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