize that ain't no cigarette. It's a one-hitter, making this douchebag my new favorite one-hit wonder. I let out a small giggle and he smiles, says in all honesty, "It's 4-20."
"It is, in fact, 4-20, and apparently all day," says me.
He grins, takes a hit, and then begins to shadow-golf as he asks questions about me and my job.
"Um, do you work upstairs?" I ask, not sure what to make of this flirtatious minor felon.
"I do," says guy, and proceeds to tell me about how his work with casinos "on their advertising." Denies ever having sampled their wares, "never gambled, never watched the dancing girls," so on and on. I make glib reply and he says, "You just had to throw that Southern in on the end of it, didn't you?" With this, he removes his sunglasses and looks me dead in the eyes, smiling, whatever. "Where you from?" he asks, gaze steady.
"South Carolina." What part? Columbia.
Now, the standard response for this is, as we all well know: GO COCKS! So that's what I'm waiting for, be it commisseration or lambast to follow.
Not so.
He pulls in close, our faces about six inches apart, and lowers his voice to say, "I wanna Palmetto State you. All... night... long."
And with that, he squeezes my arm, winks, and says, "I will see you later," and heads off the curb to cross the street.
The cycle is upright, the crowd gone, the semu-SUV parked, and 4-20 started in style. Pipes raised to the rest of y'all - may your day include a puff, puff, give of summa that.
Labels: Dirrty Dirrty, FalloniusMonk, hilarious shit, NYC, perversion, smoking
BREAKING NEWS! TORTURE RAPIST CAUGHT!
NY1, the finest local news station in the universe, is now reporting that Manhattan SVU has Billy Bobs in custody and are questioning him! Morning news anchor (and total stud, for a mild-looking, dryly sarcastic Canadian former "lite" radio DJ) Pat Kiernan just announced that Detectives Benson and Stabler are working him over right now back at the 103. Olivia is being really self-righteous, Elliott is getting really, REALLY ANGRY, Ice-T is being sullenly judgmental, and Detective Munch is crafting bitter, darkly humorous one-liners about foreign policy. Well...that part about the cast of "Law and Order:SVU" was obviously all made-up, but I'm just filling in the blanks because the news is a little spare on the details right now.
The Daily News website is also announcing that the suspect was "COLLARED IN SICKO RAPE" while burglarizing an apartment in Hollis, Queens, and pleased me immensely by giving it a corner of their front page (ignore the back page cover beatification of Gay-Rod):
Gary Anthony Ramsay, the NY1 reporter on the scene, also just told Pat Kiernan that while in prison, Billy Bobs was famous for "outbursts of violence, including throwing his own feces." Not only does that particular specialty really round out his resume as a predicate felon, but I'd wager that this talent also made him really popular with his fellow inmates. In fact, the fellas upstate should be cautioned that a shitstorm is literally headed their way. As soon as this gets to court, the victim is going to be very Kobra Kai and tell the DA to have NO MERCY. Motherfucker will be lucky to get out of jail in his lifetime. According to the Daily News, her only remarks to the press thus far are "the dude should be castrated." Ready a bunk at Sing Sing for his poop-slinging rapist ass.
The Daily News website is also announcing that the suspect was "COLLARED IN SICKO RAPE" while burglarizing an apartment in Hollis, Queens, and pleased me immensely by giving it a corner of their front page (ignore the back page cover beatification of Gay-Rod):
Gary Anthony Ramsay, the NY1 reporter on the scene, also just told Pat Kiernan that while in prison, Billy Bobs was famous for "outbursts of violence, including throwing his own feces." Not only does that particular specialty really round out his resume as a predicate felon, but I'd wager that this talent also made him really popular with his fellow inmates. In fact, the fellas upstate should be cautioned that a shitstorm is literally headed their way. As soon as this gets to court, the victim is going to be very Kobra Kai and tell the DA to have NO MERCY. Motherfucker will be lucky to get out of jail in his lifetime. According to the Daily News, her only remarks to the press thus far are "the dude should be castrated." Ready a bunk at Sing Sing for his poop-slinging rapist ass.
Labels: comeuppance, crime and punishment, large exclamatory font, NYC, sexual assault
My friendly neighborhood torture rapist
Although he still hasn't been apprehended, the cops now know who my neighborhood torture rapist is, since he apparently left some of his little soldiers in his victim. In spite off his lengthy career as a criminal, I guess he has yet to learn about DNA. He is a 30-year-old homeless ex-con named William Roberts, or Billy Bobs, as I like to call him:
As much as the terms "homeless ex-con" and "torture rapist" are repellant to me, I have to admit that Billy Bobs is actually kind of cute. Well, "kind of cute" given that he's a criminal monster who has spent most of his life in the custody of the state of New York. The Post is reporting that although his juvey records are sealed, in 1992 he killed someone in the Bronx when he was 15. He did eight years for that. In 1999-2000, he did some time at a mental health facility for shooting someone in Manhattan. His criminal record contains a smattering of assorted other convictions for robbery, minor assault, and public transportation turnstile jumping. Most recently, in January he was released after doing four months for getting into a fight with some dude at the 3rd Avenue L train stop and breaking his wrist.
Also detracting from Billy Bobs's surprisingly attractive phenotype is his height, or lack thereof. Before the cops did his DNA workup and identified him, the police sketches told us that he was 6'1". I guess the victim wasn't in such a good position to judge his height, because this dude is ACTUALLY 5'5". No wonder he's into rape; the Napoleonic motherfucker probably has a stubby little dick too.
The dedicated detectives of the elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit are currently scouring the city's subway stations and homeless shelters in their hunt for Billy Bobs. My bet is that he'll be cooling his heels and tending to his freshly violated asshole in a cell at Riker's come start-of-business Monday.
And if I run into him sleeping at St. Nicholas Park, I'm going to call the cops and then kick the shit out of him while waiting for them to arrive. He's only got two inches and forty pounds on me, and I have stiletto heels, which those who have had the pleasure of watching Single White Female know can serve as quite a formidable weapon. Advantage Razzy.
Also detracting from Billy Bobs's surprisingly attractive phenotype is his height, or lack thereof. Before the cops did his DNA workup and identified him, the police sketches told us that he was 6'1". I guess the victim wasn't in such a good position to judge his height, because this dude is ACTUALLY 5'5". No wonder he's into rape; the Napoleonic motherfucker probably has a stubby little dick too.
The dedicated detectives of the elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit are currently scouring the city's subway stations and homeless shelters in their hunt for Billy Bobs. My bet is that he'll be cooling his heels and tending to his freshly violated asshole in a cell at Riker's come start-of-business Monday.
And if I run into him sleeping at St. Nicholas Park, I'm going to call the cops and then kick the shit out of him while waiting for them to arrive. He's only got two inches and forty pounds on me, and I have stiletto heels, which those who have had the pleasure of watching Single White Female know can serve as quite a formidable weapon. Advantage Razzy.
Labels: crime and punishment, NYC, sexual assault
Thursday, April 19, 2007
The verdict is in: GUILTY!!!!
The gang of knife-wielding New Jersey muscle lezzies (or as the Daily News calls them, the "lesbian wolf pack") who beat up and stabbed some dude in the West Village received a big fat GUILTY verdict from a jury of their peers. Check out one of these bitches, Terrain Dandridge. She is no joke.
I'd say this is a victory for the dude who claims to have suffered a "hate crime against straight people" at the hands of these women, but he's pissed they were not also convicted on charges of attempted murder. He bitches, "I'm stabbed and have a scar that will be with me for the rest of my life. They have their jail sentences, but they'll be out soon." He is whining like a little girl, because like the prosecutor, he feels he was attacked without provocation. He laments, "This is what I get for being a nice guy."
Nice guy, huh? Nice guys don't heckle random ladies walking by. I am not suggesting that stabbing is an appropriate retort to anything outside of a knife fight, but the girls weren't entirely unprovoked. Apparently what spurred them to violent action was when the victim, as they were walking by the IFC Film Center looking for the nearest Village dildo emporium, shouted, "Let me get some of that," and pointed to the stabber's vadge. When she declined his offer he then called them "dykes" and added, "I'll fuck you straight, sweetheart!"
I think everyone agrees that such chivalrous advances truly embody the very definition of "nice guy." My mother dreams that one day I might marry such a refined gentleman.
Nice guy, huh? Nice guys don't heckle random ladies walking by. I am not suggesting that stabbing is an appropriate retort to anything outside of a knife fight, but the girls weren't entirely unprovoked. Apparently what spurred them to violent action was when the victim, as they were walking by the IFC Film Center looking for the nearest Village dildo emporium, shouted, "Let me get some of that," and pointed to the stabber's vadge. When she declined his offer he then called them "dykes" and added, "I'll fuck you straight, sweetheart!"
I think everyone agrees that such chivalrous advances truly embody the very definition of "nice guy." My mother dreams that one day I might marry such a refined gentleman.
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, crime and punishment, lezbollah, NYC
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
A whale blows in Brooklyn
It's been a brisk week for news, and I'm having a hard time keeping up with all of it. I keep looking for an awesome headline about catching my neighborhood torture rapist, which hopefully is going well for the SVU. Last night as I was walking home from the subway, these four people came running out of a car and grabbed this guy in front of me. They took his bag and started tearing at his clothes. At first I thought they were robbing him, but then I saw that they all had badges around their necks, and were checking his gut for the characteristic scar the torture rapist supposedly has. At least the cops are all over my neighborhood, and apparently they recovered some of the torture rapist's DNA, so I'm a bit more relaxed about that whole situation.
Also, I keep getting distracted with this Virginia Tech bullshit. I don't have much to say about that except that it sucks, and that Cho Seung or whatever was a horrible writer. I was reading his plays and instead of being disturbed as all the news outlets say I should be, I was laughing. In Richard McBeef (which is hilarious enough as a stand-alone title much less anyone's name...it sounds like something off the Mickey D's dollar menu) during the parts where McBeef is like, "I'll do you doggy style just like you like, honey poo" and where the teenage character tries to choke him with a banana-flavored Powerbar after a silly "My name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father"-type sequence of dialogue, I was actually laughing out loud. Then, in Mr. Brownstone, these teenagers spend about two pages analysing the lyrics of the Guns'n'Roses song and comparing it to their math teacher or something. What their math teacher has to do with heroin addiction is beyond me, but I don't hold it against myself that I'm not grasping the literary nuances of a murderous lunatic. I didn't really think these piss-poor forays into drama were indicative of a psychotic school shooter, but then again, I've never been a big fan of the theater. The only other thing that got me fired up about this was President Bush's remarks about how this violence and suffering was "senseless", which prompted me to shout at the TV, "Well, what the fuck do you call Iraq, dumbass!" It sucks that 32 people died in Virginia for no reason, but guess what...2300 people have done the same thing over in the shitshow formerly known as the fertile crescent. Needless to say, news about the Hokie massacre is pretty damn depressing on multiple levels, so I was excited to see some depressing news that could cheer me up a little bit.
That's why, when I was looking through the local sections of the Post and Daily News websites, I found a funny little gem about a whale that somehow got stuck in the Gowanus Bay in Brooklyn after the weekend's Nor'easter.
In classic Post and Daily News form, they've already christened the 15-foot juvenile minke whale "Sludgie", on account of his supposed affinity for the heavily polluted Gowanus Bay (which is pronounced "Go-on-us", not "Go-anus", although I often pronounce it the latter way to be funny.) In a classically Long Island-flavored bit of scientific commentary, the director of Long Island's Coastal Research and Education Society calls Gowanus Bay "an incredibly nasty place for a whale. It's a funky place." The Gowanus Bay is indeed so funky that other people say things like, "I've heard of crabs and seals but never a whale." It's bad when you've merely heard tales told of sea creatures that are common in every other normal waterway in the world.
Today they are apparently going to try to coax Sludgie back toward the ocean with underwater broadcasts of whale noises. If Sludgie's name is any indication, though, he'll stay with the pollution and probably end up in the East River. The whale is fucked.
Also, I keep getting distracted with this Virginia Tech bullshit. I don't have much to say about that except that it sucks, and that Cho Seung or whatever was a horrible writer. I was reading his plays and instead of being disturbed as all the news outlets say I should be, I was laughing. In Richard McBeef (which is hilarious enough as a stand-alone title much less anyone's name...it sounds like something off the Mickey D's dollar menu) during the parts where McBeef is like, "I'll do you doggy style just like you like, honey poo" and where the teenage character tries to choke him with a banana-flavored Powerbar after a silly "My name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father"-type sequence of dialogue, I was actually laughing out loud. Then, in Mr. Brownstone, these teenagers spend about two pages analysing the lyrics of the Guns'n'Roses song and comparing it to their math teacher or something. What their math teacher has to do with heroin addiction is beyond me, but I don't hold it against myself that I'm not grasping the literary nuances of a murderous lunatic. I didn't really think these piss-poor forays into drama were indicative of a psychotic school shooter, but then again, I've never been a big fan of the theater. The only other thing that got me fired up about this was President Bush's remarks about how this violence and suffering was "senseless", which prompted me to shout at the TV, "Well, what the fuck do you call Iraq, dumbass!" It sucks that 32 people died in Virginia for no reason, but guess what...2300 people have done the same thing over in the shitshow formerly known as the fertile crescent. Needless to say, news about the Hokie massacre is pretty damn depressing on multiple levels, so I was excited to see some depressing news that could cheer me up a little bit.
That's why, when I was looking through the local sections of the Post and Daily News websites, I found a funny little gem about a whale that somehow got stuck in the Gowanus Bay in Brooklyn after the weekend's Nor'easter.
Today they are apparently going to try to coax Sludgie back toward the ocean with underwater broadcasts of whale noises. If Sludgie's name is any indication, though, he'll stay with the pollution and probably end up in the East River. The whale is fucked.
Labels: NYC, ridiculous absurdity, science
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
This is even more awesome
The Post has these awesome pictures today of the Columbia torture rapist using the ATM at the (not five but) Six Stars Deli, which is my corner bodega.
Apparently along with everything else he did to the poor girl, he jacked her debit card and emptied her bank account at my local deli. Fucking asshole. Get out of my neighborhood!
On the bright side, maybe these pictures will hasten the process of Ice-T and Mariska Hargitay's real-life counterparts at the NYPD arresting his ass and shipping him off to Riker's Island, where, if there's any justice in the world, he will discover that karma is truly a forcefully sodomizing bitch.
Apparently along with everything else he did to the poor girl, he jacked her debit card and emptied her bank account at my local deli. Fucking asshole. Get out of my neighborhood!
On the bright side, maybe these pictures will hasten the process of Ice-T and Mariska Hargitay's real-life counterparts at the NYPD arresting his ass and shipping him off to Riker's Island, where, if there's any justice in the world, he will discover that karma is truly a forcefully sodomizing bitch.
Labels: crime and punishment, for serious people, Harlem world, NYC, oh the horror, sexual assault
Monday, April 16, 2007
Did somebody check the Sugar Hill Megan's Law list?
I knew those sex predators in my neighborhood were up to no good. Granted, I have no proof that any of them committed this especially heinous sexually-based offense, but just in case the dedicated detectives of the elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit who investigate these vicious felonies haven't heard, there's a lot of category-three-most-likely-to-reoffend pervs skulking about my hood. I would ask them about the crime describe in this comforting headline on the Daily News cover this morning:
Although the ass-kissing tribute to Giuliani's wife is almost equally horrific, I'm talking about the headline on the bottom. It seems that over the weekend, some dude forced his way into this Columbia Journalism school student's apartment, tied her to her futon, spent 19 hours raping her, burning her with chemicals, scalding her with boiling water, and slitting her eyelids, then lit her on fire and left her to die. She was able to burn off her ligatures and get out of her apartment before it went up in flames, and is now currently in the hospital and probably severely traumatized for life. The best part? This happened one block away from me!
I'd take solace in knowing that I have dogs who will protect me, but who am I kidding? Caesar would probably hide if the perpetrator came in here and made a loud, startling noise, and what's Chingy! going to do...sit on the torture rapist? I need to get a gun...I mean, is Columbia going to protect me? Today we got this e-mail from President Lee Bollinger which presumably is supposed to assuage the fear and anxiety this might engender in Columbia grad students:
Dear members of the Columbia community,
I am very sorry to report that over the weekend a graduate student in the Graduate School of Journalism was assaulted in her off-campus apartment in Hamilton Heights. [Razzy Edit: "Hamilton Heights" is the relatively new white-people-friendly name for my hood instead of the more historically gangsta-sounding "Sugar Hill", just like "Morningside Heights" is what Columbia calls West Harlem.] She is in a hospital, and her family is with her. The police are searching for the assailant.
At this time, both out of respect for the privacy of the student and her family and out of the need to assist the police investigation actively underway, we cannot say more. I have, on behalf of the entire University community, expressed to the family our deepest concern and our wish to assist them in any way we can.
I know this horrible crime will be upsetting and troubling to all members of the University but especially to our students and their families. If anyone--students, staff, or faculty--feels the need for assistance of any kind, we have a range of resources available, including counseling and psychological services.
While I'm glad the University is covering its ass by making their arsenal of shrinks readily available to anyone who can't cope with what is destined to be "ripped from the headlines" for an episode of "Law and Order:SVU", since when was "rape and torture by chemical burns, eyelid-slitting, and attempted murder by immolation" considered "assault"? What the fuck, Columbia?! It's not like that's a secret...it's in 72-point font on the cover of the Daily News, for God's sake! Thanks, University Administrators, for dumbing down the severity of this assault and sending us all to the shrink for some Xanax...way to proactively deal with this situation. I feel safer already.
I'd take solace in knowing that I have dogs who will protect me, but who am I kidding? Caesar would probably hide if the perpetrator came in here and made a loud, startling noise, and what's Chingy! going to do...sit on the torture rapist? I need to get a gun...I mean, is Columbia going to protect me? Today we got this e-mail from President Lee Bollinger which presumably is supposed to assuage the fear and anxiety this might engender in Columbia grad students:
Dear members of the Columbia community,
I am very sorry to report that over the weekend a graduate student in the Graduate School of Journalism was assaulted in her off-campus apartment in Hamilton Heights. [Razzy Edit: "Hamilton Heights" is the relatively new white-people-friendly name for my hood instead of the more historically gangsta-sounding "Sugar Hill", just like "Morningside Heights" is what Columbia calls West Harlem.] She is in a hospital, and her family is with her. The police are searching for the assailant.
At this time, both out of respect for the privacy of the student and her family and out of the need to assist the police investigation actively underway, we cannot say more. I have, on behalf of the entire University community, expressed to the family our deepest concern and our wish to assist them in any way we can.
I know this horrible crime will be upsetting and troubling to all members of the University but especially to our students and their families. If anyone--students, staff, or faculty--feels the need for assistance of any kind, we have a range of resources available, including counseling and psychological services.
While I'm glad the University is covering its ass by making their arsenal of shrinks readily available to anyone who can't cope with what is destined to be "ripped from the headlines" for an episode of "Law and Order:SVU", since when was "rape and torture by chemical burns, eyelid-slitting, and attempted murder by immolation" considered "assault"? What the fuck, Columbia?! It's not like that's a secret...it's in 72-point font on the cover of the Daily News, for God's sake! Thanks, University Administrators, for dumbing down the severity of this assault and sending us all to the shrink for some Xanax...way to proactively deal with this situation. I feel safer already.
Labels: crime and punishment, for serious people, grad school bullshit, kewlness, NYC, oh the horror, sexual assault
A suggestion for John Mayer: grow a penis
Although his blog is kind of funny when he makes fun of Perez Hilton, TMZ, and Pink is the New Blog, I still think that John Mayer is a fucking pussy. For some reason, people seem to think he's a "rock star," and if that's the case, then rock 'n' roll is truly dead. In my view, there are several important criteria that must be met in order to rock:
1. You must kick ass
Kicking ass is unequivocally something John Mayer does not do. Slayer kicks ass. Metallica kicks ass. Original Guns 'n' Roses kicks ass. John Mayer sings emotional ballads about his feelings, which is a LOT closer to pussy bitch than asskickery on the spectrum of musical styles. John Mayer is such a simpering twat that he makes Morrissey look like Pantera in comparison.
2. You must not unplug
I fucking HATE "unplugged" music. Although with the exception of giving Korn one last gasp at remaining relevant, MTV seems to have stopped doing their "Unplugged" series of shows (and go figure, like MTV's audience ever gave a rat's ass about seeing Eric Clapton, plugged in or otherwise), there is still an unfortunate trend of alleged "rock" musicians like John Mayer strumming away on their acoustic guitars singing about their problematic relationships. Despite a number of John Mayer pictures floating around the internet where he appears to be playing an electric guitar, all of his music still sounds like the tearfully emotional torrent you can just imagine coming out of his caterwauling mouth in the above photograph.
3. You must not allow yourself to be exploited by the Simpson family to sell Jessica's shitshow of an album
Before they admitted to being an item and continent-hopping together, Jessica Simpson's incestuous manager father, as well as Jessica herself, spread a bunch of rumors that these two were a hot couple. At first John Mayer proceeded to get totally pissed about it, defriend her over it, and bitch to the media. I think Jessica Simpson is actually less intelligent than a poop-eating retarded child, but I've got to admit that she'shot got huge cans, albeit with a hint of tranny. If rumors were going around that I fucked her and I looked like John Mayer, I'd be telling everyone that I hit that piece of ass and dropped it like a dirty sock. Even if it wasn't true, it would still improve the entire world's impression of him as a nutless tree-hugging wuss. I guess he realized this, because now they ARE such a hot couple that they awaken entire hotels with their loud-ass humping. Gross.
4. You must never headline a show with Maroon5
Apparently Adam Levine, the scrawny, overcompensating ball of feelings who fronts Maroon5 actually dumped Jessica Simpson by text message (per all the totally fact-checked and accurate celebrity tabloids and blogs, anyway). I have to say that's considerably more badass than John Mayer complaining about Jessica Simpson pretending to go out with him and then being like, "Just kidding!" and dragging her off to Australia with his fug ass.
5. You must never sing about your feelings unless it has something to do with boning Tawny Kitaen
I am aware that the stupid "Your Body is a Wonderland" song that took the adult contemporary scene by storm a couple of years ago was supposedly written about banging Jennifer Love Hewitt. While she does have an indisputably smoking body, have you ever heard a less worthy song about what it's like to fuck her? Unless despite her porn-caliber jugs she's a boring lay who likes to keep all the lights off during coitus because "lovemaking" makes her uncomfortable, which wouldn't surprise me. That song convinces me that her body is less of a "wonderland" where there are hookah-smoking caterpillars, Cheshire cats, unbirthdays, Mad Hatters, and a variety of mind-altering drugs and more of a "processorland" where recently girl finger-banging Smith feminists exchange knitting tips and cookie recipes over Earl Grey and cucumber sandwiches. BOOOOOORRRRRRRING.
6. You must not be from Connecticut
What is this look supposed to be, John...edgy WASP? You're really a rebel, rocking a pair of jeans with that wrinkled and poorly fitted blazer. Go back to the golf course or the polo grounds where you belong!
7. Unless your name is David Bowie or you are in a band called Twisted Sister, you must not look like a woman.
With that layered body wave in his hair, he looks like an ugly lesbian folk singer rocking the stage at Lilith Fair. After he plays his set, he's going to drink some tea and dish about his period with the Indigo Girls.
8. People who are not 12-year-old girls must find you attractive.
Junior high girls might go for this brooding-yet-effeminate look, but anyone who doesn't have an angry man-breasted boyfriend in their vagina knows that this wistful carotid-scratching means nothing but seriously OUT OF CONTROL gay drama.
9. You don't give interviews about your relationships unless they have something positive to do with fucking groupies, which he should be all about considering his fan base is 99.999999999% female.
Mayer recently gave an interview to Rolling Stone in which he claimed, among other things that his one experience boning groupies was "violating", then added that he'd like to meet a woman who
is proficient at phone sex. Who knew this girly boy was so kinky? Furthermore, clearly Jessica Simpson spends more time getting Mystic tanned than brushing up on her phone sex skills, since he just gives up and flies her orange ass to Italy or Madison, Wisconsin or Australia or wherever else he's driving the bitches wild with his crybaby processing.
10. You must have your first scotch before the age of twenty-fucking-six.
In his Rolling Stone interview, Mayer also states that he just discovered weed (which he smokes out of a vaporizer to protect his delicate little lungs and precious singing voice) and scotch whiskey. The entire article is like, "After some Glenfiddich and shitty joke-telling" and "After getting stoned and asking for a Glenfiddich", as though John Mayer is now America's leading drug-using, scotch-swilling bad boy. That's called overcompensation: by desperately trying to make up for lost time spent in the anti-saloon league, John Mayer is trying to distract everyone from the fact that he just told Rolling Stone that banging groupies makes him feel bad about himself. Loser.
I bet there's a lot more criteria for being a rock star that I've omitted, but I think my point has been made. John Mayer is most likely rocking a vadge along with that girlie boy haircut, and all the paparazzi snaps of him parading around with Slutsicca Simpson in the world aren't going to butch his ass up. I'd bet you anything that John Mayer is rocking Jake Barnes's tragic wound below his boxer briefs, and in case your Hemingway's rusty, that means he DOESN'T HAVE A DICK.
1. You must kick ass
Kicking ass is unequivocally something John Mayer does not do. Slayer kicks ass. Metallica kicks ass. Original Guns 'n' Roses kicks ass. John Mayer sings emotional ballads about his feelings, which is a LOT closer to pussy bitch than asskickery on the spectrum of musical styles. John Mayer is such a simpering twat that he makes Morrissey look like Pantera in comparison.
2. You must not unplug
I fucking HATE "unplugged" music. Although with the exception of giving Korn one last gasp at remaining relevant, MTV seems to have stopped doing their "Unplugged" series of shows (and go figure, like MTV's audience ever gave a rat's ass about seeing Eric Clapton, plugged in or otherwise), there is still an unfortunate trend of alleged "rock" musicians like John Mayer strumming away on their acoustic guitars singing about their problematic relationships. Despite a number of John Mayer pictures floating around the internet where he appears to be playing an electric guitar, all of his music still sounds like the tearfully emotional torrent you can just imagine coming out of his caterwauling mouth in the above photograph.
3. You must not allow yourself to be exploited by the Simpson family to sell Jessica's shitshow of an album
Before they admitted to being an item and continent-hopping together, Jessica Simpson's incestuous manager father, as well as Jessica herself, spread a bunch of rumors that these two were a hot couple. At first John Mayer proceeded to get totally pissed about it, defriend her over it, and bitch to the media. I think Jessica Simpson is actually less intelligent than a poop-eating retarded child, but I've got to admit that she's
4. You must never headline a show with Maroon5
Apparently Adam Levine, the scrawny, overcompensating ball of feelings who fronts Maroon5 actually dumped Jessica Simpson by text message (per all the totally fact-checked and accurate celebrity tabloids and blogs, anyway). I have to say that's considerably more badass than John Mayer complaining about Jessica Simpson pretending to go out with him and then being like, "Just kidding!" and dragging her off to Australia with his fug ass.
5. You must never sing about your feelings unless it has something to do with boning Tawny Kitaen
I am aware that the stupid "Your Body is a Wonderland" song that took the adult contemporary scene by storm a couple of years ago was supposedly written about banging Jennifer Love Hewitt. While she does have an indisputably smoking body, have you ever heard a less worthy song about what it's like to fuck her? Unless despite her porn-caliber jugs she's a boring lay who likes to keep all the lights off during coitus because "lovemaking" makes her uncomfortable, which wouldn't surprise me. That song convinces me that her body is less of a "wonderland" where there are hookah-smoking caterpillars, Cheshire cats, unbirthdays, Mad Hatters, and a variety of mind-altering drugs and more of a "processorland" where recently girl finger-banging Smith feminists exchange knitting tips and cookie recipes over Earl Grey and cucumber sandwiches. BOOOOOORRRRRRRING.
6. You must not be from Connecticut
What is this look supposed to be, John...edgy WASP? You're really a rebel, rocking a pair of jeans with that wrinkled and poorly fitted blazer. Go back to the golf course or the polo grounds where you belong!
7. Unless your name is David Bowie or you are in a band called Twisted Sister, you must not look like a woman.
With that layered body wave in his hair, he looks like an ugly lesbian folk singer rocking the stage at Lilith Fair. After he plays his set, he's going to drink some tea and dish about his period with the Indigo Girls.
8. People who are not 12-year-old girls must find you attractive.
Junior high girls might go for this brooding-yet-effeminate look, but anyone who doesn't have an angry man-breasted boyfriend in their vagina knows that this wistful carotid-scratching means nothing but seriously OUT OF CONTROL gay drama.
9. You don't give interviews about your relationships unless they have something positive to do with fucking groupies, which he should be all about considering his fan base is 99.999999999% female.
Mayer recently gave an interview to Rolling Stone in which he claimed, among other things that his one experience boning groupies was "violating", then added that he'd like to meet a woman who
is proficient at phone sex. Who knew this girly boy was so kinky? Furthermore, clearly Jessica Simpson spends more time getting Mystic tanned than brushing up on her phone sex skills, since he just gives up and flies her orange ass to Italy or Madison, Wisconsin or Australia or wherever else he's driving the bitches wild with his crybaby processing.
10. You must have your first scotch before the age of twenty-fucking-six.
In his Rolling Stone interview, Mayer also states that he just discovered weed (which he smokes out of a vaporizer to protect his delicate little lungs and precious singing voice) and scotch whiskey. The entire article is like, "After some Glenfiddich and shitty joke-telling" and "After getting stoned and asking for a Glenfiddich", as though John Mayer is now America's leading drug-using, scotch-swilling bad boy. That's called overcompensation: by desperately trying to make up for lost time spent in the anti-saloon league, John Mayer is trying to distract everyone from the fact that he just told Rolling Stone that banging groupies makes him feel bad about himself. Loser.
I bet there's a lot more criteria for being a rock star that I've omitted, but I think my point has been made. John Mayer is most likely rocking a vadge along with that girlie boy haircut, and all the paparazzi snaps of him parading around with Slutsicca Simpson in the world aren't going to butch his ass up. I'd bet you anything that John Mayer is rocking Jake Barnes's tragic wound below his boxer briefs, and in case your Hemingway's rusty, that means he DOESN'T HAVE A DICK.
Labels: celebrities, John Mayer sucks, overcompensation, scathing indictments, small penises
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Back to his little grass shack
As if I wasn't already depressed enough by having to work and the fact that there is an unseasonable Nor'easter unleashing hell upon the city today, a very important early influence on my life kicked the bucket. It is with deep sadness that I acknowledge the passing of this giant of Hawaiian music...the utterly incomparable Don Ho:
There aren't very many dudes in the world who can make raspberry-tinted glasses and a Ukelele their trademarks and actually pull it off, but Don Ho managed to do so. I've adored Don Ho as much as the hot younger chick in the above picture, because he's been an influential force in my life almost since I was born.
When I was around two or three, I had this tape full of songs that I would sing along to. I don't really remember this much, but every once in a while I'll be making fun of some trashy song from the late 70s or early 80s, and my mom will say, "That was on your 'Favorite Songs' tape. You used to sing it all the time." From what I have discerned so far, this tape contained some AWESOME musical selections such as "Wildfire" by Michael Martin Murphy (song about a chick and her horse, I think), "If You Like Pina Coladas" by Rupert Holmes (song about 70s swinging and striking out on the newspaper personal ad scene), "Freeze Frame" by J. Geils Band (song about ?????), "Angie" by the Rolling Stones (duh), "Leader of the Band" by Dan Fogelberg (song about his elderly father), "Maneater" by Darryl Hall and John Oates (song about an unrepentant slut), "Bette Davis Eyes" by Kim Carnes (song about a super hot bitch in New York), "Urgent" by Foreigner (song about needing to get laid IMMEDIATELY), and "Tiny Bubbles" by Don Ho (song about drinking champers in Hawaii).
Apart from my instinctive attraction to "Tiny Bubbles" because of its alcohol-related theme, I used to really enjoy singing this song soulfully for my parents and their friends (then, as now, I was a zealous attention-seeker). When I was only about three, my ability to enunciate wasn't quite as well developed, and I would sing "Tiny Buboes...in the WINE." Perhaps it was due to my underdeveloped toddler's soft palate, and perhaps it was just an ode to things I would eventually like. "Bubo" could refer to two things:
1. The mechanical owl who assisted Perseus in his valiant struggles against Kalybos, his vengeful mother the goddess Thetis, and the evil Gorgon Medusa to save his beloved Andromeda from the fury of the Kraken in one of the greatest movies ever next to Varsity Blues and the Lord of the Rings trilogy, Clash of the Titans:
I was crooning "Tiny Buboes" right around the time Clash of the Titans came out, and I was immediately entranced by it, so it's entirely possible that my rendition of Don Ho's masterpiece was indeed a tribute to Perseus's charming robotic owl.
2. An extremely enlarged, inflamed, painful, swollen, darkened lymph node characteristic of infection with Yersinia pestis. This is why the plague is called "black death," because the lymph nodes get full of hemorrhagic material and scar tissue (as you can see in the transverse H&E-stained section below) and become necrotic and black, which is called a "bubo", hence the "bubonic plague":
Although I've never had plague and don't study it, I think that singing about microbial diseases at a young age certainly prepped me for doing it as a career. I'm sure if there were a song that had lyrics which sounded like "allergic airway hypersensitization" or "paralytic poliomyelitis" I'd have sung that accidentally too.
In any event, whether I took Don Ho's classic to primarily mean "buy Clash of the Titans on DVD" or "pursue a career in microbiology", I ended up doing both. "Tiny Bubbles" was as much of an influence on the person I am today as The Sun Also Rises or Too $hort's Cocktails album.
Rest in peace, Don Ho(tness)...I hope wherever you are, the humuhumunukunukuappu'aa'aa are swimming by.
When I was around two or three, I had this tape full of songs that I would sing along to. I don't really remember this much, but every once in a while I'll be making fun of some trashy song from the late 70s or early 80s, and my mom will say, "That was on your 'Favorite Songs' tape. You used to sing it all the time." From what I have discerned so far, this tape contained some AWESOME musical selections such as "Wildfire" by Michael Martin Murphy (song about a chick and her horse, I think), "If You Like Pina Coladas" by Rupert Holmes (song about 70s swinging and striking out on the newspaper personal ad scene), "Freeze Frame" by J. Geils Band (song about ?????), "Angie" by the Rolling Stones (duh), "Leader of the Band" by Dan Fogelberg (song about his elderly father), "Maneater" by Darryl Hall and John Oates (song about an unrepentant slut), "Bette Davis Eyes" by Kim Carnes (song about a super hot bitch in New York), "Urgent" by Foreigner (song about needing to get laid IMMEDIATELY), and "Tiny Bubbles" by Don Ho (song about drinking champers in Hawaii).
Apart from my instinctive attraction to "Tiny Bubbles" because of its alcohol-related theme, I used to really enjoy singing this song soulfully for my parents and their friends (then, as now, I was a zealous attention-seeker). When I was only about three, my ability to enunciate wasn't quite as well developed, and I would sing "Tiny Buboes...in the WINE." Perhaps it was due to my underdeveloped toddler's soft palate, and perhaps it was just an ode to things I would eventually like. "Bubo" could refer to two things:
1. The mechanical owl who assisted Perseus in his valiant struggles against Kalybos, his vengeful mother the goddess Thetis, and the evil Gorgon Medusa to save his beloved Andromeda from the fury of the Kraken in one of the greatest movies ever next to Varsity Blues and the Lord of the Rings trilogy, Clash of the Titans:
I was crooning "Tiny Buboes" right around the time Clash of the Titans came out, and I was immediately entranced by it, so it's entirely possible that my rendition of Don Ho's masterpiece was indeed a tribute to Perseus's charming robotic owl.
2. An extremely enlarged, inflamed, painful, swollen, darkened lymph node characteristic of infection with Yersinia pestis. This is why the plague is called "black death," because the lymph nodes get full of hemorrhagic material and scar tissue (as you can see in the transverse H&E-stained section below) and become necrotic and black, which is called a "bubo", hence the "bubonic plague":
Although I've never had plague and don't study it, I think that singing about microbial diseases at a young age certainly prepped me for doing it as a career. I'm sure if there were a song that had lyrics which sounded like "allergic airway hypersensitization" or "paralytic poliomyelitis" I'd have sung that accidentally too.
In any event, whether I took Don Ho's classic to primarily mean "buy Clash of the Titans on DVD" or "pursue a career in microbiology", I ended up doing both. "Tiny Bubbles" was as much of an influence on the person I am today as The Sun Also Rises or Too $hort's Cocktails album.
Rest in peace, Don Ho(tness)...I hope wherever you are, the humuhumunukunukuappu'aa'aa are swimming by.
Labels: alcoholism, epidemic geekery, I LOVE IT, people who died, Razzification, tragedy
Friday, April 13, 2007
Alaska has got it together
Not that I've ever had much love for Alaska, but clearly the online publication the Alaska Report has the right idea when it comes to covering infectious disease:
My Uncle Flavivirus is an infectious disease specialist for the CDC in Alaska, and I wonder if he had anything to do with this. Granted, he works on hepatitis and H. pylori, not the clap, but still...I'd like to think that when the Alaska Review was putting their story together, they called up Uncle Flav and asked for a picture of Neisseria gonorrheae, and he just told them to throw up a picture of Paris Hilton instead.
So awesome. Between this and the fact that the hotness that is Sig Hansen is kicking it in Dutch Harbor with the rest of the "Deadliest Catch" fellas, Alaska's starting to grow on me. Maybe I'll have to take a cruise there or something one of these days.
My Uncle Flavivirus is an infectious disease specialist for the CDC in Alaska, and I wonder if he had anything to do with this. Granted, he works on hepatitis and H. pylori, not the clap, but still...I'd like to think that when the Alaska Review was putting their story together, they called up Uncle Flav and asked for a picture of Neisseria gonorrheae, and he just told them to throw up a picture of Paris Hilton instead.
So awesome. Between this and the fact that the hotness that is Sig Hansen is kicking it in Dutch Harbor with the rest of the "Deadliest Catch" fellas, Alaska's starting to grow on me. Maybe I'll have to take a cruise there or something one of these days.
Labels: epidemic geekery, gross, I LOVE IT, sluts, stank vaginas
What would Rush and Samantha say?
Yesterday Dlisted informed me that the hotness that is Ian Ziering was offered $100,000 to pose nude in Playgirl. In case you don't watch "Dancing with the Stars" (which I don't, but which he is now on), you may best remember Ian from his role as the lovable and mischievious Steve Sanders on what critics unanimously agree is the greatest television show of all time: "Beverly Hills, 90210." Steve Sanders was always my favorite dude on Niner. Brandon was too much of a self-righteous tattletale, Dylan was always too brooding, whiny, and generally unable to deal, and David Silver always looked twelve, even in later years when he pioneered the semi-bearded look that Justin Timberlake rocks now to great effect. Steve was funny, and even when coping with the deep issues that frequently came up on Niner (like being adopted, knocking up his co-editor at the Beverly Beat, getting dumped by Hilary Swank, carrying a torch for Kelly Taylor, hooking up with the hideous Andrea Zuckerman during a late-night SAT prep session, having a perpetually displeased father and a lesbian celebrity mother, almost getting kicked out of two schools thanks to legacy key and/or rival school mascot stealing-related debacles, battling John Sears for KEG house supremacy and for the hand of the lovely retail worker Celeste, making out with a tranny in Palm Springs, and arguing with his snotnosed younger brother Randy Spelling about college versus bar-backing at the Peach Pit After Dark), he could always crack a joke and make light of the situation. So what if he wasn't as hot as the other guys on the show? He didn't need to overcompensate by getting elected class president or what JerseyGirl calls "catchin' a badass wave" like Brandon and Dylan. He didn't need to do anything to pull off driving a ridiculous 'Vette and having a "Caution: Guy Rocking Out" street sign on his locker at West Beverly:
Ah, Steve. I don't usually read shit like Playgirl because it looks like gay whack-off material to me. I'll take naked ladies over dudes any day. However, if Ian poses, I'd gladly pick up a copy. Sadly, TMZ is putting this report to rest. Not because Ian Ziering shot down Playgirl, but because Playgirl can't afford him! Apparently, "Playgirl doesn't have that kind of money to play with," and Steve Sanders won't drop trou for less than 100 large. Those of you in the New York/Secaucus, NJ area can attribute that collective wailing lamentation you hear to myself, JerseyGirl, and Rack. I wanted to see Steve Sanders's weiner! Alas.
Labels: Bev Niner, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, JerseyGirl, nudity, Rack, weiners
Chingy!'s missing link
My buddy MillerTime was visiting, and she wanted to go to the Museum of Natural History. This is my favorite museum in New York, because not only does it seriously satisfy my inner biology geek, it is also a monument to Teddy Roosevelt and allows me to make tasteless jokes about big sticks and bully pulpits. The museum has just renovated their Hall of Human Origins, which is awesome. I took this picture of Lucy, the first pre-human hominid ever discovered by Louis and Mary Leakey, to send to my Aunt Jesus, along with my most sincere prayers that she might one day find the theory of evolution convincing:
I also tried on a rad flashlight helmet and bought a Tyrannosaurus rex bracelet, because that's how I roll at the dork museum. Scientastic, right?
However, in the Hall of Ocean Life, I made an important evolutionary discovery. Based on a phenotypic analysis, it seems that dogs may have evolved from walruses. Examine the first specimen, the stuffed sleeping walrus at the Natural History museum:
Note the distinguishing copious fat rolls, the pronounced face wrinkles, and the apparent deep slumber that this taxidermied animal enjoys. I also learned from the exhibit that when walruses feed on a variety of clams and other mollusks, they daintily lift them up, holding the shells between their lips before sucking out the meat inside.
Now, observe specimen 2, my very own Pug, the nefarious Chingy!:
Apart from his physical similarity to the walrus, Chingy! has also been known to engage in the lip-holding predatory actions characteristic of the walrus. One time we went down to Washington, DC right after the cicadas had hatched. Cicadas are these nasty bugs that hatch every seventeen years, mate, and promptly die. They were all over the place, fluttering their wings feebly as they died. Chingy! instantly decided that cicadas were going to be the only prey he would ever stalk and hunt, probably because they're on the verge of death and thus easy to capture. He went around picking up the cicadas in his little doggy lips. He would hold them there with a disgusting look of satisfaction as they fluttered their wings pathetically against his nose and stank maw. Unlike the walrus, he didn't actually suck out the insides, but I felt the behavior was similar enough to inspire a hypothesis that obese Pugs are distant evolutionary cousins to these tusked pinnipeds.
You can't argue with the data. I'm pretty sure any evolutionary biologist reading this will agree.
CHONGAY CHONG!
Note the distinguishing copious fat rolls, the pronounced face wrinkles, and the apparent deep slumber that this taxidermied animal enjoys. I also learned from the exhibit that when walruses feed on a variety of clams and other mollusks, they daintily lift them up, holding the shells between their lips before sucking out the meat inside.
Now, observe specimen 2, my very own Pug, the nefarious Chingy!:
Apart from his physical similarity to the walrus, Chingy! has also been known to engage in the lip-holding predatory actions characteristic of the walrus. One time we went down to Washington, DC right after the cicadas had hatched. Cicadas are these nasty bugs that hatch every seventeen years, mate, and promptly die. They were all over the place, fluttering their wings feebly as they died. Chingy! instantly decided that cicadas were going to be the only prey he would ever stalk and hunt, probably because they're on the verge of death and thus easy to capture. He went around picking up the cicadas in his little doggy lips. He would hold them there with a disgusting look of satisfaction as they fluttered their wings pathetically against his nose and stank maw. Unlike the walrus, he didn't actually suck out the insides, but I felt the behavior was similar enough to inspire a hypothesis that obese Pugs are distant evolutionary cousins to these tusked pinnipeds.
You can't argue with the data. I'm pretty sure any evolutionary biologist reading this will agree.
CHONGAY CHONG!
Labels: Aunt Jesus, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, MillerTime, ridiculous absurdity, science
Thursday, April 12, 2007
When lesbians attack
Since my buddy JerseyGirl now works for a certain cable news outlet that fired the old curmudgeon known as "Don Ho" by the NY Post and Don Imus by everyone else, she is privy to lots of breaking news. As long as I'm on the subject of lesbian happenings, I figured I'd share this amusing article she sent me from the Associated Press today:
I find the idea of some hapless dude selling his homemade indie movies outside the IFC theater in the Village of the West getting jumped by a posse of knife-toting "avowed" lezzies after responding to accusations that he had ugly sneakers by spitting and calling a fat one an "elephant" INCREDIBLY amusing. All this scene needs to become totally and completely ludicrous is Ignatius J. Reilly to saunter by with a hot dog bellowing about Boethius and trying to rally followers in his Crusade for Moorish Dignity.
Too bad I don't have Court TV in lab, because I'm most eager to see how the jury decides concerning this "hate crime against a straight man." Don't mess with Jersey dykes!
Man says he feared for his life when 7 New Jersey lesbians attacked him
By SAMUEL MAULL
Associated Press Writer
April 11, 2007, 8:56 PM EDT
NEW YORK -- A man who was beaten and stabbed after a street fight with
seven avowed lesbians testified Wednesday that he thought he was going
to die after they jumped him last year.
"I remember being surrounded, my hands up in my face," Dwayne Buckle
testified at the trial of four of the women. "I went up into a defensive
position. I felt a nick in my abdomen. I had my two hands in front of my
face."
He said he didn't realize he had been stabbed.
"Somebody told me I was stabbed," he said. "As soon as he said that, I
felt it. I lay down on my knapsack. I was hollering and screaming. I
felt like I was going to die."
Buckle, 29, said he was in a hospital for five days and in bed at his
Queens home for a month after undergoing surgery for a lacerated liver
and stomach. He said he also suffered cuts, bruises, scratches and an
eye injury in the attack.
Buckle, who has called the incident "a hate crime against a straight
man," was testifying in Manhattan's state Supreme Court at the trial of
Patreese Johnson, 20, Renata Hill, 25, Venice Brown, 19, and Terrain
Dandridge, 20, all of Newark, N.J.
The defendants are charged with first- and second-degree assault and
gang assault. Johnson, accused of stabbing Buckle, also is charged with
second-degree attempted murder. All have pleaded not guilty.
Three of the seven women pleaded guilty to assault charges in exchange
for sentences of six months in jail and five years probation.
Buckle, a movie audio-video engineer and an independent filmmaker, said
the fight started outside the Independent Film Center in lower
Manhattan, where he was trying to sell videos he had made. He said that
as the women walked by, he spoke to one of them because he found her
attractive.
Buckle said a heavyset woman in the group said something rude.
"She just started dogging me out, being loud and disrespectful," he
said. "I think I called her an elephant and told her I wasn't talking to
her."
Buckle said she spoke disparagingly of his looks and clothing, saying he
was wearing cheap sneakers. Meanwhile, another woman spat on him and he
spat back.
The women surrounded and attacked Buckle, he said. After a few minutes,
he said, the fight subsided and he began picking up his DVDs from the
sidewalk.
"Someone attacked me from behind," Buckle said. "One girl called for
some guys to come beat me up. A guy got me on the floor (sidewalk), and
I was jumped again."
Assistant District Attorney Sharon Laveson told the jury in opening
statements that surveillance video will show that Johnson pulled a steak
knife from her purse and stabbed Buckle with it.
Johnson admits she slashed Buckle with a knife but says she did it in
self-defense, according to papers filed by prosecutors at her
arraignment. Johnson's statement says she pulled out her knife after
Buckle grabbed her arm and spat on one of her friends.
"As I got my knife, Renata hit him for spitting," Johnson's statement
says. "Then everyone jumped in because he is a man. Then some young men
had helped us. After that we walked away. I admit I did cut him one time
for my own safety."
I find the idea of some hapless dude selling his homemade indie movies outside the IFC theater in the Village of the West getting jumped by a posse of knife-toting "avowed" lezzies after responding to accusations that he had ugly sneakers by spitting and calling a fat one an "elephant" INCREDIBLY amusing. All this scene needs to become totally and completely ludicrous is Ignatius J. Reilly to saunter by with a hot dog bellowing about Boethius and trying to rally followers in his Crusade for Moorish Dignity.
Too bad I don't have Court TV in lab, because I'm most eager to see how the jury decides concerning this "hate crime against a straight man." Don't mess with Jersey dykes!
Labels: crime and punishment, JerseyGirl, lezbollah, NYC, oh the horror, overcompensation, ridiculous absurdity, you're ugly
Building a mystery
Okay, so I'm not really "building" a mystery so much as I couldn't think of anything better than Sarah MacLachlan lyrics to head off a post about lesbian sex and sex toys, but it does involve a mystery nonetheless. Apparently, 2007 is the year of the pussy for me, because I keep getting action with the ladies. NO, I'm still not identifying as bisexual, because I don't actually have romantic relationships with women (too much fucking maintenance) and because while a little girl-on-girl action is hot sometimes, I just couldn't have a relationship with no dick. Just because I occasionally take a dip in the tuna tank doesn't mean I've lost my appetite for sausage.
Anyway, so I was doing it with this chick a while back, and it was definitely more of the 69-ing (or, more appropriately, 88-ing, which is Sapphic for 69-ing), Briana Loves Jenna-style of fucking than the old Smith College let's-boobmash-and-talk-about-our-feelings variety. In that spirit, chick asked if I had any sex toys. Since I don't usually hook up with chicks and I've never asked a dude if he felt like getting pegged, I don't have the standard lezzie drawer of harnesses and strap-ons and such. I do have a vibrator, but it's more function than form. In fact, it's technically not even a vibrator, as it's one of those Sharper Image numbers they market as "body massagers". I have this other more conventional vibrator, though, that's shaped like a dick. It was called the G-spotter, although whoever designed it clearly has no idea where the G-spot actually is (the little curve designed for this purpose was like six inches inside...anatomically challenged dumbass vibrator engineers). I also was unhappy with the motor power of this thing, as well as its tendency to suck batteries dry within like 5 minutes. However, I've kept it around for sentimental reasons. Once when I lived in Tacoma, this guy I was hooking up with wanted to use it on me one evening after downing several dozen cocktails at Magoo's, a local watering hole. I got it out and turned it on for him, but we both passed out at that point, and I awoke several hours later to find it buzzing feebly on the pillow against his face. Thinking of that still makes me chuckle, so I held on to the ineffective G-spotter.
Since then, the G-spotter has always been in my bedside table drawer unless I'm moving, in which case it goes into the "bedside table drawer" box to be unpacked and placed in exactly the same spot. I keep all my sex crap in there: my collection of condoms, lube, the practical "body massager" I mentioned, a cock ring that I sometimes wear as a bracelet because no dude has ever wanted to put it on, another random vibrator that I never have batteries for, the G-spotter, my Smith diploma, and my passport (I don't use the diploma and passport as sex toys, but I won't lose them if I keep them in that drawer.) So when this chick requested a strap-on, I said I couldn't do that, but I did have a dildo-shaped vibrator. All ready to impress, I opened the drawer with a flourish, and peeked in.
Where the fuck was the G-spotter? I figured it had filtered to the bottom, so I started shifting around the mountains of condoms and other crap in there. I still couldn't find it. My partner in Sapphic action was getting impatient. I found a bottle of lube and threw it at her, saying, "Well, so far I found this. Better hang on to that, it's like the G-spotter's companion product."
"Are you sure it's in there?" she asked, still impatient for the G-spotter.
"Well, I did find this nail-clipper, honey, so while you're waiting you could find a use for that." Chick had a lovely manicure which was well-suited for any occasion EXCEPT sticking into another chick's vadge.
"Very funny," she said, giving me a look that said, "Sha right, like I'm fucking up my nails for this". Instead she said, "Jeez, Razzy, they're not that long."
After another few minutes of searching, I had to resign myself to admit that the G-spotter is missing. I brought out the less pretty but nonetheless effective body massager, and relied on my own knowledge of the location of the female G-spot, but the absent G-spotter is still bothering me some time later.
How does a vibrator just disappear completely? I can't imagine that somebody took it. First of all, people hardly ever come to my apartment because it's a shitshow. Second, it's a studio apartment, so someone would be hard-pressed to start digging around my bedside table drawer without me noticing. Third, who the hell steals somebody else's used vibrator? Ewwwww. My main reasons for having this vibrator around are the aforementioned nostalgic ones and in case of extraordinarily rare occurrences like bringing home some random girl for porn and fingerbanging. I know I didn't throw it away, so where could it have possibly gone?
Like I said, it's a mystery. I'm going to have to do some searching elsewhere in the apartment on the off-chance that I tossed it into one of the boxes I STILL haven't unpacked after moving here (almost two years ago). It takes a strong stimuli to inspire me to clean, but I'll solve the mystery of the lost G-spotter caper if it's the last damn thing I do. Inspector Razzy is on the case.
In the meantime, maybe I should go buy a harness and strap-on, considering that I seem to be getting more pussy these days than the damn Humane Society. It might be a sensible investment.
Anyway, so I was doing it with this chick a while back, and it was definitely more of the 69-ing (or, more appropriately, 88-ing, which is Sapphic for 69-ing), Briana Loves Jenna-style of fucking than the old Smith College let's-boobmash-and-talk-about-our-feelings variety. In that spirit, chick asked if I had any sex toys. Since I don't usually hook up with chicks and I've never asked a dude if he felt like getting pegged, I don't have the standard lezzie drawer of harnesses and strap-ons and such. I do have a vibrator, but it's more function than form. In fact, it's technically not even a vibrator, as it's one of those Sharper Image numbers they market as "body massagers". I have this other more conventional vibrator, though, that's shaped like a dick. It was called the G-spotter, although whoever designed it clearly has no idea where the G-spot actually is (the little curve designed for this purpose was like six inches inside...anatomically challenged dumbass vibrator engineers). I also was unhappy with the motor power of this thing, as well as its tendency to suck batteries dry within like 5 minutes. However, I've kept it around for sentimental reasons. Once when I lived in Tacoma, this guy I was hooking up with wanted to use it on me one evening after downing several dozen cocktails at Magoo's, a local watering hole. I got it out and turned it on for him, but we both passed out at that point, and I awoke several hours later to find it buzzing feebly on the pillow against his face. Thinking of that still makes me chuckle, so I held on to the ineffective G-spotter.
Since then, the G-spotter has always been in my bedside table drawer unless I'm moving, in which case it goes into the "bedside table drawer" box to be unpacked and placed in exactly the same spot. I keep all my sex crap in there: my collection of condoms, lube, the practical "body massager" I mentioned, a cock ring that I sometimes wear as a bracelet because no dude has ever wanted to put it on, another random vibrator that I never have batteries for, the G-spotter, my Smith diploma, and my passport (I don't use the diploma and passport as sex toys, but I won't lose them if I keep them in that drawer.) So when this chick requested a strap-on, I said I couldn't do that, but I did have a dildo-shaped vibrator. All ready to impress, I opened the drawer with a flourish, and peeked in.
Where the fuck was the G-spotter? I figured it had filtered to the bottom, so I started shifting around the mountains of condoms and other crap in there. I still couldn't find it. My partner in Sapphic action was getting impatient. I found a bottle of lube and threw it at her, saying, "Well, so far I found this. Better hang on to that, it's like the G-spotter's companion product."
"Are you sure it's in there?" she asked, still impatient for the G-spotter.
"Well, I did find this nail-clipper, honey, so while you're waiting you could find a use for that." Chick had a lovely manicure which was well-suited for any occasion EXCEPT sticking into another chick's vadge.
"Very funny," she said, giving me a look that said, "Sha right, like I'm fucking up my nails for this". Instead she said, "Jeez, Razzy, they're not that long."
After another few minutes of searching, I had to resign myself to admit that the G-spotter is missing. I brought out the less pretty but nonetheless effective body massager, and relied on my own knowledge of the location of the female G-spot, but the absent G-spotter is still bothering me some time later.
How does a vibrator just disappear completely? I can't imagine that somebody took it. First of all, people hardly ever come to my apartment because it's a shitshow. Second, it's a studio apartment, so someone would be hard-pressed to start digging around my bedside table drawer without me noticing. Third, who the hell steals somebody else's used vibrator? Ewwwww. My main reasons for having this vibrator around are the aforementioned nostalgic ones and in case of extraordinarily rare occurrences like bringing home some random girl for porn and fingerbanging. I know I didn't throw it away, so where could it have possibly gone?
Like I said, it's a mystery. I'm going to have to do some searching elsewhere in the apartment on the off-chance that I tossed it into one of the boxes I STILL haven't unpacked after moving here (almost two years ago). It takes a strong stimuli to inspire me to clean, but I'll solve the mystery of the lost G-spotter caper if it's the last damn thing I do. Inspector Razzy is on the case.
In the meantime, maybe I should go buy a harness and strap-on, considering that I seem to be getting more pussy these days than the damn Humane Society. It might be a sensible investment.
Labels: hot chicks, lezbollah, perversion, porn, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity, sex, sluts
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
How does this happen?
I don't update my blog for almost a week and the traffic triples?!? What the hell...?
Maybe people are trying to tell me something, like "we like it better when you DON'T write." Either that, or everyone is waiting for pictures of LL Cool Jew covered with strippers at Scores. Alas, they don't allow you to take pictures at Scores. But there was all sorts of craziness nonetheless which I will attempt to relate in the next couple of days. Bear with me...I also have a lot of mice to kill after taking time off, so an accounting of all the wedding madness will take a day or two.
Maybe people are trying to tell me something, like "we like it better when you DON'T write." Either that, or everyone is waiting for pictures of LL Cool Jew covered with strippers at Scores. Alas, they don't allow you to take pictures at Scores. But there was all sorts of craziness nonetheless which I will attempt to relate in the next couple of days. Bear with me...I also have a lot of mice to kill after taking time off, so an accounting of all the wedding madness will take a day or two.
Labels: internet domination
I am a rarse clark, whatever that is
On account of recent out-of-town guests and LL Cool Jew's nuptials, I've been neglecting the site this past week, but that hasn't stopped the haters! I guess they took advantage of this rare period of silence from me to speak their minds. Someone complained in the comments that my "journal entries" are boring. To that end, I have upcoming stories about strippers, scotch, my amazing breasts, and lesbian sex, so, Dear Diary, be patient until I can bring that noise. Also, my e-mail had this waiting gem from yet another 50 Cent hater taking issue with my conclusions in the World's Greatest Rap Beefs section:
From: benet thomas (outlawzbenet@gmail.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: You're a retard
Claiming that 50 cent fucking wis every beef, even with some shitty excuses
like "Kim's in jail and So is Shyne so 50 wins" What the fuck is that you
rarse clark?
There isn't even beef from Shynes point of view and if you did your fucking
research G Unit keeps trying to sign him to their records, Shyne just keeps
telling them to get the fuck off his dick as he won't be involved in the
shit G unit keeps putting their artists in so 50 Cent ordered a verbal
assault on him. No other track was released by Shyne as he's in fucking
prison, only an interview where he states thet 50 Cent is a two faced mutha
fucka.
How is that beef you idgit?
Get of 50's dick.
I find these e-mails amusing because people are always so indignant that I like 50 Cent. I don't think people ever realize that my fondness for my boyfriend Curtis is more due to his humorous antics as opposed to his prowess at rap. I did, however, enjoy the rather Biblical-sounding "get of 50's dick." That sounds like some sort of antiquated version of the Liturgy of the Eucharist: "take this all of you, and eat of it, for this is my body which has been given up for you...do this in memory of me." I think it more likely that Benet's inferior typing skills resulted in omission of the letter "f" rather than a subtle reference to the transubstantiation of the host, but I couldn't resist making a crack about it in my reply.
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
To: benet thomas (outlawzbenet@gmail.com)
Subject: RE: You're a retard
Well, Benet, since this is approximately the 50th poorly composed e-mail I've received disputing my assertions concerning the venerable Mr. Curtis Jackson, I have a ready answer: it's my fucking opinion. If you would like to set up an internet shrine to Shyne's lyrical aptitude and dominance over the G-Unit from his cell at Sing Sing, be my guest. However, please be advised that in my experience, it's always much better to properly spell "idiot" before you use that term to defame someone.
I will, therefore, not "get of 50's dick." In fact, I'd gladly get of it, if he were to proffer it.
Regards,
Razzy
P.S. What the fuck is a "rarse clark"? I am curious.
I eagerly anticipate a reply from "Outlawz Benet", particularly concerning the etiology and definition of the term "rarse clark". Based on my internet research, only one person, some chick named Beckie on MSN, has ever been called this and per her message board queries, it means either "no way, Jose" or "I'm Rick James, bitch." Needless to say, I'm still confused regarding its meaning and whether or not it's an insult that makes any kind of sense at all. And Benet says I'm the retard.
From: benet thomas (outlawzbenet@gmail.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: You're a retard
Claiming that 50 cent fucking wis every beef, even with some shitty excuses
like "Kim's in jail and So is Shyne so 50 wins" What the fuck is that you
rarse clark?
There isn't even beef from Shynes point of view and if you did your fucking
research G Unit keeps trying to sign him to their records, Shyne just keeps
telling them to get the fuck off his dick as he won't be involved in the
shit G unit keeps putting their artists in so 50 Cent ordered a verbal
assault on him. No other track was released by Shyne as he's in fucking
prison, only an interview where he states thet 50 Cent is a two faced mutha
fucka.
How is that beef you idgit?
Get of 50's dick.
I find these e-mails amusing because people are always so indignant that I like 50 Cent. I don't think people ever realize that my fondness for my boyfriend Curtis is more due to his humorous antics as opposed to his prowess at rap. I did, however, enjoy the rather Biblical-sounding "get of 50's dick." That sounds like some sort of antiquated version of the Liturgy of the Eucharist: "take this all of you, and eat of it, for this is my body which has been given up for you...do this in memory of me." I think it more likely that Benet's inferior typing skills resulted in omission of the letter "f" rather than a subtle reference to the transubstantiation of the host, but I couldn't resist making a crack about it in my reply.
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
To: benet thomas (outlawzbenet@gmail.com)
Subject: RE: You're a retard
Well, Benet, since this is approximately the 50th poorly composed e-mail I've received disputing my assertions concerning the venerable Mr. Curtis Jackson, I have a ready answer: it's my fucking opinion. If you would like to set up an internet shrine to Shyne's lyrical aptitude and dominance over the G-Unit from his cell at Sing Sing, be my guest. However, please be advised that in my experience, it's always much better to properly spell "idiot" before you use that term to defame someone.
I will, therefore, not "get of 50's dick." In fact, I'd gladly get of it, if he were to proffer it.
Regards,
Razzy
P.S. What the fuck is a "rarse clark"? I am curious.
I eagerly anticipate a reply from "Outlawz Benet", particularly concerning the etiology and definition of the term "rarse clark". Based on my internet research, only one person, some chick named Beckie on MSN, has ever been called this and per her message board queries, it means either "no way, Jose" or "I'm Rick James, bitch." Needless to say, I'm still confused regarding its meaning and whether or not it's an insult that makes any kind of sense at all. And Benet says I'm the retard.
Labels: 50 cent, boyfriends, correspondence, grammar gestapo, rap, Razzy Haters
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
It's not slander if it's TRUE
I'm pretty sure that I reiterate this every opportunity I get, but I hate, loathe, and despise Paris Hilton. She irritates me and distracts from gossip about other celebrities that I would like to read about more. Last week, she was pissed because Manhattan Mini-Storage is running these ads on bus shelters, phone booths, and subways throughout my fair city:
Even though there are also ads saying "Your closet's so narrow it makes Cheney look liberal" and you don't see the VP's people flipping out, Paris didn't like these ads one bit. Her publicist demanded that Manhattan Mini-Storage remove it (which so far, they have not done). This is presumably because the last time Paris had dealings with a mini storage company, it resulted in the genesis of the short-lived parisexposed.com and lots ofpublic humiliation free publicity. In case you didn't know, a while back Paris failed to pay a $200 bill for a storage locker containing all sorts of shit, from pictures of her doing drugs to her fake IDs to old prescriptions, resulting in it being sold at public auction. Somebody bought all the old crap, spent ample time delousing it, and started this website, parisexposed.com, where you could access all of it. It's now shut down, either due to legal tangles or due to a lack of public interest in paying $40 for the privilege of seeing her dirty laundry. However, the damage has been done. The internets are still full of evidence that confirms what everyone has suspected for years: Paris Hilton is a dumb, fucked-up, herpes-ridden whore.
For example, her blatant rebellion against this particular elevator's non-smoking mandate. Well, it's blatant rebellion or a misunderstanding of the sign consequent to her limited literacy. It's possible she thought the sign either forbade only cigarette smoking, or encouraged packing your blown glass bowl rather than rolling up a doobie.
There is also an interesting series of photographs featuring Paris's friend with a mountain of cocaine on his chest. He must need all that snow to cool down because he's SO HOT. Brace yourself, ladies, because he is a looker:
Here is Paris letting Girls Gone Wild mogul and world-class douche Joe Francis fondle her boob (presumably as a prelude to an unrestrained exchange of various STDs between the two):
And let's not ignore the piece de resistance garnered from her storage facility, this video where Paris sings "I'm an ugly Jewish bitch", "I'm a little JAP-y Jew", "I'm a little black whore, I got fucked in the butt for coke," and of course the simple but straight to the point, "I'm a nigger and I steal shit, I'm black and I steal, yo." That's the true mark of Paris's high society upbringing: she's classy AND racially sensitive!
Well, Paris realized that maybe not ALL publicity is good publicity, because her PR guy has been on the offensive ever since about any material that so much as hints that Paris might be mentally retarded/bigoted/slutty/diseased/coked up/pick your derogatory description. Recently, Gallery of the Absurd made this brilliant poster as a spoof of the upcoming season of "The Simple Life:"
After this was posted on Dlisted, Paris's lawyer fired off a command to remove the poster from the internets, saying, "This poster clearly implies Ms. Hilton has loathsome diseases and also implies Ms. Hilton uses Vicodin. The inferences are false and defamatory."
Ummm...false? She doesn't use Vicodin? Then I'd like to hear her explanation for this:
And she doesn't have "loathsome diseases"? Then why is the bitch filling scrips for Valtrex? I've never seen her afflicted with herpes zoster (shingles), so the only other conceivable reason to take Valtrex is GENITAL HERPES.
Clearly Tina Fey wasn't kidding when she bitched to Howard Stern a while back that Paris has no sense of humor about herself and is an unprofessional "piece of shit." You don't hear Nicole Richie's people flipping out about this (possibly because her Vicodin use is a matter of public record and she'll undoubtedly experience some killer PMS while off at Simple Life camp). Nor do you hear Brandon Davis's people complaining that this poster implies that he lets beavers suckle his man-tits. Paris's lawyers clearly need to go back to their correspondence course at DeVry and brush up on what "defamation" really is. You can't defame somebody unless you're presenting lies about them as fact. It's not a lie that Paris has herpes, or that she was prescribed Vicodin, or that "The Simple Life" is a tightly scripted "reality" show (designed to induce suicide by viewers), and if you Google "Paris Hilton vagina" there are approximately 1,480,000 hits (including a very amusing and accurate site asserting that "Paris Hilton's vagina looks like sun-dried dog food").
Furthermore, the poster is obviously a parody. If people could sue every time somebody made fun of them, the internets would be a much less interesting place, "Saturday Night Live" would have been cancelled long ago, and I would never be able to speak or type a single damn word. Who the hell does Paris Hilton think she is that her recently developed apparent sense of shame can override the First Fucking Amendment? Not that my site gets enough traffic to pop up on Paris's lawyers' radar, but on the off chance I receive some kind of "cease and desist" e-mail from them, let me just say that I am not scared about fighting charges of slander from a woman whose overwhelming dignity, intelligence, and sophistication precipitates pictures of her naked, coked out her mind, and smoking a tampon:
Bring it, you cunt-faced, lazy-eyed, fake-haired, herpes-spreading, racist waste of oxygen.
Even though there are also ads saying "Your closet's so narrow it makes Cheney look liberal" and you don't see the VP's people flipping out, Paris didn't like these ads one bit. Her publicist demanded that Manhattan Mini-Storage remove it (which so far, they have not done). This is presumably because the last time Paris had dealings with a mini storage company, it resulted in the genesis of the short-lived parisexposed.com and lots of
For example, her blatant rebellion against this particular elevator's non-smoking mandate. Well, it's blatant rebellion or a misunderstanding of the sign consequent to her limited literacy. It's possible she thought the sign either forbade only cigarette smoking, or encouraged packing your blown glass bowl rather than rolling up a doobie.
There is also an interesting series of photographs featuring Paris's friend with a mountain of cocaine on his chest. He must need all that snow to cool down because he's SO HOT. Brace yourself, ladies, because he is a looker:
Here is Paris letting Girls Gone Wild mogul and world-class douche Joe Francis fondle her boob (presumably as a prelude to an unrestrained exchange of various STDs between the two):
And let's not ignore the piece de resistance garnered from her storage facility, this video where Paris sings "I'm an ugly Jewish bitch", "I'm a little JAP-y Jew", "I'm a little black whore, I got fucked in the butt for coke," and of course the simple but straight to the point, "I'm a nigger and I steal shit, I'm black and I steal, yo." That's the true mark of Paris's high society upbringing: she's classy AND racially sensitive!
Well, Paris realized that maybe not ALL publicity is good publicity, because her PR guy has been on the offensive ever since about any material that so much as hints that Paris might be mentally retarded/bigoted/slutty/diseased/coked up/pick your derogatory description. Recently, Gallery of the Absurd made this brilliant poster as a spoof of the upcoming season of "The Simple Life:"
After this was posted on Dlisted, Paris's lawyer fired off a command to remove the poster from the internets, saying, "This poster clearly implies Ms. Hilton has loathsome diseases and also implies Ms. Hilton uses Vicodin. The inferences are false and defamatory."
Ummm...false? She doesn't use Vicodin? Then I'd like to hear her explanation for this:
And she doesn't have "loathsome diseases"? Then why is the bitch filling scrips for Valtrex? I've never seen her afflicted with herpes zoster (shingles), so the only other conceivable reason to take Valtrex is GENITAL HERPES.
Clearly Tina Fey wasn't kidding when she bitched to Howard Stern a while back that Paris has no sense of humor about herself and is an unprofessional "piece of shit." You don't hear Nicole Richie's people flipping out about this (possibly because her Vicodin use is a matter of public record and she'll undoubtedly experience some killer PMS while off at Simple Life camp). Nor do you hear Brandon Davis's people complaining that this poster implies that he lets beavers suckle his man-tits. Paris's lawyers clearly need to go back to their correspondence course at DeVry and brush up on what "defamation" really is. You can't defame somebody unless you're presenting lies about them as fact. It's not a lie that Paris has herpes, or that she was prescribed Vicodin, or that "The Simple Life" is a tightly scripted "reality" show (designed to induce suicide by viewers), and if you Google "Paris Hilton vagina" there are approximately 1,480,000 hits (including a very amusing and accurate site asserting that "Paris Hilton's vagina looks like sun-dried dog food").
Furthermore, the poster is obviously a parody. If people could sue every time somebody made fun of them, the internets would be a much less interesting place, "Saturday Night Live" would have been cancelled long ago, and I would never be able to speak or type a single damn word. Who the hell does Paris Hilton think she is that her recently developed apparent sense of shame can override the First Fucking Amendment? Not that my site gets enough traffic to pop up on Paris's lawyers' radar, but on the off chance I receive some kind of "cease and desist" e-mail from them, let me just say that I am not scared about fighting charges of slander from a woman whose overwhelming dignity, intelligence, and sophistication precipitates pictures of her naked, coked out her mind, and smoking a tampon:
Bring it, you cunt-faced, lazy-eyed, fake-haired, herpes-spreading, racist waste of oxygen.
Labels: assholes, celebrities, drugs, free fucking speech, gross, oh the horror, overcompensation, perversion, ridiculous absurdity, sluts, threats
Friday, April 06, 2007
You know it's a good bachelorette party when...
1. You gave all your money to a Finnish stripper named Isabel the night before (or at least you're pretty sure that's where it went)
2. You're still drunk on Gray Goose (upon which, last night, I was slizzing) and Sugarfree Red Bulls that were consumed in gallon quantities just six short hours before
3. You went to bed at 5 a.m. and woke up at 9 to attend the wedding rehearsal at the "#4 'It' Wedding Location in New York City' per the internets with the whole family and impress them with amazing feats like forming a coherent sentence
4. You realize that it's Good Friday today and have to face the nauseating prospect of a meatless dinner at a Spanish restaurant in NEWARK, NEW JERSEY later on
5. You have a temporary tattoo that reads "Blow for a Buck" on your left tit and no amount of scrubbing will get it off
6. Your parting shot to MillerTime, after begging her for dogwalking services, while leaving for the D train is, "I don't care how trashy I look. I'm from Puyallup, goddammit."
LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party, in other words, was a success.
2. You're still drunk on Gray Goose (upon which, last night, I was slizzing) and Sugarfree Red Bulls that were consumed in gallon quantities just six short hours before
3. You went to bed at 5 a.m. and woke up at 9 to attend the wedding rehearsal at the "#4 'It' Wedding Location in New York City' per the internets with the whole family and impress them with amazing feats like forming a coherent sentence
4. You realize that it's Good Friday today and have to face the nauseating prospect of a meatless dinner at a Spanish restaurant in NEWARK, NEW JERSEY later on
5. You have a temporary tattoo that reads "Blow for a Buck" on your left tit and no amount of scrubbing will get it off
6. Your parting shot to MillerTime, after begging her for dogwalking services, while leaving for the D train is, "I don't care how trashy I look. I'm from Puyallup, goddammit."
LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party, in other words, was a success.
Labels: alcoholism, holy fucking matrimony, LL Cool Jew, MillerTime, ridiculous absurdity
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
This just in: Chingy! still morbidly obese
So finally I have joined the 21st century and purchased a digital camera. Last night KatieScarlett took me to some shady camera store in Times Square and negotiated a sweet deal on this cute little camera that looks like an iPod, and which came with a protective rubber case in case one of the dogs decides to appropriate it for a chew toy. To celebrate the purchase and to prefunk for last night's premiere of "Deadliest Catch" (which was fucking AWESOME), we went to the Times Square Red Lobster.
I had never eaten at the Red Lobster in Times Square, partly because I hate Times Square, and partly because I only go to Red Lobsters when I'm not in New York City. There is practically one restaurant for every person in Manhattan, so what the hell is the point of going to a place I can find in Anytown, USA? Nonetheless, Red Lobster was jamming. Every tourist in NYC seems to invariably stick with what they know rather than venture out and try something new, so there were lines coming out of the Red Lobster, as well as the nearby Olive Garden, TGIFridays, Applebee's, and Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. It took us a while to squeeze into some seats at the bar, but once we did we were rewarded with an excellent view of the NCAA Women's basketball championship (which pleased KatieScarlett on account of the abundance of lesbians) interspersed with more "Deadliest Catch" commercials.
When I got home in time to crack open a cold one and watch "Deadliest Catch" (in which the hotness that is Sig Hansen pranked Blake the greenhorn captain of the Maverick who spent last season bitching about how he wasn't captain yet and who has a SERIOUS date rapist look about him by hiding a bag of rotten fish in the Maverick wheelhouse), I started playing with my camera. Unfortunately, there's not a lot of interesting shit in my apartment to photograph unless you're into empty Heineken bottles and Red Bull cans. Therefore, I took pictures of the dogs.
Caesar, as always, is as handsome as can be, even though I haven't quite figured out the flash on this new camera yet:
And for those of you inquiring as to Chingy!'s health, specifically whether or not he's lost any weight, the answer to that is an unequivocal NO:
On the bright side, I snagged some errant glucose test strips belonging to an immunology lab that shares our space in the mouse house to test Chingy!'s urine, and so far he is not diabetic. Any news that distracts me from the fact that every day he is more reminiscent of a beached whale is good news. CHONGAY CHONG!
And don't worry, I'll figure out how to take better pictures and how to work this camera in time for LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party tomorrow. Obviously, me getting together with ten drunken sluts in ho-ass shirts and sticking that mess in the middle of Scores with an open bar for three hours requires photo documentation. That's why I had to insist on getting this camera this week in the first place. So stand by...MillerTime arrives tonight and the insanity will begin, and I'll have better pics than my fat, sleeping Hutt of a dog to share with the world.
I had never eaten at the Red Lobster in Times Square, partly because I hate Times Square, and partly because I only go to Red Lobsters when I'm not in New York City. There is practically one restaurant for every person in Manhattan, so what the hell is the point of going to a place I can find in Anytown, USA? Nonetheless, Red Lobster was jamming. Every tourist in NYC seems to invariably stick with what they know rather than venture out and try something new, so there were lines coming out of the Red Lobster, as well as the nearby Olive Garden, TGIFridays, Applebee's, and Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. It took us a while to squeeze into some seats at the bar, but once we did we were rewarded with an excellent view of the NCAA Women's basketball championship (which pleased KatieScarlett on account of the abundance of lesbians) interspersed with more "Deadliest Catch" commercials.
When I got home in time to crack open a cold one and watch "Deadliest Catch" (in which the hotness that is Sig Hansen pranked Blake the greenhorn captain of the Maverick who spent last season bitching about how he wasn't captain yet and who has a SERIOUS date rapist look about him by hiding a bag of rotten fish in the Maverick wheelhouse), I started playing with my camera. Unfortunately, there's not a lot of interesting shit in my apartment to photograph unless you're into empty Heineken bottles and Red Bull cans. Therefore, I took pictures of the dogs.
Caesar, as always, is as handsome as can be, even though I haven't quite figured out the flash on this new camera yet:
And for those of you inquiring as to Chingy!'s health, specifically whether or not he's lost any weight, the answer to that is an unequivocal NO:
On the bright side, I snagged some errant glucose test strips belonging to an immunology lab that shares our space in the mouse house to test Chingy!'s urine, and so far he is not diabetic. Any news that distracts me from the fact that every day he is more reminiscent of a beached whale is good news. CHONGAY CHONG!
And don't worry, I'll figure out how to take better pictures and how to work this camera in time for LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party tomorrow. Obviously, me getting together with ten drunken sluts in ho-ass shirts and sticking that mess in the middle of Scores with an open bar for three hours requires photo documentation. That's why I had to insist on getting this camera this week in the first place. So stand by...MillerTime arrives tonight and the insanity will begin, and I'll have better pics than my fat, sleeping Hutt of a dog to share with the world.
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, I LOVE IT
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Tango versus Chance
On last night's (totally awesome) finale of "I Love New York", Tango and Chance got into a big throwdown over some shit-talking Tango had been doing about Chance's rap group, the Stallionaires. In case you missed the dopeness that was last night's finale episode (in which I was not only totally wrong about Chance winning, but in which Tango actually PROPOSED to New York after he won), here's how they ruined dinner on their first night of vacation in what New York called "Playacar, Mexico" (actually Playa del Carmen, Mexico):
This fight got nasty. At one point, Tango stated, "I'm-a break you into two motherfuckin' pieces!", prompting Chance to insist that he'd "whip yo' ass Stallionaire style...him and his back-stabbin', fake fat mouth blabber ass ninja turtle lookin' fuckin' self."
I've said it before and I'll say it again: "I Love New York" is the BEST SHOW ON TV!!!
This fight got nasty. At one point, Tango stated, "I'm-a break you into two motherfuckin' pieces!", prompting Chance to insist that he'd "whip yo' ass Stallionaire style...him and his back-stabbin', fake fat mouth blabber ass ninja turtle lookin' fuckin' self."
I've said it before and I'll say it again: "I Love New York" is the BEST SHOW ON TV!!!
Labels: crazies, hilarious shit, I Love New York, oh the horror, ridiculous absurdity, television, threats
J-Sexy wants to bust a Knut
Along with most of Germany, I'm obsessed with Knut the adorable baby polar bear.
He was such a hit on the cover of Vanity Fair Deutschland that they're putting him on the cover of the American version this month, alongside annoying environmentalist and model-banger Leonardo DiCaprio. I immediately went to Vanity Fair's website to check out the outtakes and was swooning over them to J-Sexy, who, as usual, was thoroughly unimpressed by his cuteness.
I showed her this picture of sweet little Knut catching some Zs and she said, "Ugh. It makes me want to step on it. I bet he'd make a great rug."
"Or a coat," she added. "Or better yet, a hat. Yes, he would make a very warm hat."
I have to admit she might be right about that. If polar bears were more breedable, I wouldn't be above getting a polar bear-trimmed jacket. However, as they're not, I'll just sit around gushing about how fucking cute little Knut is.
And note to the zookeepers at the Berlin Polar Bear Haus...don't let J-Sexy into your country, lest Knut wind up marinated in jerk sauce and served up with some rice and peas.
I showed her this picture of sweet little Knut catching some Zs and she said, "Ugh. It makes me want to step on it. I bet he'd make a great rug."
I have to admit she might be right about that. If polar bears were more breedable, I wouldn't be above getting a polar bear-trimmed jacket. However, as they're not, I'll just sit around gushing about how fucking cute little Knut is.
And note to the zookeepers at the Berlin Polar Bear Haus...don't let J-Sexy into your country, lest Knut wind up marinated in jerk sauce and served up with some rice and peas.
Labels: celebrities, international intrigue, J-Sexy
I wash my hands of Perez
It's official. I'm finished with Perez Hilton.
Months ago, BigBagel turned me on to this gossip website, saying something along the lines of "You will want to read it all, it is so good."
Indeed it was. Unlike The Superficial, another gossip site I like, Perez updated his site like 30 times a day. There was always something new and funny there, and Perez had no mercy regarding celebrity dirt.
Unfortunately, a lot of other people started reading it, too. Then Perez started getting requests for interviews, and a reality show, and bit acting roles (as himself), and lots of attention. This resulted in Perez no longer covering gossip about celebrities NEARLY as much as about himself. I started getting bored. I don't care what kind of clubby gay music or Brit pop Perez likes, and I don't care what hotel he stayed in on his last trip to London, and I don't care who dyed his hair purple or who dressed him in whatever shitshow of a purple blazer he decided to wear on the red carpet at the Cottonelle toilet paper launch party or whatever other Q-list events he frequents. Perez Hilton stopped being "celebrity juice, not from concentrate" and more along the lines of "Perez Hilton's social calendar and taste in music."
What really ended it for me, though, was Perez's constant harping on the ABC to fire "Gray's Anatomy" actor Isaiah Washington for repeatedly calling his co-star T.R. Knight a faggot. Not that I approve of hate slurs in the workplace, or, for that matter, anything regarding "Gray's Anatomy", but I can't stand hypocrites. All of a sudden, Perez, the self-proclaimed "Queen of all Media" decided he was the outraged voice of the gay community, in spite of his CONSTANT use of the same word, and his constant outing of everyone under the sun. I believe that at one point Perez called T.R. Knight a faggot, too, but supposedly in the context of speculating about his sexuality based on unsubstantiated rumors, that's okay. Perez claims that forced outing is necessary to improve the standing for famous gay people everywhere, and insists that it is his duty to report candidly as a great service to the gay and lesbian communities. He says that he asks nothing more of these people than honesty. He claims to despise those who are dishonest, such as X17, the paparazzi agency that is suing him for copyright infringement to the tune of $7.5 million. As Perez notes, "Instead of wanting me as a friend or ally, you choose to be a cunt. CUNT! And I don't wanna work with cunts! And liars! And unethical people!"
Well, take a look in the fucking mirror, piglet. Perez has been uncharacteristically quiet about the fact that back when he was Mario Lavandeira, he was spreading some lies of his own. On the gay cruising site Manhunt.net, Perez's profile surfaced featuring some very NSFW, and might I add, outdated pictures of himself, as well as some straight-up LIES. I feel it's MY duty to the gay community, and the community of internet gossip junkies, to point this out, in an homage to Perez's unique style, of course.
First, how about these pictures he posted? They show a physically fit, handsome specimen that any self-respecting gay man cruising the internet for anonymous sex would love to meet in a Christopher Street bathhouse:
Too bad that's NOT what Mario looks like these days! It seems he's kicked his meth habit since he moved to West Hollywood, and has replaced it with a burrito habit, because he is FUCKING FAT. Here he is with his favorite fag hag and namesake, Paris Hilton. Interestingly, despite Perez's professions that he has no mercy concerning celebrity gossip, you never hear a peep out of him about Paris or any of her idiotic transgressions. Presumably he'd be kicked off the media whore party circuit if he were to mention what a fucking scourge to society this prostitute is. His convictions about reporting are obviously expendable if they might impact his lame social life.
Feed Nicole? That shirt/tarpaulin would be more useful to society if it said "Starve Perez."
Now, however, we come to the most egregious falsehood of the entire personal ad:
I know the print is small, but note where it states, "very fit, work out 5x a week, packing almost 11 inches, and I know how to use it." First of all, dude only works out 5x a week if lifting a spoon filled with Haagen-Dazs to his mouth is considered exercise. Second, he provides definitive evidence in the same profile that his ass is NOT packing "almost 11 inches", unless "almost" implies a 6-7 inch discrepancy:
LIAR! You know how disappointed any gay man cruising Manhunt for a "fantastic meg top" will be when he realizes that Perez is categorically untruthful about virtually EVERYTHING? The only dudes who might not be disappointed are the ones looking to get some "Pig Play."
I am finished with this bitch. Dlisted and The Superficial are better for gossip anyway, since neither's author spends most of their time raving about Amy Winehouse or Mika (who cares?) and bragging about their pathetic grasp at celebrity parasite. You're dead to me, Perez!
Months ago, BigBagel turned me on to this gossip website, saying something along the lines of "You will want to read it all, it is so good."
Indeed it was. Unlike The Superficial, another gossip site I like, Perez updated his site like 30 times a day. There was always something new and funny there, and Perez had no mercy regarding celebrity dirt.
Unfortunately, a lot of other people started reading it, too. Then Perez started getting requests for interviews, and a reality show, and bit acting roles (as himself), and lots of attention. This resulted in Perez no longer covering gossip about celebrities NEARLY as much as about himself. I started getting bored. I don't care what kind of clubby gay music or Brit pop Perez likes, and I don't care what hotel he stayed in on his last trip to London, and I don't care who dyed his hair purple or who dressed him in whatever shitshow of a purple blazer he decided to wear on the red carpet at the Cottonelle toilet paper launch party or whatever other Q-list events he frequents. Perez Hilton stopped being "celebrity juice, not from concentrate" and more along the lines of "Perez Hilton's social calendar and taste in music."
What really ended it for me, though, was Perez's constant harping on the ABC to fire "Gray's Anatomy" actor Isaiah Washington for repeatedly calling his co-star T.R. Knight a faggot. Not that I approve of hate slurs in the workplace, or, for that matter, anything regarding "Gray's Anatomy", but I can't stand hypocrites. All of a sudden, Perez, the self-proclaimed "Queen of all Media" decided he was the outraged voice of the gay community, in spite of his CONSTANT use of the same word, and his constant outing of everyone under the sun. I believe that at one point Perez called T.R. Knight a faggot, too, but supposedly in the context of speculating about his sexuality based on unsubstantiated rumors, that's okay. Perez claims that forced outing is necessary to improve the standing for famous gay people everywhere, and insists that it is his duty to report candidly as a great service to the gay and lesbian communities. He says that he asks nothing more of these people than honesty. He claims to despise those who are dishonest, such as X17, the paparazzi agency that is suing him for copyright infringement to the tune of $7.5 million. As Perez notes, "Instead of wanting me as a friend or ally, you choose to be a cunt. CUNT! And I don't wanna work with cunts! And liars! And unethical people!"
Well, take a look in the fucking mirror, piglet. Perez has been uncharacteristically quiet about the fact that back when he was Mario Lavandeira, he was spreading some lies of his own. On the gay cruising site Manhunt.net, Perez's profile surfaced featuring some very NSFW, and might I add, outdated pictures of himself, as well as some straight-up LIES. I feel it's MY duty to the gay community, and the community of internet gossip junkies, to point this out, in an homage to Perez's unique style, of course.
First, how about these pictures he posted? They show a physically fit, handsome specimen that any self-respecting gay man cruising the internet for anonymous sex would love to meet in a Christopher Street bathhouse:
Too bad that's NOT what Mario looks like these days! It seems he's kicked his meth habit since he moved to West Hollywood, and has replaced it with a burrito habit, because he is FUCKING FAT. Here he is with his favorite fag hag and namesake, Paris Hilton. Interestingly, despite Perez's professions that he has no mercy concerning celebrity gossip, you never hear a peep out of him about Paris or any of her idiotic transgressions. Presumably he'd be kicked off the media whore party circuit if he were to mention what a fucking scourge to society this prostitute is. His convictions about reporting are obviously expendable if they might impact his lame social life.
Feed Nicole? That shirt/tarpaulin would be more useful to society if it said "Starve Perez."
Now, however, we come to the most egregious falsehood of the entire personal ad:
I know the print is small, but note where it states, "very fit, work out 5x a week, packing almost 11 inches, and I know how to use it." First of all, dude only works out 5x a week if lifting a spoon filled with Haagen-Dazs to his mouth is considered exercise. Second, he provides definitive evidence in the same profile that his ass is NOT packing "almost 11 inches", unless "almost" implies a 6-7 inch discrepancy:
LIAR! You know how disappointed any gay man cruising Manhunt for a "fantastic meg top" will be when he realizes that Perez is categorically untruthful about virtually EVERYTHING? The only dudes who might not be disappointed are the ones looking to get some "Pig Play."
I am finished with this bitch. Dlisted and The Superficial are better for gossip anyway, since neither's author spends most of their time raving about Amy Winehouse or Mika (who cares?) and bragging about their pathetic grasp at celebrity parasite. You're dead to me, Perez!
Labels: assholes, celebrities, intentional buffoonery, internet domination, overcompensation, ranting, retard rage, sluts, vulgar display of faggotry, you're ugly
Monday, April 02, 2007
Tango and Chance
No, I'm not talking about this:
That's Tango and Cash. Tango and Chance are the two remaining finalists on the best show on television this year..."I Love New York."
This is Tango, a rapper also known as The Tan Man, who professed his love to New York on episode 3 and, according to New York, gives back massages that make her "want to do big girl things":
Famous Tango moments include him getting into a knock-down, drag-out screaming match with New York which culminated in her mooning him, constantly snitching on other contestants who may have talked shit about NY or her crazy mother (he almost got 12 Pack the gay stripper booted and successfully got Onix kicked off after he claimed Sister Patterson was faking speaking in tongues at church), and being compared to a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle by other contestants (during a double date, competitor Real addressed him as "Donatello" and declared that he had "mutagen lips").
This is Chance, lead rapper of the up-and-coming (according to him, anyway) group the Stallionaires, who are named for the horse farm his mama runs:
Chance is the big thug of the house. He's constantly slizzin' on the Henny, puffing Newports, and generally stuntin' and acting the fool. Famous Chance moments include him attending a cooking class where he revealed that he believes prosciutto is French, fucking New York (possibly) in a limo after the same cooking class, running off to pet his stallion when New York didn't pay attention to him for five minutes, refusing to go to church if it meant removing his Stallionaires baseball cap, going into church five minutes later after receiving diving inspiration in the form of Sister Patterson's epileptic Hallelujah seizure, and spending most of a hot air balloon ride clutching the floor of the basket in fear.
My money's on Chance winning, just because I think New York is hotter for him than Tango. Chance is a total asshole most of the time, but New York won't shut up about how hot he makes her. Furthermore, I'm pretty sure New York will give both of their dicks a test drive before passing her final judgment, and I feel like Chance is better in the sack than Tango. For one thing, Chance is tall and skinny and I have yet to meet a tall, skinny dude who wasn't packing a sizable cock. For another, I'm always suspicious of guys who spend as much time in the weight room as Tango does, as that suggests some serious overcompensation. Besides, Chance is funny, and Tango is a pain in the ass, as he's always either tattling on somebody or trying to process with New York like a damn Smith College lesbian. So there will be no shout of "Cowabunga, dude!" from Tango...Chance is totally winning this thing.
On another note, I was checking on the internets to see if news of a winner had leaked. While I couldn't find any definitive information about that, I did notice that this picture of Kalybos from Clash of the Titans kept popping up every time I Googled "I Love New York." I'm not sure why...except he does look a LITTLE like New York's mother.
I thought this was funny, and I think that there should be more pictures of Kalybos--bitter and disfigured bastard son of the goddess Thetis (aka Dame Maggie Smith) who spent all his time rigging an elaborate dream-induced nightly abduction of the Princess Andromeda only to be thwarted by the handsome and clever pre-"L.A. Law" Harry Hamlin--floating around the blogosphere. So there you go.
This is Tango, a rapper also known as The Tan Man, who professed his love to New York on episode 3 and, according to New York, gives back massages that make her "want to do big girl things":
This is Chance, lead rapper of the up-and-coming (according to him, anyway) group the Stallionaires, who are named for the horse farm his mama runs:
My money's on Chance winning, just because I think New York is hotter for him than Tango. Chance is a total asshole most of the time, but New York won't shut up about how hot he makes her. Furthermore, I'm pretty sure New York will give both of their dicks a test drive before passing her final judgment, and I feel like Chance is better in the sack than Tango. For one thing, Chance is tall and skinny and I have yet to meet a tall, skinny dude who wasn't packing a sizable cock. For another, I'm always suspicious of guys who spend as much time in the weight room as Tango does, as that suggests some serious overcompensation. Besides, Chance is funny, and Tango is a pain in the ass, as he's always either tattling on somebody or trying to process with New York like a damn Smith College lesbian. So there will be no shout of "Cowabunga, dude!" from Tango...Chance is totally winning this thing.
On another note, I was checking on the internets to see if news of a winner had leaked. While I couldn't find any definitive information about that, I did notice that this picture of Kalybos from Clash of the Titans kept popping up every time I Googled "I Love New York." I'm not sure why...except he does look a LITTLE like New York's mother.
Labels: hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, I Love New York, TV, Vh1
I'm only happy when it rains dead animals
So my favorite organization in the world, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (except human beings), has enlisted the help of some HUGE names to front their typical attemptedly shocking campaign. I know that PETA pulls all kinds of shady shit, like breaking into private property and destroying shit, using guerilla ambush tactics to disrupt everything from charity auctions to dairy farmer conventions, and distracting people from their preachy, superior message with naked sluts like Pam Anderson. However, nobody told me that PETA can actually manipulate the fabric of space-time. They must be able to, however, because if this latest piece of angry animal propaganda is any indication, we've gone back in time to 1994, when this prostitute was still marginally relevant:
If you can tear your eyes away from the skinned fox or whatever, you might recognize the floor-to-ceiling curtain-wearing bitch as Shirley Manson, lead singer of Garbage. Apparently she hasn't been working much in the last decade or so, and thus she had some time on her hands to be PETA's latest celebrity asshole.
I would walk up to this ho wearing a chin-to-chocha mink and tell her to quit giving me that disapproving look, and then I'd make some fox tartare and eat it in front of her. Last time I checked, I didn't give a fuck about garnering Shirley Manson's approval, even when it was 1994 and I was wearing a flannel shirt and rocking a 107.7 The End (Seattle alternative station) bumper sticker on my Jansport backpack. It doesn't bother me in the least that the weasel-like, hole-dwelling mammals they use for fur have muscles under their shiny, pretty coats, and it doesn't bother me that Shirley Manson is trying to discourage me from wearing those coats. Shirley Manson should be working harder at reminding everyone who the fuck she even is.
I'd like to know where did the idiot vegans who made this ad got that skinned animal from. Either they broke into a fur farm and stole it, or they killed and skinned an innocent animal to make their point. Whichever method they used, isn't either one just a LITTLE hypocritical? It seems that cruelty to animals went into making their stupid ad, which isn't particularly fitting with their mantra of "ethics". Then again, PETA's "ethics" involve committing a variety of crimes against people, like destruction of property, assault, burglary, etc., so the consistency of their views on ethics are highly questionable.
MAYBE the only person who might get the point of this ad without being totally pissed off at PETA is Kathleen, the chick with the big hair from this cycle of "America's Next Top Model", who was supposed to pretend to be an anti-fur activist in a photo shoot and had no idea what to do. It literally never occurred to her that people oppose fur, so she just stood there blinking at Mr. J and the photographer, totally confused about why she was supposed to pose with a bunch of red paint cans. At judging, Kathleen explained that she's not for killing animals, but had no problem with fur that was taken from animals "dying of natural causes in the forest." Apparently, she thought the fur industry obtains its raw materials by scouring the wilderness for random animals that died of old age, or by scraping roadkill off our nation's highways. I thought that was hilarious, although Twiggy, an anti-fur activist, tore her a new one, saying, "Well, that's NOT how it happens, DEARIE," and successfully appealed to Tyra to send her ass home for being stupid. Kathleen is the only person on the planet who might look at this ad and say, "Holy shit, that's what an animal looks like after it's been liberated of its fur?! I'm never wearing a dog fur-trimmed Rocawear hoodie jacket again!" Everyone else is either already on PETA's side or like me, hating on PETA for being self-righteous, hypocritical assholes who clearly have a very loose understanding of "ethics."
Just to show PETA and Shirley Manson how much I don't give a fuck that there's a living animal under a GORGEOUS fur coat, let me remind them what I do all day:
Here's the rest of my poliovirus plaque assay spinal cord homogenate prep:
Shirley Manson and PETA can eat me like I'm going to go eat some veal or foie gras.
I would walk up to this ho wearing a chin-to-chocha mink and tell her to quit giving me that disapproving look, and then I'd make some fox tartare and eat it in front of her. Last time I checked, I didn't give a fuck about garnering Shirley Manson's approval, even when it was 1994 and I was wearing a flannel shirt and rocking a 107.7 The End (Seattle alternative station) bumper sticker on my Jansport backpack. It doesn't bother me in the least that the weasel-like, hole-dwelling mammals they use for fur have muscles under their shiny, pretty coats, and it doesn't bother me that Shirley Manson is trying to discourage me from wearing those coats. Shirley Manson should be working harder at reminding everyone who the fuck she even is.
I'd like to know where did the idiot vegans who made this ad got that skinned animal from. Either they broke into a fur farm and stole it, or they killed and skinned an innocent animal to make their point. Whichever method they used, isn't either one just a LITTLE hypocritical? It seems that cruelty to animals went into making their stupid ad, which isn't particularly fitting with their mantra of "ethics". Then again, PETA's "ethics" involve committing a variety of crimes against people, like destruction of property, assault, burglary, etc., so the consistency of their views on ethics are highly questionable.
MAYBE the only person who might get the point of this ad without being totally pissed off at PETA is Kathleen, the chick with the big hair from this cycle of "America's Next Top Model", who was supposed to pretend to be an anti-fur activist in a photo shoot and had no idea what to do. It literally never occurred to her that people oppose fur, so she just stood there blinking at Mr. J and the photographer, totally confused about why she was supposed to pose with a bunch of red paint cans. At judging, Kathleen explained that she's not for killing animals, but had no problem with fur that was taken from animals "dying of natural causes in the forest." Apparently, she thought the fur industry obtains its raw materials by scouring the wilderness for random animals that died of old age, or by scraping roadkill off our nation's highways. I thought that was hilarious, although Twiggy, an anti-fur activist, tore her a new one, saying, "Well, that's NOT how it happens, DEARIE," and successfully appealed to Tyra to send her ass home for being stupid. Kathleen is the only person on the planet who might look at this ad and say, "Holy shit, that's what an animal looks like after it's been liberated of its fur?! I'm never wearing a dog fur-trimmed Rocawear hoodie jacket again!" Everyone else is either already on PETA's side or like me, hating on PETA for being self-righteous, hypocritical assholes who clearly have a very loose understanding of "ethics."
Just to show PETA and Shirley Manson how much I don't give a fuck that there's a living animal under a GORGEOUS fur coat, let me remind them what I do all day:
Here's the rest of my poliovirus plaque assay spinal cord homogenate prep:
Shirley Manson and PETA can eat me like I'm going to go eat some veal or foie gras.
Labels: assholes, media whores, mice, overcompensation, retard rage, scathing indictments, science
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