Thursday, May 31, 2007
Smith is Bitten
I don't know why Sarah Jessica Parker is always spoken of like she's some sort of high priestess of fashion. Most of the time I'll see her as Carrie Bradshaw wearing some absolutely fucking ridiculous getup on "Sex and the City," like some kind of cracked-out leopard printed bodysuit with a poodle skirt and a pair of five inch tall Manolos, and she'll throw this on to go to Blockbuster or the bank. I know when I have to run errands all over Manhattan, nothing is more practical than an $800 pair of the tallest stilettos I can find. The stupid outfits only serve to enhance my dislike for Carrie (obviously I totally relate to and identify with Samantha the old, outspoken, ball-busting, occasionally bisexual slut), and in no way inspires me to wear a chiffon skirt with a paisley bustier and a tartan toga belted around my chest.
In spite of a mountain of photos in outfits as similarly absurd as the one above proving otherwise, a lot of women still talk about SJP like she has this unbelievably superior fashion sense ordained by God himself, and she's laughing all the way to the bank. In addition to her perfume line and her ultimately acrimonious stint as a Gap spokesperson, she now is selling discount hoodies, capris, tank tops, and cargo pants. Presumably she's also selling a bunch of tacky charm bracelets and floppy fabric flowers to pin to one's shirt, since that kind of so-four-years-ago gaudy chic is her trademark. I do applaud her for making that money where she can, because SJP's got a now old-looking, horsey face, a husband on the down low, and a rapidly drying market for romantic comedies co-starring Matthew McConaghey and Terry "The Scourge of NFL Today" Bradshaw.
Anyway, SJP hired some models to help sell her new line calledOld Navy Bitten, and my friend BloodyTosser was one of them. However, she didn't hire any fact checkers, because although BloodyTosser looks great, they've got her shit all wrong:
First, the dumb assholes spelled "Northampton" incorrectly. Second, BloodyTosser last lived in Northampton EIGHT YEARS AGO. She is from London via Tripoli, and after leaving Northampton when we graduated Smith (as any Smith girl with the slightest shred of self-respect and desire for personal growth did), she lived in Chicago, and now Brooklyn. Then again, I get the feeling that Bitten will be ragingly popular at Smith. I can just see that Pumice Heather hoodie now on some portly American Studies major with a bowl cut and a HRC pin on her army green messenger bag, paired with a pair of drawstring frog-patterned flannel jammies, an INSPI(RED) spaghetti-strap tank, a pair of possibly sequined and/or rainbow flip-flops, and toting around the lyrics to the latest Prince song about to be butchered by the Smiffenpoofs or whatever her shiteous acapella troupe is called. BloodyTosser makes it look kind of tough and sexy, because she's hot, she's a badass, and she can kick the crap out of dudes twice her size in the Muay Thai fighting ring. However, every girl at Smith worthy of her striped hair bandana is going to buy this shit, and I predict there's going to be a lot of hirsute, North African vegetable stew-filled FUPAs straining the waistbands of many, many ill-advised low rise stretch chinos at the Cutter-Ziskind dining room come next fall.
BloodyTosser looks fabulous, and I think she should take more modeling jobs because she is a beautiful woman. However, I blame SJP for designing a line that will look like this on the average Smith girl, who in reality looks nothing like BloodyTosser: unremarkable and boxy, with arms like slabs of salt pork and oddly-placed adipose deposits that jiggle in all the wrong places. This prime specimen is exemplary of this phenomenon so prevalent at Smith, where a girl has no apparent tits or ass, but has disproportionally thick forearms, an ample chin, and the most dimpled lower abdomenal fat pad you've ever seen.
Okay, I'm kidding, that's Tej Bindra, and I just wanted to give her a shoutout since she completed matriculating last weekend and will undoubtedly now have non-profits eagerly Googling her to find out more about the vivacious young woman with the Praxis-funded worthless internship on her resume applying for the job in the mail room. In fairness, Tej might not be remotely as fly as BloodyTosser, but she is actually kind of a hottie by Smith standards. Most of the bitches in Little Suffragette City look like this:
Thank you, Sarah Jessica Parker, for ensuring that Smith will retain its place alongside filipinabride.com, the WNBA, and the Supreme Court on GQ's "Places Not to Look for Attractive Women" list for some time to come:
Anyway, SJP hired some models to help sell her new line called
BloodyTosser looks fabulous, and I think she should take more modeling jobs because she is a beautiful woman. However, I blame SJP for designing a line that will look like this on the average Smith girl, who in reality looks nothing like BloodyTosser: unremarkable and boxy, with arms like slabs of salt pork and oddly-placed adipose deposits that jiggle in all the wrong places. This prime specimen is exemplary of this phenomenon so prevalent at Smith, where a girl has no apparent tits or ass, but has disproportionally thick forearms, an ample chin, and the most dimpled lower abdomenal fat pad you've ever seen.
Thank you, Sarah Jessica Parker, for ensuring that Smith will retain its place alongside filipinabride.com, the WNBA, and the Supreme Court on GQ's "Places Not to Look for Attractive Women" list for some time to come:
Labels: BloodyTosser, celebrities, Dumb Smith bitches, fat fucks, hot chicks, intentional buffoonery, oh the horror, ranting, Sex and the City, Tej Offensive
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Two tons of Hobbit fun
Since the films were released on DVD, I have watched each installment of Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings about 45 times. I love them. Honor, glory, battle axes, the nine.
And at viewing number 44 on the final chapter in the trilogy, The Return of the King, I have one, burning, unanswered question:
WHY IS SAMWISE STILL FAT?
Sure, fine, the elves are the shit and everything they do is perfect, so they may have created some chemically superior lembas bread that boosts the spirits and sustains for a day. Fine. But first of all, name me a fat elf.
And second of all, there is NO FUCKING WAY that Sam's fat self isn't shedding at least a few pounds on a diet of limited-supply, leaf-wrapped cake for months at a time. Throw in the occasional wiry woodland hare, but still. For 13 months, Mr. Gangi the Gardener fights his way through toward Mordor with Frodo, eating nothing but Elvish Power Bars, climbing uphill, fighting orks, frolicking with Frodo and wrestling with Gollum. This is *more than sufficient exertion to combat his caloric intake and drop some weight.
I'm not hatin'. Samwise the Brave is the MAN in all this mess. I would take him as my wingman in any great quest, and anyway, the forces of evil would be pillaging and plundering the halls of men, elves and dwarves alike at this very moment, if it weren't for his pluck and devotion. Oh. I know. I'm simply mystified that he remains, in the face of toil and starvation, a big boned chunker. I can't understand this. Admittedly, Hobbit metabolism is not a specialty of mine, but Jesus, folks, Sam deserves to be cut after conquering E-vil. Give us a break.
And at viewing number 44 on the final chapter in the trilogy, The Return of the King, I have one, burning, unanswered question:
WHY IS SAMWISE STILL FAT?
Sure, fine, the elves are the shit and everything they do is perfect, so they may have created some chemically superior lembas bread that boosts the spirits and sustains for a day. Fine. But first of all, name me a fat elf.
And second of all, there is NO FUCKING WAY that Sam's fat self isn't shedding at least a few pounds on a diet of limited-supply, leaf-wrapped cake for months at a time. Throw in the occasional wiry woodland hare, but still. For 13 months, Mr. Gangi the Gardener fights his way through toward Mordor with Frodo, eating nothing but Elvish Power Bars, climbing uphill, fighting orks, frolicking with Frodo and wrestling with Gollum. This is *more than sufficient exertion to combat his caloric intake and drop some weight.
I'm not hatin'. Samwise the Brave is the MAN in all this mess. I would take him as my wingman in any great quest, and anyway, the forces of evil would be pillaging and plundering the halls of men, elves and dwarves alike at this very moment, if it weren't for his pluck and devotion. Oh. I know. I'm simply mystified that he remains, in the face of toil and starvation, a big boned chunker. I can't understand this. Admittedly, Hobbit metabolism is not a specialty of mine, but Jesus, folks, Sam deserves to be cut after conquering E-vil. Give us a break.
Labels: epic geekery, FalloniusMonk, fat fucks, nerd alert
Let me remind you who is the king of R&B
When I get a barrage of texts from LL Cool Jew, it means one of five things.
1. Somebody famous just died (ie: Jerry Falwell, Anna Nicole Smith)
2. Some famous couple just broke up (ie: Britney and K-Fed)
3. Something important happened in celebrity legal news (ie: Paris Hilton sentenced to jail time)
4. She just saw one or more awesome, ridiculous dogs.
5. Robert Sylvester Kelly is off the chain.
Today, after reading the following texts, I realized that LL Cool Jew was on impetus #5 (below is translated from the text message):
-The song "Double Up" is the jam!
-"Leave Your Name"--roflmao! Lolz. "If you think I'm screening calls, you motherfucking right."
-"Sexosaurus"
-The conversation between Kells and Ush is amazing.
-"Bitch, I wish you would burn my motherfuckin clothes, you triflin' ass bitch, and that's real talk."
Yes, this can only mean one thing. The R-uh in R&B is at it again!
R. Kelly released his new album Double Up yesterday!!!--wait, I need to make this more exclamatory--!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Not that LL Cool Jew had to tell me this, because the first order of business yesterday morning was to get on iTunes, immediately download it, and torture J-Sexy by listening to R-dot's latest masterpiece four times in a row. Many of my friends appreciate R. Kelly--sort of--but not like LL Cool Jew. She feels me so deeply about Kells. We feel the same way about R. Kelly that Morrissey'sHair feels about Morrissey. The only musicians that MAY hold a greater position in our respective hierarchies are Mary J. Blige for her and Frederic Chopin for me.
Unfortunately, I've realized that for some reason, Kells's self-proclaimed but correct status as The World's Greatest is lost on many of my other friends. Last time I was home in the P-N-Dub, I crashed at HotLawyer's place one night, and we turned on the TV to the "I'm a Flirt" video, and he wondered what the big deal was. At the time, I was too drunk to fully articulate R. Kelly's phenomenal awesomeness. However, I'm not sure I could do him justice sober, either. Robert Sylvester Kelly is a fucking genius. Yes, he's a forty-year-old alleged child pornographer, but he's a fucking genius nonetheless.
In the past, R. Kelly has covered a variety of topics with style and panache. He has a unique perspective that I think you'll agree is completely and totally 100% right. He doesn't see nothin' wrong with a little bump and grind. He likes women who remind him of his jeep, his sound, his car, and his bank account. He also likes women who run their hands through his fro and who act like football coaches, compelling him to play the field. He has no qualms about hovering by a woman's door in a trenchcoat and nothing else prepared to strip for her. He won't be taken advantage of by gold digging whores: he ain't spending no cash if she ain't spending that ass and if she wants to go on first-class trips then she better be prepared to let him work those first-class hips. No more wining and dining...he's fucking her tonight! His "love jones" is so gargantuan that it will blot out any visible light. Sex with him is similar to visiting a chocolate factory. He's not above helping his woman with dinner by tossing her salad (although the microbiologist in me would suggest that multitasking rimjobs--or any type of anal play, for that matter--with food preparation is inadvisable). He wants to know women who move their cho-chas provocatively. When he overindulges in rum and coke, he says, "So what? I'm drunk." He finds guns to be more efficacious weapons than spatulas, particularly when confronting an entire giant closet full of cheating lovers. He's obsessed with his zodiacal brethren, as both his penis and his prospective children are all Capricorns. His bedroom technique involves him jumping like an Impala. He'll compliment you on your pretty hair weave and your ability to back it up, but he's out after he gets a chance to feel on your booty. He's in his throwback and he has room keys (for the ladies). He likes to relax at his home, where there are 100 bottles of Cris in the cooler and he's frozen by Jacob the Jeweler, butt-naked in sweat socks and house shoes (does that mean slippers?). He doesn't want to hear anything besides you saying that "yes" word. He is an R&B thug, babe, and he's just looking for some ass, babe, and for that he is my hero and object of numerous hilarious yet very sexual fantasies.
This album is yet another triumph on R. Kelly's already phenomenally mind-blowing curriculum vitae. As the Washington Post puts it in their highbrow review, "it's a smorgasbord of overblown lechery and quirky melodrama" and "a wild, funny, lascivious journey." The listener gets another amazing window into Kells's remarkable life and philosophies. He puts an S on his Maybach because it's his "Super-Benz." In response to queries about possible infidelity at the club from his domestic partner, he responds, "I don't know why you fuckin' with those no-man-havin' jealous assholes, and that's real talk...besides, what they eat don't make us shit." He wants a woman who looks like a big ol' piece of cake and whose middle tastes like Skittles because he has a sweet tooth. Sex with him is tantamount to space travel, as there's a rocket in his pocket FULL of fuel, and it will be painless when he travels to Uranus (although even though it's Kells, I'm not falling for that one...that's what they all say). He makes women cry out "Kelly" when their significant other's name is really Tommy. If you call him, you should leave him a message rather than blow up his spot, lest he's at the club, smoking on some trees, or having "a little sex." If you should happen to be a Georgia Tech graduate working at TBS who cheats on him with Usher, and Kells discovers this when he and Usher get together for beers and start gabbing about their love lives, then beware, you duplicitous two-timing bitch. And should you be fortunate enough to sex him, then you will experience the reality of the quote of the millenium: "It's like Jurassic Park, and I'm your sexosaurus, babe."
If this hasn't convinced you to go buy Double Up RIGHT NOW, then nothing will, because you have no appreciation for musical masterpieces. I don't that when Kells proclaims as he's often wont to do, "Ladies, it's ya boyfriend!", any woman is in a position to argue. I've embraced the fact that he's my boyfriend, because after all...
Y'all tell me, what's R&B without the R-uh???
1. Somebody famous just died (ie: Jerry Falwell, Anna Nicole Smith)
2. Some famous couple just broke up (ie: Britney and K-Fed)
3. Something important happened in celebrity legal news (ie: Paris Hilton sentenced to jail time)
4. She just saw one or more awesome, ridiculous dogs.
5. Robert Sylvester Kelly is off the chain.
Today, after reading the following texts, I realized that LL Cool Jew was on impetus #5 (below is translated from the text message):
-The song "Double Up" is the jam!
-"Leave Your Name"--roflmao! Lolz. "If you think I'm screening calls, you motherfucking right."
-"Sexosaurus"
-The conversation between Kells and Ush is amazing.
-"Bitch, I wish you would burn my motherfuckin clothes, you triflin' ass bitch, and that's real talk."
Yes, this can only mean one thing. The R-uh in R&B is at it again!
R. Kelly released his new album Double Up yesterday!!!--wait, I need to make this more exclamatory--!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Not that LL Cool Jew had to tell me this, because the first order of business yesterday morning was to get on iTunes, immediately download it, and torture J-Sexy by listening to R-dot's latest masterpiece four times in a row. Many of my friends appreciate R. Kelly--sort of--but not like LL Cool Jew. She feels me so deeply about Kells. We feel the same way about R. Kelly that Morrissey'sHair feels about Morrissey. The only musicians that MAY hold a greater position in our respective hierarchies are Mary J. Blige for her and Frederic Chopin for me.
Unfortunately, I've realized that for some reason, Kells's self-proclaimed but correct status as The World's Greatest is lost on many of my other friends. Last time I was home in the P-N-Dub, I crashed at HotLawyer's place one night, and we turned on the TV to the "I'm a Flirt" video, and he wondered what the big deal was. At the time, I was too drunk to fully articulate R. Kelly's phenomenal awesomeness. However, I'm not sure I could do him justice sober, either. Robert Sylvester Kelly is a fucking genius. Yes, he's a forty-year-old alleged child pornographer, but he's a fucking genius nonetheless.
In the past, R. Kelly has covered a variety of topics with style and panache. He has a unique perspective that I think you'll agree is completely and totally 100% right. He doesn't see nothin' wrong with a little bump and grind. He likes women who remind him of his jeep, his sound, his car, and his bank account. He also likes women who run their hands through his fro and who act like football coaches, compelling him to play the field. He has no qualms about hovering by a woman's door in a trenchcoat and nothing else prepared to strip for her. He won't be taken advantage of by gold digging whores: he ain't spending no cash if she ain't spending that ass and if she wants to go on first-class trips then she better be prepared to let him work those first-class hips. No more wining and dining...he's fucking her tonight! His "love jones" is so gargantuan that it will blot out any visible light. Sex with him is similar to visiting a chocolate factory. He's not above helping his woman with dinner by tossing her salad (although the microbiologist in me would suggest that multitasking rimjobs--or any type of anal play, for that matter--with food preparation is inadvisable). He wants to know women who move their cho-chas provocatively. When he overindulges in rum and coke, he says, "So what? I'm drunk." He finds guns to be more efficacious weapons than spatulas, particularly when confronting an entire giant closet full of cheating lovers. He's obsessed with his zodiacal brethren, as both his penis and his prospective children are all Capricorns. His bedroom technique involves him jumping like an Impala. He'll compliment you on your pretty hair weave and your ability to back it up, but he's out after he gets a chance to feel on your booty. He's in his throwback and he has room keys (for the ladies). He likes to relax at his home, where there are 100 bottles of Cris in the cooler and he's frozen by Jacob the Jeweler, butt-naked in sweat socks and house shoes (does that mean slippers?). He doesn't want to hear anything besides you saying that "yes" word. He is an R&B thug, babe, and he's just looking for some ass, babe, and for that he is my hero and object of numerous hilarious yet very sexual fantasies.
This album is yet another triumph on R. Kelly's already phenomenally mind-blowing curriculum vitae. As the Washington Post puts it in their highbrow review, "it's a smorgasbord of overblown lechery and quirky melodrama" and "a wild, funny, lascivious journey." The listener gets another amazing window into Kells's remarkable life and philosophies. He puts an S on his Maybach because it's his "Super-Benz." In response to queries about possible infidelity at the club from his domestic partner, he responds, "I don't know why you fuckin' with those no-man-havin' jealous assholes, and that's real talk...besides, what they eat don't make us shit." He wants a woman who looks like a big ol' piece of cake and whose middle tastes like Skittles because he has a sweet tooth. Sex with him is tantamount to space travel, as there's a rocket in his pocket FULL of fuel, and it will be painless when he travels to Uranus (although even though it's Kells, I'm not falling for that one...that's what they all say). He makes women cry out "Kelly" when their significant other's name is really Tommy. If you call him, you should leave him a message rather than blow up his spot, lest he's at the club, smoking on some trees, or having "a little sex." If you should happen to be a Georgia Tech graduate working at TBS who cheats on him with Usher, and Kells discovers this when he and Usher get together for beers and start gabbing about their love lives, then beware, you duplicitous two-timing bitch. And should you be fortunate enough to sex him, then you will experience the reality of the quote of the millenium: "It's like Jurassic Park, and I'm your sexosaurus, babe."
If this hasn't convinced you to go buy Double Up RIGHT NOW, then nothing will, because you have no appreciation for musical masterpieces. I don't that when Kells proclaims as he's often wont to do, "Ladies, it's ya boyfriend!", any woman is in a position to argue. I've embraced the fact that he's my boyfriend, because after all...
Y'all tell me, what's R&B without the R-uh???
Labels: boyfriends, celebrities, hot dudes, HotLawyer, I LOVE IT, LL Cool Jew, Morrissey'sHair, perversion, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
...Or maybe three's a crowd
Fat Joe once asked, "What's love got to do with a little menage?" Well, nothing, but I would certainly argue that looks and basic hygiene have everything to do with it. I never thought I'd be taking back my assertion that there's really no such thing as a bad threesome, but that just goes to show that one should proverbially never say never. Tonight, I was walking Caesar and Chingy! and found myself eating my words. And then almost throwing up.
Outside my building, there are a couple brick planter boxes that line the walkway to the lobby door. Various tenants often sit on the edges of these planter boxes, especially on evenings like today, when the weather is mildly balmy and generally pleasant. When I departed the apartment, Irene and Drusilla, the building's resident nosy old ladies were there. I greeted them, wrangled the dogs across the sidewalk to the curb rapidly because Drusilla hates dogs, and continued on our evening stroll of the neighborhood.
When I returned, Irene and Drusilla's benign presence had been replaced by two people I always dread running into individually, much less together. One is this withered, creepy-looking man, who I suspect is younger than he looks because he's always drinking at all hours of the day. He's impossibly filthy, as he's always dressed in the same dirty white undershirt and grungy Puerto Rico baseball cap. He also has this persistent HUGE festering, purulent cold sore on his lower lip, and I always heed my inner virologist and try to maintain a five foot distance from him. Despite my sometimes irresponsible promiscuity, I've miraculously managed to avoid contracting any strain of herpes simplex (oral or otherwise) thus far, and I'd like to keep it that way. Unfortunately, my attempts at maintaining personal, herpes-free space are always thwarted by his aggressive enthusiasm for my dogs, especially Chingy!, who I assume he is attracted to based on their inherent grossness. He is always cautioning me to clean out Chingy!'s nose wrinkle because of the risk of infection, and I always want to tell him that he should worry about his own hygiene before losing sleep over Chingy!'s. His wife is an equally nasty character. She is missing most of her teeth, and her face looks like one of those "before" pictures they show on Proactiv commercials. Also, after several trips in the elevator with her, I've realized that she has some of the most rank body odor on the planet. When I was a little kid, I used to read books by this guy named Roald Dahl, who wrote Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and James and the Giant Peach. He also wrote this book called The Twits, who were "the world's most horrible couple." That's who these two are: the Puerto Rican Twits.
Anyway, tonight they were perched on the planter boxes outside the apartment, swilling King Cobra forties and not even bothering to brown-bag them.
"Heyyyyyy, sexy," said Senora Twit.
"Hello," I replied, hurrying by them. Unfortunately, Senor Twit chose that moment to cluck provocatively at my dogs, causing Caesar to go sniffing and wagging up to him to say a more personal hello. I tugged Caesar away, trying not to seem too desperate to get away. They are my neighbors, and I don't want to get a reputation as the big bitch in the building. "Have a good night!" I said cheerfully, but dismissively.
"Hey, sexy," Senora Twit said again, her voice deepening to what was unmistakably a seductive purr. "Jou look really sexy tonight," she added.
I looked down. I was wearing a halter top that was pretty cantastic (as is typical for me), a skirt, and a pair of strappy heels, but God knows I did not put that outfit on trying to get some action with toothless loitering drunks outside my building.
"Uhhhh, thanks," I said. "Good night." I turned to enter the building. Senor Twit wasn't about to let me get away so easy.
"She's my wife!" he said, pointing at Senora Twit. "Isn't she beautiful?"
I totally ignored that. For one thing, I'm a horrible liar. For another, I wasn't sure whether to burst out laughing or run screaming in terror.
"I know," I said. I put my key in the lock of the front door. I was almost safely away from what was rapidly becoming an extremely uncomfortable situation.
"Hey, sexy, why don't jou come up to visit sometimes?" slurred Senora Twit. "Jou're so SEXY."
"Uhhh, gotta go. Take care!" I hustled inside and slammed the front door before that could go any further. Maybe they weren't propositioning me, but I don't know where else that disturbing conversation was going. I feel like I need to take a shower just for suffering through the seductive charms of my upstairs neighbors. It seems that not only do banging blondes and hung dudes want to fuck me at the same time, but so do dentally challenged, unshowered drunks.
At least tonight, "Deadliest Catch" is on, and the engine problems that were plaguing the mighty Northwestern have been overcome and the studly exemplar of manhood that is Skipper Sig Hansen is hoping to make up for lost time at the dock in Dutch Harbor. I'm hoping that will inspire me to overcome the severe case of the heebie-jeebies that are currently plaguing me. Hopefully, unlike head Northwestern deckhand Edgar, this will not necessitate biting the head off a live herring, but I'm not ruling anything out.
*THOROUGHLY CREEPED-OUT SHUDDER*
Outside my building, there are a couple brick planter boxes that line the walkway to the lobby door. Various tenants often sit on the edges of these planter boxes, especially on evenings like today, when the weather is mildly balmy and generally pleasant. When I departed the apartment, Irene and Drusilla, the building's resident nosy old ladies were there. I greeted them, wrangled the dogs across the sidewalk to the curb rapidly because Drusilla hates dogs, and continued on our evening stroll of the neighborhood.
When I returned, Irene and Drusilla's benign presence had been replaced by two people I always dread running into individually, much less together. One is this withered, creepy-looking man, who I suspect is younger than he looks because he's always drinking at all hours of the day. He's impossibly filthy, as he's always dressed in the same dirty white undershirt and grungy Puerto Rico baseball cap. He also has this persistent HUGE festering, purulent cold sore on his lower lip, and I always heed my inner virologist and try to maintain a five foot distance from him. Despite my sometimes irresponsible promiscuity, I've miraculously managed to avoid contracting any strain of herpes simplex (oral or otherwise) thus far, and I'd like to keep it that way. Unfortunately, my attempts at maintaining personal, herpes-free space are always thwarted by his aggressive enthusiasm for my dogs, especially Chingy!, who I assume he is attracted to based on their inherent grossness. He is always cautioning me to clean out Chingy!'s nose wrinkle because of the risk of infection, and I always want to tell him that he should worry about his own hygiene before losing sleep over Chingy!'s. His wife is an equally nasty character. She is missing most of her teeth, and her face looks like one of those "before" pictures they show on Proactiv commercials. Also, after several trips in the elevator with her, I've realized that she has some of the most rank body odor on the planet. When I was a little kid, I used to read books by this guy named Roald Dahl, who wrote Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and James and the Giant Peach. He also wrote this book called The Twits, who were "the world's most horrible couple." That's who these two are: the Puerto Rican Twits.
Anyway, tonight they were perched on the planter boxes outside the apartment, swilling King Cobra forties and not even bothering to brown-bag them.
"Heyyyyyy, sexy," said Senora Twit.
"Hello," I replied, hurrying by them. Unfortunately, Senor Twit chose that moment to cluck provocatively at my dogs, causing Caesar to go sniffing and wagging up to him to say a more personal hello. I tugged Caesar away, trying not to seem too desperate to get away. They are my neighbors, and I don't want to get a reputation as the big bitch in the building. "Have a good night!" I said cheerfully, but dismissively.
"Hey, sexy," Senora Twit said again, her voice deepening to what was unmistakably a seductive purr. "Jou look really sexy tonight," she added.
I looked down. I was wearing a halter top that was pretty cantastic (as is typical for me), a skirt, and a pair of strappy heels, but God knows I did not put that outfit on trying to get some action with toothless loitering drunks outside my building.
"Uhhhh, thanks," I said. "Good night." I turned to enter the building. Senor Twit wasn't about to let me get away so easy.
"She's my wife!" he said, pointing at Senora Twit. "Isn't she beautiful?"
I totally ignored that. For one thing, I'm a horrible liar. For another, I wasn't sure whether to burst out laughing or run screaming in terror.
"I know," I said. I put my key in the lock of the front door. I was almost safely away from what was rapidly becoming an extremely uncomfortable situation.
"Hey, sexy, why don't jou come up to visit sometimes?" slurred Senora Twit. "Jou're so SEXY."
"Uhhh, gotta go. Take care!" I hustled inside and slammed the front door before that could go any further. Maybe they weren't propositioning me, but I don't know where else that disturbing conversation was going. I feel like I need to take a shower just for suffering through the seductive charms of my upstairs neighbors. It seems that not only do banging blondes and hung dudes want to fuck me at the same time, but so do dentally challenged, unshowered drunks.
At least tonight, "Deadliest Catch" is on, and the engine problems that were plaguing the mighty Northwestern have been overcome and the studly exemplar of manhood that is Skipper Sig Hansen is hoping to make up for lost time at the dock in Dutch Harbor. I'm hoping that will inspire me to overcome the severe case of the heebie-jeebies that are currently plaguing me. Hopefully, unlike head Northwestern deckhand Edgar, this will not necessitate biting the head off a live herring, but I'm not ruling anything out.
*THOROUGHLY CREEPED-OUT SHUDDER*
Labels: Deadliest Catch, doggity style, gross, Harlem world, oh the horror, perversion, you're ugly
In case you missed the Miss Universe pageant
Here's what Miss USA did, once again proving to me that I like the Miss USA/Universe bitches so much better than Miss America. This is the kind of shit I would pull if I were in a beauty pageant:
Girlfriend totally bit it to the tune of Sean Paul's "Give It Up to Me" (a song which, by the way, includes such beauty pageant-appropriate lyrics as "get out of my head and into my bed, gal" and "You know you got the sinting inna me pants a develop and a swell up and double up yeah...So gimme the work yeah cause if you no gimme the work the blue balls a erupt yeah".) You'd never see a chick do something as gauche as fall down in Miss America, nor would she do so to such a raunchy (yet catchy) tune exhorting bitches to put out, proving once again the innate superiority of the Miss USA/Universe pageant system.
These prostitutes in Donald Trump's Miss Universe pageant are way, WAY more interesting than the Miss America bitches. Okay, I will give it to this year's Miss America that she got all Chris Hansen on some pedophiles' asses in Long Island, but usually Miss America tries only to be a positive role model for young women, which means they do nothing of any interest whatsoever. BOOOOORRRRRING. Last year's Miss USA, on the other hand, was a drunken snatch-licking cokehead, and this year's can't walk. Probably because she was shitfaced. Miss USA, now that she lost the Miss Universe crown to Miss Japan, will be heading back to her apartment at Trump Place where we can only hope she'll start getting it on with Miss Teen USA, hitting the clubs, and winding up all over Page Six.
Girlfriend totally bit it to the tune of Sean Paul's "Give It Up to Me" (a song which, by the way, includes such beauty pageant-appropriate lyrics as "get out of my head and into my bed, gal" and "You know you got the sinting inna me pants a develop and a swell up and double up yeah...So gimme the work yeah cause if you no gimme the work the blue balls a erupt yeah".) You'd never see a chick do something as gauche as fall down in Miss America, nor would she do so to such a raunchy (yet catchy) tune exhorting bitches to put out, proving once again the innate superiority of the Miss USA/Universe pageant system.
These prostitutes in Donald Trump's Miss Universe pageant are way, WAY more interesting than the Miss America bitches. Okay, I will give it to this year's Miss America that she got all Chris Hansen on some pedophiles' asses in Long Island, but usually Miss America tries only to be a positive role model for young women, which means they do nothing of any interest whatsoever. BOOOOORRRRRING. Last year's Miss USA, on the other hand, was a drunken snatch-licking cokehead, and this year's can't walk. Probably because she was shitfaced. Miss USA, now that she lost the Miss Universe crown to Miss Japan, will be heading back to her apartment at Trump Place where we can only hope she'll start getting it on with Miss Teen USA, hitting the clubs, and winding up all over Page Six.
Labels: beauty queens, hilarious shit, hot chicks, sluts
Monday, May 28, 2007
Alexyss K. Tylor is the greatest woman who ever lived
In the course of my internet wanderings, I found out about what may be the most awesome thing ever to grace Public Access cable. It's even more awesome than the Robyn Byrd Show here in Nueva York, which is basically free stripping and porn in the form of 900 number ads. Robyn Byrd, however, is busted, and most of the strippers she has on the show look like they're well past what should be a mandatory retirement age for those who make a professional living dropping trou. All the chicks have these hideous tit jobs that look like they had NFL regulation footballs shoved under their pectoral muscles, and the gay male strippers look like their noses have been exposed to one too many nitrate poppers. They had this chick in there the other night who looked like she was about 50, and who I seriously thought was a man until she showed her cooch. If she was an M2F tranny, she had a killer surgeon, but she should have had them touch up her face while she was in the O.R., because I cannot imagine wanting a lap dance from that hot mess. However, nasty strippers aside, I've always liked Robyn Byrd. In spite of her being hideously ugly, she's got a lot of spunk (no pun intended) and she's battled extensively for her right to show all sorts of titties, weiners, and trannies on Public Access, and I love bitches who give censorship the finger, take the prudish assholes to court, and win. Yay, free speech!
Anyway, I forgot all about any redeeming qualities Robyn Byrd might have to offer when the internets introduced me to Alexyss K. Tylor. This woman hosts a public access show in Atlanta, in which she preaches the gospel of "Vagina Power," and encourages women not to get "dickmatized" by men and their nefarious "penis power." A sample of a typical Alexyss K. Tylor kernel of wisdom:
In her most recent installment, Alexyss takes issue with the fact that she's received correspondence criticizing the way she talks. After a ten minute soliloquy about how she talks like a woman from Bankhead (like T.I.!) and how it's perfectly natural to use words like "dick" and "pussy" and "asshole," she contrasts herself with an educated professor at Spelman College who was caught exposing himself and presumably masturbating in front of another man in the bathroom at some regional airport, and asks who the REAL villain is. Is it her, for being uneducated and speaking in her snappy ghetto dialect, or is it this educated man who "is a professor by day and a dicksucker and a dick and nut puller-outer by night, or part-time." Furthermore, to up her respectability quotient, she decided to dress like a sexpert AND a commercial airline pilot. I can't even do real justice to Alexyss K. Tylor, so you just have to watch her in action. This YouTube is somewhat long, but it's worth every last hot second:
Seriously, this woman should be the fucking president. I LOVE HER.
Anyway, I forgot all about any redeeming qualities Robyn Byrd might have to offer when the internets introduced me to Alexyss K. Tylor. This woman hosts a public access show in Atlanta, in which she preaches the gospel of "Vagina Power," and encourages women not to get "dickmatized" by men and their nefarious "penis power." A sample of a typical Alexyss K. Tylor kernel of wisdom:
"We're hooked on the Penis Power and this man won't even buy you some shrimp from Long John Silver and that plate's what, $2.99? But he can give you a mouth full of sperm and a rectum full of sperm. We have to see what our issue is, because a man like that does not respect a woman."AMEN, sister! You said it. I've been hooked on this type of Penis Power myself on occasion, and it's just a shame I didn't know about Alexyss K. Tylor then to cure my dickmatization. The Vagina Power movement is spreading, because on Friday I was out with KatieScarlett and BloodyTosser, and we spent a good 45 minutes discussing Alexyss K. Tylor. She may be the greatest feminist mind who ever walked planet Earth.
In her most recent installment, Alexyss takes issue with the fact that she's received correspondence criticizing the way she talks. After a ten minute soliloquy about how she talks like a woman from Bankhead (like T.I.!) and how it's perfectly natural to use words like "dick" and "pussy" and "asshole," she contrasts herself with an educated professor at Spelman College who was caught exposing himself and presumably masturbating in front of another man in the bathroom at some regional airport, and asks who the REAL villain is. Is it her, for being uneducated and speaking in her snappy ghetto dialect, or is it this educated man who "is a professor by day and a dicksucker and a dick and nut puller-outer by night, or part-time." Furthermore, to up her respectability quotient, she decided to dress like a sexpert AND a commercial airline pilot. I can't even do real justice to Alexyss K. Tylor, so you just have to watch her in action. This YouTube is somewhat long, but it's worth every last hot second:
"I don't know if he wants them nuts in his butts, or if he wants them balls in his jaws, but he starts BEGGIN' the man, PLEASE give him some dick and nuts."
Seriously, this woman should be the fucking president. I LOVE HER.
Labels: Alexyss K Tylor, free fucking speech, hot chicks, I LOVE IT, perversion, sex, weiners
Saturday, May 26, 2007
FINALLY I got my FEMA check
One of the most awesome discoveries made by LL Cool Jew and BigBagel during their stint on the Gulf Coast was the song "FEMA Check" by Lo-Key and Ayatollah. This brother-sister duo, while spending their time acting as security guards on the destroyed wreckage of a Biloxi casino barge, decided to pen some lyrics about all the ridiculous shit they spent their FEMA checks on, including some new braids, a new wife-beater, a "bottle of drank," a new grill, a new phone, a new couch, a bag of oo-wee, and (naturally) a baby mama new weave. This shopping spree was warranted because the FEMA check was insufficient to cover Lo-Key's rent (her rent exceeds "2 G's"? Who knew that Biloxi's real estate market was on par with New York City's?). Lo-Key also got a Gamecube and some spinner rims, but didn't pay for them on account of it "being the right place, right time...everybody started a riot." When she observed this fortuitous looting spree, she figured, "Aw, hell, might as well," and admittedly "hopped out the store with a set of Sprewells." Ayatollah may have convinced a woman to purchase him a drink at club in Hotlanta by asserting, "Girl, please, I'm a evacuee...you should be buying one for me," but since he never describes whether or not he actually got the complimentary drink, I don't know whether he had to put some of that FEMA check toward his own Hyp-and-Henny or not.
Anyway, LL Cool Jew mailed me a homemade CD of "FEMA Check" that she purchased at a Gulfport mall and it was on heavy rotation in my lab for awhile. It also was a RAZZY.org Hysterical Lyric of the Month back in 2006. BigBagel e-mailed a while later informing me that he'd just picked up a copy of the "FEMA Check" video and it was, in his words, "ridiculously ghetto." I have been waiting and waiting for this gem to appear on YouTube, and tonight, since I'm staying in to nurse a fairly brutal cheap Pinot Grigio hangover, I searched for it again on a whim.
YES! The video is finally on the internets and available for embedding. BigBagel's review was quite accurate. The set consists of them dancing around some of the more thoroughly Katrina'd parts of the Gulf Coast, and Genesis "Lo-Key" Briggs is actually wearing an OLD NAVY zip-up hoodie as she raps about how Hurricane Katrina destroyed her undoubtedly fictional "new drop top." I particularly like the statistical factoids about hurricanes, President Bush, FEMA, and the Red Cross at the beginning and end of the video. Do yourself a favor and enjoy this masterpiece of the relatively unknown but nonetheless awesome subgenre I call "disaster rap."
FEMA, Red Cross, government assistance...welfare, food stamps, can I get a witness?!
Anyway, LL Cool Jew mailed me a homemade CD of "FEMA Check" that she purchased at a Gulfport mall and it was on heavy rotation in my lab for awhile. It also was a RAZZY.org Hysterical Lyric of the Month back in 2006. BigBagel e-mailed a while later informing me that he'd just picked up a copy of the "FEMA Check" video and it was, in his words, "ridiculously ghetto." I have been waiting and waiting for this gem to appear on YouTube, and tonight, since I'm staying in to nurse a fairly brutal cheap Pinot Grigio hangover, I searched for it again on a whim.
YES! The video is finally on the internets and available for embedding. BigBagel's review was quite accurate. The set consists of them dancing around some of the more thoroughly Katrina'd parts of the Gulf Coast, and Genesis "Lo-Key" Briggs is actually wearing an OLD NAVY zip-up hoodie as she raps about how Hurricane Katrina destroyed her undoubtedly fictional "new drop top." I particularly like the statistical factoids about hurricanes, President Bush, FEMA, and the Red Cross at the beginning and end of the video. Do yourself a favor and enjoy this masterpiece of the relatively unknown but nonetheless awesome subgenre I call "disaster rap."
FEMA, Red Cross, government assistance...welfare, food stamps, can I get a witness?!
Labels: BigBagel, I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, LL Cool Jew, natural disaster, rap
Friday, May 25, 2007
Dumping TWOD: a cautionary tale
As I've mentioned repeatedly on this blog, I haven't been in a monogamous relationship since 2004. Mostly this is because I value my freedom (to fuck whoever I want whenever I want), my independence, and my personal space. I like to sit around drinking beer in my underwear and nothing else watching "Deadliest Catch," and I don't need some dude bitching at me about it. I don't want for sex (plenty of hoes and vibrators in my stable), love (I'm very close to friends and family), or affection (I have dogs). Most people do not feel this way and seem to want regular companionship, and actively pursue or are in serious relationships. In some cases, their relationships leave much to be desired, and when observing this, my single status gets all the validation it needs. I'd rather die alone than beside someone who doesn't appreciate or understand me, and I've learned this from experience.
There is another reason why I've stayed single, and that is because my ex-boyfriend was so certifiably fucking crazy that I still sometimes have dreams that I'm still dating him and wake up in a cold sweat. I don't know why I went out with him for four entire months. I like to attribute my extremely poor judgment concerning him to his reliance on black magic, santeria, or some other form of fell witchcraft to hoodwink me into not dumping him long before I did. The truth is that he plied me with steak, scotch, and magical dust extracted from the leaves of the coca plant, but I like to delude myself into thinking that it was because he resorted to the black arts.
I should have known he was bad news from the moment we started dating. At first, there was nothing terribly sinister, but in hindsight there were a number of warning signs from whence I should have not walked but RUN away as fast and as far as possible: he wore a Madonna t-shirt, he was proud of the fact that his name (Tod) was spelled with only one D, he liked to randomly make out with his male friends in front of me, he made fun of me for not being as good at math as him, etc. Tod with one D, or TWOD, as he shall be known henceforth, was a terrible fucking boyfriend, and I should have realized this long before I actually took action about it.
TWOD and I met through our mutual friend Multiple Scorgasms, who thought we would hit it off. We both like to drink and pull a variety of scandalous hijinks for the purpose of amusing people, so this was a reasonable expectation on her part. One night, we all went out for drinks. I brought FalloniusMonk as a wingman in case I needed an excuse to bail, and to get her sage opinion of him. He was tall, dressed snappily, well-groomed, and complimented me for all the right things, like my fondness for combining big words with crude profanity and my prowess at drinking scotch. I remember thinking that he was funny. I drank even more scotch, and subsequently decided to propose that we make the beast with two backs all night long. He accepted my proposition, and I was pleased to see that his weiner was relatively resistant to alcohol, and it was a decent size.
Initially, I told him my anti-relationship policy, and he played his hand accordingly. He didn't overcall me, he acted like my presence was a privilege that he genuinely appreciated, made a real effort to amuse and impress my friends, and insisted on paying for everything wherever we went. The next thing I knew, I was relenting on my avowed bachelorettehood, and agreed not to fuck anyone else.
Things started to go awry after about a month. Three main things happened that turned the tide of my opinion, and I should have just cashed in then. First, we were hanging out with his "friend" (actually his drug buddy) at TWOD's apartment, and this dashing fellow stole my debit card out of my purse when I was in the bathroom and charged a bunch of Metrocards to it. I called up TWOD and told him, and he said, "Oh, yeah, I figured he would do something like that. Jimmy steals things. He once stole $300 out of my wallet when I was passed out." I was baffled that TWOD would remain friends with an unrepentant thief, but at the time did not recognize it for what it was: a major malfunction in his ability to make sound judgments. At the time, however, I told him that Jimmy Sticky Fingers better not come anywhere near me again, and left it at that. Strike two occurred about a week later, when we went back to his apartment after a night out, and I wanted to have sex. He wanted to, but said that he couldn't. When I inquired as to why not, he informed me that earlier that day, he was jacking off and ran out of lube. I was like, "You need lube to beat off?" Apparently he needed such copious quantities that not having it was not an option for him, and he was too lazy to walk downstairs to the Duane Reade and buy more, so he used shampoo. His dick turned red and scaly, and looked like it had been scalded in a pot of boiling water. It was gross. I was sympathetic then, but soon realized that this was indicative of his compulsive masturbation problem. He was an electrical engineer and worked from home designing cell phone chips, and spent a lot more of his day beating off than engineering circuitry. I like to rub one off as much as the next sexually healthy human being, but when you exit online meetings with your boss prematurely and without warning to damage your dick by whacking off with detergent, you've got a problem. The third incident was the most egregious of all. He told me he loved me after less than a month. I don't like people who flippantly drop the L-bomb. My ex-boyfriend Benzo, who is the polar opposite of TWOD in almost every way, took six months to say it, and that was because he really did love me and didn't want to go there until he was sure of it. I appreciated and admired his restraint and honesty. TWOD just decided that a month was a good enough time as any to start ending our phone calls with "I love you" (to which I'd respond with something vague, like "right back atcha" or "uh huh, yeah, you too.")
After he started saying "love", he clearly started feeling more comfortable around me, and his true craziness emerged in full force. He started picking fights with me in public places because "it's funny." These weren't playful fights; they were verbally abusive geysers of nasty mean-spiritedness that would erupt from him whenever he felt bored. He would call me fat and/or dumb, and then laugh when I'd respond negatively, which infuriated me more. He also would go on long tirades about what a waste of time a Ph.D is, and suggest that my career was an exercise in futility, which enraged me. Then, every time I would almost dump him, he would start apologizing profusely and CRYING. I'm ashamed to admit that I didn't just tell him to save it for his shrink and walk out then, but I'd always convince myself that it wasn't a very big deal and he really was sorry. Man, I didn't realize how fucked up this relationship actually was unti I just wrote that down.
TWOD was also a social liability. While he was usually pleasant to my friends, he'd pull shit where I would literally want to sink into the ground and disappear, and being that I have no shame, that's a tall order. One time, we were on the subway, and he announced loudly, "I fucking hate Jews. Greedy fucking kikes." Everyone on the crowded train immediately took notice and stared at us resentfully. It does not help that with my Scandinavian features, I look like I'd fit right in at a white supremacy rally. Horrified, I said, "What the fuck are you talking about? Why would you say something like that?" He laughed, and said, "Racism is hilarious." I gaped at him. "No, it's not!" He gestured to everyone around him, and said, "Look, I got everyone's attention." I responded, "Yeah, because they all think you're an anti-semitic Nazi asshole! That's not funny...it's EMBARRASSING. I don't want anyone thinking that I'm with you or, God forbid, agreeing with you." Yet another opportunity to unload his dead weight came, and for some reason I let it pass me by and continued dating him.
All these incidents did subtly change the way I thought about him. I stopped noticing positive things about him, and started paying much more attention to his negative attributes. Pretty soon, everything about him drove me crazy. I hated his spartan apartment. I hated the fact that he drank vodka sodas with a splash of cranberry. I hated his taste in television. I hated the way he moaned girlishly during sex. I hated his cum face. I hated the fact that he slept until four every day, and then took another nap at six, and then made fun of me for my diurnal schedule. I hated his wardrobe (in addition to his Madonna t-shirt, he also had this purple ruffled number that he wore out one time to meet my friend Wmania, and I told him in no uncertain terms that I'm cool with many things, but dating a gay pirate is not one of them). I especially hated his whining. Because of his compulsive need for sex, he would constantly pester me for it. Anyone I've ever dated and/or slept with and/or hung out with can tell you that I have a voracious appetite for fucking, so it's not like I wasn't giving it up. I was putting out several times a day. I LOVE getting laid. However, there's nothing that will kill your libido quicker than having your boyfriend show up in frilly girl clothes and wheedle "Can we PLEEEEEASE make love?" The way he phrased it made me immediately respond with "Ugh! No!" because it was such an unbelievable turnoff. Then he'd bitch to everyone who'd listen that I was a big prude and not the wanton slut I claimed to be, and pout about it. No matter how many times I explained that his method of initiating sex was the problem, he'd accuse me of being a bad girlfriend who didn't attend to his needs. It was all my fault.
Furthermore, I also became aware of the extent of his drug problem at this time. In addition to seeking help from an ear, nose, and throat specialist for his deviated septum, there were vials of cocaine all over his apartment. I'd go to get a fork out of his kitchen drawer and find yet another of his many stashes. He'd call me and say, "Come over and we'll order pizza and watch Romancing the Stone and have a quiet night in," and I'd get there and he'd be coked out of his mind and masturbating furiously, then imperiously demand blowjobs for the rest of the night. I'd usually comply, but he would want these epic, hour-long blowjobs without reciprocation, and I would lose patience with that very quickly. After twenty minutes or so, which is a long time to give head without a break, my mandibular joint would be aching and I'd be like, "Okay, it's my turn now," and he would start whining abusively. "But I want more head! I want MORE! You are such a prude! You are a selfish lover! You NEVER suck my dick." It was so unfair, especially since due to the inordinate amount of blow he was doing, he couldn't fuck me properly to thank me for spending so much time sucking him off and then tolerating his complaints about how a thirty minute BJ is chintzy and prudish. This behavior increased proportionally with the amount of cocaine that entered his nose, and it grew both tiresome and alarming.
Toward the end of our relationship, I invited TWOD to accompany me to the P-N-Dub for my brother's college graduation. I warned him ahead of time that this would entail lots of quality family time and not much sightseeing, so he shouldn't come if he wants to spend the whole time going up in the Space Needle or taking the Seattle Underground Tour. I also warned him that my mother isn't cool with me sleeping in the same room as my boyfriend, because she's very uncomfortable with anything having to do with my sexuality. He gave me a long song and dance about how much he wanted to meet my family, and that this would be fine. Our first night, we went to eat oysters in Seattle, had sex in my parents' car, and had a generally nice time. The second day, we went to my aunt's house for dinner and I thought he was quiet, but well-behaved. Then we went to the Roadhouse with MillerTime and he perked up considerably, in spite of the looks he got for ordering his decidedly feminine signature drink and his vocal outrage that the Roadhouse, an establishment known for its wide selection of pull tabs and its heated smoking porch, didn't stock the bar with Ketel One. The next day was my brother Lil' Tevie's graduation, and all his attempts at conducting himself like an adult went out the window. He spent the entire commencement complaining loudly to my entire family about how long and boring it was (and Lil' Tevie's ceremony lasted an hour and a half...in contrast, my Smith graduation involved bagpipes and long speeches from vagina ashtray-sculpting feminist artists, and lasted FOUR hours). Then at the party for Lil' Tevie at my parents' house, he was rude to all my relatives, told Lil' Tevie that "teaching is stupid" (my brother is a teacher), and decided to take a nap on top of the guests' coat pile. He actually got mad when one of my cousins was about to leave and he had to wake up and move so that she could extract her coat and purse from beneath him. The entire flight back to New York, we were fighting about this.
"That whole trip was boring. I wanted to spend more time in Seattle!"
"I told you it wasn't going to be a sightseeing trip, TWOD. You said that was fine!"
"We didn't do ANYTHING except hang out with your family. I thought I was going to die from boredom."
"You are thirty-one years old. I would think that by this point in your life, that you realize that sometimes you have to do things that you don't want to do. Since you obviously haven't, GROW UP and realize it!"
There were five hours of this on the way back to New York, and I was gearing up to dump him as he stuck me with the $80 cab fare from JFK to each of our apartments, but he escaped before I could deliver the death blow. I think he realized what was coming because for the next week and a half, he acted like a prince. He told me that he was quitting drugs, asked for my support, took me out to dinner several times, and was surprisingly well-behaved. I was suspicious, but thought that maybe he was really going to change, and convinced myself that I'd be a really shitty person if I didn't help this man who claimed to love me when he needed it most. He seemed motivated, and I thought that perhaps he could remind me why I ever liked him in the first place. He said he was going to get a dog, and asked if he could dogsit Chingy! one weekend to give pet ownership a trial run.
The trial was quickly terminated. I had to go pick up Chingy! on that Saturday because the night before, TWOD fed him a Wendy's Frostie, which combines two potent dog poisons: dairy and chocolate. Chingy! was sick and shitting everywhere. I fucked TWOD, collected Chingy!, and walked with TWOD back to the subway. On the way, TWOD picked a fight with me about whatever, and it got progressively heated as we approached the A train station on 14th and 8th Avenue. "Why do you always do this? I thought things were going better for us, and now you pull this? What is your fucking problem?" I asked. "Why don't you go home and settle down and we can discuss this later like adults?"
And then he committed his most unacceptable act of bullshit offensiveness, in one swift, cheap shot. There's one thing I don't discuss on this blog (my membership in what I call "the clinic club"), because it doesn't sit well with me to this day, and I have a lot of complex and unpleasant feelings concerning it. However, he felt that to win this argument, he'd go ahead and break it out. It was the debating equivalent of dropping a nuclear bomb on our argument.
"Why don't YOU go have another abortion and cry about it, you dumb bitch?"
I felt like he'd kicked me in the twat. I was apoplectic with rage to the point where I could not even speak. Not trusting myself not to murder him with my bare hands right there, I gathered up my Chingy! and marched onto the subway. I rode all the way back uptown fuming and fantasizing about smashing him in the face with a pickaxe. I didn't take his calls for the next three days. There was no apology sufficient to rectify this.
Prior to this incident, we had plans for dinner the next week, and I finally decided to pick up the phone when he called that afternoon. He acted like nothing had happened, and wanted to know if I was in the mood for sushi or steak. "We need to have a discussion," I said. "I'll come over and we can talk."
He paused. "Are you going to break up with me?"
"Yes," I said.
"Then don't bother coming over. I don't need to see you if you're just going to dump me."
"Well, at least I can thank you for saving me the trip. Have a nice life."
I hung up and did a fucking jig, I was so happy to be free of his dead weight. In the weeks following, he proceeded to start his own website, which is mercifully no longer polluting the internets. His home page featured a picture of him shoving a dildo up his ass, and the site consisted mainly of transcripts of instant message fights between the two of us, and the ex-girlfriend he briefly reconciled with after I was done with him. There were also a number of incoherent paragraphs about his deep and abiding love for cocaine. If I ever needed validation for my decision to finally sever ties, that website was it.
The entire episode with TWOD taught me one very important lesson: when in doubt, dump that fucktard. I should have dropped his bitch ass the second I first realized that his "ohhhh! OH!" orgasmic squealing irritated me. I should have dropped his bitch ass the first time he ever questioned my intellect, or called me a name, or even showed hints of treating me shabbily. Those are four months I will never get back, when I could have been spending more time with my friends and enjoying myself. I will never make that mistake again, and if any good can come out of the TWOD shitshow, it's that maybe people in similar situations will heed my advice to get out NOW. Life is too short to spend sitting on a dick that doesn't appreciate you, respect you, or understand you. Breaking up is hard to do, but it's SO worth it to remember what it's like living life on your own terms. Don't waste your time with undeserving losers who think they can make up for being a raging asshole with sushi and an insincere "sorry" or two, because once you've taken them back, they'll just reoffend in a way that's logarithmically worse. The TWODs of the world are not remotely worth it, not even a little bit.
There is another reason why I've stayed single, and that is because my ex-boyfriend was so certifiably fucking crazy that I still sometimes have dreams that I'm still dating him and wake up in a cold sweat. I don't know why I went out with him for four entire months. I like to attribute my extremely poor judgment concerning him to his reliance on black magic, santeria, or some other form of fell witchcraft to hoodwink me into not dumping him long before I did. The truth is that he plied me with steak, scotch, and magical dust extracted from the leaves of the coca plant, but I like to delude myself into thinking that it was because he resorted to the black arts.
I should have known he was bad news from the moment we started dating. At first, there was nothing terribly sinister, but in hindsight there were a number of warning signs from whence I should have not walked but RUN away as fast and as far as possible: he wore a Madonna t-shirt, he was proud of the fact that his name (Tod) was spelled with only one D, he liked to randomly make out with his male friends in front of me, he made fun of me for not being as good at math as him, etc. Tod with one D, or TWOD, as he shall be known henceforth, was a terrible fucking boyfriend, and I should have realized this long before I actually took action about it.
Initially, I told him my anti-relationship policy, and he played his hand accordingly. He didn't overcall me, he acted like my presence was a privilege that he genuinely appreciated, made a real effort to amuse and impress my friends, and insisted on paying for everything wherever we went. The next thing I knew, I was relenting on my avowed bachelorettehood, and agreed not to fuck anyone else.
Things started to go awry after about a month. Three main things happened that turned the tide of my opinion, and I should have just cashed in then. First, we were hanging out with his "friend" (actually his drug buddy) at TWOD's apartment, and this dashing fellow stole my debit card out of my purse when I was in the bathroom and charged a bunch of Metrocards to it. I called up TWOD and told him, and he said, "Oh, yeah, I figured he would do something like that. Jimmy steals things. He once stole $300 out of my wallet when I was passed out." I was baffled that TWOD would remain friends with an unrepentant thief, but at the time did not recognize it for what it was: a major malfunction in his ability to make sound judgments. At the time, however, I told him that Jimmy Sticky Fingers better not come anywhere near me again, and left it at that. Strike two occurred about a week later, when we went back to his apartment after a night out, and I wanted to have sex. He wanted to, but said that he couldn't. When I inquired as to why not, he informed me that earlier that day, he was jacking off and ran out of lube. I was like, "You need lube to beat off?" Apparently he needed such copious quantities that not having it was not an option for him, and he was too lazy to walk downstairs to the Duane Reade and buy more, so he used shampoo. His dick turned red and scaly, and looked like it had been scalded in a pot of boiling water. It was gross. I was sympathetic then, but soon realized that this was indicative of his compulsive masturbation problem. He was an electrical engineer and worked from home designing cell phone chips, and spent a lot more of his day beating off than engineering circuitry. I like to rub one off as much as the next sexually healthy human being, but when you exit online meetings with your boss prematurely and without warning to damage your dick by whacking off with detergent, you've got a problem. The third incident was the most egregious of all. He told me he loved me after less than a month. I don't like people who flippantly drop the L-bomb. My ex-boyfriend Benzo, who is the polar opposite of TWOD in almost every way, took six months to say it, and that was because he really did love me and didn't want to go there until he was sure of it. I appreciated and admired his restraint and honesty. TWOD just decided that a month was a good enough time as any to start ending our phone calls with "I love you" (to which I'd respond with something vague, like "right back atcha" or "uh huh, yeah, you too.")
After he started saying "love", he clearly started feeling more comfortable around me, and his true craziness emerged in full force. He started picking fights with me in public places because "it's funny." These weren't playful fights; they were verbally abusive geysers of nasty mean-spiritedness that would erupt from him whenever he felt bored. He would call me fat and/or dumb, and then laugh when I'd respond negatively, which infuriated me more. He also would go on long tirades about what a waste of time a Ph.D is, and suggest that my career was an exercise in futility, which enraged me. Then, every time I would almost dump him, he would start apologizing profusely and CRYING. I'm ashamed to admit that I didn't just tell him to save it for his shrink and walk out then, but I'd always convince myself that it wasn't a very big deal and he really was sorry. Man, I didn't realize how fucked up this relationship actually was unti I just wrote that down.
TWOD was also a social liability. While he was usually pleasant to my friends, he'd pull shit where I would literally want to sink into the ground and disappear, and being that I have no shame, that's a tall order. One time, we were on the subway, and he announced loudly, "I fucking hate Jews. Greedy fucking kikes." Everyone on the crowded train immediately took notice and stared at us resentfully. It does not help that with my Scandinavian features, I look like I'd fit right in at a white supremacy rally. Horrified, I said, "What the fuck are you talking about? Why would you say something like that?" He laughed, and said, "Racism is hilarious." I gaped at him. "No, it's not!" He gestured to everyone around him, and said, "Look, I got everyone's attention." I responded, "Yeah, because they all think you're an anti-semitic Nazi asshole! That's not funny...it's EMBARRASSING. I don't want anyone thinking that I'm with you or, God forbid, agreeing with you." Yet another opportunity to unload his dead weight came, and for some reason I let it pass me by and continued dating him.
All these incidents did subtly change the way I thought about him. I stopped noticing positive things about him, and started paying much more attention to his negative attributes. Pretty soon, everything about him drove me crazy. I hated his spartan apartment. I hated the fact that he drank vodka sodas with a splash of cranberry. I hated his taste in television. I hated the way he moaned girlishly during sex. I hated his cum face. I hated the fact that he slept until four every day, and then took another nap at six, and then made fun of me for my diurnal schedule. I hated his wardrobe (in addition to his Madonna t-shirt, he also had this purple ruffled number that he wore out one time to meet my friend Wmania, and I told him in no uncertain terms that I'm cool with many things, but dating a gay pirate is not one of them). I especially hated his whining. Because of his compulsive need for sex, he would constantly pester me for it. Anyone I've ever dated and/or slept with and/or hung out with can tell you that I have a voracious appetite for fucking, so it's not like I wasn't giving it up. I was putting out several times a day. I LOVE getting laid. However, there's nothing that will kill your libido quicker than having your boyfriend show up in frilly girl clothes and wheedle "Can we PLEEEEEASE make love?" The way he phrased it made me immediately respond with "Ugh! No!" because it was such an unbelievable turnoff. Then he'd bitch to everyone who'd listen that I was a big prude and not the wanton slut I claimed to be, and pout about it. No matter how many times I explained that his method of initiating sex was the problem, he'd accuse me of being a bad girlfriend who didn't attend to his needs. It was all my fault.
Furthermore, I also became aware of the extent of his drug problem at this time. In addition to seeking help from an ear, nose, and throat specialist for his deviated septum, there were vials of cocaine all over his apartment. I'd go to get a fork out of his kitchen drawer and find yet another of his many stashes. He'd call me and say, "Come over and we'll order pizza and watch Romancing the Stone and have a quiet night in," and I'd get there and he'd be coked out of his mind and masturbating furiously, then imperiously demand blowjobs for the rest of the night. I'd usually comply, but he would want these epic, hour-long blowjobs without reciprocation, and I would lose patience with that very quickly. After twenty minutes or so, which is a long time to give head without a break, my mandibular joint would be aching and I'd be like, "Okay, it's my turn now," and he would start whining abusively. "But I want more head! I want MORE! You are such a prude! You are a selfish lover! You NEVER suck my dick." It was so unfair, especially since due to the inordinate amount of blow he was doing, he couldn't fuck me properly to thank me for spending so much time sucking him off and then tolerating his complaints about how a thirty minute BJ is chintzy and prudish. This behavior increased proportionally with the amount of cocaine that entered his nose, and it grew both tiresome and alarming.
Toward the end of our relationship, I invited TWOD to accompany me to the P-N-Dub for my brother's college graduation. I warned him ahead of time that this would entail lots of quality family time and not much sightseeing, so he shouldn't come if he wants to spend the whole time going up in the Space Needle or taking the Seattle Underground Tour. I also warned him that my mother isn't cool with me sleeping in the same room as my boyfriend, because she's very uncomfortable with anything having to do with my sexuality. He gave me a long song and dance about how much he wanted to meet my family, and that this would be fine. Our first night, we went to eat oysters in Seattle, had sex in my parents' car, and had a generally nice time. The second day, we went to my aunt's house for dinner and I thought he was quiet, but well-behaved. Then we went to the Roadhouse with MillerTime and he perked up considerably, in spite of the looks he got for ordering his decidedly feminine signature drink and his vocal outrage that the Roadhouse, an establishment known for its wide selection of pull tabs and its heated smoking porch, didn't stock the bar with Ketel One. The next day was my brother Lil' Tevie's graduation, and all his attempts at conducting himself like an adult went out the window. He spent the entire commencement complaining loudly to my entire family about how long and boring it was (and Lil' Tevie's ceremony lasted an hour and a half...in contrast, my Smith graduation involved bagpipes and long speeches from vagina ashtray-sculpting feminist artists, and lasted FOUR hours). Then at the party for Lil' Tevie at my parents' house, he was rude to all my relatives, told Lil' Tevie that "teaching is stupid" (my brother is a teacher), and decided to take a nap on top of the guests' coat pile. He actually got mad when one of my cousins was about to leave and he had to wake up and move so that she could extract her coat and purse from beneath him. The entire flight back to New York, we were fighting about this.
"That whole trip was boring. I wanted to spend more time in Seattle!"
"I told you it wasn't going to be a sightseeing trip, TWOD. You said that was fine!"
"We didn't do ANYTHING except hang out with your family. I thought I was going to die from boredom."
"You are thirty-one years old. I would think that by this point in your life, that you realize that sometimes you have to do things that you don't want to do. Since you obviously haven't, GROW UP and realize it!"
There were five hours of this on the way back to New York, and I was gearing up to dump him as he stuck me with the $80 cab fare from JFK to each of our apartments, but he escaped before I could deliver the death blow. I think he realized what was coming because for the next week and a half, he acted like a prince. He told me that he was quitting drugs, asked for my support, took me out to dinner several times, and was surprisingly well-behaved. I was suspicious, but thought that maybe he was really going to change, and convinced myself that I'd be a really shitty person if I didn't help this man who claimed to love me when he needed it most. He seemed motivated, and I thought that perhaps he could remind me why I ever liked him in the first place. He said he was going to get a dog, and asked if he could dogsit Chingy! one weekend to give pet ownership a trial run.
The trial was quickly terminated. I had to go pick up Chingy! on that Saturday because the night before, TWOD fed him a Wendy's Frostie, which combines two potent dog poisons: dairy and chocolate. Chingy! was sick and shitting everywhere. I fucked TWOD, collected Chingy!, and walked with TWOD back to the subway. On the way, TWOD picked a fight with me about whatever, and it got progressively heated as we approached the A train station on 14th and 8th Avenue. "Why do you always do this? I thought things were going better for us, and now you pull this? What is your fucking problem?" I asked. "Why don't you go home and settle down and we can discuss this later like adults?"
And then he committed his most unacceptable act of bullshit offensiveness, in one swift, cheap shot. There's one thing I don't discuss on this blog (my membership in what I call "the clinic club"), because it doesn't sit well with me to this day, and I have a lot of complex and unpleasant feelings concerning it. However, he felt that to win this argument, he'd go ahead and break it out. It was the debating equivalent of dropping a nuclear bomb on our argument.
"Why don't YOU go have another abortion and cry about it, you dumb bitch?"
I felt like he'd kicked me in the twat. I was apoplectic with rage to the point where I could not even speak. Not trusting myself not to murder him with my bare hands right there, I gathered up my Chingy! and marched onto the subway. I rode all the way back uptown fuming and fantasizing about smashing him in the face with a pickaxe. I didn't take his calls for the next three days. There was no apology sufficient to rectify this.
Prior to this incident, we had plans for dinner the next week, and I finally decided to pick up the phone when he called that afternoon. He acted like nothing had happened, and wanted to know if I was in the mood for sushi or steak. "We need to have a discussion," I said. "I'll come over and we can talk."
He paused. "Are you going to break up with me?"
"Yes," I said.
"Then don't bother coming over. I don't need to see you if you're just going to dump me."
"Well, at least I can thank you for saving me the trip. Have a nice life."
I hung up and did a fucking jig, I was so happy to be free of his dead weight. In the weeks following, he proceeded to start his own website, which is mercifully no longer polluting the internets. His home page featured a picture of him shoving a dildo up his ass, and the site consisted mainly of transcripts of instant message fights between the two of us, and the ex-girlfriend he briefly reconciled with after I was done with him. There were also a number of incoherent paragraphs about his deep and abiding love for cocaine. If I ever needed validation for my decision to finally sever ties, that website was it.
The entire episode with TWOD taught me one very important lesson: when in doubt, dump that fucktard. I should have dropped his bitch ass the second I first realized that his "ohhhh! OH!" orgasmic squealing irritated me. I should have dropped his bitch ass the first time he ever questioned my intellect, or called me a name, or even showed hints of treating me shabbily. Those are four months I will never get back, when I could have been spending more time with my friends and enjoying myself. I will never make that mistake again, and if any good can come out of the TWOD shitshow, it's that maybe people in similar situations will heed my advice to get out NOW. Life is too short to spend sitting on a dick that doesn't appreciate you, respect you, or understand you. Breaking up is hard to do, but it's SO worth it to remember what it's like living life on your own terms. Don't waste your time with undeserving losers who think they can make up for being a raging asshole with sushi and an insincere "sorry" or two, because once you've taken them back, they'll just reoffend in a way that's logarithmically worse. The TWODs of the world are not remotely worth it, not even a little bit.
Labels: assholes, drugs, oh the horror, perversion, Razzification, real-life rejects, retard rage, scathing indictments
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Anyone up for a little hog-dogging?
There has been a great deal of turmoil in the Cool Jew-Bagel household about the recent Michael Vick dog fighting scandal. LL Cool Jew, like me, is a great lover of Canis familiaris, and was appalled when Atlanta Dirrty Birds quarterback Michael Vick was busted for letting his cousins run a dog fighting pit at one of his houses.
We both have voices we use when speaking for our dogs, and she assumed her Dulcinea voice (Dulcinea, AKA "the D", is her long-haired Chihuahua) when explaining it to me: "Ohmahgawd, Antzi, that Michael Vick is a rellay big asshole. I hate those dog pits, they're RELLAY scaray." I responded with a concurrent-sounding "CHONGAY!" and we continued discussing it in the guise of our dogs.
A couple days ago, I noticed a news story about Redskins running back Clinton Portis and tackle Chris Samuels questioning (and giggling about, in Samuels's case) why dog fighting is even a crime. Portis stated:
BigBagel replied with the following e-mail, which managed to cover all bases concerning dog fighting in the Dirrty and incorporate his standard grousing about the New York Giants:
From: BigBagel (bigbagel@pulitzerprizewinningdirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: RE: that michael vick is RELLAY an asshole
laurel, ms, is in the free state of jones county, so named because they voted to secede from the great state of mississippi during reconstruction because they thought state leaders were too "liberal" or wussy or some combination of the two. ll cool jew regularly writes stories from there. and yes, dog fighting is probably quite prevalent there, along with moonshine, pickled pork butt and incest.
in south mississippi, hog-dogging is much more popular than dog fighting. here it is best described by wikipedia:
"In a typical match the hog is released into a pen with one or more dogs who attempt to subdue it. In more violent versions of the sport, specially trained "catch dogs" try to bring down the hog by biting and dragging. Occasionally the dogs are outfitted with chest armor, but major injuries to both animals are common in any case. Hog dogging as a sport developed from the training of specialist boar-hunting dogs."
HOG-DOGGING?!?! I had no idea that there were these sorts of excuses for illegal gambling in the form of interspecies mortal combat going on, but now that I know they do, I'm hardly surprised that it's a favorite form of entertainment in Southern Miss. Hog-dogging sounds like some kind of difficult to achieve, yet gratifying and extremely lowbrow sexual position. For example, if (insert friend's name here) asked me, "Hey, Razzy, was that guy you took home last night any good in bed?", I'd reply, "Yeah, he was dirty! No boring missionary position there; he hog-dogged my ass all night. While we watched Interracial Hog-Dogging 7."
if i were a betting man, i'd say that a) clinton portis had his ass chewed out by team management for flying off the handle like that and b) he meant everything he said.
of course, this is how monsieur portis likes to appear during press conferences.
http://www.clintonportis.com/characters.html
my personal favorite is "Angel of Southeast Jerome."
he has numerous "characters" that change throughout the season. that has done nothing to improve the redskins record, though, as the giants, even under the stewardship of FAS Manning [RAZZY EDIT: FAS=fetal alcohol syndrome], have done better every year portis has been a hog save last year.
As a woman who spends four months a year obsessing over the NFL season, and the remaining eight months obsessively counting days until the NFL season will start, I am well acquainted with Clinton Portis's schizophrenic press conference antics. My personal favorite Clinton Portis personality is Sheriff Gonna Getcha, although Kid Bro Sweets, Dr. I Don't Know, and Dolla Bill (L to R) also have their debonair charm:
BigBagel is absolutely right about him, and anyone who drafted him for their fantasy team in recent seasons can attest to that. Clearly he's spending too much time at Ricky's shopping for wigs and novelty sunglasses and acting as an apologist for animal cruelty, and not nearly enough time trying to figure how to get the ball into the end zone without sustaining some type of bullshit injury. Or maybe his mind is on hog-dogging more than his multi-million dollar NFL contract.
[RAZZY NOTE: My apologies for continuing to let my friends write most of my blog via e-mails they send to me. Since I've spent the past couple days working my fucking tits off and nobody wants to hear about that, I can't really think about anything to write about besides the funny correspondence my friends send me. My inner monologue currently is a litany of "fuck grad school", "fuck rhinovirus 1A", "fuck mice", "fuck PCR", "fuck cloning", "fuck 293T cells", "fuck lentiviruses", "fuck the flow cytometer", "fuck human intercellular adhesion molecule-1", "fuck dendritic cells", and "fuck I want some alcohol." In fact, the only reason I have time to write anything at all is because I'm spending an hour glued to the flow cytometer (or FACS, as it's colloquially known--"FACS" is to "flow cytometer" what "Band-Aid" is to "adhesive bandage") waiting for my cells to run through it. Although this instrument has the Arthurian-sounding name of "FACSCalibur" it's not remotely as thrilling as pulling a sword from a stone, questing for the Holy Grail, or bringing mad drama because your slutbag of a wife is banging Lancelot. Therefore, I can covertly blog in between acquiring data, but I can't focus all my attention on creating premium useless bullshit. So I'm sure I'll think of something more exciting to discuss in the next couple days, but for now this will have to do.]
We both have voices we use when speaking for our dogs, and she assumed her Dulcinea voice (Dulcinea, AKA "the D", is her long-haired Chihuahua) when explaining it to me: "Ohmahgawd, Antzi, that Michael Vick is a rellay big asshole. I hate those dog pits, they're RELLAY scaray." I responded with a concurrent-sounding "CHONGAY!" and we continued discussing it in the guise of our dogs.
A couple days ago, I noticed a news story about Redskins running back Clinton Portis and tackle Chris Samuels questioning (and giggling about, in Samuels's case) why dog fighting is even a crime. Portis stated:
"I don't know if he was fighting dogs or not," Portis said. "But it's his property; it's his dogs. If that's what he wants to do, do it."I e-mailed the story to them, along with a query about the location of Laurel, MS and whether or not either had witnessed the alleged prevalence of dog fighting there.
Portis said dog fighting is a "prevalent" part of life.
Portis, a native of Laurel, Mississippi, added: "I know a lot of back roads that got a dog fight if you want to go see it. But they're not bothering those people because those people are not big names. I'm sure there's some police got some dogs that are fighting them, some judges got dogs and everything else."
BigBagel replied with the following e-mail, which managed to cover all bases concerning dog fighting in the Dirrty and incorporate his standard grousing about the New York Giants:
From: BigBagel (bigbagel@pulitzerprizewinningdirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: RE: that michael vick is RELLAY an asshole
laurel, ms, is in the free state of jones county, so named because they voted to secede from the great state of mississippi during reconstruction because they thought state leaders were too "liberal" or wussy or some combination of the two. ll cool jew regularly writes stories from there. and yes, dog fighting is probably quite prevalent there, along with moonshine, pickled pork butt and incest.
in south mississippi, hog-dogging is much more popular than dog fighting. here it is best described by wikipedia:
"In a typical match the hog is released into a pen with one or more dogs who attempt to subdue it. In more violent versions of the sport, specially trained "catch dogs" try to bring down the hog by biting and dragging. Occasionally the dogs are outfitted with chest armor, but major injuries to both animals are common in any case. Hog dogging as a sport developed from the training of specialist boar-hunting dogs."
HOG-DOGGING?!?! I had no idea that there were these sorts of excuses for illegal gambling in the form of interspecies mortal combat going on, but now that I know they do, I'm hardly surprised that it's a favorite form of entertainment in Southern Miss. Hog-dogging sounds like some kind of difficult to achieve, yet gratifying and extremely lowbrow sexual position. For example, if (insert friend's name here) asked me, "Hey, Razzy, was that guy you took home last night any good in bed?", I'd reply, "Yeah, he was dirty! No boring missionary position there; he hog-dogged my ass all night. While we watched Interracial Hog-Dogging 7."
if i were a betting man, i'd say that a) clinton portis had his ass chewed out by team management for flying off the handle like that and b) he meant everything he said.
of course, this is how monsieur portis likes to appear during press conferences.
http://www.clintonportis.com/characters.html
my personal favorite is "Angel of Southeast Jerome."
he has numerous "characters" that change throughout the season. that has done nothing to improve the redskins record, though, as the giants, even under the stewardship of FAS Manning [RAZZY EDIT: FAS=fetal alcohol syndrome], have done better every year portis has been a hog save last year.
As a woman who spends four months a year obsessing over the NFL season, and the remaining eight months obsessively counting days until the NFL season will start, I am well acquainted with Clinton Portis's schizophrenic press conference antics. My personal favorite Clinton Portis personality is Sheriff Gonna Getcha, although Kid Bro Sweets, Dr. I Don't Know, and Dolla Bill (L to R) also have their debonair charm:
[RAZZY NOTE: My apologies for continuing to let my friends write most of my blog via e-mails they send to me. Since I've spent the past couple days working my fucking tits off and nobody wants to hear about that, I can't really think about anything to write about besides the funny correspondence my friends send me. My inner monologue currently is a litany of "fuck grad school", "fuck rhinovirus 1A", "fuck mice", "fuck PCR", "fuck cloning", "fuck 293T cells", "fuck lentiviruses", "fuck the flow cytometer", "fuck human intercellular adhesion molecule-1", "fuck dendritic cells", and "fuck I want some alcohol." In fact, the only reason I have time to write anything at all is because I'm spending an hour glued to the flow cytometer (or FACS, as it's colloquially known--"FACS" is to "flow cytometer" what "Band-Aid" is to "adhesive bandage") waiting for my cells to run through it. Although this instrument has the Arthurian-sounding name of "FACSCalibur" it's not remotely as thrilling as pulling a sword from a stone, questing for the Holy Grail, or bringing mad drama because your slutbag of a wife is banging Lancelot. Therefore, I can covertly blog in between acquiring data, but I can't focus all my attention on creating premium useless bullshit. So I'm sure I'll think of something more exciting to discuss in the next couple days, but for now this will have to do.]
Labels: assholes, BigBagel, correspondence, crime and punishment, Dirrty Dirrty, doggity style, NFL football, the D
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
From the Smith College vault: Razzy makes a vegan cry
LL Cool Jew was sending me all kinds of awesome news yesterday, like the fact that my hero Senator John McCain said of racist asshole Mitt Romney's fluctuating position on immigration issues, "maybe his solution will be to get out his small varmint gun and drive those Guatemalans off his lawn." Priceless. Anyway, she also sent me this e-mail:
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: awesome
Another win for the omnivores!! I thought you as a scientist would
especially like this. Face it – vegetables are inferior! Take that
Smith College!
Attached was this article:
My sophomore year at Smith, I was loading up on waffles and bacon in the dining room on one of my favorite Smith dining nights: breakfast for dinner. Smith's unique housing arrangement, like sororities without pledging, included the "perk" of family style dining, something you don't get at other snotty liberal arts colleges. This was definitely more a curse than a blessing, though, because Jordan House, where I lived, was assigned an absolutely horrible cook. He was also extremely sensitive to criticism, and once didn't speak to me for a week when I advised him that I never wanted to see him attempt General Tso's chicken ever again. Breakfast for dinner was one of the few meals he could do right, and as usual, I ate for a week, knowing that the food would not be this good again for some time.
I ended up sitting at my usual table, and there was this first year that one of my housemates had made friends with sitting with us. I barely knew her, but already had decided to dislike her. Immediately upon arrival she'd dyed her hair fuschia, and was really loud (even louder than me, but unlike me, she was not funny or interesting, and thus had nothing by which to redeem her booming voice). Furthermore, her name was Stephanie, but she went by Sassy. Sassy Spray, as a matter of fact. While that name would be good for a porn star or perhaps a hair styling product, on a wide-eyed Smith first year it served just to annoy me for being a stupid name. I found her MySpace, and although it's set to private, it looks like she still lives in Assachusetts all these years after Smith. I bet she still lives in Northampton...LOSER!
Sassy, like many other Smith first years, was super enthusiastic about having just discovered her sense of vocal self-righteousness. Thus, she did a lot of boobmashing with the other LUGs (lesbian until graduation), chalking anti-World Bank and/or Free Mumia statements around campus, and attending panel teach-ins about the women of Afghanistan suffering under Taliban rule, but her favorite cause was veganism. Veganism always manages to work me up into a frenzy of rage because, in addition to being completely contraindicated from a biological standpoint as discussed in the Times article above, vegans are always disagreeable, grouchy assholes. I suspect that they're always so crabby because they're starving all the time. I'd encourage them to eat, but if they wasted away to nothing that's fewer idiots on the planet and everybody wins, so I just fight with them.
Anyway, Sassy was going off about how there was nothing for her to eat on breakfast for dinner night as even the vegetarian options were rife with eggs and dairy, and as I proceeded to tear my way through a pound of bacon, she was glaring at my meal with contempt and disgust. She switched from bitching about only eating corn flakes and soymilk to passive-aggressive anti-meat bullying. Ho didn't know who she was fucking with.
"I just feel so strongly for the animals," she said. "They have thoughts and feelings, and it's just not right to degrade them by manufacturing them and treating them as food. That slice of bacon was a living being at one time. I don't eat anything derived from the abuse of animals. A cheeseburger used to have a face, and I can't eat that in good conscience." Sassy eyed me beadily across the table as her friend, this girl in my year who was also vegan, looked on approvingly.
I popped another piece of bacon in my mouth. "Well, that's all well and good for you," I said. "But I love meat. I'm never going to stop eating meat. Slaughter the fucking cows!"
To my shock, Sassy's eyes began to fill with big crocodile tears. She let out a loud, choked sob and fled the table. Everyone around me was staring at me accusingly, like, "Way to go, Razzy, you asshole, you made her cry." One of my friends started pestering me to go apologize to her. I refused. Why should I apologize for stating my love for meat when she can off about veganism for hours? I find that as equally abhorrent as she found my pro-carnivorous stance. Finally, after the entire table turned against me and demanded that I go at least make sure "she was okay," as though I had scarred the dumb bitch for life, I wandered into the kitchen.
Sassy was bawling like a colicky baby to Sally, the dishwasher/food runner. Sally was a frightening woman, and she cornered me and demanded that I do something about Sassy's emotional distress. I said I was sorry that she took what I said so personally. It wasn't a real or sincere apology, and it shut everyone up who was demanding that I apologize, so I was okay with it. However, the whole incident was one of those Smith College moments of clarity, where you look around with a suddenly new perspective and say, "What the hell kind of crazy shitshow did I choose for college?"
That summer, I attended a family reunion, and wound up telling this story to one of my cousins, who is an avid hunter, card-carrying NRA man, and staunch Republican. He's also funny as hell and only about ten years older than me, so we have a good time deriding the world when we get together. I was telling him this story, knowing that unlike the ladies at Smith, he would praise me for it. He also had some sage wisdom and extremely awesome gifts for me.
"What you need," he advised, taking a swig of his beer. "Is something to keep those morons away. I suggest taxidermy."
"I don't have any taxidermy. You know how my dad is...he doesn't like hunting, so I don't know where I'd get any."
"Hell, I'll take you hunting if you want to go. But if you don't have time I'll just give you a head for your wall."
"What?! You'd part with one of your heads for my wall?"
"Sure, ever since I shot that cougar I haven't had enough wall space, and the old lady won't let me take down any paintings. Want it?"
"Hell yes!"
"Great. I'm telling you, hang it up and it will keep the vegans way in the hell away from you."
I picked up the deer head later that summer. As it turns out, it was the first deer he ever shot (I think he gave it away because it's only a six-pointer, which is pretty pussified as a trophy), and he gave me its pelt along with the head. The pelt has served me well as an accessory to various Halloween costumes I've worn over the years, including as a Viking cape and as a dress when I went as a caveman my first Halloween in NYC, where it nearly fell off and where I ended up making out with KatieScarlett and beating a guy with a stick at Avalon when he tried to grab me by my hair, early man-style. That pelt has seen some crazy times. The head, meanwhile, did its job. Sassy Spray moved out of our house and never bothered me again, and the vegans stayed well away from my animal murder decor. The head and pelt both have places of honor on my wall to this day. Take that, Smith College!
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: awesome
Another win for the omnivores!! I thought you as a scientist would
especially like this. Face it – vegetables are inferior! Take that
Smith College!
Attached was this article:
The New York TimesAs a scientist, I definitely appreciated this article for saying what I've said for a long time: veganism is unnatural. I especially liked the whole "Take that, Smith College!" quip LL Cool Jew threw in at the end. This reminded me of my ongoing battle with the vegans back in my Smith days.
May 21, 2007
Death by Veganism
By Nina Planck.
WHEN Crown Shakur died of starvation, he was 6 weeks old and weighed 3.5 pounds. His vegan parents, who fed him mainly soy milk and apple juice, were convicted in Atlanta recently of murder, involuntary manslaughter and cruelty. This particular calamity -- at least the third such conviction of vegan parents in four years -- may be largely due to ignorance. But it should prompt frank discussion about nutrition. I was once a vegan. But well before I became pregnant, I concluded that a vegan pregnancy was irresponsible. You cannot create and nourish a robust baby merely on foods from plants. Indigenous cuisines offer clues about what humans, naturally omnivorous, need to survive, reproduce and grow: traditional vegetarian diets, as in India, invariably include dairy and eggs for complete protein, essential fats and vitamins. There are no vegan societies for a simple reason: a vegan diet is not adequate in the long run.
Protein deficiency is one danger of a vegan diet for babies. Nutritionists used to speak of proteins as ''first class'' (from meat, fish, eggs and milk) and ''second class'' (from plants), but today this is considered denigrating to vegetarians. The fact remains, though, that humans prefer animal proteins and fats to cereals and tubers, because they contain all the essential amino acids needed for life in the right ratio. This is not true of plant proteins, which are inferior in quantity and quality -- even soy.
A vegan diet may lack vitamin B12, found only in animal foods; usable vitamins A and D, found in meat, fish, eggs and butter; and necessary minerals like calcium and zinc. When babies are deprived of all these nutrients, they will suffer from retarded growth, rickets and nerve damage.
Responsible vegan parents know that breast milk is ideal. It contains many necessary components, including cholesterol (which babies use to make nerve cells) and countless immune and growth factors. When breastfeeding isn't possible, soy milk and fruit juice, even in seemingly sufficient quantities, are not safe substitutes for a quality infant formula.
Yet even a breast-fed baby is at risk. Studies show that vegan breast milk lacks enough docosahexaenoic acid, or DHA, the omega-3 fat found in fatty fish. It is difficult to overstate the importance of DHA, vital as it is for eye and brain development.
A vegan diet is equally dangerous for weaned babies and toddlers, who need plenty of protein and calcium. Too often, vegans turn to soy, which actually inhibits growth and reduces absorption of protein and minerals. That's why health officials in Britain, Canada and other countries express caution about soy for babies. (Not here, though --perhaps because our farm policy is so soy-friendly.)
Historically, diet honored tradition: we ate the foods that our mothers, and their mothers, ate. Now, your neighbor or sibling may be a meat-eater or vegetarian, may ferment his foods or eat them raw. This fragmentation of the American menu reflects admirable diversity and tolerance, but food is more important than fashion. Though it's not politically correct to say so, all diets are not created equal. An adult who was well-nourished in utero and in infancy may choose to get by on a vegan diet, but babies are built from protein, calcium, cholesterol and fish oil. Children fed only plants will not get the precious things they need to live and grow.
My sophomore year at Smith, I was loading up on waffles and bacon in the dining room on one of my favorite Smith dining nights: breakfast for dinner. Smith's unique housing arrangement, like sororities without pledging, included the "perk" of family style dining, something you don't get at other snotty liberal arts colleges. This was definitely more a curse than a blessing, though, because Jordan House, where I lived, was assigned an absolutely horrible cook. He was also extremely sensitive to criticism, and once didn't speak to me for a week when I advised him that I never wanted to see him attempt General Tso's chicken ever again. Breakfast for dinner was one of the few meals he could do right, and as usual, I ate for a week, knowing that the food would not be this good again for some time.
I ended up sitting at my usual table, and there was this first year that one of my housemates had made friends with sitting with us. I barely knew her, but already had decided to dislike her. Immediately upon arrival she'd dyed her hair fuschia, and was really loud (even louder than me, but unlike me, she was not funny or interesting, and thus had nothing by which to redeem her booming voice). Furthermore, her name was Stephanie, but she went by Sassy. Sassy Spray, as a matter of fact. While that name would be good for a porn star or perhaps a hair styling product, on a wide-eyed Smith first year it served just to annoy me for being a stupid name. I found her MySpace, and although it's set to private, it looks like she still lives in Assachusetts all these years after Smith. I bet she still lives in Northampton...LOSER!
Anyway, Sassy was going off about how there was nothing for her to eat on breakfast for dinner night as even the vegetarian options were rife with eggs and dairy, and as I proceeded to tear my way through a pound of bacon, she was glaring at my meal with contempt and disgust. She switched from bitching about only eating corn flakes and soymilk to passive-aggressive anti-meat bullying. Ho didn't know who she was fucking with.
"I just feel so strongly for the animals," she said. "They have thoughts and feelings, and it's just not right to degrade them by manufacturing them and treating them as food. That slice of bacon was a living being at one time. I don't eat anything derived from the abuse of animals. A cheeseburger used to have a face, and I can't eat that in good conscience." Sassy eyed me beadily across the table as her friend, this girl in my year who was also vegan, looked on approvingly.
I popped another piece of bacon in my mouth. "Well, that's all well and good for you," I said. "But I love meat. I'm never going to stop eating meat. Slaughter the fucking cows!"
To my shock, Sassy's eyes began to fill with big crocodile tears. She let out a loud, choked sob and fled the table. Everyone around me was staring at me accusingly, like, "Way to go, Razzy, you asshole, you made her cry." One of my friends started pestering me to go apologize to her. I refused. Why should I apologize for stating my love for meat when she can off about veganism for hours? I find that as equally abhorrent as she found my pro-carnivorous stance. Finally, after the entire table turned against me and demanded that I go at least make sure "she was okay," as though I had scarred the dumb bitch for life, I wandered into the kitchen.
Sassy was bawling like a colicky baby to Sally, the dishwasher/food runner. Sally was a frightening woman, and she cornered me and demanded that I do something about Sassy's emotional distress. I said I was sorry that she took what I said so personally. It wasn't a real or sincere apology, and it shut everyone up who was demanding that I apologize, so I was okay with it. However, the whole incident was one of those Smith College moments of clarity, where you look around with a suddenly new perspective and say, "What the hell kind of crazy shitshow did I choose for college?"
That summer, I attended a family reunion, and wound up telling this story to one of my cousins, who is an avid hunter, card-carrying NRA man, and staunch Republican. He's also funny as hell and only about ten years older than me, so we have a good time deriding the world when we get together. I was telling him this story, knowing that unlike the ladies at Smith, he would praise me for it. He also had some sage wisdom and extremely awesome gifts for me.
"What you need," he advised, taking a swig of his beer. "Is something to keep those morons away. I suggest taxidermy."
"I don't have any taxidermy. You know how my dad is...he doesn't like hunting, so I don't know where I'd get any."
"Hell, I'll take you hunting if you want to go. But if you don't have time I'll just give you a head for your wall."
"What?! You'd part with one of your heads for my wall?"
"Sure, ever since I shot that cougar I haven't had enough wall space, and the old lady won't let me take down any paintings. Want it?"
"Hell yes!"
"Great. I'm telling you, hang it up and it will keep the vegans way in the hell away from you."
I picked up the deer head later that summer. As it turns out, it was the first deer he ever shot (I think he gave it away because it's only a six-pointer, which is pretty pussified as a trophy), and he gave me its pelt along with the head. The pelt has served me well as an accessory to various Halloween costumes I've worn over the years, including as a Viking cape and as a dress when I went as a caveman my first Halloween in NYC, where it nearly fell off and where I ended up making out with KatieScarlett and beating a guy with a stick at Avalon when he tried to grab me by my hair, early man-style. That pelt has seen some crazy times. The head, meanwhile, did its job. Sassy Spray moved out of our house and never bothered me again, and the vegans stayed well away from my animal murder decor. The head and pelt both have places of honor on my wall to this day. Take that, Smith College!
Labels: defiance, Dumb Smith bitches, LL Cool Jew, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sexy delicious animals, Smith College Vault
Magicians should do what they do best and DISAPPEAR
I just saw an ad for "Criss Angel: Mindfreak" and almost tried to beat up my television. I can't stand magicians. Magicians are a bunch of douchebag charlatans who do shit that I have ZERO interest in watching. Criss Angel spends most of his time hovering around like some sort of low-budget demon from a White Zombie video, and occasionally make something disappear. This episode, he's running some dipshit with overfrosted skater hair over with a steamroller, while the dipshit screams bloody murder. If the dipshit were crushed into a puddle of sun-kissed shaggy bangs, Hot Topic pre-edgily cut-and-safety-pinned Ramones shirt, and stray Anarchy patches, I would watch this show and cheer. However, in the nick of time, Criss Angel swoops in like a lugubrious guardian angel from the roof of the Luxor or whatever and perpetrates some Dark Magick goth quackery. Suddenly the dipshit is fine, out from under the steamroller, laughing in amazement, and recommending the experience to everyone. The only way I'd watch this version is if Criss Angel explained his methods for pulling off this illusionist stunt. However, since magicians never reveal their secrets, that's not going to happen, so what the hell is the point of watching it AT ALL?
Apparently some people enjoy seeing unbelievable sights without questioning how exactly they were generated, as evidenced by the number of people who always line up to see David Blaine's bitch ass. He pulls a lot of his magical stunts (AKA stupid physically impressive shit that most people wouldn't bother to do because it's POINTLESS) in New York, and everytime he's around, you want to know where so you can avoid that part of town. There's always thousands of people just itching to see him suspended over Times Square or swimming around in a giant breast implant in front of Lincoln Center. The only "magic" in this man's arsenal is his seemingly inordinate capacity for voluntarily urethral catheterization. However, there are obviously a lot of people who can't get enough of his accessible yet macabre demeanor. Unfortunately for me and my stress level, magician futures are looking up.
Because of the consumer demand for intolerable bullshit, there's actually feuding groups of fans debating about who the greatest, darkest, most mysterious active magician is. I don't know how they can even tell them apart. It's like looking at three subtly different models of douchebag. The styling is a little different, but they're all basically dudes equipped with pencil dicks and trying to overcompensate by creating a vague, enigmatic image with which to hoodwink bitches into fucking them and tourists into coughing up some cold, hard cash.
Criss Angel (AKA "Mindfreak," AKA "The Avril Lavigne of Magicians")
The only dark mystery I see regarding this dude is why he seems to actually want to get his pelvis anywhere near Paris Hilton's. Otherwise, he's just another fucktard in a trucker hat with a nipple ring and black nail polish who needs to cut his damn hair. Man, I hate guys with long hair. Androgyny is not hot unless your name is David Bowie, so grow a pair and trim that mop! Oh, and BT-Dubs, Gwar called, and they want their stage decorations back.
David Blaine
Criss Angel basically bit David Blaine's style and added slightly more eye makeup. David Blaine likes to remind everyone that he's a mysterious "street" magician, so he knows both card tricks and HARD CORE STUFF, like wearing a bunch of nails instead of, say, a nice Pashmina scarf. He also does a lot of hard core stuff like Photoshopping the shit out of his eye color.
David Copperfield
David Copperfield was the OG brooding illusionist. He pioneered the look, and stock in black turtleneck factories skyrocketed. He also perfected the art of arcanely smirking while levitating passports, presumably to intrigue his audience. What is going on being that perplexing and secretive facade??? I don't care.
Some women allegedly find these magician types sexy. I have absolutely no idea why. According to the gossip internets, Cameron Diaz has been caught "canoodling" with Criss Angel all over Las Vegas, and in the picture above you can almost see the Neisseria gonorrhoeae transferring from Paris's vadge over to his nether regions. David Blaine allegedly has boned the likes of Fiona Apple (not necessarily something to brag about; see Cameron Diaz, above), Madonna, and Daryl Hannah. David Copperfield was banging Claudia Schiffer back in his (and her) heyday. I don't know why any self-respecting woman would want to have sex with them just looking at their packaging, but I certainly cannot fathom why they want to actually date or have a relationship with them.
I bet these guys never knock off the chicanery. I bet they squire a lady out on the town and spend the whole night doing annoying magical bullshit, like making silverware disappear at dinner and pulling movie tickets out of their ears. You'll be trying to get to know them, ask what kind of popsicles they like or whatever, and they'll start performing card tricks instead of behaving like a normal human being having an adult conversation. Once I was on MTV's show "Boiling Points," where improv actors try to infuriate hapless participants, who win $100 if they keep their tempers under control. I was the hapless participant, and was on a drink date with this dude (who I would not have fucked just based on his appearance), who would not stop singing. He sang the drink orders, he sang my name, he sang about grad school, and he did his job by thoroughly pissing me off. I didn't win $100 because I finally snapped and told him that if he didn't shut the fuck up, "I'll stick my stiletto heel through your larynx." I predict that the only thing eerie about hanging out with these magicians is the undoubted similarity to what transpired when I was on "Boiling Points" in terms of what would go down. What would not go down is me.
Magicians are losers. Get a real job, you cheating bullshit artists.
Apparently some people enjoy seeing unbelievable sights without questioning how exactly they were generated, as evidenced by the number of people who always line up to see David Blaine's bitch ass. He pulls a lot of his magical stunts (AKA stupid physically impressive shit that most people wouldn't bother to do because it's POINTLESS) in New York, and everytime he's around, you want to know where so you can avoid that part of town. There's always thousands of people just itching to see him suspended over Times Square or swimming around in a giant breast implant in front of Lincoln Center. The only "magic" in this man's arsenal is his seemingly inordinate capacity for voluntarily urethral catheterization. However, there are obviously a lot of people who can't get enough of his accessible yet macabre demeanor. Unfortunately for me and my stress level, magician futures are looking up.
Because of the consumer demand for intolerable bullshit, there's actually feuding groups of fans debating about who the greatest, darkest, most mysterious active magician is. I don't know how they can even tell them apart. It's like looking at three subtly different models of douchebag. The styling is a little different, but they're all basically dudes equipped with pencil dicks and trying to overcompensate by creating a vague, enigmatic image with which to hoodwink bitches into fucking them and tourists into coughing up some cold, hard cash.
Criss Angel (AKA "Mindfreak," AKA "The Avril Lavigne of Magicians")
The only dark mystery I see regarding this dude is why he seems to actually want to get his pelvis anywhere near Paris Hilton's. Otherwise, he's just another fucktard in a trucker hat with a nipple ring and black nail polish who needs to cut his damn hair. Man, I hate guys with long hair. Androgyny is not hot unless your name is David Bowie, so grow a pair and trim that mop! Oh, and BT-Dubs, Gwar called, and they want their stage decorations back.
David Blaine
Criss Angel basically bit David Blaine's style and added slightly more eye makeup. David Blaine likes to remind everyone that he's a mysterious "street" magician, so he knows both card tricks and HARD CORE STUFF, like wearing a bunch of nails instead of, say, a nice Pashmina scarf. He also does a lot of hard core stuff like Photoshopping the shit out of his eye color.
David Copperfield
David Copperfield was the OG brooding illusionist. He pioneered the look, and stock in black turtleneck factories skyrocketed. He also perfected the art of arcanely smirking while levitating passports, presumably to intrigue his audience. What is going on being that perplexing and secretive facade??? I don't care.
Some women allegedly find these magician types sexy. I have absolutely no idea why. According to the gossip internets, Cameron Diaz has been caught "canoodling" with Criss Angel all over Las Vegas, and in the picture above you can almost see the Neisseria gonorrhoeae transferring from Paris's vadge over to his nether regions. David Blaine allegedly has boned the likes of Fiona Apple (not necessarily something to brag about; see Cameron Diaz, above), Madonna, and Daryl Hannah. David Copperfield was banging Claudia Schiffer back in his (and her) heyday. I don't know why any self-respecting woman would want to have sex with them just looking at their packaging, but I certainly cannot fathom why they want to actually date or have a relationship with them.
I bet these guys never knock off the chicanery. I bet they squire a lady out on the town and spend the whole night doing annoying magical bullshit, like making silverware disappear at dinner and pulling movie tickets out of their ears. You'll be trying to get to know them, ask what kind of popsicles they like or whatever, and they'll start performing card tricks instead of behaving like a normal human being having an adult conversation. Once I was on MTV's show "Boiling Points," where improv actors try to infuriate hapless participants, who win $100 if they keep their tempers under control. I was the hapless participant, and was on a drink date with this dude (who I would not have fucked just based on his appearance), who would not stop singing. He sang the drink orders, he sang my name, he sang about grad school, and he did his job by thoroughly pissing me off. I didn't win $100 because I finally snapped and told him that if he didn't shut the fuck up, "I'll stick my stiletto heel through your larynx." I predict that the only thing eerie about hanging out with these magicians is the undoubted similarity to what transpired when I was on "Boiling Points" in terms of what would go down. What would not go down is me.
Magicians are losers. Get a real job, you cheating bullshit artists.
Labels: assholes, Criss Angel, intentional buffoonery, magick is bullshit, overcompensation, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Monday, May 21, 2007
Bard College's finest
J-Sexy went to Bard, and we sometimes when we're bored in lab (ie: I'm killing mice for their tibias and she's setting up yet another real-time PCR shitshow) we'll have a debate over which of our overpriced liberal arts alma maters have graduated more famous alums. I always come right out of the gate with the notable feminists.
"Gloria Steinem and Betty Friedan went to Smith," I said.
"Dumb cows," J-Sexy will respond. "Chevy Chase went to Bard."
"Julia Child, the high priestess of French cuisine, went to Smith."
"Christopher Guest went to Bard. So did Herb Ritts."
"Sylvia Plath went to Smith."
"No wonder that bitch was so depressed. The Beastie Boys went to Bard."
It's pretty hard to beat MCA, Adrock, and Mike D, even when I take points away because they dropped out. This is where I typically start to lose the alumni challenge.
"Margaret Mitchell, who wrote Gone With the Wind, went to Smith. So did Molly Ivins, and so did the bitch who wrote A Wrinkle in Time: Madeline L'Engle."
"JR Ewing from 'Dallas' went to Bard."
"Barbara Bush and Nancy Reagan went to Smith."
"Well, that band you like went to Bard. The one named after the vibrator."
"That's not fair! You didn't even know who Steely Dan was until I told you."
"Well, I don't see any famous songs written about Smith."
At this point the competition usually ends, either in a debate about whether it's good sportsmanship for J-Sexy to drop Steely Dan's name, considering that she would never have heard of them if it weren't for me turning on "My Old School" in lab and saying, "Dude, this song is about Bard. Hear that? They just gave a shout-out to Annandale."
Anyway, J-Sexy continued to one-up me via e-mail yesterday. I received this in my inbox at the crack of dawn:
From: J-Sexy (jsexy@columbia.edu)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: ny1
i hope you watch the news today. one of those cops arrested for
stealing went to college with me briefly. Miguel Castillo dropped
out of school after his 1st year to go join the Marines, and now
he's a crooked cop. Damn!
I immediately went to the internets to see for myself, as NY1 took a minute to get to that story and I grew impatient. Fortunately, the Post's website had pictures of the infamous Miguel Castillo.
The first impression I get looking at this guy is that he's not winning any prizes for being brainy. He looks confused, and he also looks like he's the type where confusion invariably leads to violent outbursts of rage. I can almost hear him saying, those little piggy eyes glistening with unchecked anger, "What are YOU lookin' at, bitch?" He's the type who would beat up a partially disabled old granny on the street with her own walker for purportedly mean-mugging him. Thank God he's not going to be a cop anymore, because he would be the kind of cop who beats you with his nightstick while arresting you just to feel a little more secure with himself. HotLawyer once told me that there's only two kinds of people who become cops: those who bullied kids in grade school, and those who were bullied. I'm betting Miguel here was one of the bullied ones, and you know there would have been all sorts of Amadou Diallo/Sean Bell type of police brutality going on with him if he hadn't fucked up his career in law enforcement.
It seems that after a stint in the Marines, Miguel joined up with New York's finest and met another member of the NYPD with criminal inclinations. They decided to go rob an East Rutherford, New Jersey drug dealer, and the whole plan went to shit. Their dastardly criminal plot first hit a snag when the drug dealer turned out to be at home and they got into some type of altercation with him outside, which caught a neighbor's attention. The neighbor confronted them, and they gave him some ridiculous story about conducting a "terrorism investigation." The neighbor thought they were idiots, and called the East Rutherford PD. Miguel and his co-conspirator took off, but were stopped shortly after by the responding police, who discovered that they couldn't keep their stories straight, and that they had a crowbar, sledge hammer, and assorted other burglary-related items in the car. They are currently being held in the Bergen County clink on $1 million bail, with no ten percent cash option. It's doubtful Miguel or his winner of a friend could cough up 100 large in greenbacks anyway, so it looks like they'll stay there.
I may just pull ahead in the "famous alum" contest, because I can't think of any incompetent robbers/crooked cops who went to Smith. Then again, this guy isn't really an alumnus of Bard, since he dropped out. But if J-Sexy gets to count the Beastie Boys, then I think she has to count former Officer Castillo here too. In any event, crooked cops from Bard College mean bright prospects for the superiority of crusty old feminists and former first ladies in our lab.
"Gloria Steinem and Betty Friedan went to Smith," I said.
"Dumb cows," J-Sexy will respond. "Chevy Chase went to Bard."
"Julia Child, the high priestess of French cuisine, went to Smith."
"Christopher Guest went to Bard. So did Herb Ritts."
"Sylvia Plath went to Smith."
"No wonder that bitch was so depressed. The Beastie Boys went to Bard."
It's pretty hard to beat MCA, Adrock, and Mike D, even when I take points away because they dropped out. This is where I typically start to lose the alumni challenge.
"Margaret Mitchell, who wrote Gone With the Wind, went to Smith. So did Molly Ivins, and so did the bitch who wrote A Wrinkle in Time: Madeline L'Engle."
"JR Ewing from 'Dallas' went to Bard."
"Barbara Bush and Nancy Reagan went to Smith."
"Well, that band you like went to Bard. The one named after the vibrator."
"That's not fair! You didn't even know who Steely Dan was until I told you."
"Well, I don't see any famous songs written about Smith."
At this point the competition usually ends, either in a debate about whether it's good sportsmanship for J-Sexy to drop Steely Dan's name, considering that she would never have heard of them if it weren't for me turning on "My Old School" in lab and saying, "Dude, this song is about Bard. Hear that? They just gave a shout-out to Annandale."
Anyway, J-Sexy continued to one-up me via e-mail yesterday. I received this in my inbox at the crack of dawn:
From: J-Sexy (jsexy@columbia.edu)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: ny1
i hope you watch the news today. one of those cops arrested for
stealing went to college with me briefly. Miguel Castillo dropped
out of school after his 1st year to go join the Marines, and now
he's a crooked cop. Damn!
I immediately went to the internets to see for myself, as NY1 took a minute to get to that story and I grew impatient. Fortunately, the Post's website had pictures of the infamous Miguel Castillo.
It seems that after a stint in the Marines, Miguel joined up with New York's finest and met another member of the NYPD with criminal inclinations. They decided to go rob an East Rutherford, New Jersey drug dealer, and the whole plan went to shit. Their dastardly criminal plot first hit a snag when the drug dealer turned out to be at home and they got into some type of altercation with him outside, which caught a neighbor's attention. The neighbor confronted them, and they gave him some ridiculous story about conducting a "terrorism investigation." The neighbor thought they were idiots, and called the East Rutherford PD. Miguel and his co-conspirator took off, but were stopped shortly after by the responding police, who discovered that they couldn't keep their stories straight, and that they had a crowbar, sledge hammer, and assorted other burglary-related items in the car. They are currently being held in the Bergen County clink on $1 million bail, with no ten percent cash option. It's doubtful Miguel or his winner of a friend could cough up 100 large in greenbacks anyway, so it looks like they'll stay there.
I may just pull ahead in the "famous alum" contest, because I can't think of any incompetent robbers/crooked cops who went to Smith. Then again, this guy isn't really an alumnus of Bard, since he dropped out. But if J-Sexy gets to count the Beastie Boys, then I think she has to count former Officer Castillo here too. In any event, crooked cops from Bard College mean bright prospects for the superiority of crusty old feminists and former first ladies in our lab.
Labels: assholes, crime and punishment, HotLawyer, intentional buffoonery, J-Sexy, overcompensation, retard rage
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Tania Derveaux is my kind of skank
If you think politics here in the states is dirty, you should see what's going on over in Belgium. The candidates for the Belgian senate are full of promises to clean up the government, lower taxes, create jobs, and address whatever the hell else is a hot-button issue in Brussels these days. Apparently, some party called the NEE party got sick of politics as usual, and were disgruntled by some other unnamed parties' false promises about boosting employment within the waffle industry. Thus, they cooked up on a novel stratagem to both express their outrage and court the voters' favor:
Tania Derveaux explains her campaign tactics on the NEE website:
I am the leading NEE party senate candidate in Belgium. And due to popular demand, I will give 40,000 blowjobs to anyone who requests one on this page.
It started with our response to incredible claims that were made by other parties in Belgium, several parties promised new job opportunities in ridiculous amounts. We responded with a parody campaign for which I posed naked and promised our voters 400.000 new jobs.
This national campaign resulted in international media attention and I received hundreds of e-mails asking for 400,000 blowjobs. If this would get us even more media attention, I'm willing to give 40,000 blowjobs to make the statement.
According to my planning this would take me 500 days to tour around the world, visiting all the ones who signed up for a blowjob on this page, giving 80 blowjobs per day. So the offer is limited, sign up while you still can.
Click the button if you would like me to give you a blowjob.
The button, naturally, is emblazoned with the words "Blow me," and is accompanied by some fine print stating that those who are "married or shy" can receive virtual head from Tania in the online simulated world of Second Life.
Tania is my new hero, even if she does commit the egregious crime of dotting her i's with a little circle (at least it's not a heart). She is a media whore in the literal sense, and her courageous commitment to her cause warms my heart and fills me with hope and inspiration. Is there an American version of the NEE party? Seriously, if the regular party politicians were hot chicks who promised oral sex in exchange for votes, I'd have a hard time being a faithful Libertarian. I would have probably even voted for Bush over the fine-ass skydiving pimp of a Libertarian former military software engineer Michael Badnarik if he'd made promises like this. That is dedication! Traveling the world for over a year and a half and sucking off 80 guys a day is some SERIOUS work! Man, her jaw is going to ache like a bitch. She's even willing to risk tonsillar swelling and throat cancer-causing HPV to shake up the Belgian political status quo. I am completely in awe of this woman.
I was checking out the other pictures on NEE's media site, and I realized that although my Flemish is a little rusty and I have no idea what their platform is all about other than taking issue with Belgium's adoption of the Euro as a unit of currency, I'm totally on board with it. Tania Derveaux is the NEE's avenging, deep-throating angel, and I have to say that I'd gladly give my hearty endorsement to their party ideals, at least illustrated by their online media gallery.
To start with, she's going to grow to Brobdingnagian proportions, rip the ceiling off Parliament, and remove those who are polluting it with graft and corruption:
Then it's time to broker peace in the Middle East. I think.
In terms of the scandals (I assume there are scandals) plaguing the Belgian court system, I am down to see justice not only be cured of its reputed blindness, but to be given vision correction in the form of a snappy pair of wire-rimmed frames, and to tip the scales back in favor of the people and not greedy corporate chocolate manufacturers:
And while she's at it, Tania will prevent the bloodthirsty corporate interests from clubbing Jan Q. Flanders to death like a helpless Canadian seal:
Then she'll drop in on the set of Belgium's version of "Sabado Gigante" to pass a scathing note to one of her political opponents, who apparently just got bukkaked something serious:
After that it's time to rescue some dude who drove his compact Citroen hatchback straight off the Antwerp pier and into the dike:
Then it's off to the pitch for a brisk match of one-on-four (or six? Who are those other guys?) coed naked soccer:
Finally, she gets together with her faithful henchmen, two contemptuous, all-black-wearing Eurofags who likely made a living saying "And now is ze time on Sprockets ven ve danze" prior to their political careers, to deliver NEE's powerful message. This is dignified statesmanship at its finest:
Like I said, I don't need to know obscure dialects of Dutch to know that Tania Derveaux is on par with Caesar Augustus, Moses, and Ronald Reagan in terms of galvanizing political leaders. I almost wish I was Belgian, which is saying a lot, considering my American patriotism and pride is matched only by Toby Keith's. I REALLY hope that Tania wins her seat in the senate, because there definitely need to be more politicians willing to suck off their constituents for votes, and because I don't see how you can argue that she stands for anything beyond what is right and true. Besides, it seems that between Tania and her android bodyguards, the NEE party headquarters are what Steve Sanders from Bev Niner would call "a raging babefest," and in his immortal words, "if that's illegal, then I'm public enemy number one." The NEE party is indeed a party I'd like to attend. I have no doubt that they will soon control Belgium, and Belgium will indeed be a better place for it.
[ADDENDUM: If you click the "Blow Me" button, you are directed to the official Tania Derveaux blowjob request page, which is awesome. Tania contractually breaks down exactly what type of no-frills fellatio she plans to perform, reserves the right to deny service due to "hygiene reasons" (smart move), and advises that she will not abide "any attempt to influence the depth of insertion by the user." If you want what sounds like a really uninspired, not particularly pleasurable (but possibly hilarious) 5-minute blowjob, you can leave your e-mail.]
I am the leading NEE party senate candidate in Belgium. And due to popular demand, I will give 40,000 blowjobs to anyone who requests one on this page.
It started with our response to incredible claims that were made by other parties in Belgium, several parties promised new job opportunities in ridiculous amounts. We responded with a parody campaign for which I posed naked and promised our voters 400.000 new jobs.
This national campaign resulted in international media attention and I received hundreds of e-mails asking for 400,000 blowjobs. If this would get us even more media attention, I'm willing to give 40,000 blowjobs to make the statement.
According to my planning this would take me 500 days to tour around the world, visiting all the ones who signed up for a blowjob on this page, giving 80 blowjobs per day. So the offer is limited, sign up while you still can.
Click the button if you would like me to give you a blowjob.
The button, naturally, is emblazoned with the words "Blow me," and is accompanied by some fine print stating that those who are "married or shy" can receive virtual head from Tania in the online simulated world of Second Life.
Tania is my new hero, even if she does commit the egregious crime of dotting her i's with a little circle (at least it's not a heart). She is a media whore in the literal sense, and her courageous commitment to her cause warms my heart and fills me with hope and inspiration. Is there an American version of the NEE party? Seriously, if the regular party politicians were hot chicks who promised oral sex in exchange for votes, I'd have a hard time being a faithful Libertarian. I would have probably even voted for Bush over the fine-ass skydiving pimp of a Libertarian former military software engineer Michael Badnarik if he'd made promises like this. That is dedication! Traveling the world for over a year and a half and sucking off 80 guys a day is some SERIOUS work! Man, her jaw is going to ache like a bitch. She's even willing to risk tonsillar swelling and throat cancer-causing HPV to shake up the Belgian political status quo. I am completely in awe of this woman.
I was checking out the other pictures on NEE's media site, and I realized that although my Flemish is a little rusty and I have no idea what their platform is all about other than taking issue with Belgium's adoption of the Euro as a unit of currency, I'm totally on board with it. Tania Derveaux is the NEE's avenging, deep-throating angel, and I have to say that I'd gladly give my hearty endorsement to their party ideals, at least illustrated by their online media gallery.
To start with, she's going to grow to Brobdingnagian proportions, rip the ceiling off Parliament, and remove those who are polluting it with graft and corruption:
Then it's time to broker peace in the Middle East. I think.
In terms of the scandals (I assume there are scandals) plaguing the Belgian court system, I am down to see justice not only be cured of its reputed blindness, but to be given vision correction in the form of a snappy pair of wire-rimmed frames, and to tip the scales back in favor of the people and not greedy corporate chocolate manufacturers:
And while she's at it, Tania will prevent the bloodthirsty corporate interests from clubbing Jan Q. Flanders to death like a helpless Canadian seal:
Then she'll drop in on the set of Belgium's version of "Sabado Gigante" to pass a scathing note to one of her political opponents, who apparently just got bukkaked something serious:
After that it's time to rescue some dude who drove his compact Citroen hatchback straight off the Antwerp pier and into the dike:
Then it's off to the pitch for a brisk match of one-on-four (or six? Who are those other guys?) coed naked soccer:
Finally, she gets together with her faithful henchmen, two contemptuous, all-black-wearing Eurofags who likely made a living saying "And now is ze time on Sprockets ven ve danze" prior to their political careers, to deliver NEE's powerful message. This is dignified statesmanship at its finest:
Like I said, I don't need to know obscure dialects of Dutch to know that Tania Derveaux is on par with Caesar Augustus, Moses, and Ronald Reagan in terms of galvanizing political leaders. I almost wish I was Belgian, which is saying a lot, considering my American patriotism and pride is matched only by Toby Keith's. I REALLY hope that Tania wins her seat in the senate, because there definitely need to be more politicians willing to suck off their constituents for votes, and because I don't see how you can argue that she stands for anything beyond what is right and true. Besides, it seems that between Tania and her android bodyguards, the NEE party headquarters are what Steve Sanders from Bev Niner would call "a raging babefest," and in his immortal words, "if that's illegal, then I'm public enemy number one." The NEE party is indeed a party I'd like to attend. I have no doubt that they will soon control Belgium, and Belgium will indeed be a better place for it.
[ADDENDUM: If you click the "Blow Me" button, you are directed to the official Tania Derveaux blowjob request page, which is awesome. Tania contractually breaks down exactly what type of no-frills fellatio she plans to perform, reserves the right to deny service due to "hygiene reasons" (smart move), and advises that she will not abide "any attempt to influence the depth of insertion by the user." If you want what sounds like a really uninspired, not particularly pleasurable (but possibly hilarious) 5-minute blowjob, you can leave your e-mail.]
Labels: Bev Niner, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, international intrigue, media whores, perversion, politics, ridiculous absurdity, sex, sluts
A man who will eat it
Ladies everywhere cheered back in 1996 when my sometimes idol Kimberly "Lil' Kim" Jones said with the sagacity befitting the fountain of wisdom that she is, "If you ain't lickin' this, you ain't stickin' this." She went on to say, "And I got witnesses. Ax any nigga I been with...they ain't hit shit til they stuck they tongue in this." I think that one thing the world truly needed was a song exhorting men to consider performing oral on their lady customary, and Lil' Kim delivered by announcing triumphantly, "I don't want dick tonight...eat my pussy right."
In terms of finding a partner who meets this rigid criteria, Lil' Kim need look no further than today's copy of the Post for a man who has no qualms about going downtown on his "lady loves":
Well, hello there, handsome! Has anyone ever told you that you look like the product of a forbidden and ironic late-night tryst between Albert Einstein and Adolf Hitler? I can see why there have been five previous Mrs. Arthur Shawcrosses...that coquettish, seductive pose you're striking from your cell upstate has me logging into meet-an-inmate.com to find your profile as we speak. I cannot fathom how any woman would say no to a roguishly handsome serial murderer like yourself, and not immediately try to fulfill your "smorgasboard of requirements." I'm within the specified 24-100 age range, and I'm smart and employed, if you consider slaving away in the lab seven days a week for no money "employed." Unfortunately I don' have a car, because nobody who lives in NYC has a car, but I could rent one! And I'm blonde and have an Ivy League pedigree, so that should make up for my dubious job status and lack of vehicle. And I'm VERY touchy-feely...not only do I kiss and hug, but twelve years in Catholic school taught me how to give one hell of a bitchin blowjob. I'll even do anal if you get me drunk enough in the right mood. Oh wait...I guess I DON'T want Mr. Right to be a geriatric sociopath with a life sentence. Too bad, because Arthur Shawcross sure is a looker.
I would be stunned that this man actually convinced five women to marry his prostitute-strangling cannibal ass if I didn't believe that there are some women that would feel the way stated in the previous paragraph. Most likely there are a bunch of certifiably crazy women just dying to have a conjugal visit--complete with a side of fava beans and a nice Chianti, no doubt--in a trailer at Sullivan Correctional Facility with this psycho killer. That's probably why this loser can be so particular about not wanting any dumbasses or deadbeats, and generally act like a picky, discerning epicure of marriageable women.
On the other hand, I think Lil' Kim should accept his collect calls from the prison, because she is totally up to his high and exacting standards. She lives in the greater NYC area less than 150 miles from Fallsburg, she has discussed her proud ownership of several types of luxury whip (E-class Benz, Mercedes SLR McLaren, a fleet of gaudily-hued Lamborghinis, a Bentley in which she lays gently, Ferraris, etc.), she is within his demographic age range, and without question she'd be down to get it on in a trailer. Besides, as an ex-con herself, they could bond over their respective incarcerations and swap prison survival tips. She also is smart (as evidenced by her nearly Confucian level of wisdom concerning sexual politics), employed ("Search for the Next Pussyclot Doll" was renewed for another season, so Lil' Kim, Tranny Antin, and that guy from Sugar Ray will stay off the public dole and not have to retain Morrissey'sHair's bankruptcy structuring services for at least another year), and has been rocking a supremely busted carrot-colored weave as of late, so she even meets his phenotypic requirements. A legendary romance is imminent.
In terms of finding a partner who meets this rigid criteria, Lil' Kim need look no further than today's copy of the Post for a man who has no qualms about going downtown on his "lady loves":
I would be stunned that this man actually convinced five women to marry his prostitute-strangling cannibal ass if I didn't believe that there are some women that would feel the way stated in the previous paragraph. Most likely there are a bunch of certifiably crazy women just dying to have a conjugal visit--complete with a side of fava beans and a nice Chianti, no doubt--in a trailer at Sullivan Correctional Facility with this psycho killer. That's probably why this loser can be so particular about not wanting any dumbasses or deadbeats, and generally act like a picky, discerning epicure of marriageable women.
On the other hand, I think Lil' Kim should accept his collect calls from the prison, because she is totally up to his high and exacting standards. She lives in the greater NYC area less than 150 miles from Fallsburg, she has discussed her proud ownership of several types of luxury whip (E-class Benz, Mercedes SLR McLaren, a fleet of gaudily-hued Lamborghinis, a Bentley in which she lays gently, Ferraris, etc.), she is within his demographic age range, and without question she'd be down to get it on in a trailer. Besides, as an ex-con herself, they could bond over their respective incarcerations and swap prison survival tips. She also is smart (as evidenced by her nearly Confucian level of wisdom concerning sexual politics), employed ("Search for the Next Pussyclot Doll" was renewed for another season, so Lil' Kim, Tranny Antin, and that guy from Sugar Ray will stay off the public dole and not have to retain Morrissey'sHair's bankruptcy structuring services for at least another year), and has been rocking a supremely busted carrot-colored weave as of late, so she even meets his phenotypic requirements. A legendary romance is imminent.
Labels: assholes, crazies, crime and punishment, gross, large exclamatory font, Lil' Kim, Morrissey'sHair, oh the horror, overcompensation, ridiculous absurdity
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Grossing up the dog show
LL Cool Jew was at a dog show today. Apparently the highbrow sport of dog exhibition has made it to southern Mississippi, and she was simultaneously covering the story of this regional stop on the road to Westminster, and getting whipped into a state of frenzied excitement. When I spoke to her on the phone, BigBagel grabbed the phone from her to tell me that "she wasn't even anywhere near this animated" the night before when she'd consumed like ten Cosmopolitans as when she got a look at the show dogs. My phone started blowing up with picture mail from her, and while I got a lot of cute pictures of Chihuahuas and English bulldogs, my favorite were these two:
This last picture came with the caption, "BA FAN, CHONGAY!" This is a phrase we developed last fall after consulting some Cantonese vocabulary guides on the internets, which purportedly means "to disgustedly beat, row, or be rampant in defiance of authority." The original intent was to "find a Cantonese rebuke he'll understand," since that fat little motherfucker doesn't listen to a word I say. He is the most arrogant, obstinate, self-important little pugtard on the planet, and not surprisingly, "ba fan, Chingy!" does not get his attention any more than "NO EATING SHIT, CHONGAY!" or "BAD CHINGY! BAD CHINGY! TO STICK YOUR FACE INTO THAT RELUCTANT BITCH'S PUSSY!" or "STOP! NO PIT FIGHTING! NO PIT FIGHTING, CHONGAY!"
I do wish, however, that Chingy! could see these show pugs and notice that they aren't rocking Jabba the Hutt physiques. Maybe then he would be more adherent to his diet. He gets a small amount of Healthy Weight Beneful every day, but I am convinced that he's eating Caesar's food when I'm not looking, because Healthy Weight Beneful is doing jack shit to reduce his staggeringly high body mass index. Perhaps if Chingy! saw the prize show pugs he might feel insecure about his look and change it accordingly. Then again, it's more probable that he would strut contemptuously past their cages and acknowledge them only with a disdainful sneeze.
CHONGAY CHONG, show pugs!
I do wish, however, that Chingy! could see these show pugs and notice that they aren't rocking Jabba the Hutt physiques. Maybe then he would be more adherent to his diet. He gets a small amount of Healthy Weight Beneful every day, but I am convinced that he's eating Caesar's food when I'm not looking, because Healthy Weight Beneful is doing jack shit to reduce his staggeringly high body mass index. Perhaps if Chingy! saw the prize show pugs he might feel insecure about his look and change it accordingly. Then again, it's more probable that he would strut contemptuously past their cages and acknowledge them only with a disdainful sneeze.
CHONGAY CHONG, show pugs!
Labels: BigBagel, CHONGAY CHONG, Dirrty Dirrty, doggity style, gross, LL Cool Jew
Friday, May 18, 2007
The Southern chapter of Razzyphiles makes good
Yesterday, I received several exciting dispatches from the Dirrty Dirrty, and it seems some serious congratulations are in order. BigBagel once again pulls far ahead of everybody in my pack of friends in terms of having the most awesome curriculum vitae in the universe, as now in addition to his Pulitzer and his stunning wife (LL Cool Jew), he has been awarded a prestigious fellowship from the Kaiser Family Foundation. This means he gets a huge salary increase compared to what he was making doing the Jimmy Olsen thing in the post-Katrina apocalypse that is southern Mississippi, as well as a computer which will be more suitable for playing the "one game to rule them all" (LOTR online, of course). This is all to facilitate his going for Pulitzer numero dos by writing articles about his specialty, post-traumatic stress disorder and general craziness among Hurricane Katrina survivors. Even more exciting, he and LL Cool Jew are relocating the Cool Jew-Bagel household to the 'Nolia.
Well, I doubt they'll move into the Magnolia Projects next door to Terius "Juvenile" Grey's cousins who have not stacked sufficient paper to ball outrageous elsewhere, but they are relocating to New Orleans. At least when I go visit, we'll have a considerably doper selection of strip clubs to choose from than in the greater Gulfport, MS area, and we'll be able to eat crawfish and drink hurricanes and shit like that. Furthermore, the chances of running into Angelina Jolie and hitting her in the face for being a pompous fucktard are markedly increased there, as are the chances of being able to stalk (hot as hell) Saints running back Reggie (Get in My) Bush. Also, consider me absolutely fucking tickled that they're living in a city famous for bitches flashing their tits, so I should fit right in. BigBagel better get some of his kinte cloth blankets and the spare futon ready for my imminent trip down there.
Also, LL Cool Jew informed me last night that their fellow Columbia J-school alum, Killer, is in the middle of a bidding war between three different publishing houses who want to buy the rights to his graphic novel retelling of Darwin's Origin of the Species for the 150th anniversary of its original publication. I love it when one of my friends/Razzyphiles gets a book deal, especially one who has earned my respect by being a seasoned whiskey drinker like Killer. And BTW, Killer, if you need a consultant who combines expert knowledge of both evolutionary biology and 19th century British naval expeditions to the far side of the world a la the HMS Beagle, holler at your girl! I can't draw a cormorant to save my life, but I can tell you all sorts of anecdotal tales about Darwin's life as a seafaring naturalist. For starters, he was not accustomed to winding down after a hard day battling the Napoleonic fleet, amputating childrens' arms without anasthesia save a belt of laudanum, and a hearty meal of weevil-infested hardtack by playing Mozart string duets with the captain like in Master and Commander.
Now, given BigBagel and Killer's impressive personal achievements, you might expect them to look something like this:
Those are some random Manhattan Project scientists showing their mastery of the fission reaction. They are some smart, very stoic guys, conducting their work in atomic physics with such sobriety as starting the nuclear arms race warrants. People presume that anyone conducting substantial work recognized by such august institutions as the Kaiser Foundation and major publishers of commemorative works would be as dapper, serious, and obviously brainy as the gentlemen above. Not in BigBagel and Killer's case.
Here's BigBagel, passed out on the altar of the synagogue at his own wedding rehearsal, from the lethal combination of tequila, Jaegermeister, and Jameson's that his "friends" forced down his throat at his bachelor party:
And here's Killer, anally fingering the Dirrty XXXtina blow-up doll (which really looks a LOT like Christina Aguilera) that I gave LL Cool Jew as a bachelorette party gift:
Giants among men, that's what I say. Veritable pillars of society.
The real winner in all of this may be LL Cool Jew, however, as she no longer has to slog her Michael Kors cork wedges through shin-deep hog wallows in Jefferson Davis County, MS to get quotes from gigantic hillbilly politicians or play hardball with Senator Trent Lott at press conferences. Unfortunately, that means that priceless pictures like these will no longer find their way to my inbox:
That's a pity, but I'm sure LL Cool Jew will be considerably happier in an actual city working a 9-to-5 as a PR flunky for nonprofit organizations filled with leftist revolutionaries, which is currently her most promising job opportunity. She's the daughter of a Black Panther kung fu master (seriously) from San Francisco, so that's like going home for her. It's a major step up from covering chemical spills and Jesus pageants in southern Miss.
In any event, a big fat SKOAL to my bitches in the Dirrty! Or as Lo-Key and Ayatollah once stated in their masterpiece of sound "FEMA Check," "keep your head up to all my peeps on the beach in the Ninth Ward!"
Well, I doubt they'll move into the Magnolia Projects next door to Terius "Juvenile" Grey's cousins who have not stacked sufficient paper to ball outrageous elsewhere, but they are relocating to New Orleans. At least when I go visit, we'll have a considerably doper selection of strip clubs to choose from than in the greater Gulfport, MS area, and we'll be able to eat crawfish and drink hurricanes and shit like that. Furthermore, the chances of running into Angelina Jolie and hitting her in the face for being a pompous fucktard are markedly increased there, as are the chances of being able to stalk (hot as hell) Saints running back Reggie (Get in My) Bush. Also, consider me absolutely fucking tickled that they're living in a city famous for bitches flashing their tits, so I should fit right in. BigBagel better get some of his kinte cloth blankets and the spare futon ready for my imminent trip down there.
Also, LL Cool Jew informed me last night that their fellow Columbia J-school alum, Killer, is in the middle of a bidding war between three different publishing houses who want to buy the rights to his graphic novel retelling of Darwin's Origin of the Species for the 150th anniversary of its original publication. I love it when one of my friends/Razzyphiles gets a book deal, especially one who has earned my respect by being a seasoned whiskey drinker like Killer. And BTW, Killer, if you need a consultant who combines expert knowledge of both evolutionary biology and 19th century British naval expeditions to the far side of the world a la the HMS Beagle, holler at your girl! I can't draw a cormorant to save my life, but I can tell you all sorts of anecdotal tales about Darwin's life as a seafaring naturalist. For starters, he was not accustomed to winding down after a hard day battling the Napoleonic fleet, amputating childrens' arms without anasthesia save a belt of laudanum, and a hearty meal of weevil-infested hardtack by playing Mozart string duets with the captain like in Master and Commander.
Now, given BigBagel and Killer's impressive personal achievements, you might expect them to look something like this:
Here's BigBagel, passed out on the altar of the synagogue at his own wedding rehearsal, from the lethal combination of tequila, Jaegermeister, and Jameson's that his "friends" forced down his throat at his bachelor party:
And here's Killer, anally fingering the Dirrty XXXtina blow-up doll (which really looks a LOT like Christina Aguilera) that I gave LL Cool Jew as a bachelorette party gift:
The real winner in all of this may be LL Cool Jew, however, as she no longer has to slog her Michael Kors cork wedges through shin-deep hog wallows in Jefferson Davis County, MS to get quotes from gigantic hillbilly politicians or play hardball with Senator Trent Lott at press conferences. Unfortunately, that means that priceless pictures like these will no longer find their way to my inbox:
"So tell me, Mr. Pitts, how have Jefferson Davis County's new zoning laws affected swine farmers from a 'good old-fashioned country boy logic' standpoint?"
"Senator Lott, would you kindly elaborate on your efforts to ensure that the JEWISH VOTES get counted?"
In any event, a big fat SKOAL to my bitches in the Dirrty! Or as Lo-Key and Ayatollah once stated in their masterpiece of sound "FEMA Check," "keep your head up to all my peeps on the beach in the Ninth Ward!"
Labels: BigBagel, Dirrty Dirrty, I LOVE IT, Juvenile, Killer, LL Cool Jew, Reggie (Get In My) Bush
Thursday, May 17, 2007
A blow for Darwinism
In spite of the fact that he looks pretty hot in his commando outfit and war paint, Prince Harry doesn't get to go to Iraq. Apparently, his constant talking about going to Iraq tipped off some of the insurgent groups, who immediately started making plans to kidnap and behead his ass. Because GOD FORBID that the third-in-line to the throne should actually get killed in the military debacle of the century, the Ministry of Defence won't let him go lead his fleet of Scimitar tanks around Basra.
Now Prince Harry is sad, because he desperately wanted to go to Iraq. Granted, it's not surprising that he'll stay safely back in London, considering the Windsors do jack shit besides take fabulous vacations and fuck hideously ugly people. Fighting in wars has never been their forte, even if they all have military jobs for show...and I don't want to hear "But Prince Andrew flew a helicopter during the Falklands War!" Yeah, and the Falklands War lasted all of three months, hardly anybody died, and it was just another reminder of how the mighty British colonial empire has fallen. As far as wars go, the Falklands War was a pussified cakewalk. There certainly weren't any Argentine suicide bombers or IED-toting insurgents running around. The British monarchy's influence beyond being tabloid fodder and inspiring jokes on "Fawlty Towers" pretty much ended in the 19th century (once we kicked those Redcoat motherfuckers back to their side of the pond for the last time in 1812, of course...U!S!A! U!S!A!). While I applaud Harry for being a member of the royal family determined to do something useful, who the hell is disappointed when they are told they CAN'T go to Iraq? Iraq is the world's biggest shitshow, not just because there's a war there, but because it's a totally unfixable mess. Prince Harry's desire to go is evidence of a deeper problem on the homefront: after centuries of inbreeding with the other nobility of Europe, the Windsors do not represent the best and the brightest. In short, he's stupid.
In case you want to argue that Prince Harry's desire to go to Iraq was out of a sense of duty to his country and his fancy military school and not plain stupidity, I have evidence to the contrary. A while back, he decided to go to a costume party wearing a different kind of soldier outfit. Harry was surprised when this army getup caused him some PR problems:
He's a dumbass. Let him go get exploded along with all the other average grunts who don't have a choice in the matter, at the very least to remove his moron genes from the human pool and stop them from influencing the long-term fitness of our species. If he doesn't get to go, he's just going to spend his time clubbing in London with his drunken fucktard of an older brother, which will ultimately lead in them knocking up some vapid socialite who probably shares some familial derivation from the houses of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha and/or Hanover. Then we ALL lose by having another idiotic British royal running around acting like an entitled asshole and contributing nothing to society. If he wants to go die so badly, I say that Her Majesty's Royal Army should let him.
In case you want to argue that Prince Harry's desire to go to Iraq was out of a sense of duty to his country and his fancy military school and not plain stupidity, I have evidence to the contrary. A while back, he decided to go to a costume party wearing a different kind of soldier outfit. Harry was surprised when this army getup caused him some PR problems:
Labels: assholes, international intrigue, media whores, retard rage
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Amen!
My e-mail blew up today with my friends sending me the quote of the fucking year. As LL Cool Jew simply explained, "Truer words have never been spoken." Indeed not. Of course, the person who said these words is none other than my boyfriend and true love, Chicago's own R&B thug, Mr. Robert Sylvester Kelly:
When asked whether he's concerned that his competition might defeat him for the title of "the R-uh in R&B" and/or "the king of R&B", he confidently replied:
At first I thought this thing was some type of sex toy (and immediately considered buying it), but then realized that it's not anatomically correct in the sense that it just has that generic lump in the crotch instead of a weiner. However, I think every girl who ever played Barbies can attest that proportionally, Kells's package is considerably more sizable than Ken's.
All the gossip sites are acting all bitchy about Robert Sylvester's statement, suggesting that he won't be quite so cocky on trial, but that's because they're all run by gay men and old women. They've never heard Kells sing "The World's Greatest," a song that basically says the same thing, except with more natural metaphors ("I'm that star up in the sky", "I'm a swift wind movin' over the country", "I am a tall tree", "I am a mountain", etc.) If they had given that a listen, they'd know that it is right up there with "the sky is blue" and "grass is green" in the pantheon of undisputably true facts. R. Kelly rules so hard.
I am having a REALLY bad day (I managed to annoy a bevy of people in my personal life--especially my mother who is still pissed about me flashing my tits at the Crab Feed--and am now trying to do damage control, not one but two experiments failed in lab, I'm swamped with work and thus cannot drink my problems away, I'm concerned that Natasha won't win "America's Next Top Model" tonight, my apartment looks like a frat party happened here and is so dirty that even I am disgusted, my season two "Beverly Hills, 90210" DVD delivery is late, Chingy! has diarrhea, and I got my period) so this is exactly what I needed to hear to put the wind back in my sails.
Oooh, Kelly, you make me holla! Keep on jumpin' like an Impala!
(UPDATE: My "Beverly Hills, 90210" DVD just mercifully arrived. Thank Christ! I mean, thank R. Kelly!)
"My greatest competition is, well, me . . . I'm the Ali of today. I'm the Marvin Gaye of today. I'm the Bob Marley of today. I'm the Martin Luther King, or all the other greats that have come before us. And a lot of people are starting to realize that now."You hear that, Jamie Foxx? Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up with your arrogant prattle about your superior singing skills, before R-dot reminds you who really is the king of R&B. Only a truly regal figure like Kells can rock a royal all-purple ensemble--complete with gun holster suspenders--with a blinged-up tongue-sticking-out belt buckle right over his--wait, what in the name of God is going on with those pants?! It's like the bastard child of the Pit of Sarlacc and the Purple Pieman. Anyway, you know Martin Luther King would be doing the same if his ass hadn't gotten shot before being iced out came into style. I realized this long ago. Besides, I don't think anyone can dispute this statement, given that Robert Sylvester has inspired a LIFE-SIZE KEN DOLL of himself.
All the gossip sites are acting all bitchy about Robert Sylvester's statement, suggesting that he won't be quite so cocky on trial, but that's because they're all run by gay men and old women. They've never heard Kells sing "The World's Greatest," a song that basically says the same thing, except with more natural metaphors ("I'm that star up in the sky", "I'm a swift wind movin' over the country", "I am a tall tree", "I am a mountain", etc.) If they had given that a listen, they'd know that it is right up there with "the sky is blue" and "grass is green" in the pantheon of undisputably true facts. R. Kelly rules so hard.
I am having a REALLY bad day (I managed to annoy a bevy of people in my personal life--especially my mother who is still pissed about me flashing my tits at the Crab Feed--and am now trying to do damage control, not one but two experiments failed in lab, I'm swamped with work and thus cannot drink my problems away, I'm concerned that Natasha won't win "America's Next Top Model" tonight, my apartment looks like a frat party happened here and is so dirty that even I am disgusted, my season two "Beverly Hills, 90210" DVD delivery is late, Chingy! has diarrhea, and I got my period) so this is exactly what I needed to hear to put the wind back in my sails.
Oooh, Kelly, you make me holla! Keep on jumpin' like an Impala!
(UPDATE: My "Beverly Hills, 90210" DVD just mercifully arrived. Thank Christ! I mean, thank R. Kelly!)
Labels: Bev Niner, boyfriends, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, LL Cool Jew, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly, vanity
Lord of the Douche
The other morning, J-Sexy and I were drinking coffee in our break room with a couple postdocs from other labs on the floor. We were talking about horrible Christmas music, and that brought up The Pogues. This inspired both postdocs, one of whom is Welsh and the other Scottish, to start brutally ripping on Irish music.
"I hate Irish music, it's bloody appalling," offered Welsh Postdoc.
"Bullshit," I said. "You're always talking about how great U2 is, and they SUCK." Welsh Postdoc told me a while back that he spent $400 getting tickets to see U2. I'm sure that at least $2 of that astronomical ticket price went towards debt relief in Africa.
Welsh Postdoc could see that I was about to start on one of my typical tirades about Bono, so he headed me off at the pass. "Not all music by Irish bands...I'm talking about traditional Irish music. Anything traditional Irish is horrible. Folk music or worse, punk folk music like The Pogues. Anything that inspires jigging. The food is awful. Don't talk to me about 'the mysteries of Ireland,' it's bollocks."
"Don't forget Riverdance," suggested Scottish Postdoc. "Do you like Riverdance?" he asked J-Sexy and myself.
"Do I look like I watch Riverdance?" I responded.
"Riverdance? Is that the show with the gay little tapdancing man?" asked J-Sexy. If it doesn't concern dystopian novels, dancehall reggae, or "America's Next Top Model," she can't be bothered.
"Michael Flatley," said Scottish Postdoc. "Ever been to his website?"
"No!" we said in unison.
"Oh, God!" said Welsh Postdoc. "You have to go on there and see the photo galleries! Go look at him on the beach--he's flexing his pitiful little muscles for the camera in one of those Speedos--or his pictures with Stephen Hawking. Stephen Hawking looks like he'd rather be anywhere else."
"GET. AWAY. FROM. ME. YOU. FUCKING. FREAK." said Scottish Postdoc, miming typing and speaking in a computer-y voice reminiscent of Stephen Hawking's speech generating machine.
"Or his St. Patrick's Day card," Welsh Postdoc continued. "He's such a smarmy little bastard, in the pub with his pint of Guinness and his waistcoat, the wanker. Bloody mysteries of Ireland."
After a little more chatting about Michael Flatley, which included Welsh Postdoc doing a stunning impression of his signature "Celtic Tiger" moves, J-Sexy and I went back to lab and immediately looked up michaelflatley.com. The UK postdocs were absolutely right. I cannot fathom why anyone pays the ungodly prices to see Michael Flatley jigging around. I had seen enough promo shots and clips of "Lord of the Dance" and "Riverdance" to know that Michael Flatley is a tool whose only ability to entertain me lies in unintentional comedy, but I had no idea that Michael Flatley was such an exceptionally absurd piece of work. I've come to several conclusions, which I think are illustrated nicely by the following photographs:
1. Michael Flatley has a small penis.
It's not too difficult to prove this thesis, since that Speedo leaves nothing to the imagination. However, even if he favored baggier swim trunks, any man who, in all seriousness, strikes this "Welcome to the Gun Show" bodybuilder pose is basically announcing to the world that he's lacking in the manhood department. And homebody has some feminine legs. It could just be the pose, but he looks like he's about to squeal "Boop boob be doop" and blow a kiss at the camera with that coquettish, ass pushing-out stance.
2. Michael Flatley is an intellectual poseur knows nothing about quantum physics or black holes.
I know that Stephen Hawking always looks pretty rough given his Lou Gehrig's disease or whatever, but here he looks like he's pleading with his ailment to take him now and end this acute misery. He seems as though he wishes that there were a button on his tricked-out chair that would release a giant Acme-brand boxing glove on a spring just for occasions like these, when he runs into Michael Flatley, gets suckered into a bullshit photo op, and can't do any face-punching himself. I refuse to believe that brilliant physicists with congenital neurological diseases whose academic reputations are built on stunning insights into the nature of creation and the universe spend their spare time watching bullshit like "Riverdance."
3. Michael Flatley is pursuing a workout strategy that will only lead him further down the path to totally busted.
I guess that Michael Flatley is not familiar with what happened to Mickey Rourke when he decided to try pugilism in his spare time. 9 1/2 Weeks Mickey Rourke was one of the hottest pieces of ass on the planet in his day. He was like a cross beween Russell Crowe and James Dean, and he was fine as hell:
Mickey Rourke did not need to take up boxing to prove that he was a badass, as the chain smoking, criminal record, actually banging his co-stars during filming of sex scenes for Wild Orchid, and general fuck-it-who-cares attitude was sufficient. Now, after a failed career as a professional fighter and some cheek implants and lip Restalyn to fill out his beaten-on face, he looks like this:
Mickey Rourke actually had plenty of hotness to work with before he destroyed his face, so I can't imagine what kind of roadkill Michael Flatley's going to look like after going a few rounds with the blokes at the gym.
4. Michael Flatley is a disgrace to drunk Irishmen everywhere.
That bitch isn't even drinking his Guinness. Since it's his fucking national holiday, he should know that to really celebrate it, one needs to get staggeringly, pissing in public places, vomiting on the bar, completely fucking shitfaced drunk. And look at his signature! How does that even remotely resemble "Michael Flatley"? It looks like a kindergartner's drawing of a pirate ship. Happy Saint Who Reputedly Drove the Snakes From Ireland Day, yourself, dumbass. Erin go bragh, fucktard.
5. Michael Flatley is unfamiliar with the natural range of predatory big cats.
Thanks to St. Patty, there may not be any snakes in Ireland, but you don't have to be the fucking Croc Hunter to know that there aren't any tigers there, either. Okay, so the Celtic Tiger is actually a symbol of Ireland's transition from a primitive backwater to the modern nation-state it is today, but come ON. This production looks like some kind of bizarre, crack-induced hallucination that combines key elements from Newsies, Armageddon, and The Untouchables. And unless he's included Sean Connery delivering awesome lines like "Just like a Wop...bringing a knife to a gunfight," I am not intrigued. Whatever is going on here, I'm having a hard time believing that it's an accurate parallel to the rise in wealth and disposable income for the average Irishman in the late 1990s.
6. Michael Flatley's dancing looks really fucking stupid.
I'm only a quarter Irish in terms of heritage and I'm embarrassed that this motherfucker is trying to teach Celtic history doing this kind of bullshit in this shirtless black-on-brown leather suspender ensemble. If Kevin Federline dressed up as a leprechaun and popped and locked for two hours it would be a closer approximation of Ireland's economic and nationalist rise to the world stage. Lord of the Dance, my ass.
Seriously, if I want to know about Ireland, I'll watch a movie like Darby O'Gill and the Little People (which traumatized me as a child...that banshee was really scary) or this cinematic masterpiece:
Yes, Leprechaun: Back 2 Tha Hood is the sixth film in the seminal Leprechaun series, and I'm somewhat abashed to admit that I've seen it, along with its predecessors, Leprechaun, Leprechaun 2, Leprechaun 3, Leprechaun In Space, and Leprechaun In Da Hood. Sticky Fingaz gives a very disappointing performance, and frankly, the Leprechaun delivering bad puns (even with a decidedly hip-hop flair) before he disembowels people he thinks have stolen his gold is getting awfully tired, but in terms of quality material and performance, it looks like Gangs of New York in comparison to "Celtic Tiger." If I want to experience the fighting spirit of Ireland's people, I'll turn on the fucking SciFi channel, which seems to have the Leprechaun films on heavy rotation.
I'll most certainly NOT purchase tickets to see Michael Flatley performing ridiculous, exaggerated steps in front of a giant flaming tiger. I've never liked dance anyway. I hate the act of actual dancing, and my last trip to the ballet was the Nutcracker when I was six, where I threw a temper tantrum out of boredom and then fell asleep before the second act. I'd rather shove an ice pick up my vagina than see the self-proclaimed "Lord of the Dance" teach me history via jigging. Fuck Michael Flatley!
"I hate Irish music, it's bloody appalling," offered Welsh Postdoc.
"Bullshit," I said. "You're always talking about how great U2 is, and they SUCK." Welsh Postdoc told me a while back that he spent $400 getting tickets to see U2. I'm sure that at least $2 of that astronomical ticket price went towards debt relief in Africa.
Welsh Postdoc could see that I was about to start on one of my typical tirades about Bono, so he headed me off at the pass. "Not all music by Irish bands...I'm talking about traditional Irish music. Anything traditional Irish is horrible. Folk music or worse, punk folk music like The Pogues. Anything that inspires jigging. The food is awful. Don't talk to me about 'the mysteries of Ireland,' it's bollocks."
"Don't forget Riverdance," suggested Scottish Postdoc. "Do you like Riverdance?" he asked J-Sexy and myself.
"Do I look like I watch Riverdance?" I responded.
"Riverdance? Is that the show with the gay little tapdancing man?" asked J-Sexy. If it doesn't concern dystopian novels, dancehall reggae, or "America's Next Top Model," she can't be bothered.
"Michael Flatley," said Scottish Postdoc. "Ever been to his website?"
"No!" we said in unison.
"Oh, God!" said Welsh Postdoc. "You have to go on there and see the photo galleries! Go look at him on the beach--he's flexing his pitiful little muscles for the camera in one of those Speedos--or his pictures with Stephen Hawking. Stephen Hawking looks like he'd rather be anywhere else."
"GET. AWAY. FROM. ME. YOU. FUCKING. FREAK." said Scottish Postdoc, miming typing and speaking in a computer-y voice reminiscent of Stephen Hawking's speech generating machine.
"Or his St. Patrick's Day card," Welsh Postdoc continued. "He's such a smarmy little bastard, in the pub with his pint of Guinness and his waistcoat, the wanker. Bloody mysteries of Ireland."
After a little more chatting about Michael Flatley, which included Welsh Postdoc doing a stunning impression of his signature "Celtic Tiger" moves, J-Sexy and I went back to lab and immediately looked up michaelflatley.com. The UK postdocs were absolutely right. I cannot fathom why anyone pays the ungodly prices to see Michael Flatley jigging around. I had seen enough promo shots and clips of "Lord of the Dance" and "Riverdance" to know that Michael Flatley is a tool whose only ability to entertain me lies in unintentional comedy, but I had no idea that Michael Flatley was such an exceptionally absurd piece of work. I've come to several conclusions, which I think are illustrated nicely by the following photographs:
1. Michael Flatley has a small penis.
It's not too difficult to prove this thesis, since that Speedo leaves nothing to the imagination. However, even if he favored baggier swim trunks, any man who, in all seriousness, strikes this "Welcome to the Gun Show" bodybuilder pose is basically announcing to the world that he's lacking in the manhood department. And homebody has some feminine legs. It could just be the pose, but he looks like he's about to squeal "Boop boob be doop" and blow a kiss at the camera with that coquettish, ass pushing-out stance.
2. Michael Flatley is an intellectual poseur knows nothing about quantum physics or black holes.
I know that Stephen Hawking always looks pretty rough given his Lou Gehrig's disease or whatever, but here he looks like he's pleading with his ailment to take him now and end this acute misery. He seems as though he wishes that there were a button on his tricked-out chair that would release a giant Acme-brand boxing glove on a spring just for occasions like these, when he runs into Michael Flatley, gets suckered into a bullshit photo op, and can't do any face-punching himself. I refuse to believe that brilliant physicists with congenital neurological diseases whose academic reputations are built on stunning insights into the nature of creation and the universe spend their spare time watching bullshit like "Riverdance."
3. Michael Flatley is pursuing a workout strategy that will only lead him further down the path to totally busted.
I guess that Michael Flatley is not familiar with what happened to Mickey Rourke when he decided to try pugilism in his spare time. 9 1/2 Weeks Mickey Rourke was one of the hottest pieces of ass on the planet in his day. He was like a cross beween Russell Crowe and James Dean, and he was fine as hell:
Mickey Rourke did not need to take up boxing to prove that he was a badass, as the chain smoking, criminal record, actually banging his co-stars during filming of sex scenes for Wild Orchid, and general fuck-it-who-cares attitude was sufficient. Now, after a failed career as a professional fighter and some cheek implants and lip Restalyn to fill out his beaten-on face, he looks like this:
Mickey Rourke actually had plenty of hotness to work with before he destroyed his face, so I can't imagine what kind of roadkill Michael Flatley's going to look like after going a few rounds with the blokes at the gym.
4. Michael Flatley is a disgrace to drunk Irishmen everywhere.
That bitch isn't even drinking his Guinness. Since it's his fucking national holiday, he should know that to really celebrate it, one needs to get staggeringly, pissing in public places, vomiting on the bar, completely fucking shitfaced drunk. And look at his signature! How does that even remotely resemble "Michael Flatley"? It looks like a kindergartner's drawing of a pirate ship. Happy Saint Who Reputedly Drove the Snakes From Ireland Day, yourself, dumbass. Erin go bragh, fucktard.
5. Michael Flatley is unfamiliar with the natural range of predatory big cats.
Thanks to St. Patty, there may not be any snakes in Ireland, but you don't have to be the fucking Croc Hunter to know that there aren't any tigers there, either. Okay, so the Celtic Tiger is actually a symbol of Ireland's transition from a primitive backwater to the modern nation-state it is today, but come ON. This production looks like some kind of bizarre, crack-induced hallucination that combines key elements from Newsies, Armageddon, and The Untouchables. And unless he's included Sean Connery delivering awesome lines like "Just like a Wop...bringing a knife to a gunfight," I am not intrigued. Whatever is going on here, I'm having a hard time believing that it's an accurate parallel to the rise in wealth and disposable income for the average Irishman in the late 1990s.
6. Michael Flatley's dancing looks really fucking stupid.
I'm only a quarter Irish in terms of heritage and I'm embarrassed that this motherfucker is trying to teach Celtic history doing this kind of bullshit in this shirtless black-on-brown leather suspender ensemble. If Kevin Federline dressed up as a leprechaun and popped and locked for two hours it would be a closer approximation of Ireland's economic and nationalist rise to the world stage. Lord of the Dance, my ass.
Seriously, if I want to know about Ireland, I'll watch a movie like Darby O'Gill and the Little People (which traumatized me as a child...that banshee was really scary) or this cinematic masterpiece:
Yes, Leprechaun: Back 2 Tha Hood is the sixth film in the seminal Leprechaun series, and I'm somewhat abashed to admit that I've seen it, along with its predecessors, Leprechaun, Leprechaun 2, Leprechaun 3, Leprechaun In Space, and Leprechaun In Da Hood. Sticky Fingaz gives a very disappointing performance, and frankly, the Leprechaun delivering bad puns (even with a decidedly hip-hop flair) before he disembowels people he thinks have stolen his gold is getting awfully tired, but in terms of quality material and performance, it looks like Gangs of New York in comparison to "Celtic Tiger." If I want to experience the fighting spirit of Ireland's people, I'll turn on the fucking SciFi channel, which seems to have the Leprechaun films on heavy rotation.
I'll most certainly NOT purchase tickets to see Michael Flatley performing ridiculous, exaggerated steps in front of a giant flaming tiger. I've never liked dance anyway. I hate the act of actual dancing, and my last trip to the ballet was the Nutcracker when I was six, where I threw a temper tantrum out of boredom and then fell asleep before the second act. I'd rather shove an ice pick up my vagina than see the self-proclaimed "Lord of the Dance" teach me history via jigging. Fuck Michael Flatley!
Labels: assholes, I hate dancing, international intrigue, media whores, oh the horror, ranting, retard rage, ridiculous absurdity, scathing indictments, small penises, you're ugly
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
The deadliest obsession
It's been at least a week since I've discussed the devastatingly sexy hunk of hotness that is Skipper Sigurd Hansen of the F/V Northwestern. Obviously, that had to be rectified immediately, to celebrate the super exciting shit going down on "Deadliest Catch" this evening.
As narrator Mike Rowe notes, "the only thing more dangerous than fishing for King crab on the Bering Sea in November is fishing for Opilio crab in January," and Opie season kicks off tonight! Hell YES!!!
In case for some unknown reason, you are not pathologically obsessed with "Deadliest Catch" yet, then you need to watch the opening credits. J-Sexy was going off today about how she did not think it possible to get excited about crab fishing, no matter how much florid language Mike Rowe uses to describe "this modern day gold rush." I dare you to not get excited about the seafaring adventure to be had while skirting the Arctic ice pack halfway to fucking Siberia once you see the badass skippers (especially Sig) juxtaposed with images of crashing 40-foot waves and the sounds of Bon Jovi's "Wanted Dead or Alive."
As I said before, HELL YES!
And since I spend so much time talking about "Psycho Sig...on the loose again," MillerTime's preferences are being ignored and she feels left out. So here's her imaginary boyfriend, Captain Phil Harris of the F/V Cornelia Marie.
Just kidding...MillerTime likes hot Vikings too. This is her boyfriend, Sig's younger brother Edgar. Last night she was talking to me about Edgar on the phone and expressed her suspicions that, based on his exuberant personality, he might just be a cokehead. After all, how does he manage to grind out the crab for so many hours on end and have such seemingly boundless energy reserves? While I agree, I'd have to argue that he's actually into meth. He is from the P-N-Dub, after all, and we have almost as much meth as coffee, salmon, and Windows software.
I don't know why Edgar seems so happy, because that is not "clean crab." Look at all the barnacles on those motherfuckers! Probably he thinks it's great because he's high.
Anyway, WATCH "DEADLIEST CATCH"! Tonight at nine on the Discovery Channel! You will not regret it.
In case for some unknown reason, you are not pathologically obsessed with "Deadliest Catch" yet, then you need to watch the opening credits. J-Sexy was going off today about how she did not think it possible to get excited about crab fishing, no matter how much florid language Mike Rowe uses to describe "this modern day gold rush." I dare you to not get excited about the seafaring adventure to be had while skirting the Arctic ice pack halfway to fucking Siberia once you see the badass skippers (especially Sig) juxtaposed with images of crashing 40-foot waves and the sounds of Bon Jovi's "Wanted Dead or Alive."
As I said before, HELL YES!
And since I spend so much time talking about "Psycho Sig...on the loose again," MillerTime's preferences are being ignored and she feels left out. So here's her imaginary boyfriend, Captain Phil Harris of the F/V Cornelia Marie.
Just kidding...MillerTime likes hot Vikings too. This is her boyfriend, Sig's younger brother Edgar. Last night she was talking to me about Edgar on the phone and expressed her suspicions that, based on his exuberant personality, he might just be a cokehead. After all, how does he manage to grind out the crab for so many hours on end and have such seemingly boundless energy reserves? While I agree, I'd have to argue that he's actually into meth. He is from the P-N-Dub, after all, and we have almost as much meth as coffee, salmon, and Windows software.
I don't know why Edgar seems so happy, because that is not "clean crab." Look at all the barnacles on those motherfuckers! Probably he thinks it's great because he's high.
Anyway, WATCH "DEADLIEST CATCH"! Tonight at nine on the Discovery Channel! You will not regret it.
Labels: Deadliest Catch, drugs, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, J-Sexy, MillerTime, P-N-Dub, TV
Good riddance, you fat fucking asshole
I am not the least bit sad to see that the man upstairs has finally had enough and called home one of his most vocal Gospel-spreaders, presumably to shut him the fuck up. Yes, there is a great weeping and gnashing of teeth coming from my Aunt Jesus's house as she is probably busy rending her garments, donning sackcloth, and self-flagellating to grieve the death of the Reverend Jerry Falwell.
Here's the good minister during happier times, writing what is doubtless a message of Christian love and compassion to the goddamnedinnocent Iraqi civilians terrorists that this Tomahawk cruise missile is going to blow up like the Fourth of July:
Okay, that picture MIGHT be a fake, so here's a real one of the Rev. Falwell doing what he does best: idolizing himself and passing some ridiculous judgment.
If for some reason you haven't watched the news EVER and can't distinguish Jerry Falwell from other fat right wing assholes (like Dennis Hastert, who may be his long-lost cousin), here is a brief summary of his past accomplishments:
-Cutting his ministerial teeth preaching passionately about how Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was a heretical loon, how segregation is truly the Christian way, and how the Civil Rights movement was inherently sinful...I mean, Jesus woulda been sprayin' those uppity nigras with fire hoses, setting attack dogs on them, and lynching them too!
-Stealing control of the beleaguered PTL ministries from the infamous Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker after Jim got caught swindling his congregation and fucking his secretary
-Went to South Africa in a show of support FOR apartheid and encouraged Americans to invest in what amounted to Afrikaaner racist war bonds. Because white supremacy is SO Christian!
-Made a video full of patently false accusations about Smoking Hot Stud and Silver Fox President William Jefferson Clinton conspiring to assassinate reporters. This was produced by the same people who paid Arkansas state troopers to make up shit about Clinton, and were later convicted of lying to the FBI.
-Got his ass handed to him by the Supreme Court after he bitched that Larry Flynt couldn't make fun of him in Hustler by suggesting that he lost his virginity to his mother in an outhouse. It wasn't libel because it was the truth!
-Switched to talking incessant shit about gays once overt racism went out of style. Over the past decades, Falwell called them "brute beasts" and "a vile Satanic system", declared that one day they "will be utterly annihilated and there will be a celebration in heaven," suggested that they were corrupting the youth through subliminal messages delivered via Tinky Winky the purple Teletubby, and blamed them, along with feminists and the ACLU, for 9/11.
-Oh yeah, and he was also a big proponent of the notion that AIDS is a gift from God meant to wipe out those sinful Sodomites.
-Once stated that "If you're not a born-again Christian, you're a failure as a human being."
-Declared that the Antichrist ushering in the imminent apocalypse will FOR SURE be a Jewish guy.
Obviously Jesus just got fed up listening to this fat fucking hatemonger speak on his behalf and decided it was time to silence his bitch ass permanently. I'm saying some prayers for Reverend Falwell that God shows his immortal soul a little more compassion than he showed everyone who wasn't a fundamentalist asshole.
Here's the good minister during happier times, writing what is doubtless a message of Christian love and compassion to the goddamned
-Cutting his ministerial teeth preaching passionately about how Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was a heretical loon, how segregation is truly the Christian way, and how the Civil Rights movement was inherently sinful...I mean, Jesus woulda been sprayin' those uppity nigras with fire hoses, setting attack dogs on them, and lynching them too!
-Stealing control of the beleaguered PTL ministries from the infamous Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker after Jim got caught swindling his congregation and fucking his secretary
-Went to South Africa in a show of support FOR apartheid and encouraged Americans to invest in what amounted to Afrikaaner racist war bonds. Because white supremacy is SO Christian!
-Made a video full of patently false accusations about Smoking Hot Stud and Silver Fox President William Jefferson Clinton conspiring to assassinate reporters. This was produced by the same people who paid Arkansas state troopers to make up shit about Clinton, and were later convicted of lying to the FBI.
-Got his ass handed to him by the Supreme Court after he bitched that Larry Flynt couldn't make fun of him in Hustler by suggesting that he lost his virginity to his mother in an outhouse. It wasn't libel because it was the truth!
-Oh yeah, and he was also a big proponent of the notion that AIDS is a gift from God meant to wipe out those sinful Sodomites.
-Once stated that "If you're not a born-again Christian, you're a failure as a human being."
-Declared that the Antichrist ushering in the imminent apocalypse will FOR SURE be a Jewish guy.
Obviously Jesus just got fed up listening to this fat fucking hatemonger speak on his behalf and decided it was time to silence his bitch ass permanently. I'm saying some prayers for Reverend Falwell that God shows his immortal soul a little more compassion than he showed everyone who wasn't a fundamentalist asshole.
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, fat fucks, I LOVE IT, people who died, vengeance is sweet
NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Kim Kardashian is the Paris Hilton wannabe prostitute who released her own sex tape and then cleverly "sued" Vivid for her paycheck to make it seem like she didn't release it after all. This sex tape was embarrassing because it supposedly revealed two humiliating secrets: she likes to finish off an exhausting roll in the hay with a golden shower, and she had sex with Brandy's little brother, who is now sticking his dick into the hot crack fiend mess that is Whitney Houston. I didn't see the sex tape, because I am way over socialite amateur porn. They're usually boring, and I like my porn made by professionals. Give me Jenna or Briana or Chasey over the excessively Mystic Tanned piece of shit that is Kim Kardashian any day.
Anyway, Kim is otherwise famous because her late father wrote some legal brief for O.J., and because she's now squandering the inheritance he left her being a talentless hooker who attends every D-list red carpet party to collect swag and be famous for nothing. Needless to say, I think she's a waste of space on my internet gossip sites, but now I think she needs to be FUCKING TERMINATED. Why, you ask?
Bitch is going out with my boyfriend, Reggie (Get in My) Bush! Now he has crabs and/or herpes, and I'm going to feel concerned for my health on the day (which WILL happen) when Reggie's finally ready to hit it with me. This is just not right.
Anyway, Kim is otherwise famous because her late father wrote some legal brief for O.J., and because she's now squandering the inheritance he left her being a talentless hooker who attends every D-list red carpet party to collect swag and be famous for nothing. Needless to say, I think she's a waste of space on my internet gossip sites, but now I think she needs to be FUCKING TERMINATED. Why, you ask?
Labels: media whores, oh the horror, Reggie (Get In My) Bush, sluts
Monday, May 14, 2007
From the Smith College vault: Tangling with the PAGANS
I was reminiscing about good times at Smith earlier today, and then my ex-boyfriend Benzo texted me:
I'm in Northampton and there are smithies everywhere
I responded:
Offend some for me
It seemed relevant to write something about Smith, and I haven't written one of these "From the Smith College vault" things for awhile, so I thought I would relate the story of the newspaper staff's face-off with the Association of Smith Pagans, because every time I think of it, it makes me snicker. And it probably makes everyone else involved snicker, as well. Well, everyone except the pagans, who apparently have no sense of humor.
The Smith pagans were a very active religious group on campus even though there were around 5 or 6 of them in total. It seems they always had some type of equinox, solstice, or other miscellaneous celestial event to celebrate, and they would plaster the campus in flyers and sidewalk chalk trying to recruit people. I would often entertain my fellow editors at the Smith College Sophian with dramatic readings of their flyers. I remember there was some event called Samhain where they were going to be running around campus performing "the laying of soul cakes." We soon deduced that "soul cakes" meant "Oreos or other assorted cookie items stolen from the Tyler House dining room" and I suggested writing an editorial that decried leaving food to molder and decay all over our picturesque New England campus right at the peak of foliage season. I never ended up writing that because 5 or 6 pagans with unappealing yet dogged marketing instincts celebrating some holiday by littering weren't really important enough to make the news, even by our standards, which were EXTREMELY low.
That doesn't mean we forgot about the pagans though. The next spring, we put out our April Fool's edition of the paper. The April Fool's edition, known as the So Fine, was always entertaining (to us), because it was all made up, all written under assumed names (mine was Dr. Unk N. Stoned, of course), and all hilarious. At least the parts I wrote were. One thing we did was make a fake calendar of events, and we decided to have some fun at the Association of Smith Pagans' expense. We included a calendar entry that said something along the lines of, "P.A.G.A.N. rally. The Smith chapter of the People Against Goodness and Normalcy will be sacrificing the virgin Connie Swail at Helen Hills Hills Chapel this Tuesday. BYO Goat Leggings." This isn't the most original thing in the world, since it's entirely a reference to the underappreciated but totally awesome movie Dragnet starring Dan Aykroyd, Tom Hanks, and Captain Von Trapp as the head P.A.G.A.N. We were amused and probably drunk, so we put the paper to bed and congratulated ourselves for putting together yet another brilliant edition of the So Fine.
One thing I should say right here about the paper was that most people did not read it, so we very rarely had anyone take issue with stuff written there. Occasionally we'd get an angry letter to the editor, but for the most part, people largely ignored this fine publication that our tireless staff put so much work into every week. In fact, people generally liked us overall. The Smith cops were always stopping by our office to say hi, we'd get discounts at Davis student center, and our neighbors in Capen Annex, the building where our office was housed, liked us for the most part. There was one incident where I hung a sign on the door that said something like, "New rule for Capen Annex: no vampyres, vampire slayers, demons, ogres, ghosts, ghouls, elves, orcs, hobbits, goblins, dragons, dragonslayers, witches, warlocks, wizards, mages, spaceship captains, time travelers, shapeshifters, shades, or other forms of mythical beasts permitted. BEGONE, beings most foul! By order of the Roman Catholic Church." This was directed at members of the Smith Science Fiction and Fantasy Society (SSFFS), who had their "reading room" upstairs and who had bothered us with several minor complaints about things that interrupted their reading Philip K. Dick novels in peace, like blasting "Armageddon It" while laying out the Features page or me smoking pot in the darkroom. Our managing editor was a member of SSFFS and she immediately tore the sign down and yelled at me, thus ensuring that relations with SSFFS did not further deteriorate. Apart from those types of largely insignificant incidents, nobody really had a problem with us.
One day, shortly after the So Fine dropped, we heard some very authoritative stomping on the Capen Annex front porch. LL Cool Jew, Wmania, myself, and other various members of the newspaper staff had been in the main room, where I was having a field day tearing apart a press kit sent to us by Ani DiFranco's marketing staff that said "Eat pussy not cows" all over it. It took a place of honor right next to the press kit for M.O.T. (Members of the Tribe), a hardcore Orthodox Jewish rap group, on our bulletin board. Suddenly the door flew open, and we were faced with a half-dozen furious Smith pagans.
Their leader was this computer science major named Nicole Shields. She was dressed in her usual style, which was Dune meets The Crow by way of a medieval whorehouse. Nicole was a big girl, and notable for her monstrous breasts. Her tits were like the continental shelf protruding from her chest, and she always strapped them into some kind of absurd corset or something. It was like being set upon by Jabba the Hutt if he were masquerading as some sort of cross-dressing prostitute at a Cure concert. I couldn't find an actual picture of her on MySpace or the internets, but I found a couple close approximations:
You get the idea. Anyway, Nicole was accompanied by her cadre of wiccans, who were likewise clad in crushed velvet capes and Kiss Army boots, and generally looked like extras off the set of The Craft. She got her massive tits right up in our faces and shook a copy of the So Fine angrily at us.
"This is RELIGIOUS INTOLERANCE!" she shouted. "People WILL NOT TAKE US SERIOUSLY if you write stuff like this."
I wondered whether there was a chance anyone would ever take these pentagram jewelry aficionados seriously, but bit my tongue.
"We do not wear GOAT LEGGINGS," she continued. "This piece is full of misconceptions and bigotry. We are a LEGITIMATE RELIGION, and it is totally unacceptable to mock us."
Someone, probably the diplomatic editor Coolbeans, then advised them that the So Fine is obviously a parody, so it was doubtful that anyone would change their opinion of paganism or wicca or whatever based on a three-line joke from the fictional event calendar.
Nicole shot back, "Well, you wouldn't make fun of other religions, would you?! You wouldn't, say, write that Hillel is making matzoh with the blood of Christian children! "
I blurted out, "Of course not. That isn't funny."
"Funny? You call being persecuted FUNNY?"
We all looked at each other, and said, "Well, yes. In this case, it is."
"We demand a retraction."
I started snickering derisively. The pagans stared at me furiously. Coolbeans then stated that we only made retractions for factual errors, and not for anything in the So Fine. Defeated, Nicole gathered up her angrily heaving bosom and stalked out with her coven in tow.
"Dude, Razzy, they're probably forming a sacred circle and invoking the spirits of fire and wind or whatever against you right now," cautioned Coolbeans.
"Yeah, if by that you mean organizing a panel discussion/teach-in that nobody will attend," I said. "Regardless, bring on the hexing. I've got Jesus Christ and all the power of the Vatican on my side. We smoked their idol-worshipping asses during the Inquisition, and I'll have no trouble destroying them in a rematch."
Unfortunately, the Smith chapter of the People Against Goodness and Normalcy never bothered us again, so I didn't get the opportunity to put any of them in an Iron Maiden or otherwise elicit confessions via torture like an accomplished Inquisitor. Nicole Shields graduated that year and took her giant cans off to California to write code for PlayStation games. I have yet to experience the ill effects of any curse they may or may not have placed upon me.
I'm in Northampton and there are smithies everywhere
I responded:
Offend some for me
It seemed relevant to write something about Smith, and I haven't written one of these "From the Smith College vault" things for awhile, so I thought I would relate the story of the newspaper staff's face-off with the Association of Smith Pagans, because every time I think of it, it makes me snicker. And it probably makes everyone else involved snicker, as well. Well, everyone except the pagans, who apparently have no sense of humor.
The Smith pagans were a very active religious group on campus even though there were around 5 or 6 of them in total. It seems they always had some type of equinox, solstice, or other miscellaneous celestial event to celebrate, and they would plaster the campus in flyers and sidewalk chalk trying to recruit people. I would often entertain my fellow editors at the Smith College Sophian with dramatic readings of their flyers. I remember there was some event called Samhain where they were going to be running around campus performing "the laying of soul cakes." We soon deduced that "soul cakes" meant "Oreos or other assorted cookie items stolen from the Tyler House dining room" and I suggested writing an editorial that decried leaving food to molder and decay all over our picturesque New England campus right at the peak of foliage season. I never ended up writing that because 5 or 6 pagans with unappealing yet dogged marketing instincts celebrating some holiday by littering weren't really important enough to make the news, even by our standards, which were EXTREMELY low.
That doesn't mean we forgot about the pagans though. The next spring, we put out our April Fool's edition of the paper. The April Fool's edition, known as the So Fine, was always entertaining (to us), because it was all made up, all written under assumed names (mine was Dr. Unk N. Stoned, of course), and all hilarious. At least the parts I wrote were. One thing we did was make a fake calendar of events, and we decided to have some fun at the Association of Smith Pagans' expense. We included a calendar entry that said something along the lines of, "P.A.G.A.N. rally. The Smith chapter of the People Against Goodness and Normalcy will be sacrificing the virgin Connie Swail at Helen Hills Hills Chapel this Tuesday. BYO Goat Leggings." This isn't the most original thing in the world, since it's entirely a reference to the underappreciated but totally awesome movie Dragnet starring Dan Aykroyd, Tom Hanks, and Captain Von Trapp as the head P.A.G.A.N. We were amused and probably drunk, so we put the paper to bed and congratulated ourselves for putting together yet another brilliant edition of the So Fine.
One thing I should say right here about the paper was that most people did not read it, so we very rarely had anyone take issue with stuff written there. Occasionally we'd get an angry letter to the editor, but for the most part, people largely ignored this fine publication that our tireless staff put so much work into every week. In fact, people generally liked us overall. The Smith cops were always stopping by our office to say hi, we'd get discounts at Davis student center, and our neighbors in Capen Annex, the building where our office was housed, liked us for the most part. There was one incident where I hung a sign on the door that said something like, "New rule for Capen Annex: no vampyres, vampire slayers, demons, ogres, ghosts, ghouls, elves, orcs, hobbits, goblins, dragons, dragonslayers, witches, warlocks, wizards, mages, spaceship captains, time travelers, shapeshifters, shades, or other forms of mythical beasts permitted. BEGONE, beings most foul! By order of the Roman Catholic Church." This was directed at members of the Smith Science Fiction and Fantasy Society (SSFFS), who had their "reading room" upstairs and who had bothered us with several minor complaints about things that interrupted their reading Philip K. Dick novels in peace, like blasting "Armageddon It" while laying out the Features page or me smoking pot in the darkroom. Our managing editor was a member of SSFFS and she immediately tore the sign down and yelled at me, thus ensuring that relations with SSFFS did not further deteriorate. Apart from those types of largely insignificant incidents, nobody really had a problem with us.
One day, shortly after the So Fine dropped, we heard some very authoritative stomping on the Capen Annex front porch. LL Cool Jew, Wmania, myself, and other various members of the newspaper staff had been in the main room, where I was having a field day tearing apart a press kit sent to us by Ani DiFranco's marketing staff that said "Eat pussy not cows" all over it. It took a place of honor right next to the press kit for M.O.T. (Members of the Tribe), a hardcore Orthodox Jewish rap group, on our bulletin board. Suddenly the door flew open, and we were faced with a half-dozen furious Smith pagans.
Their leader was this computer science major named Nicole Shields. She was dressed in her usual style, which was Dune meets The Crow by way of a medieval whorehouse. Nicole was a big girl, and notable for her monstrous breasts. Her tits were like the continental shelf protruding from her chest, and she always strapped them into some kind of absurd corset or something. It was like being set upon by Jabba the Hutt if he were masquerading as some sort of cross-dressing prostitute at a Cure concert. I couldn't find an actual picture of her on MySpace or the internets, but I found a couple close approximations:
You get the idea. Anyway, Nicole was accompanied by her cadre of wiccans, who were likewise clad in crushed velvet capes and Kiss Army boots, and generally looked like extras off the set of The Craft. She got her massive tits right up in our faces and shook a copy of the So Fine angrily at us.
"This is RELIGIOUS INTOLERANCE!" she shouted. "People WILL NOT TAKE US SERIOUSLY if you write stuff like this."
I wondered whether there was a chance anyone would ever take these pentagram jewelry aficionados seriously, but bit my tongue.
"We do not wear GOAT LEGGINGS," she continued. "This piece is full of misconceptions and bigotry. We are a LEGITIMATE RELIGION, and it is totally unacceptable to mock us."
Someone, probably the diplomatic editor Coolbeans, then advised them that the So Fine is obviously a parody, so it was doubtful that anyone would change their opinion of paganism or wicca or whatever based on a three-line joke from the fictional event calendar.
Nicole shot back, "Well, you wouldn't make fun of other religions, would you?! You wouldn't, say, write that Hillel is making matzoh with the blood of Christian children! "
I blurted out, "Of course not. That isn't funny."
"Funny? You call being persecuted FUNNY?"
We all looked at each other, and said, "Well, yes. In this case, it is."
"We demand a retraction."
I started snickering derisively. The pagans stared at me furiously. Coolbeans then stated that we only made retractions for factual errors, and not for anything in the So Fine. Defeated, Nicole gathered up her angrily heaving bosom and stalked out with her coven in tow.
"Dude, Razzy, they're probably forming a sacred circle and invoking the spirits of fire and wind or whatever against you right now," cautioned Coolbeans.
"Yeah, if by that you mean organizing a panel discussion/teach-in that nobody will attend," I said. "Regardless, bring on the hexing. I've got Jesus Christ and all the power of the Vatican on my side. We smoked their idol-worshipping asses during the Inquisition, and I'll have no trouble destroying them in a rematch."
Unfortunately, the Smith chapter of the People Against Goodness and Normalcy never bothered us again, so I didn't get the opportunity to put any of them in an Iron Maiden or otherwise elicit confessions via torture like an accomplished Inquisitor. Nicole Shields graduated that year and took her giant cans off to California to write code for PlayStation games. I have yet to experience the ill effects of any curse they may or may not have placed upon me.
Labels: Dumb Smith bitches, intentional buffoonery, nerd alert, overcompensation, Smith College Vault, stank vaginas
Pour Some Liquor for The Source
It's always nauseating for man to come face to face with his inherent insignificance. History may repeat itself in perpetuity, but time is linear in nature--all things come to an end at some point, even the most seemingly indestructible monuments to civilization: the ancient empires of Egypt, Greece, Rome; even the mighty "Northwestern" will one day find itself moored at the depths of the Puget Sound or the Behring Sea. And yet, I don't think I could have ever prepared myself for the metaphysical ball-kick I received last week as I was reading our trade journal, the "Bankruptcy Law Reporter". Imagine my shock and anger when I stumbled across the following:
"...Source Magazine and its affiliate Source Entertainment, Inc., April 30 announced that they have filed for Chapter 11 protection in the U.S. Bankruptcy Court for the Southern District of New York after dishonest business practices by former management caused the hip-hop media outlet's advertisers to pull out, according to news reports. The company, which publishes The Source, a monthly magazine devoted to hip-hop music and culture, also markets audio features, including cell phone ring tones and wallpaper, and produces promotional hip-hop music events, including the Source Awards, news reports indicate.
...Source founder David Mays and company president Raymond "Benzino" Scott were fired in 2006, after the magazine lost significant support from advertisers. The company also reportedly issued bad checks to former employees and creditors, and abruptly stopped sending magazines to some 140,000 subscribers...Three creditors filed an involuntary Chapter 7 bankruptcy petition for affiliate Source Enterprises, Inc. last July, claiming the company owed them $562,693.00. That proceeding was converted to a Chapter 11 proceeding in September.
...The Source was once considered the premier hip-hop publication in the U.S. The company listed consolidated assets of about $1.3 million and liabilities of $35 million on December 31."
There won't be a 300th.
Apparently all those Bentleys and Rolexes were leased after all. Or at least bought on credit. $35,000,000.00 of unsecured debt?! Chapter 11 exists to afford an insolvent company the opportunity to restructure its debt, reorganize its business operations, or a combination of both in the hope that it can emerge from bankruptcy protection as a viable economic entity capable of paying its creditors. Given the debt to asset ratio depicted in the Source filings, however, I think successful reorganization is unlikely. And that's sad. Deeply so.
In the wake of this discovery, I've already commenced the grieving process. My sadness is waning at this point, though I can already feel the anger and denial bubbling to the surface. Deal making is hardly a week away.
And so it goes. Another giant of civilization succumbs to the dust from whence it arose. R.I..P., Source. Por Vida.
"...Source Magazine and its affiliate Source Entertainment, Inc., April 30 announced that they have filed for Chapter 11 protection in the U.S. Bankruptcy Court for the Southern District of New York after dishonest business practices by former management caused the hip-hop media outlet's advertisers to pull out, according to news reports. The company, which publishes The Source, a monthly magazine devoted to hip-hop music and culture, also markets audio features, including cell phone ring tones and wallpaper, and produces promotional hip-hop music events, including the Source Awards, news reports indicate.
...Source founder David Mays and company president Raymond "Benzino" Scott were fired in 2006, after the magazine lost significant support from advertisers. The company also reportedly issued bad checks to former employees and creditors, and abruptly stopped sending magazines to some 140,000 subscribers...Three creditors filed an involuntary Chapter 7 bankruptcy petition for affiliate Source Enterprises, Inc. last July, claiming the company owed them $562,693.00. That proceeding was converted to a Chapter 11 proceeding in September.
...The Source was once considered the premier hip-hop publication in the U.S. The company listed consolidated assets of about $1.3 million and liabilities of $35 million on December 31."
There won't be a 300th.
Apparently all those Bentleys and Rolexes were leased after all. Or at least bought on credit. $35,000,000.00 of unsecured debt?! Chapter 11 exists to afford an insolvent company the opportunity to restructure its debt, reorganize its business operations, or a combination of both in the hope that it can emerge from bankruptcy protection as a viable economic entity capable of paying its creditors. Given the debt to asset ratio depicted in the Source filings, however, I think successful reorganization is unlikely. And that's sad. Deeply so.
In the wake of this discovery, I've already commenced the grieving process. My sadness is waning at this point, though I can already feel the anger and denial bubbling to the surface. Deal making is hardly a week away.
And so it goes. Another giant of civilization succumbs to the dust from whence it arose. R.I..P., Source. Por Vida.
Labels: hilarious shit, media whores, Morrissey'sHair, overcompensation, rap, Title 11 United States Code, tragedy
Blame it on Benedixteen
I've been following the news concerning the Good Shepherd who leads my flock, AKA Pope Benedict XVI, on his trip to Brazil with a slowly growing sense of rage. All week he's been running off at the mouth about what everybody is doing wrong and why they're all going to hell for it, and I'm embarrassed for myself and Catholics everywhere. Instead of preaching about unity and peace like my man JP Dos would have done, he's busy wagging his finger and honing his already insufferable judgment skills. From CNN:
World economies are not the only things Benedixteen has a 14th century stance on. Of course he took the opportunity to sound off about sexiness, too. Sort of.
Does Benedixteen realize who he is talking to when he's going off about family values (ie: no fun sex of any kind)? This is BRAZIL, dude. They're famous for being libertines.
So far, the only thing Benedixteen has effectively crushed is all the solid diplomatic capital built by JP Dos. Maybe the people of Latin America, and everywhere else, will stop having pre- or extramarital sex when priests stop molesting kids...in other words, never.
Benedict criticized capitalism's negative effects and Marxist influences that have motivated some grass-roots Catholic activists, remnants of the Liberation theology he moved to crush when he was a cardinal. "The Marxist system, where it found its way into government, not only left a sad heritage of economic and ecological destruction, but also a painful destruction of the human spirit," Benedict said as he opened a two-week bishops' conference aimed at re-energizing the church's influence in Latin America.So capitalism and communism are both bad? Well, what type of economy does he approve of? Wait, I know...break out the reliquaries and brush up on your Latin, Catholics, because I would not be surprised if the Pope advocates getting medieval on the world's ass. He's probably "moved to crush" such ideas to get the world divided up into a series of fiefdoms so he can tithe the fuck out of everyone and get some new Prada loafers to hot up his papal cassock:
World economies are not the only things Benedixteen has a 14th century stance on. Of course he took the opportunity to sound off about sexiness, too. Sort of.
Benedict called the institution of the family "one of the most important treasures of Latin American countries" but said it is under attack and that "civil legislation opposed to marriage which, by supporting contraception and abortion, is threatening the future of peoples."Know what else is threatening "the future of peoples"? AIDS, you asshole! And the consequences of overpopulation, too. The above statement was supposedly directed at Brazil's efforts to stem the spread of SIDA by handing out free condoms, and Mexico's recent legalization of abortion. Recently, Benedixteen said that the pro-choice Mexican lawmakers should be excommunicated. I didn't realize that excommunication was a go-to option for the church anymore. I know it's still technically on the books, but I thought that in practice it went the way of simony and the selling of indulgences. If he's bringing excommunication back, then I'm totally fucked in that department. Good thing I'm a minister of the Universal Life Church and thus have a backup religion, in case I get unceremoniously booted from the Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church for my anti-future of peoples views on these matters.
Does Benedixteen realize who he is talking to when he's going off about family values (ie: no fun sex of any kind)? This is BRAZIL, dude. They're famous for being libertines.
The pope's message on immorality could be a tough sell in Brazil. Though more than 70 percent of the nation's 190 million citizens are Catholic, sex before marriage is common. And while polls show Brazilians oppose expanding access to abortion, they overwhelmingly support using condoms to prevent pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases.I guess Benedixteen has never seen Blame It on Rio. I remember my dad talking about this movie like it was Citizen Kane when I was a kid, and my mother telling him not to talk about it in front of myself or my brother. I saw it on TV a couple months ago, and I thought it was simultaneously one of the stupidest and most appalling pieces of crap ever committed to film. It stars Michael Caine as a married coffee trader or something, and he lives with his daughter Demi Moore and his best friend's family in Rio. He ends up fucking his best friend's teenaged (and NOT even close to legal) daughter, and when the shit hits the fan, he does just what the movie's title implies: he blames it on Rio, and his best friend and his wife are like, "Okay, fair enough." Seriously, he skates on a child rape charge solely because it was Rio's fault! Apparently in Brazil, all that churrascaria eating and enthusiastic carnival-ing is just SO HOT that a man cannot be blamed for succumbing to his perverted desires with willing fifteen-year-olds. By the way, this movie is a comedy. Blame It on Rio sucked, but it seems like a viewing might benefit Benedixteen in terms of showing him what he's up against in his attempts to preach abstinence to all those sexed-up Brazilians. Then maybe he wouldn't waste everyone's time by blasting anti-AIDS efforts and complaining that globalization is making the church even more impotent in terms of economic power and cultural influence.
Scantily clad actresses are the norm in the nation's hugely popular soap operas, and most women on Brazil's famed beaches wear bikinis, leaving so little to the imagination that they are known as "dental floss." Plastic surgery to reshape breasts and buttocks is nearly as popular as orthodontia, with most surgeons offering extended payment plan options.
"Nothing could be more countercultural than his message in Brazil, the land of the thong," said David Gibson, author of "The Rule of Benedict: Pope Benedict XVI and His Battle with the Modern World."
So far, the only thing Benedixteen has effectively crushed is all the solid diplomatic capital built by JP Dos. Maybe the people of Latin America, and everywhere else, will stop having pre- or extramarital sex when priests stop molesting kids...in other words, never.
Labels: Catholicism, Pope Benedixteen, ranting, scathing indictments
Congratulations are in order
I went to eat dumplings and slizz on the Tsingtao with my buddy KatieScarlett last week, and she had exciting news on her end of the blogosphere. She and BloodyTosser, who are also known as Kate and Camilla, have decided to quit Nerve!
This is good, because it allows me to do two of my favorite things: promote my friends' web ventures, and bust on the retard clearinghouse that is Nerve.com. Every time I want to link to anything of theirs, I have to link to Nerve, which means that anyone clicking on said link must go through Nerve's stupid gateway to get to what I'm linking to, and that pisses me off. Actually, it pisses me off whenever I have to access their blog via Nerve. In fact, it fills me with rage. Not only do I have to put up with some sort of Polaroid snap of Rose and Olive's dirty pussies, but when I actually end up reading something there, it's the most inane shit ever committed to the internets. In one article, some hipster dipshit Nerve "essayist" (because "blogger" doesn't sound nearly as intellectualish) referred to porn star Justine Joli as "zeitgeisty."
Also, Nerve made some fucking retarded banner ads to entice their readers to Kate and Camilla's blog.
Kate and Camilla have exciting fun lives, they take interesting pictures, and I enjoy reading about both, but after one look at this ad, I want to punch them both in the face. It's not their fault that Nerve's marketing people are a clusterfuck of douchebags who probably spend their social hours discussing articles in The New Yorker to sound smart. They even managed to ruin KatieScarlett's awesome aviator/gold lame bodysuit picture.
I know better that Kate and Camilla aren't remotely the pretentious artfag bitches Nerve makes them out to be. Kate, for example, has the world's best taste in vintage t-shirts acquired from eastern Pennsylvania thrift stores.
And, in spite of her untempered lesbianism, Kate loves sausages, something we've been bonding over since college.
Camilla drinks cheap sake right out of the pitcher:
And she and I once sang the best rendition of "Don't Stop Believing" in Koreatown's illustrious karaoke history. She's just as much of an attention whore in those kinds of situations as myself, and rightfully so, because she's very pretty and does justice to Steve Perry's soaring vocal stylings.
I am SO glad that my ladies told Nerve to take whatever they were paying them and shove it up their asses. Well, they probably just gave two weeks notice like the professionals that they are, but regardless I am pleased they're flying solo. You should check out their new Nerveless, subscription-free blog:
http://kateandcamilla.blogspot.com/
It's the dopeness, and so are they.
This is good, because it allows me to do two of my favorite things: promote my friends' web ventures, and bust on the retard clearinghouse that is Nerve.com. Every time I want to link to anything of theirs, I have to link to Nerve, which means that anyone clicking on said link must go through Nerve's stupid gateway to get to what I'm linking to, and that pisses me off. Actually, it pisses me off whenever I have to access their blog via Nerve. In fact, it fills me with rage. Not only do I have to put up with some sort of Polaroid snap of Rose and Olive's dirty pussies, but when I actually end up reading something there, it's the most inane shit ever committed to the internets. In one article, some hipster dipshit Nerve "essayist" (because "blogger" doesn't sound nearly as intellectualish) referred to porn star Justine Joli as "zeitgeisty."
Also, Nerve made some fucking retarded banner ads to entice their readers to Kate and Camilla's blog.
Kate and Camilla have exciting fun lives, they take interesting pictures, and I enjoy reading about both, but after one look at this ad, I want to punch them both in the face. It's not their fault that Nerve's marketing people are a clusterfuck of douchebags who probably spend their social hours discussing articles in The New Yorker to sound smart. They even managed to ruin KatieScarlett's awesome aviator/gold lame bodysuit picture.
I know better that Kate and Camilla aren't remotely the pretentious artfag bitches Nerve makes them out to be. Kate, for example, has the world's best taste in vintage t-shirts acquired from eastern Pennsylvania thrift stores.
And, in spite of her untempered lesbianism, Kate loves sausages, something we've been bonding over since college.
Camilla drinks cheap sake right out of the pitcher:
And she and I once sang the best rendition of "Don't Stop Believing" in Koreatown's illustrious karaoke history. She's just as much of an attention whore in those kinds of situations as myself, and rightfully so, because she's very pretty and does justice to Steve Perry's soaring vocal stylings.
I am SO glad that my ladies told Nerve to take whatever they were paying them and shove it up their asses. Well, they probably just gave two weeks notice like the professionals that they are, but regardless I am pleased they're flying solo. You should check out their new Nerveless, subscription-free blog:
http://kateandcamilla.blogspot.com/
It's the dopeness, and so are they.
Labels: BloodyTosser, down with OPB (other people's blogs), internet domination, KatieScarlett, retard rage
EXCITEMENT!
Morrissey'sHair called me this weekend and said that he is posting an exciting entry about the recent happenings in the world of bankruptcy law today. No, really...it is exciting and amusing, he told me what it was. So stay tuned!
Labels: Morrissey'sHair
Friday, May 11, 2007
Oops...
I need to get a laptop that I can actually tote around with me on trips (unlike the falling-apart laptop I currently have immobilized on my desk at home), because I just got a rather uncomfortable e-mail from my mother.
I think I've mentioned before that my parents hate my website, and refuse to read it. They love Angie a lot, but they want nothing--and I mean NOTHING--to do with Razzy. In fact, I wouldn't write half the shit I do, particularly concerning my sex life, if I thought my parents were actually going to read it. Since they actively do not read it, and would delete anything from it if one of my relatives (such as Aunt Jesus) e-mailed them any links containing "razzy.org" in the domain to point out the level of depravity to which I've sunk, I can rest easy knowing that I'm not going to get any shit about it from my folks.
That said, my mom can't actively avoid Razzification that she accidentally stumbles upon while paying bills. Unfortunately this is how she came across an incriminating photo I left on their computer while I was at their house last week. I downloaded this photo from an e-mail HotLawyer sent me, and intended to drag it to the trash once I'd uploaded it for this blog entry. I seemingly forgot to delete it, and my mother was not pleased. She wrote:
Hi Razzy-FYI-next time you're home & working on the computer please clean up your stuff before you leave. On my desktop there was a pic of you exposing your breasts, obviously in a public place. As a mom, it's difficult to see you behaving that way. I respect your accomplishments, but not this. I don't think Dad saw it, it's deleted.
God, I wish my dad did see it first, because he would have deleted it without so much as a word and gone back to playing online mah-jong. Then I wouldn't be about to get a sheaf of e-mails from my mom nagging me about how if I don't knock off the ribald antics, I might as well sew a big red letter A to my shirt and brace myself for the moralizing scorn of the community at large. I just sent a deeply apologetic e-mail back, but I doubt it will so much to stem the tide of concerned mothering I anticipate I'm about to experience.
Fuck.
I think I've mentioned before that my parents hate my website, and refuse to read it. They love Angie a lot, but they want nothing--and I mean NOTHING--to do with Razzy. In fact, I wouldn't write half the shit I do, particularly concerning my sex life, if I thought my parents were actually going to read it. Since they actively do not read it, and would delete anything from it if one of my relatives (such as Aunt Jesus) e-mailed them any links containing "razzy.org" in the domain to point out the level of depravity to which I've sunk, I can rest easy knowing that I'm not going to get any shit about it from my folks.
That said, my mom can't actively avoid Razzification that she accidentally stumbles upon while paying bills. Unfortunately this is how she came across an incriminating photo I left on their computer while I was at their house last week. I downloaded this photo from an e-mail HotLawyer sent me, and intended to drag it to the trash once I'd uploaded it for this blog entry. I seemingly forgot to delete it, and my mother was not pleased. She wrote:
Hi Razzy-FYI-next time you're home & working on the computer please clean up your stuff before you leave. On my desktop there was a pic of you exposing your breasts, obviously in a public place. As a mom, it's difficult to see you behaving that way. I respect your accomplishments, but not this. I don't think Dad saw it, it's deleted.
God, I wish my dad did see it first, because he would have deleted it without so much as a word and gone back to playing online mah-jong. Then I wouldn't be about to get a sheaf of e-mails from my mom nagging me about how if I don't knock off the ribald antics, I might as well sew a big red letter A to my shirt and brace myself for the moralizing scorn of the community at large. I just sent a deeply apologetic e-mail back, but I doubt it will so much to stem the tide of concerned mothering I anticipate I'm about to experience.
Fuck.
Labels: contrition, family matters, nudity, Razzification
My first doctorate
It seems that I was not the only one to notice the intriguing virology coverage yesterday by the BBC. No less than THREE separate Razzyphiles e-mailed me about the HPV-mediated link between cocksucking and throat cancer BEFORE they even saw that I'd written about it. In fact, J-Sexy, who only reads my blog when I'm either out of town or tell her that I've written something about her hatred of animals, dutty wining, or Jamaican food, didn't read it. Today she was very proud of herself when she asked, "Did you see the article that I e-mailed you? I thought you in particolar would find that relevant."
I don't know why I'm bothering with this dumb Ph.D., because clearly my certifications as a head doctor are current. Judging by the number of people who felt that I would benefit immensely from a warning that the impressive "blowjobs" section of my curriculum vitae might put me at risk, my reputation as a dicksucking skank is apparently widely known.
Not that I'm arguing with it or offended by it, because it's totally true. When I was home in the P-N-Dub last week, I was experiencing some killer tonsillar lymphoadenopathy that I attributed to vigorous deep-throating (after an evening of drinking, smoking like a 19th-century locomotive, and hollering at everyone in sight). I was blaming it on the combined mechanical trauma of sucking a dude off with the fact that I had mono when I was a freshman in college and my head-and-neck secondary lymphoid organs haven't been the same since. If I get so much as a minor cold my tonsils and submandibular lymph nodes swell to the size of golf balls. However, now I'm getting worried that it's HPV!
I should investigate this further for my own health and well-being. I wonder how my physician would react if I strolled into her office and demanded that she give my mouth a Pap smear. I don't know if my shitty Aetna insurance will cover that, but it never hurts to ask.
I don't know why I'm bothering with this dumb Ph.D., because clearly my certifications as a head doctor are current. Judging by the number of people who felt that I would benefit immensely from a warning that the impressive "blowjobs" section of my curriculum vitae might put me at risk, my reputation as a dicksucking skank is apparently widely known.
Not that I'm arguing with it or offended by it, because it's totally true. When I was home in the P-N-Dub last week, I was experiencing some killer tonsillar lymphoadenopathy that I attributed to vigorous deep-throating (after an evening of drinking, smoking like a 19th-century locomotive, and hollering at everyone in sight). I was blaming it on the combined mechanical trauma of sucking a dude off with the fact that I had mono when I was a freshman in college and my head-and-neck secondary lymphoid organs haven't been the same since. If I get so much as a minor cold my tonsils and submandibular lymph nodes swell to the size of golf balls. However, now I'm getting worried that it's HPV!
I should investigate this further for my own health and well-being. I wonder how my physician would react if I strolled into her office and demanded that she give my mouth a Pap smear. I don't know if my shitty Aetna insurance will cover that, but it never hurts to ask.
Labels: epidemic geekery, oh the horror, perversion, science, sex, sluts, viruses rule
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Bad news from the tumor virus front
I was reading an article BigBagel sent me about Paris Hilton on the BBC website when I noticed an article that piqued my interest. In fact, it is currently the second most read article on the whole of the BBC's site. Needless to say, it did little for my unchecked Paris-related rage besides convert it into stark concern about my health:
Crap...it looks like HPV can tumor up your throat as well as your cooch. You know all those commercials for the HPV vaccine featuring a bunch of fugly chicks that are like, "Cancer?! FROM A VIRUS?! I had no idea that a VIRUS could cause CANCER! I'm going to tell every bitch I know!" Unlike those dumb bitches in the vaccine ad, I've known all about the link between human papillomavirus and cervical cancer for a long time (Chingy!'s old dogsitter used to work on how the E6 viral protein acts as a ubiquitin ligase to target several important proteins for proteasomal degradation, thus enabling oncogenesis and metastasis), but why haven't I heard about this blowjob risk? They need to have a Gardasil-hawking commercial about that!
It seems your risk increases by almost an entire order of magnitude if you've blown more than six people. Guilty as charged on that count. Even worse, blowjobs are even riskier than smoking! I've done a lot of both, although on the bright side I've smoked exponentially more cigarettes than cocks, as I'm not quite so slutty as to suck twenty cocks a day for ten years. Regardless, it's pretty fucked up that my decade-long pack-a-day habit is something to cheer about, so it looks like I should just put money down now for one of those microphone thingies you have to use when they remove your voice box.
Does this mean that now I need to start throwing a pre-fellatio raincoat over dudes' dicks? My colleagues in the virology business are probably about to shame me for my flagrant irresponsibility, but I hate giving head to weiners with a condom on them. First off, you haven't tasted bitter misery until you've gotten an accidental mouthwash of nonoxynol-9. Second, even the non-spermicidal generic lube tastes like ass. And third, from a technical perspective which I will not go into detail about, condoms complicate some of my signature blowjob moves. This study is grave news, indeed.
Crap...it looks like HPV can tumor up your throat as well as your cooch. You know all those commercials for the HPV vaccine featuring a bunch of fugly chicks that are like, "Cancer?! FROM A VIRUS?! I had no idea that a VIRUS could cause CANCER! I'm going to tell every bitch I know!" Unlike those dumb bitches in the vaccine ad, I've known all about the link between human papillomavirus and cervical cancer for a long time (Chingy!'s old dogsitter used to work on how the E6 viral protein acts as a ubiquitin ligase to target several important proteins for proteasomal degradation, thus enabling oncogenesis and metastasis), but why haven't I heard about this blowjob risk? They need to have a Gardasil-hawking commercial about that!
It seems your risk increases by almost an entire order of magnitude if you've blown more than six people. Guilty as charged on that count. Even worse, blowjobs are even riskier than smoking! I've done a lot of both, although on the bright side I've smoked exponentially more cigarettes than cocks, as I'm not quite so slutty as to suck twenty cocks a day for ten years. Regardless, it's pretty fucked up that my decade-long pack-a-day habit is something to cheer about, so it looks like I should just put money down now for one of those microphone thingies you have to use when they remove your voice box.
Does this mean that now I need to start throwing a pre-fellatio raincoat over dudes' dicks? My colleagues in the virology business are probably about to shame me for my flagrant irresponsibility, but I hate giving head to weiners with a condom on them. First off, you haven't tasted bitter misery until you've gotten an accidental mouthwash of nonoxynol-9. Second, even the non-spermicidal generic lube tastes like ass. And third, from a technical perspective which I will not go into detail about, condoms complicate some of my signature blowjob moves. This study is grave news, indeed.
Labels: epidemic geekery, oh the horror, perversion, science, sex, sluts, viruses rule
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Totally enamoRED DAWN!
If you haven't seen the movie Red Dawn, you need to go out and see it immediately. Yes, it may be buried in the extremely dusty Hypothetical Apocalyptic Cold War Scenario section of your video store, but it is SO worth unearthing. Red Dawn has aged like a fine wine. When it was released, I'm sure it did a fine job capitalizing on America's paranoia about shitty communist governments, and now it is capable of eliciting an equally vehement reaction in the form of awed unintentional hilarity. And I mean hilarity in the sense that it is literally astounding that something so improbable would resound so meaningfully in the present day. I was just a kid when this was out in theaters, so I didn't appreciate it at the time. Recently, I've seen it a little here and there on Spike TV and AMC (yes, it is an American Movie Classic, along with She-Devil, Kuffs, and Fletch Lives), and I've come to the conclusion that Red Dawn may be one of the most profoundly awesome movies in Hollywood history.
In case you are unfamiliar with Red Dawn, I'll provide a brief typically lengthy plot synopsis. The Soviets invade Colorado (oh, and Cuba helps too) via some sort of crazy plan involving hundreds of thousands of paratroopers leaping from Aeroflot jetliners ready to COMMUNIZE some freedom-loving motherfuckers. The Russians then, with a flourish of some "we will crush you" rhetoric, proceed to commit a multitude of egregious human rights abuses (summary executions, grenade massacres, staging concerts by people named Aleksandr, torture, enslavement, setting up vodka distilleries and re-education camps/gulags, etc...but luckily, no institutionalized prisoner organ harvesting). As if this weren't upsetting enough, the Russians are really being assholes about it, mocking sacred icons of Americana:
Basically, America is fucked, or as one colorful local in the movie puts it, "You boys landed right smack dab in the middle-a World War III!" Americans will all soon be forced to address one another as comrade while watching movies proclaiming in glorious generic dictator-speak that "America is a whorehouse where your revolutionary ideals have been corrupted!" However, one intrepid group of freedom fighters decides that they will not take Soviet occupation lying down. They are American, goddammit, and they'll die for their country and their basic freedoms! There's just one catch: they're a group of teenagers that reads like a who's who of 80s movies. America's hope lies frighteningly in the hands of Charlie Sheen, C. Thomas Howell, Jennifer Grey, Lea Thompson, and their fearless yet reluctant leader, Patrick Swayze, son of a curmudgeonly martyr-to-the-cause played by Harry Dean Stanton. His leadership skills involve him shouting "Run! This way!" and looking stoic. Swayze and C. Thomas are galvanized to action by their fathers' tragic fate: being executed to a shout of "Fuego!" by a Cuban firing squad while singing "America the Beautiful" loud enough to drown out the sound of "Gimn Sovetskogo Soyuza" bumping grainily through the firing squad system. They decide to pull of a bunch of ballsy, garage bomb-type guerilla attacks against the invaders, and call themselves the Wolverines, after the high school football team the boys played for and the girls cheered for in happier, less totalitarian times. Like any good terrorist organization, they always take care to announce their identity by spray-painting "Wolverines!" on the charred hammer-and-sickle adorned metal war machine wreckage they leave in their wake. Then they show those terrorists on Al-Jazeera how REAL AMERICANS celebrate a violent and explosive insurgent success:
Fortunately, the Russians well-laid plan for invasion hits a snag when it becomes apparent that they don't speak Spanish and their Cuban comrades don't speak Russian, and their respective military bureaucracies are very incompatible. This wreaks havoc on the whole Communist Takeover infrastructure. Even more fortunate is the fact that the Wolverines are able to capitalize on the tangled red tape (get it? RED tape) of their oppressors and overthrow them with a deft combination of suicide bombing and negotiation with vintage early-'80s model Kalashnikovs. With a combination of spunk, good old-fashioned U.S. of A. stick-to-it-iveness, and guerilla tactics learned from a conveniently downed (while engaging some MIGs, of course) fighter pilot, they get 'er done so all of the Continental Divide can be "F.A." That is, "Free America."
You haven't lived until you've seen C. Thomas Howell in a letterman jacket and head-to-toe Winter Forest camo outerwear firing a couple of RPGs at a Russian tank advancing upon him, only to die in Patrick Swayze's arms. The only question I have is why Swayze didn't lovingly croon "She's Like the Wind" to him as he faded into that great Free American democracy in the sky.
I just purchased a copy of Red Dawn for my permanent collection, where it will take a place of honor on my particle board DVD shelf, right before Starship Troopers and right behind Predator on the awesomeness shelf. I don't know why, given the fact that if you replace "Wolverines" with "Sunni factions in Baghdad" this movie is basically the most prescient allegory ever for the Shitshow Formerly Known as Operation Iraqi Freedom, all these actors are bragging about being in Dirty Dancing, Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Wall Street, Back to the Future, or The Hitcher. These guys should put Red Dawn as item numero uno on their IMDB pages. If George W. Bush had seen this film, he'd at least have had some idea of the tactics that clever, patriotic teenagers will resort to in order to expel an unwanted tyrannical occupying power. If they could give Oscars retroactively, Red Dawn would be first in line. Go see it, because it rules.
I just purchased a copy of Red Dawn for my permanent collection, where it will take a place of honor on my particle board DVD shelf, right before Starship Troopers and right behind Predator on the awesomeness shelf. I don't know why, given the fact that if you replace "Wolverines" with "Sunni factions in Baghdad" this movie is basically the most prescient allegory ever for the Shitshow Formerly Known as Operation Iraqi Freedom, all these actors are bragging about being in Dirty Dancing, Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Wall Street, Back to the Future, or The Hitcher. These guys should put Red Dawn as item numero uno on their IMDB pages. If George W. Bush had seen this film, he'd at least have had some idea of the tactics that clever, patriotic teenagers will resort to in order to expel an unwanted tyrannical occupying power. If they could give Oscars retroactively, Red Dawn would be first in line. Go see it, because it rules.
Labels: I LOVE IT, international intrigue, movies, Razzification
CRIME WATCH
Just as further evidence that she should not be pardoned, this is what that unrepentant menace to society Paris Hilton was snapped doing yesterday by TMZ.com:
Fucking ho is a criminal on par with Tony Yayo, George Michael, or Bobby Brown in terms of reoffending. Can't they actually EXTEND her sentence? Is there a women's ward at San Quentin or somewhere really hard where she can get a few hangnails or broom handles or sharpened toothbrushes in the vadge to show her the error of her ways? Justice, please get thy due!!!!
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, crime and punishment, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts
How the fuck did I get on this mailing list?
I received the following e-mail today, which is the most bullshit sales pitch I've ever heard in my life:
From: SSG Irma Coronado (IRMA.CORONADO@USAREC.ARMY.MIL)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: The U.S. Army has a place for you
Dear Angela,
I'm a little shocked by the Army's marketing language. They make it sound like working in the Army is along the lines of working for an investment bank or something, with all those bonuses and whatnot. Too bad a bunch of it is STRAIGHT LIES, like the part where you can enlist for as little as 15 months. I guess it doesn't sell as well if they include the line "until the President decides to extend your tour in Baghdad by a year." And I bet you can only "request a specific duty assignment" so long as that assignment involves going to fucking Iraq as cannon fodder.
Ultimately, I was all fired up, but it's not SSG Irma Coronado's fault. However, she should know that I'm not Army material so she will cease her unwanted correspondence, and I replied with this e-mail:
To: Staff Sergeant Irma Coronado (IRMA.CORONADO@USAREC.ARMY.MIL)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Dear Sergeant Coronado,
I was most confused upon receiving this e-mail, as I have never expressed any interest in joining the armed forces. Well, okay, when I was a sophomore in high school I thought for two seconds about going to West Point so that I could get free college tuition, but that all went out the window when I realized that spartan accommodations were mandated in the dorms and I couldn't hang up posters of Courtney Love in my room (don't laugh, it was 1994). It's a good thing I didn't, because when I was an undergrad at Smith, cadets from West Point used to come to our parties all the time and talk about some socially and sexually repressed dudes! Since passing on West Point on the basis of wanting my Hole poster handy, I'm afraid that I have not once considered a career in the U.S. Army, nor has the Army considered me a malleable subject upon which to bestow "Army strength."
For one thing, I am often very resistant to discipline and have a tendency to question everything, particularly authority, and particularly the military policies of its current commander-in-chief. Since taking orders is a requisite part of military life, I think I might run into problems there.
Also, I have a hard time keeping my own secrets, so I'm just going to come right out and say that I fuck girls sometimes, which I believe is against the Army's long-standing "don't ask, don't tell" policy. Granted, I'm not sure if that policy applies only to strict lesbians and not to licentious bisexuals like myself, but somehow I feel that my bedroom activities might also be frowned upon.
Finally, the biggest issue I have with a career in the Army is having to go to Iraq. While I have always wanted to see the Middle East, even after I found out the Holy Grail isn't actually at Petra like Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade led me to believe, getting blown up by a RPG in Fallujah is not my idea of a party. Furthermore, since I didn't agree with going to war in Iraq in the first place, I will hardly have a patriotic attitude about being there and I doubt you want a hater like me bringing down everyone's morale when it comes to "fighting terror" or "winning freedom" or whatever your folks' PR department is calling it these days.
Don't get me wrong, Sergeant, because I'm proud that we have brave soldiers like you to fight for our country and I thank you wholeheartedly for your service and sacrifice. I think that you guys have gotten the short end of the stick in terms of being taken care of by the government which called you to make these sacrifices in the first place. However, I'm afraid that I'll have to do my freedom fighting on the homefront. As sick and tired of graduate school as I am, two more years of slaving away in the lab sounds like a luxury cruise along the French riviera compared to ducking suicide bombs in the green zone.
Thank you for your interest, but regrettably I must decline your offer of Army Strength.
Best wishes,
Razzy
Hopefully that will stem the tide of the Army's efforts to lure me into the fold, and allow me to continue padding my academic pedigree and being an elitist snob, or what I like to call, "Ivy League Strong." Hoo-rah, or whatever.
From: SSG Irma Coronado (IRMA.CORONADO@USAREC.ARMY.MIL)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: The U.S. Army has a place for you
Dear Angela,
As your local Army Recruiter, I'd like to tell you about the many opportunities the Army has to offer students like yourself. Whether you know the path you want to take after college or are still deciding, the Army has many opportunities to suit your needs.
Army Reserve
As a Soldier in the Army Reserve, you can train near home and be ready to serve full time when needed. As a Soldier in the Army Reserve, you may qualify for:
- An enlistment bonus of up to $20,000
- More than $23,000 in education benefits through the Montgomery GI Bill with the Army Reserve "Kicker"
- Up to $20,000 to pay off your federally insured student loans through the Army Loan Repayment Program
- An extra paycheck every month
Active Duty
If you're close to graduating or are simply thinking about giving college a break, you may want to consider serving full time on Active Duty. As a Soldier in the U.S. Army, you may qualify for:
As an active duty Soldier, you will be entitled to 30 days paid vacation a year, medical and dental coverage, access to superb recreation facilities, and low-cost shopping in post stores. You may also have an opportunity to request a specific duty assignment.
Of course, the benefits of joining the U.S. Army go beyond just the monetary. In addition to becoming a stronger individual as you gain new training and experiences, you'll also feel a sense of accomplishment, experience true camaraderie and teamwork, and develop discipline and leadership skills that today's employers value.
If you'd like to learn more about opportunities the U.S. Army and Army Reserve offer, contact me.
You can also send for info at www.goarmy.com. I look forward to hearing from you!
Sincerely: SSG Irma Coronado
ARMY STRONG!
I'm a little shocked by the Army's marketing language. They make it sound like working in the Army is along the lines of working for an investment bank or something, with all those bonuses and whatnot. Too bad a bunch of it is STRAIGHT LIES, like the part where you can enlist for as little as 15 months. I guess it doesn't sell as well if they include the line "until the President decides to extend your tour in Baghdad by a year." And I bet you can only "request a specific duty assignment" so long as that assignment involves going to fucking Iraq as cannon fodder.
Ultimately, I was all fired up, but it's not SSG Irma Coronado's fault. However, she should know that I'm not Army material so she will cease her unwanted correspondence, and I replied with this e-mail:
To: Staff Sergeant Irma Coronado (IRMA.CORONADO@USAREC.ARMY.MIL)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Dear Sergeant Coronado,
I was most confused upon receiving this e-mail, as I have never expressed any interest in joining the armed forces. Well, okay, when I was a sophomore in high school I thought for two seconds about going to West Point so that I could get free college tuition, but that all went out the window when I realized that spartan accommodations were mandated in the dorms and I couldn't hang up posters of Courtney Love in my room (don't laugh, it was 1994). It's a good thing I didn't, because when I was an undergrad at Smith, cadets from West Point used to come to our parties all the time and talk about some socially and sexually repressed dudes! Since passing on West Point on the basis of wanting my Hole poster handy, I'm afraid that I have not once considered a career in the U.S. Army, nor has the Army considered me a malleable subject upon which to bestow "Army strength."
For one thing, I am often very resistant to discipline and have a tendency to question everything, particularly authority, and particularly the military policies of its current commander-in-chief. Since taking orders is a requisite part of military life, I think I might run into problems there.
Also, I have a hard time keeping my own secrets, so I'm just going to come right out and say that I fuck girls sometimes, which I believe is against the Army's long-standing "don't ask, don't tell" policy. Granted, I'm not sure if that policy applies only to strict lesbians and not to licentious bisexuals like myself, but somehow I feel that my bedroom activities might also be frowned upon.
Finally, the biggest issue I have with a career in the Army is having to go to Iraq. While I have always wanted to see the Middle East, even after I found out the Holy Grail isn't actually at Petra like Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade led me to believe, getting blown up by a RPG in Fallujah is not my idea of a party. Furthermore, since I didn't agree with going to war in Iraq in the first place, I will hardly have a patriotic attitude about being there and I doubt you want a hater like me bringing down everyone's morale when it comes to "fighting terror" or "winning freedom" or whatever your folks' PR department is calling it these days.
Don't get me wrong, Sergeant, because I'm proud that we have brave soldiers like you to fight for our country and I thank you wholeheartedly for your service and sacrifice. I think that you guys have gotten the short end of the stick in terms of being taken care of by the government which called you to make these sacrifices in the first place. However, I'm afraid that I'll have to do my freedom fighting on the homefront. As sick and tired of graduate school as I am, two more years of slaving away in the lab sounds like a luxury cruise along the French riviera compared to ducking suicide bombs in the green zone.
Thank you for your interest, but regrettably I must decline your offer of Army Strength.
Best wishes,
Razzy
Hopefully that will stem the tide of the Army's efforts to lure me into the fold, and allow me to continue padding my academic pedigree and being an elitist snob, or what I like to call, "Ivy League Strong." Hoo-rah, or whatever.
Labels: correspondence, intentional buffoonery, oh the horror, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Baller does not equate to blogger
I noticed as I was finishing up that last post that Blogger was listing "Lil Boosie" as a "blog of note." I thought to myself, Torrence "Lil' Boosie" Hatch has a blog?! AWESOME! I began to eagerly anticipate an outpouring of Lil' Boosie, who also answers to Badazz, discussing his views on U.S. foreign policy, Machiavellian war strategies, smoking the purp, the decision process in letting his people bust on some unfortunate woman's belly with him, his unrequited love for Webster "Webbie" Gradney, Jr., instruction on how to properly ratchet, and whatever generally amazing subject matter he chose to address.
In case you are unfamiliar with Lil' Boosie, he is this diminuitive, underfed, dentally challenged fellow hailing from Baton Rouge, Louisiana:
As I previously alluded, he often collaborates with Webbie, a rapper who may have the worst unibrow I've ever seen. Together they have achieved musical success with memorable tunes like "Swerve," "Full of Dat Shit," LL Cool Jew's favorite "Ratchet", and my favorite, "Girl, Give Me Dat (Pussy)." I was curious if maybe Webbie occasionally filled in for Lil' Boosie when he was too busy to blog, as he too is qualified to relate tales of bad lil' broads,automatic weapons, and other aspects of life on the sultry, dangerous streets of Red Stick.
However, I was disappointed to see the content on Lil' Boosie's blog. Sadly, it was not so much the daily thoughts and philosophies of a Badazz, but just marketing:
One post per month obviously NOT scribed by Lil' Boosie himself, a conclusion I've made based on the lack of z's in this article. This was probably all written by Antony Bruno of Denver, who is most likely some 19-year-old intern at the marketing company Trill Records outsourced their marketing to. The only words there belonging to Lil' Boosie are "Wipe Me Down" and "Adios." Well, MAYBE Boosie described them as "blast off singles," but I doubt it. What a letdown.
On the other hand, somehow Lil' Boosie's people managed to convince Blogger that these marketing blurbs were "of note," which means that either Blogger is taking kickbacks for promoting blogs, or Lil' Boosie has some sort of computer genius on staff who hoodwinked Blogger via some clever code into prominently featuring his "blog." While I'm not impressed by the content, I'm certainly impressed by the tech savvy. Good show, Boosie.
In case you are unfamiliar with Lil' Boosie, he is this diminuitive, underfed, dentally challenged fellow hailing from Baton Rouge, Louisiana:
As I previously alluded, he often collaborates with Webbie, a rapper who may have the worst unibrow I've ever seen. Together they have achieved musical success with memorable tunes like "Swerve," "Full of Dat Shit," LL Cool Jew's favorite "Ratchet", and my favorite, "Girl, Give Me Dat (Pussy)." I was curious if maybe Webbie occasionally filled in for Lil' Boosie when he was too busy to blog, as he too is qualified to relate tales of bad lil' broads,automatic weapons, and other aspects of life on the sultry, dangerous streets of Red Stick.
However, I was disappointed to see the content on Lil' Boosie's blog. Sadly, it was not so much the daily thoughts and philosophies of a Badazz, but just marketing:
On the other hand, somehow Lil' Boosie's people managed to convince Blogger that these marketing blurbs were "of note," which means that either Blogger is taking kickbacks for promoting blogs, or Lil' Boosie has some sort of computer genius on staff who hoodwinked Blogger via some clever code into prominently featuring his "blog." While I'm not impressed by the content, I'm certainly impressed by the tech savvy. Good show, Boosie.
Labels: celebrities, Dirrty Dirrty, internet domination, rap
Taking action for the cause
My whole life, people have been telling me that someday I'll be called to some cause. In Catholic school, this meant that I'd want to become a nun. Needless to say, that calling elicited a vehement "sha right!" from me. Later in life, my friends with an unfortunate penchant for political activism would bedevil my e-mail account with exhortations to be called to a particular cause, usually having to do with either hating Bush or women defending our uteri from legislative intrusions. Even when I agreed with their causes, I really didn't want to get on moveon.org's infamously spammy mailing list, or be bombarded with money solicitations at Christmas, or go through the trouble of opting out of everything only to have a shitty form letter sent to Maria Cantwell or Hillary Clinton or some other elected fucktard. I've proceeded through my twenties with an apathetic, cynical, and usually contemptuous attitude toward grass roots activism and causes.
Not anymore. Today, I have found my cause. Behold, the jarring shock that spurred me to action. It's not the thing about Mayor Bloomberg or the party at the Met, by the way:
I was most dismayed to see today's cover of the New York Post, and even more disturbed to see the article inside:
First, I was shocked and surprised to see that Paris has fans. It shocks me that people even like her, although it shocks me less when I read that these fans claim she provides "beauty and excitement to most of our mundane lives." The sheer level of pathetic, wallowing self-pity it requires to write such a thing about Paris Hilton certainly provides some insight into the nature of her so-called "fans." Second, who is this bitch to flagrantly break the law MULTIPLE TIMES, refuse to take responsibility for it, and turn it into a fucking political movement?! It's like she's trying to become some sort of Mumia Abu-Jamal, except instead of suggesting she's been discriminated against by the police and a racist justice system, she just broke the law, didn't hide it, doesn't feel like going to jail, and has no problem flagrantly demanding a gubernatorial pardon based solely on being a "celebrity and socialite."
This makes my blood boil on so many levels that I could not sit idly by and let destiny take its course. I don't live in California, but that isn't going to stop me from sending an urgent e-mail to Governor Schwarzenegger arguing passionately against this pardon.
To: Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger (governor@governor.ca.gov)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation issues/concerns
Dear Governator Schwarzenegger:
I am writing concerning an important issue that I understand is being evaluated by your office. Before I get to that, though, I would like to say that I am one of your biggest fans. I own almost all of your movies, except Junior, The Last Action Hero, and T3: Rise of the Machines (as it violated my no-Claire-Danes policy on DVD purchases), and I think you are a tremendous actor. Whether you portrayed a mythical Cimmerian barbarian warlord, an ex-commando and staunch anti-communist intent on saving his abducted daughter from drug lords, a pawn in an interplanetary conspiracy to keep the people of Mars hard at work in the turbinium mines, a cop framed by a totalitarian regime and forced to participate in a sadistic game show only to defeat NFL Hall of Famer Jim Brown and stage a coup with the help of Mick Fleetwood and Dweezil Zappa, a hard-line Moscow cop forced into an unlikely pairing with Jim Belushi, a commando laying waste to Sandinista guerillas and intergalactic trophy hunters alike, Red Sonja's sidekick and implied fuck buddy, a time-traveling assassin cyborg, Danny DeVito's fraternal twin brother, or just an honest cop trying to infiltrate the criminal underworld of an Oregon elementary school, I believed you. I believed everything about you, even that your last name was really "Dutch," "Quaid," or "Matrix." No matter how many times Sharon Stone kicked your ass in a hot '80s leotard, or Governor Jesse Ventura taunted you with harsh words and long strings of long-leaf chewing tobacco spittle, or Sarah Conner or the T-1000 got the better of you, or illiterate children thwarted a seemingly easy undercover assignment, I knew you would always triumph, deliver an awesome one-liner, and save the day for freedom, democracy, and the American way.
I believed this as you struggled to win the trust of the people of California, and am convinced that, like the legendary characters you have committed to history in the form of film, you will always do the right thing. Despite my complete confidence in your integrity and judgment, I must beseech you to listen to my counsel. I am not one of your constituents, but in this matter, I am certain that my position is on the side of what is right. I humbly ask you to hear my plea.
I beg you not to pardon Paris Hilton. The woman is both a mechanical danger to average motorists and an infectious hazard to sexually promiscuous shipping heirs, F-list actors, idiotic New York socialites, and overnight internet millionaires. Those descriptions pretty much cover almost all of California. In the interest of the people you govern, I plead with you to put this foul harpie of the red carpet in a muscle dyke-filled communal shower until she learns some goddamned humility. This may seem harsh if you listen to the bewitching words of her publicity team, but I know you will do the right thing. Conan resisted many nefarious magical spells when his courage and integrity were tested by sorcerous means. You jumped from the wheels of a 747 during takeoff and blew the hell out of Carla's husband from "Cheers" with a rocket launcher when he used Alyssa Milano's life to try to convince you to come out of retirement for political assassinations, and then killed your archnemesis by impaling him with a steam conduit for emphasis. When the Predator killed your whole team including Apollo Creed and Jesse the Body, you called him an ugly motherfucker and smashed him with a log, forcing him to self-destruct. After Sharon Stone's Delilah-esque ways became just TOO much, you shot her in the head, told her to "consider that a divorce," and freed Mars. This will just be one more stunning chapter in what has been a tremendous record of moral fortitude and benevolent service of the people.
I know that you will agree with the honorable judge presiding over her sentencing and insist that Ms. Hilton pay her debt to society for the crimes she has admitted to committing.
Please prove to the world that merely being a not-that-rich media whore and professional moron is not sufficient to elevate one above the law. My faith in you is absolute. Go with God, or as about 50% of your constituents would say, vaya con dios.
Sincerely,
Razzy
I really hope the Governator writes back, especially since the Post just came out with this depressing breaking news (but props to the Post for characterizing her as a "celebutard-turned-criminal" in an extremely objective news article):
Considering that Michelle Rodriguez, who is a member of the Tom Sizemore-Pete Doherty-David Hasselhoff incorrigably bad drunk club, went to this prison and stayed only two hours before they released her due to overcrowding, I'm not very optimistic that Paris will pay her entire debt to society. However, to be fair, I'm not sure that her debt to society can be paid by anything except her being publicly drawn and quartered, and although I have not consulted my criminal legal team (ie: HotLawyer), I'm pretty sure that's a violation of the 8th Amendment. So I have to hope that Ahnold writes back to say he's throwing the book at her. My fingers are crossed that my forays into grass roots activism will prove fruitful. As my persuasive letter-writing skills are excellent, those hopes are high.
Not anymore. Today, I have found my cause. Behold, the jarring shock that spurred me to action. It's not the thing about Mayor Bloomberg or the party at the Met, by the way:
I was most dismayed to see today's cover of the New York Post, and even more disturbed to see the article inside:
First, I was shocked and surprised to see that Paris has fans. It shocks me that people even like her, although it shocks me less when I read that these fans claim she provides "beauty and excitement to most of our mundane lives." The sheer level of pathetic, wallowing self-pity it requires to write such a thing about Paris Hilton certainly provides some insight into the nature of her so-called "fans." Second, who is this bitch to flagrantly break the law MULTIPLE TIMES, refuse to take responsibility for it, and turn it into a fucking political movement?! It's like she's trying to become some sort of Mumia Abu-Jamal, except instead of suggesting she's been discriminated against by the police and a racist justice system, she just broke the law, didn't hide it, doesn't feel like going to jail, and has no problem flagrantly demanding a gubernatorial pardon based solely on being a "celebrity and socialite."
This makes my blood boil on so many levels that I could not sit idly by and let destiny take its course. I don't live in California, but that isn't going to stop me from sending an urgent e-mail to Governor Schwarzenegger arguing passionately against this pardon.
To: Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger (governor@governor.ca.gov)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation issues/concerns
Dear Governator Schwarzenegger:
I am writing concerning an important issue that I understand is being evaluated by your office. Before I get to that, though, I would like to say that I am one of your biggest fans. I own almost all of your movies, except Junior, The Last Action Hero, and T3: Rise of the Machines (as it violated my no-Claire-Danes policy on DVD purchases), and I think you are a tremendous actor. Whether you portrayed a mythical Cimmerian barbarian warlord, an ex-commando and staunch anti-communist intent on saving his abducted daughter from drug lords, a pawn in an interplanetary conspiracy to keep the people of Mars hard at work in the turbinium mines, a cop framed by a totalitarian regime and forced to participate in a sadistic game show only to defeat NFL Hall of Famer Jim Brown and stage a coup with the help of Mick Fleetwood and Dweezil Zappa, a hard-line Moscow cop forced into an unlikely pairing with Jim Belushi, a commando laying waste to Sandinista guerillas and intergalactic trophy hunters alike, Red Sonja's sidekick and implied fuck buddy, a time-traveling assassin cyborg, Danny DeVito's fraternal twin brother, or just an honest cop trying to infiltrate the criminal underworld of an Oregon elementary school, I believed you. I believed everything about you, even that your last name was really "Dutch," "Quaid," or "Matrix." No matter how many times Sharon Stone kicked your ass in a hot '80s leotard, or Governor Jesse Ventura taunted you with harsh words and long strings of long-leaf chewing tobacco spittle, or Sarah Conner or the T-1000 got the better of you, or illiterate children thwarted a seemingly easy undercover assignment, I knew you would always triumph, deliver an awesome one-liner, and save the day for freedom, democracy, and the American way.
I believed this as you struggled to win the trust of the people of California, and am convinced that, like the legendary characters you have committed to history in the form of film, you will always do the right thing. Despite my complete confidence in your integrity and judgment, I must beseech you to listen to my counsel. I am not one of your constituents, but in this matter, I am certain that my position is on the side of what is right. I humbly ask you to hear my plea.
I beg you not to pardon Paris Hilton. The woman is both a mechanical danger to average motorists and an infectious hazard to sexually promiscuous shipping heirs, F-list actors, idiotic New York socialites, and overnight internet millionaires. Those descriptions pretty much cover almost all of California. In the interest of the people you govern, I plead with you to put this foul harpie of the red carpet in a muscle dyke-filled communal shower until she learns some goddamned humility. This may seem harsh if you listen to the bewitching words of her publicity team, but I know you will do the right thing. Conan resisted many nefarious magical spells when his courage and integrity were tested by sorcerous means. You jumped from the wheels of a 747 during takeoff and blew the hell out of Carla's husband from "Cheers" with a rocket launcher when he used Alyssa Milano's life to try to convince you to come out of retirement for political assassinations, and then killed your archnemesis by impaling him with a steam conduit for emphasis. When the Predator killed your whole team including Apollo Creed and Jesse the Body, you called him an ugly motherfucker and smashed him with a log, forcing him to self-destruct. After Sharon Stone's Delilah-esque ways became just TOO much, you shot her in the head, told her to "consider that a divorce," and freed Mars. This will just be one more stunning chapter in what has been a tremendous record of moral fortitude and benevolent service of the people.
I know that you will agree with the honorable judge presiding over her sentencing and insist that Ms. Hilton pay her debt to society for the crimes she has admitted to committing.
Please prove to the world that merely being a not-that-rich media whore and professional moron is not sufficient to elevate one above the law. My faith in you is absolute. Go with God, or as about 50% of your constituents would say, vaya con dios.
Sincerely,
Razzy
I really hope the Governator writes back, especially since the Post just came out with this depressing breaking news (but props to the Post for characterizing her as a "celebutard-turned-criminal" in an extremely objective news article):
Labels: assholes, correspondence, crime and punishment, large exclamatory font, media whores, politics, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts
Fuck a murder mystery
Today as I was sorting through the volumes of e-mail I willfully ignored during my trip to the P-N-Dub, I came across this eye-catching piece of correspondence:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: Some Med Student (dipshit@columbia.edu)
Subject: MURDER MYSTERY, anyone?
Hey all,
care to indulge in a night of mystery, suspense and HIL-arity...?
Bard Hall Player's Presents TWO SHORT PLAYS:
1.) THE MOUSETRAP by Agatha Christie (Murder mystery)
and
2.) THE REAL INSPECTOR HOUND by Tom Stoppard (Spoof on murder
mysteries)
TIME: MAY 10, 11, 12 (thurs, fri, sat) at 8pm
and MAY 13 (sun) at 2pm~ Matinee show
Score! This is what I've been waiting for all year: the Columbia Medical Center's drama club performance of not just a live performance of one of those interminable "Poirot"-type PBS British murder mystery shows full of boring plot twists and French people, but what will undoubtedly be a poorly executed parody of one as well! I didn't think that sitting through their production of Guys and Dolls last fall made me experience severe suicidal ideation quite as thoroughly as I should have, so I think season tickets to the Columbia theaterfag circuit are in order.
The Bard Hall Players productions combine the worst of everything: acting of such low caliber that it makes porn stars look like Oscar-winning masters of the craft in comparison, off-key orchestral arrangements reminiscent of Hell's own string section, timing and set transitions so inept that it takes longer than a Lord of the Rings movie to finish a 90-minute script, and med students EVERYWHERE. Med students are usually hot, but don't let that deceive you. Behind those well-toned abs and layers of pomade lurks a totally fucked-up type A control freak with a snotty attitude and a propensity for complaining loudly about all the tests they have to take. Med students seem to love being drama club nerds in the Alumni Auditorium almost as much as being elliptical machine monopolizers in the gym and passive-aggressive anti-smoking Nazis on the street. That means that during a production, you have to put up with eight zillion pagers and PDAs going off, totally unnecessary lab coats-over-scrubs ensembles, and a sea of douchebags holding up the line for free Carlo Rossi red table wine at intermission. Going to see some more med students in this semester's theatrical production is on par with getting a suppository with a lit M-80 firework, although on the bright side I don't think Agatha Christie ever put any zany musical numbers in her whodunnits, so at least it's a nanosmidge above Guys and Dolls on the tolerability scale.
Fortunately, none of my close friends (ie: J-Sexy) decided to try out for the double feature murder mystery shitshow and I will not "indulge in a night of mystery, suspense, and HIL-arity" (which to me reads "suffer through a cataclysm of misery, torture, and despair") this weekend. Frankly, I would probably resort to murder if I had to sit through one of these epic nightmares, and I'm sure it would be no mystery why I whipped out an Uzi and started getting all Seung Cho on everyone's asses. And by that I mean "bitch to anyone who will listen about being annoyed and write a blog entry or something," since NYC's gun laws are a lot different from Virginia's, I don't have an Uzi (see previous item), and I have a couple moral quibbles with committing cold-blooded murder as a means of reviewing a theatrical performance. But I think I made my point.
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: Some Med Student (dipshit@columbia.edu)
Subject: MURDER MYSTERY, anyone?
Hey all,
care to indulge in a night of mystery, suspense and HIL-arity...?
Bard Hall Player's Presents TWO SHORT PLAYS:
1.) THE MOUSETRAP by Agatha Christie (Murder mystery)
and
2.) THE REAL INSPECTOR HOUND by Tom Stoppard (Spoof on murder
mysteries)
TIME: MAY 10, 11, 12 (thurs, fri, sat) at 8pm
and MAY 13 (sun) at 2pm~ Matinee show
Score! This is what I've been waiting for all year: the Columbia Medical Center's drama club performance of not just a live performance of one of those interminable "Poirot"-type PBS British murder mystery shows full of boring plot twists and French people, but what will undoubtedly be a poorly executed parody of one as well! I didn't think that sitting through their production of Guys and Dolls last fall made me experience severe suicidal ideation quite as thoroughly as I should have, so I think season tickets to the Columbia theaterfag circuit are in order.
The Bard Hall Players productions combine the worst of everything: acting of such low caliber that it makes porn stars look like Oscar-winning masters of the craft in comparison, off-key orchestral arrangements reminiscent of Hell's own string section, timing and set transitions so inept that it takes longer than a Lord of the Rings movie to finish a 90-minute script, and med students EVERYWHERE. Med students are usually hot, but don't let that deceive you. Behind those well-toned abs and layers of pomade lurks a totally fucked-up type A control freak with a snotty attitude and a propensity for complaining loudly about all the tests they have to take. Med students seem to love being drama club nerds in the Alumni Auditorium almost as much as being elliptical machine monopolizers in the gym and passive-aggressive anti-smoking Nazis on the street. That means that during a production, you have to put up with eight zillion pagers and PDAs going off, totally unnecessary lab coats-over-scrubs ensembles, and a sea of douchebags holding up the line for free Carlo Rossi red table wine at intermission. Going to see some more med students in this semester's theatrical production is on par with getting a suppository with a lit M-80 firework, although on the bright side I don't think Agatha Christie ever put any zany musical numbers in her whodunnits, so at least it's a nanosmidge above Guys and Dolls on the tolerability scale.
Fortunately, none of my close friends (ie: J-Sexy) decided to try out for the double feature murder mystery shitshow and I will not "indulge in a night of mystery, suspense, and HIL-arity" (which to me reads "suffer through a cataclysm of misery, torture, and despair") this weekend. Frankly, I would probably resort to murder if I had to sit through one of these epic nightmares, and I'm sure it would be no mystery why I whipped out an Uzi and started getting all Seung Cho on everyone's asses. And by that I mean "bitch to anyone who will listen about being annoyed and write a blog entry or something," since NYC's gun laws are a lot different from Virginia's, I don't have an Uzi (see previous item), and I have a couple moral quibbles with committing cold-blooded murder as a means of reviewing a theatrical performance. But I think I made my point.
Labels: artfaggotry, grad school bullshit, musicals suck, ranting, retard rage
Chingy! has no love
Much to everyone's (including my own) surprise, Chingy! is actually well-behaved when I cram his fat ass into his carrier like a sausage into its casing and cram him under a coach airline seat. He just proceeds with his 23-hours-per-day sleep requirement. However, he is always glad to get out and piss all over the airport once the plane lands. There is not a garbage can or ashtray outside the JFK and Sea-Tac American and Delta baggage claims that hasn't been marked by his stank uric calling card.
For whatever reason, he is almost always more enthusiastic about this at JFK than at Sea-Tac, and I can't figure out if it's because he loves New York or because he hates it. One thing is for certain, though, and that is that Chingy! seems to hate Queens. This is odd, because before I got him, he lived in Howard Beach, Queens, just a stone's throw from JFK (well, a stone's throw by outer borough terms, so a mile and a half.) Perhaps he associates it with a traumatic puppyhood. I noticed this distinctly manifested when we returned home from Christmas in the P-N-Dub, and there was a repeat performance as we headed for the Triborough Bridge yesterday.
I was too tired to suffer two hours on the trains, so we climbed into a cab. As we cruised down the Van Wyck, Chingy! sat on my lap and alternately dozed and gazed rapturously at me, at least until we reached Shea Stadium. Once the stadium came into view, he jumped up on the armrest and began barking at the stadium ferociously. The effect is actually hilarious, and my cab driver even took a break from chattering away on his bluetooth in Urdu for a minute to laugh at him as well. I had to restrain Chingy! once he started clawing on the window glass, presumably to leap from the cab and go regulate.
I have no idea why he seems to hate Shea Stadium so much, but since he's now done this twice, there must be something about it that really gets him all Puggish. Maybe Chingy! isn't a Mets fan, or maybe he strongly disapproves of building a new stadium for them to play in. Or maybe he strongly supports the new stadium because he hates Shea. It also could be because those spaceship-thingies from the World's Fair that were used in the movie Men In Black are there, and he's sick of people on the street pointing at him and saying shit like, "Hey! Men In Black dog!" I know I am fucking sick of that myself, so it's possible that Chingy! is expressing his displeasure by directing it towards a site where a pivotal scene from that movie was filmed. Unlike my usual response to the Men In Black reference ("Yeah, I'd like to see Tommy Lee Jones try to shake down his fat ass for information"), maybe Chingy!'s is expressed as rage toward anything affiliated with the film. I hope that's the truth, because that would mean that Chingy! might viciously attack Will Smith if he ever sees him in person, and forget my day, that would make my fucking life.
In any event, I ultimately had to restrain Chingy! and put him on the cab floor, where he checked the handy map of NYC and saw that we were headed back to our humble abode in Manhattan. This seemed to put him at peace. Well, either that, or the knowledge that once again he'd really told Shea Stadium what's what, and how.
CHONGAY CHONG, Queens!
For whatever reason, he is almost always more enthusiastic about this at JFK than at Sea-Tac, and I can't figure out if it's because he loves New York or because he hates it. One thing is for certain, though, and that is that Chingy! seems to hate Queens. This is odd, because before I got him, he lived in Howard Beach, Queens, just a stone's throw from JFK (well, a stone's throw by outer borough terms, so a mile and a half.) Perhaps he associates it with a traumatic puppyhood. I noticed this distinctly manifested when we returned home from Christmas in the P-N-Dub, and there was a repeat performance as we headed for the Triborough Bridge yesterday.
I was too tired to suffer two hours on the trains, so we climbed into a cab. As we cruised down the Van Wyck, Chingy! sat on my lap and alternately dozed and gazed rapturously at me, at least until we reached Shea Stadium. Once the stadium came into view, he jumped up on the armrest and began barking at the stadium ferociously. The effect is actually hilarious, and my cab driver even took a break from chattering away on his bluetooth in Urdu for a minute to laugh at him as well. I had to restrain Chingy! once he started clawing on the window glass, presumably to leap from the cab and go regulate.
I have no idea why he seems to hate Shea Stadium so much, but since he's now done this twice, there must be something about it that really gets him all Puggish. Maybe Chingy! isn't a Mets fan, or maybe he strongly disapproves of building a new stadium for them to play in. Or maybe he strongly supports the new stadium because he hates Shea. It also could be because those spaceship-thingies from the World's Fair that were used in the movie Men In Black are there, and he's sick of people on the street pointing at him and saying shit like, "Hey! Men In Black dog!" I know I am fucking sick of that myself, so it's possible that Chingy! is expressing his displeasure by directing it towards a site where a pivotal scene from that movie was filmed. Unlike my usual response to the Men In Black reference ("Yeah, I'd like to see Tommy Lee Jones try to shake down his fat ass for information"), maybe Chingy!'s is expressed as rage toward anything affiliated with the film. I hope that's the truth, because that would mean that Chingy! might viciously attack Will Smith if he ever sees him in person, and forget my day, that would make my fucking life.
In any event, I ultimately had to restrain Chingy! and put him on the cab floor, where he checked the handy map of NYC and saw that we were headed back to our humble abode in Manhattan. This seemed to put him at peace. Well, either that, or the knowledge that once again he'd really told Shea Stadium what's what, and how.
CHONGAY CHONG, Queens!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, defiance, doggity style, NYC, ridiculous absurdity
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Yes, you deserve it, ho!
Paris Hilton apparently shot her dumb mouth off about her impending trip to the clink and, as you might expect, whined like the detestable bitch she is and blamed the system:
"I told the truth yesterday. I feel that I was treated unfairly. It's both cruel and unwarranted. I don't deserve this."
Well, yes you do, you stupid twat, and here is why:
1. You pleaded no contest to DUI, where you were sentenced to probation, including a SUSPENDED LICENSE, and agreed to enter an alcohol education program.
2. You drove anyway, got pulled over, informed your license was suspended, and SIGNED A DOCUMENT ACKNOWLEDGING THAT YOU WOULD NOT DRIVE BECAUSE YOU KNOW YOUR LICENSE IS SUSPENDED.
3. You drove again anyway, got pulled over again, and the cops found the statement you signed IN YOUR FUCKING GLOVE COMPARTMENT.
Not to mention...ho was originally busted in September 2006 and had her license suspended from then on for THREE YEARS. Here she is on two occasions in October 2006, after what looks like one too many trips to the tanning salon:
Here she is in a very top-secret image taken in November 2006:
Here she is on January 17...10 days after signing that she understood she's not allowed to drive:
I have no doubt that I could find more of these pictures, but I can't stand looking at that stank bitch's ugly mug any more than I already have. In any event, all this thoroughly documented illegal driving sounds to me like it's right in keeping with what the prosecutor and judge agreed was a flagrant disregard for the law. Know what happens when people knowingly and arrogantly break the law? THIS:
The slut is getting EXACTLY what she deserves, so she needs to shut her fucking blowjob hole about this "cruel and unwarranted" bullshit. Not only is it completely warranted, it's actually less cruel to lock her herpetic ass up than suffer more pointless gossip about her running around Hollywood acting like a retarded tramp.
Not to be outmoroned by her firstborn, Paris's idiot mother also opined to the media, saying "this is pathetic and disgusting, a waste of taxpayer money with this nonsense. It's a joke." Does this stupid bitch actually expect anyone to sympathize with this point of view? She's suggesting that justice being served on criminals who consider themselves too good to be punished like the common, not-famous, not-almost-universally-hated drunk drivers of the world to be an absolute travesty. As a taxpayer, I not only wholeheartedly endorse locking up bitches who think they're above the law, but them getting anally raped with a broom handle by the meaty-armed behemoth who runs the cellblock laundry to ensure they get that authentic prison experience. It's one of the best uses of taxpayer money I can think of, unless somehow they figure out a way to ship Paris off to Fallujah to singlehandedly fight the war in Iraq, in which case I'm suddenly feeling very hawkish. As a taxpayer, that plan gets my enthusiastic support.
"I told the truth yesterday. I feel that I was treated unfairly. It's both cruel and unwarranted. I don't deserve this."
Well, yes you do, you stupid twat, and here is why:
1. You pleaded no contest to DUI, where you were sentenced to probation, including a SUSPENDED LICENSE, and agreed to enter an alcohol education program.
2. You drove anyway, got pulled over, informed your license was suspended, and SIGNED A DOCUMENT ACKNOWLEDGING THAT YOU WOULD NOT DRIVE BECAUSE YOU KNOW YOUR LICENSE IS SUSPENDED.
3. You drove again anyway, got pulled over again, and the cops found the statement you signed IN YOUR FUCKING GLOVE COMPARTMENT.
Not to mention...ho was originally busted in September 2006 and had her license suspended from then on for THREE YEARS. Here she is on two occasions in October 2006, after what looks like one too many trips to the tanning salon:
I have no doubt that I could find more of these pictures, but I can't stand looking at that stank bitch's ugly mug any more than I already have. In any event, all this thoroughly documented illegal driving sounds to me like it's right in keeping with what the prosecutor and judge agreed was a flagrant disregard for the law. Know what happens when people knowingly and arrogantly break the law? THIS:
The slut is getting EXACTLY what she deserves, so she needs to shut her fucking blowjob hole about this "cruel and unwarranted" bullshit. Not only is it completely warranted, it's actually less cruel to lock her herpetic ass up than suffer more pointless gossip about her running around Hollywood acting like a retarded tramp.
Not to be outmoroned by her firstborn, Paris's idiot mother also opined to the media, saying "this is pathetic and disgusting, a waste of taxpayer money with this nonsense. It's a joke." Does this stupid bitch actually expect anyone to sympathize with this point of view? She's suggesting that justice being served on criminals who consider themselves too good to be punished like the common, not-famous, not-almost-universally-hated drunk drivers of the world to be an absolute travesty. As a taxpayer, I not only wholeheartedly endorse locking up bitches who think they're above the law, but them getting anally raped with a broom handle by the meaty-armed behemoth who runs the cellblock laundry to ensure they get that authentic prison experience. It's one of the best uses of taxpayer money I can think of, unless somehow they figure out a way to ship Paris off to Fallujah to singlehandedly fight the war in Iraq, in which case I'm suddenly feeling very hawkish. As a taxpayer, that plan gets my enthusiastic support.
Labels: crime and punishment, media whores, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts
The Vatican blows
Well, not really...being a lifelong Catholic and a dozen-year veteran of Catholic school (read: drunken slut), I think the Vatican is rad, even if Pope Benedixteen is creepy and looks like one of the pederasts from "To Catch a Predator." Every time that asshole shows up and shoots off some bullshit about evolution or women or Muslims that sets Pope JP Dos's attempts to modernize the faith back about 700 years, I expect Chris Hansen to leap out with an expression of smug self-righteousness and a handful of chat transcripts with minors reading "jesus sez takin it in the ass is kewl lolZ! ;-*" Anyway, in addition to slinging Crusade-era rhetoric about foreign policy and the war on terror, and busting on those of us who happen to like fucking random hot people indiscriminately, it seems Benedixteen is taking a hard line approach against what Young Jeezy would call "that residue that's iPod white." I saw this blurb on the AP wire today:
This is lame. Who cares if some pathetic file clerk needs a bump or two to get through his day shredding allegations of sexual abuse against various priests worldwide? As usual, Benedixteen's policies prove to be a major buzzkill.
Unfortunately, HotLawyer hasn't passed the bar in Vatican City to represent this dude, although I'm certain he would have provided the accused cokehead with a vigorous defense, at least if the defendant's grandma could cough up his retainer. I was more curious about the sentence the man received being "suspended." If it hadn't been suspended, where exactly would they have incarcerated him? I doubt the Vatican has modern penal facilities, so presumably they'd have to dust off some old Inquisition-era rack-stretching or Iron Maiden storage room or something. I was unaware that the Vatican even had an operating legal system (besides an army of attorneys needed to cover up charges of pedophilia, anyways). Do they just have some dude sitting around in a robe and powdered wig waiting for the once-a-decade possession charge to come before his bench or is his docket full of various criminals answering for their misdeeds at the Holy See? Also, how is using cocaine immoral or against the religion. I never read in my catechism that blowing lines off my office desk is sinful. I suppose an argument could be made that it's unhealthy, as it causes heart problems and fucks with your brain, but that would apply similarly to Benedixteen's entire papacy.VATICAN CITY -- A Vatican court for the first time has issued a drug conviction, giving a former employee of the Holy See a four-month suspended sentence for cocaine use, Italian news reports said Sunday.
The man worked in a Holy See administrative office and was recently fired because an Italian criminal court had convicted him of other offenses outside the Vatican, according to La Repubblica, the Rome daily. The Vatican tribunal convicted him of possessing cocaine, which was found in a drawer in the room where he worked, La Repubblica said.
The report did not give details, including the man's name.
La Repubblica quoted a Vatican judge, Gianluigi Marrone, as saying that the Vatican's legal code does not address illegal narcotics. Instead, the judges relied on international anti-drug conventions to which the Holy See is a signatory, Marrone was quoted as saying.
Another basis for the tribunal's decision was a 1929 Vatican law which allows verdicts in cases not covered specifically by its laws but which involve injury to "health, morality and religion," La Repubblica quoted the judge as saying.
Messages seeking comment from the Vatican's judges were not immediately returned. The judges are lawyers and laymen who serve on the Vatican panel.
This is lame. Who cares if some pathetic file clerk needs a bump or two to get through his day shredding allegations of sexual abuse against various priests worldwide? As usual, Benedixteen's policies prove to be a major buzzkill.
Labels: Catholicism, crime and punishment, drugs, HotLawyer, international intrigue, Pope Benedixteen
One game to rule them all
So very soon I will be providing a full accounting of the debauchery I've been up to during what seems like a woefully short visit to the P-N-Dub. However, my liver hurts and my mind is currently occupied with my most basal inner monologue ("alcohol good", "Sig Hansen hot", "going back to lab bad", "sex fun", "dogs awesome", "sausage tasty", etc.), so I'm unfortunately not up to regaling you all with my misadventures per my usual high narrative standards. I feel as though I have all the expository skills of Chingy! right now, so epic sagas of boozed-up Razzification will have to wait. Therefore, I'll talk about what I think about when I'm not pondering the earthly delights of booze, threesomes, and "Deadliest Catch": LORD OF THE FUCKING RINGS!
A while ago, El Cyd sent me an advisory that J.R.R. Tolkien's son Christopher had made sense of some of his late father's often confusing and complicated Middle-Earth lore and published a depressing new book called The Children of Hurin. I have to say that I have not yet purchased this, because I'm rather conflicted concerning the works of Mr. Tolkien. I loved The Hobbit when I was a little kid, in spite of the fact that I find hobbits, despite their admirable qualities such as being hardy folk with natural One Ring immunity, to be annoying and provincial. However, I did not like Lord of the Rings much because the characters had too many different and/or confusing names (such as the fact that the two bad guys have to be named Saruman and Sauron, and Tolkien could have explained a little better that Gandalf also answers to "Grayhame" and "Mithrandir"), and I found this troublesome at the age of seven when I first attempted to read it. I gave up on LOTR then, and my disdain and insecurity concerning a book I could not vanquish resulted in my being very anti-LOTR until 2003. That was the year that LL Cool Jew popped in a DVD of LOTR: The Two Towers one Thanksgiving despite my staunch protests, and created a monster.
The following is an approximation of some of the comments I made during my first viewing of this movie:
-Regarding the Uruk-hai disemboweling and eating one of their number to resolve a dispute about consuming hobbit legs: "Already this is a lot fiercer than hanging around those gay-ass elves like in the last movie."
-Regarding the Golden Halls of Edoras, capital of Rohan: "Uff da! Those are Vikings! THOSE ARE MY PEOPLE! SKOAL!"
-Regarding Sam and Frodo's burgeoning romance: "It must make the road to Mordor a lot easier when you have a loyal bottom to suck you off beneath your elven cloak at night."
-Regarding Gollum/Smeagol: "Bring out the gimp!"
-Regarding Gandalf's summarily handing Grima Wormtongue and Saruman their bitch asses with his new head-wizard-in-charge status and white robe to match: "If he weren't a gay old man I'd do him so seriously it's not even funny."
-Regarding Aragorn son of Arathorn and Legolas Greenleaf (the least pussified role of Orlando Bloom's life): "I'd let them make me a sandwich."
-Regarding everything having to do with Gimli son of Gloin: "Dude, I think I'm in love. With a dwarf."
-Regarding the Battle of Helm's Deep: "Oh. My. GOD! YES! Sound the horn of Helm Hammerhand one last time! Sound it!"
-Regarding the end when Treebeard and the Ents lay waste to Isengard: "Finally the environment does something useful!"
Anyway, you can see that I was immediately enchanted, which led to LL Cool Jew and I having many conversations, e-mails, and text messages related to LOTR awesomeness in the years since. We refer to things we particularly enjoy as "the precious," and when preparing to go out will toss around awesome quotes like "muster the Rohirrim!" We describe Chingy!'s asshole using Tolkien's description of the Eye of Sauron: "a great Eye, lidless, wreathed in flame." You can imagine how nuts both of us, as Smith College alumnae, went during LOTR: Return of the King when Eowyn of Rohan (or "the Razzy of Middle-Earth" due to the Nordic features she and I share) shouted "I am no man!" and stabbed the Witch-King of Angmar in the face during the Battle of Minas Tirith. I promptly reread the books and found them much easier to manage at the age of 25 than seven, and I went out and bought all the DVD extended editions upon release, which LL Cool Jew and I would randomly watch whenever we were bored back during our stint as roommates. I have a LOTR edition of Risk that came with a replica of the One Ring, complete with the fell script of Mordor on it (although it does not make me turn invisible or wraith-like), which we would sometimes wear while we watched. It's fucking really nerdy, but I'm not ashamed. I fucking love LOTR.
However, my love for the entirety of Tolkien's work is not so broad-sweeping. I may have read and re-read LOTR and all its accompanying appendices, but I tried to get into The Silmarilion and couldn't. For one thing, it was full of those damn elf poetry, and that shit is indirect, meandering, boring, and generally irritating as shit. Usually when I'd come across the song of Luthien Tinuviel or whatever in LOTR, I'd just skip it, so that correspondingly meant I skipped most of The Silmarilion. I don't really give a shit about the mythology or detailed history of Middle-Earth unless it has to do with great battles, so fuck that. Therefore, I'm waiting to pick up The Children of Hurin until someone tells me that it's worth doing so.
However, I was recently alerted to another new release concerning LOTR that I am much more enthusiastic about. Naturally, LL Cool Jew, my partner in epic geekery, married a man just as nerdy as herself, and he sent us both this e-mail the other day:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org), LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
From: BigBagel (bigbagel@pulitzerprizewinningdirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
Subject: my life would be over
i was wondering what you two would think of this:
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/05/04/arts/04lord.html
there's no doubt in my mind that if my home computer weren't such a flaming
piece of shit i'd be online the second i got home creating my own gimli-like
character and wreaking some Middle-Earth havoc until I got bad carpal-tunnel.
ll cool jew, no offense, but if the game is half as dope as they claim, our sex
life would grind to a halt for a while. so would my good hygiene, diet and
sleep cycle.
If you clicked on the above link, you will see that it is a review of this:
Yes, this is the new Lord of the Rings online multiplayer game, LOTR: Shadows of Angmar. I immediately went to the game's website to check it out, as I was certain that anything BigBagel would so enthusiastically cause problems in his fledgling marriage for was indeed the nerd hotness of the century. I read the description:
I have not been so excited since "90210" seasons one and two dropped on DVD. It's truly a shame that I question my own home computer's ability to handle the system requirements for a game like this, and that it costs $50 plus a $15 monthly subscription, because I'd fully make a character like this dude and start tearing shit up myself.
Yes, that's Eomer, Viking brother of the hotness that is Eowyn aka Middle-Earth Razzy, loyal subject of Theoden King, and Third Marshal of the Horse-Lords of the Riddermark, and in his guise or something similar, I'd be smoting the ruin of nerds on the online mountainside right and left. It's a good thing I can neither afford nor technologically support this game that would probably result in my never getting laid again except in the former of cybersex with some pimple-faced virtual Man of Numenor on an online lice-filled straw tick mattress during a brief stopover at The Prancing Pony in Bree.
Seriously, if I had more time, computer power, or money, I'd rapidly devolve into some kind of nerd addict and end up on that "Intervention" show. Finally, I have a reason to be grateful for poverty. My status as a semi-normal person on the real (not Middle) earth is clearly dependent upon it.
A while ago, El Cyd sent me an advisory that J.R.R. Tolkien's son Christopher had made sense of some of his late father's often confusing and complicated Middle-Earth lore and published a depressing new book called The Children of Hurin. I have to say that I have not yet purchased this, because I'm rather conflicted concerning the works of Mr. Tolkien. I loved The Hobbit when I was a little kid, in spite of the fact that I find hobbits, despite their admirable qualities such as being hardy folk with natural One Ring immunity, to be annoying and provincial. However, I did not like Lord of the Rings much because the characters had too many different and/or confusing names (such as the fact that the two bad guys have to be named Saruman and Sauron, and Tolkien could have explained a little better that Gandalf also answers to "Grayhame" and "Mithrandir"), and I found this troublesome at the age of seven when I first attempted to read it. I gave up on LOTR then, and my disdain and insecurity concerning a book I could not vanquish resulted in my being very anti-LOTR until 2003. That was the year that LL Cool Jew popped in a DVD of LOTR: The Two Towers one Thanksgiving despite my staunch protests, and created a monster.
The following is an approximation of some of the comments I made during my first viewing of this movie:
-Regarding the Uruk-hai disemboweling and eating one of their number to resolve a dispute about consuming hobbit legs: "Already this is a lot fiercer than hanging around those gay-ass elves like in the last movie."
-Regarding the Golden Halls of Edoras, capital of Rohan: "Uff da! Those are Vikings! THOSE ARE MY PEOPLE! SKOAL!"
-Regarding Sam and Frodo's burgeoning romance: "It must make the road to Mordor a lot easier when you have a loyal bottom to suck you off beneath your elven cloak at night."
-Regarding Gollum/Smeagol: "Bring out the gimp!"
-Regarding Gandalf's summarily handing Grima Wormtongue and Saruman their bitch asses with his new head-wizard-in-charge status and white robe to match: "If he weren't a gay old man I'd do him so seriously it's not even funny."
-Regarding Aragorn son of Arathorn and Legolas Greenleaf (the least pussified role of Orlando Bloom's life): "I'd let them make me a sandwich."
-Regarding everything having to do with Gimli son of Gloin: "Dude, I think I'm in love. With a dwarf."
-Regarding the Battle of Helm's Deep: "Oh. My. GOD! YES! Sound the horn of Helm Hammerhand one last time! Sound it!"
-Regarding the end when Treebeard and the Ents lay waste to Isengard: "Finally the environment does something useful!"
Anyway, you can see that I was immediately enchanted, which led to LL Cool Jew and I having many conversations, e-mails, and text messages related to LOTR awesomeness in the years since. We refer to things we particularly enjoy as "the precious," and when preparing to go out will toss around awesome quotes like "muster the Rohirrim!" We describe Chingy!'s asshole using Tolkien's description of the Eye of Sauron: "a great Eye, lidless, wreathed in flame." You can imagine how nuts both of us, as Smith College alumnae, went during LOTR: Return of the King when Eowyn of Rohan (or "the Razzy of Middle-Earth" due to the Nordic features she and I share) shouted "I am no man!" and stabbed the Witch-King of Angmar in the face during the Battle of Minas Tirith. I promptly reread the books and found them much easier to manage at the age of 25 than seven, and I went out and bought all the DVD extended editions upon release, which LL Cool Jew and I would randomly watch whenever we were bored back during our stint as roommates. I have a LOTR edition of Risk that came with a replica of the One Ring, complete with the fell script of Mordor on it (although it does not make me turn invisible or wraith-like), which we would sometimes wear while we watched. It's fucking really nerdy, but I'm not ashamed. I fucking love LOTR.
However, my love for the entirety of Tolkien's work is not so broad-sweeping. I may have read and re-read LOTR and all its accompanying appendices, but I tried to get into The Silmarilion and couldn't. For one thing, it was full of those damn elf poetry, and that shit is indirect, meandering, boring, and generally irritating as shit. Usually when I'd come across the song of Luthien Tinuviel or whatever in LOTR, I'd just skip it, so that correspondingly meant I skipped most of The Silmarilion. I don't really give a shit about the mythology or detailed history of Middle-Earth unless it has to do with great battles, so fuck that. Therefore, I'm waiting to pick up The Children of Hurin until someone tells me that it's worth doing so.
However, I was recently alerted to another new release concerning LOTR that I am much more enthusiastic about. Naturally, LL Cool Jew, my partner in epic geekery, married a man just as nerdy as herself, and he sent us both this e-mail the other day:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org), LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
From: BigBagel (bigbagel@pulitzerprizewinningdirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
Subject: my life would be over
i was wondering what you two would think of this:
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/05/04/arts/04lord.html
there's no doubt in my mind that if my home computer weren't such a flaming
piece of shit i'd be online the second i got home creating my own gimli-like
character and wreaking some Middle-Earth havoc until I got bad carpal-tunnel.
ll cool jew, no offense, but if the game is half as dope as they claim, our sex
life would grind to a halt for a while. so would my good hygiene, diet and
sleep cycle.
If you clicked on the above link, you will see that it is a review of this:
Yes, this is the new Lord of the Rings online multiplayer game, LOTR: Shadows of Angmar. I immediately went to the game's website to check it out, as I was certain that anything BigBagel would so enthusiastically cause problems in his fledgling marriage for was indeed the nerd hotness of the century. I read the description:
ONE GAME TO RULE THEM ALL!Then I checked out some screenshots of the game. Needless to say, after scrolling through shot after shot of chain-mail clad warriors in virtual New Zealand doing epic combat with all manner of orc, troll, and Ringwraith, I had the mental equivalent of a raging hard-on. This one, of an extremely Chingy!fied-looking cave troll in full battle armor, is my particular favorite.
Join the greatest epic of all time!
For the first time, you can immerse yourself in the only authentic, persistent online recreation of Middle-Earth to explore legendary lands, interact with famous characters like Gandalf and Aragorn, and create your own heroic story. The War of the Ring has commenced!
As the Fellowship embarks on their quest to destroy the One Ring, you must defend the Free Peoples against Sauron's evil minion, the Nazgul Witch-King. Adventure solo or forge fellowships, battle hideous monsters, and rise to fame in the most epic MMO ever launched!
I have not been so excited since "90210" seasons one and two dropped on DVD. It's truly a shame that I question my own home computer's ability to handle the system requirements for a game like this, and that it costs $50 plus a $15 monthly subscription, because I'd fully make a character like this dude and start tearing shit up myself.
Yes, that's Eomer, Viking brother of the hotness that is Eowyn aka Middle-Earth Razzy, loyal subject of Theoden King, and Third Marshal of the Horse-Lords of the Riddermark, and in his guise or something similar, I'd be smoting the ruin of nerds on the online mountainside right and left. It's a good thing I can neither afford nor technologically support this game that would probably result in my never getting laid again except in the former of cybersex with some pimple-faced virtual Man of Numenor on an online lice-filled straw tick mattress during a brief stopover at The Prancing Pony in Bree.
Seriously, if I had more time, computer power, or money, I'd rapidly devolve into some kind of nerd addict and end up on that "Intervention" show. Finally, I have a reason to be grateful for poverty. My status as a semi-normal person on the real (not Middle) earth is clearly dependent upon it.
Labels: BigBagel, CHONGAY CHONG, epic geekery, I LOVE IT, LL Cool Jew, nerd alert, Razzification
Friday, May 04, 2007
Throw away the key!!!!
Today is the greatest day of the year so far. I may be sleep deprived, hung over, and afflicted with tonsils the size of golf balls (I blame the giving of enthusiastic oral for the acute case of lymphoadenopathy I'm suffering from, although more on that later), but none of that matters. What does matter is this:
HELL YES!!!!! Paris Hilton was sentenced to 45 days in the Century Regional Detention Facility starting June 5th! She tried to say some bullshit about how her rep lied and said that she didn't know her license was suspended, but the judge wasn't having any of it. He called her rep's testimony "worthless" and told her to shut the fuck up, since the last time she got pulled over there was a document in the glove box SIGNED BY HER acknowledging that she wasn't allowed to drive. Paris cried and apologized to no avail. Make like Justin Timberlake and cry me a river, slut!
Afterwards, Paris's mom bitched about all the money they'd wasted on Paris's defense and called the prosecutor "pathetic". Yeah, if by "pathetic" she means "the greatest American hero since General George Washington." Seriously, they should carve LA City Attorney Rocky Delgadillo's visage into Mount Rushmore for being an undisputed super pimp. I can't think of any adjective for this guy besides a very emphatic CALIENTE.
LL Cool Jew texted me a big "Congrats baby!!!!!" along with the news. Congrats to the world! A time of peace and prosperity has come to the world subsequent to the communal knowledge that Paris will be watching season five of "The Simple Life" from beneath some nasty Bertha's bristly arm in the pokey weight room. I predict an end to wars and the ushering in of a new golden age for our civilization. God bless us, everyone.
Labels: comeuppance, crime and punishment, I LOVE IT, LL Cool Jew, media whores, sluts
Thursday, May 03, 2007
I know shit about math
So these two future tri-Lambdas watched ATL followed by Stand and Deliver, were subsequently inspired (probably by the AWESOME part in S&D where this real cholo type asks Edward James Olmos, "ay, what the hell is this cal-coo-lis, man?"), and decided to make a video parodying T.I.'s "What You Know" concerning their prowess at Mathletics. These douchebags call themselves the TI-84 and -E and dropped the video, entitled "What You Know About Math," on YouTube.
In fairness, for about three weeks in the sixth grade, I was a member of All Saints School (ASS)'s Mathcounts team, until it became apparent to everyone that I suck horribly at math. Also, I couldn't stand Mrs. Corey, the sixth grade teacher and Mathcounts coach. She wore horrible clothes (ie: acrylic sweater dresses with puffed sleeves, shoulder pads, and mock turtleneck...EW!) that were always covered with her nasty toddlers' sticky peanut butter handprints, judging by her astonishingly rank B.O. she eschewed deodorant, and she once busted me for reading The Grapes of Wrath while I was supposed to be paying attention to her worthless lecture about decimals or whatever. She actually told me that I was setting a terrible example for the other students as she prised Steinbeck's great American novel from my hands. To this day I am wracked with guilt for setting the horrible example of voluntarily reading Nobel-prize winning classics for my peers.
Anyway, it seems that my intolerance for Mrs. Corey and my insecurity about always being beaten at rapid-fire fraction solving by a dude who, six years later, I would be dating and having wild, stoned sex with on the grave of Ezra Meeker, founder of Puyallup and marker of the Oregon Trail, resulted in my angry departure from the ASS Mathcounts team. At the age of twelve, with our shared perversions years away in the distant future, I did not like him repeatedly beating me in long division contests. The fact that I smoked his ass in the Spelling and Geography Bees three years in a row did little to console me, so I abandoned any hopes of glory as a mathlete. Seeing these dudes in the video above just reaffirmed for me that had I doggedly pursued logarithmic glory, I'd be pledging the Omega Mu sorority in a huge way and these would be the types of guys available to me for fucking. LAME.
Thank God I don't know all about math. Besides, isn't that what calculators and Microsoft Excel are for? So nobody HAS to know about math. Fuck math!
[RAZZY EDIT: I just noticed a note in the description of this video on YouTube that I'm apparently supposed to contact these pizza-faced, pocket protector-wearing dweebs for PERMISSION to embed the video on my website. Are they fucking joking? Apparently, producing a "viral video" has gone to their heads and resulted in their socially inept asses making absurd and unreasonable demands. If they want to control its distribution, then TAKE IT OFF YOUTUBE, YOU FUCKING MATHLETIC MORONS! What are they going to do...send me a e-mail filled with mean equations about me (ie:TI-84 featuring -E>>>>Razzy)? Besides, even if they are champion mathletes, how dare they suggest I might not meet their nerd requirements for embedding their (publicly available) video? I can outgeek them in my sleep: I am getting a Ph.D in SCIENCE from an IVY LEAGUE SCHOOL, I can smote their ruin upon the mountainside at the game of Risk, I read both Eragon and its sequel, and I own all three extended edition Lord of the Rings DVDs. Checkmate, you little nerdlings!]
In fairness, for about three weeks in the sixth grade, I was a member of All Saints School (ASS)'s Mathcounts team, until it became apparent to everyone that I suck horribly at math. Also, I couldn't stand Mrs. Corey, the sixth grade teacher and Mathcounts coach. She wore horrible clothes (ie: acrylic sweater dresses with puffed sleeves, shoulder pads, and mock turtleneck...EW!) that were always covered with her nasty toddlers' sticky peanut butter handprints, judging by her astonishingly rank B.O. she eschewed deodorant, and she once busted me for reading The Grapes of Wrath while I was supposed to be paying attention to her worthless lecture about decimals or whatever. She actually told me that I was setting a terrible example for the other students as she prised Steinbeck's great American novel from my hands. To this day I am wracked with guilt for setting the horrible example of voluntarily reading Nobel-prize winning classics for my peers.
Anyway, it seems that my intolerance for Mrs. Corey and my insecurity about always being beaten at rapid-fire fraction solving by a dude who, six years later, I would be dating and having wild, stoned sex with on the grave of Ezra Meeker, founder of Puyallup and marker of the Oregon Trail, resulted in my angry departure from the ASS Mathcounts team. At the age of twelve, with our shared perversions years away in the distant future, I did not like him repeatedly beating me in long division contests. The fact that I smoked his ass in the Spelling and Geography Bees three years in a row did little to console me, so I abandoned any hopes of glory as a mathlete. Seeing these dudes in the video above just reaffirmed for me that had I doggedly pursued logarithmic glory, I'd be pledging the Omega Mu sorority in a huge way and these would be the types of guys available to me for fucking. LAME.
Thank God I don't know all about math. Besides, isn't that what calculators and Microsoft Excel are for? So nobody HAS to know about math. Fuck math!
[RAZZY EDIT: I just noticed a note in the description of this video on YouTube that I'm apparently supposed to contact these pizza-faced, pocket protector-wearing dweebs for PERMISSION to embed the video on my website. Are they fucking joking? Apparently, producing a "viral video" has gone to their heads and resulted in their socially inept asses making absurd and unreasonable demands. If they want to control its distribution, then TAKE IT OFF YOUTUBE, YOU FUCKING MATHLETIC MORONS! What are they going to do...send me a e-mail filled with mean equations about me (ie:TI-84 featuring -E>>>>Razzy)? Besides, even if they are champion mathletes, how dare they suggest I might not meet their nerd requirements for embedding their (publicly available) video? I can outgeek them in my sleep: I am getting a Ph.D in SCIENCE from an IVY LEAGUE SCHOOL, I can smote their ruin upon the mountainside at the game of Risk, I read both Eragon and its sequel, and I own all three extended edition Lord of the Rings DVDs. Checkmate, you little nerdlings!]
Labels: brainiacs, fuck math, media whores, Razzification, small penises, you're ugly
Christmas might come early
Like the rest of the mentally competent world, Los Angeles prosecutors have had enough of Paris Hilton. After she repeatedly violated her probation by publicly drinking, driving multiple times with a suspended license, and failing to sign up for the mandatory alcohol education program that was part of her original DUI sentence, the LA City Attorney has decided to try and put this dumb bitch in jail. Per TMZ.com:
I can only hope that when she shows up for her revised sentencing tomorrow, she gets some notorious hanging judge who is itching to make an example out of her lesion-encrusted ass. Forty-five days of blissfully Paris-free celebrity gossip, along with the satisfying knowledge that she's experiencing all sorts of unimaginable indignities at the hands of a three hundred pound convicted MS-13 illegal gun dealer, is like the best Christmas present a girl could ask for. Seriously, I'd rather have this than a new car or a diamond tiara.
Time to pay the fiddler, whore!
The legal papers ask that "Hilton be ordered to serve 45 days in County Jail." Prosecutors also want her to be ordered "not to consume any alcohol for a continuous period of 90 days." During that 90-day period, prosecutors want her "to be monitored for alcohol consumption ... by use of a Secure Continuous Remote Alcohol Monitoring (SCRAM) device at her expense.Rock on, LA City Attorney. I can't wait to see this dumb twat get her ass destroyed by the fierce bulldykes in the slammer for starting what will undoubtedly be one of the most virulent and transmissible herpes outbreaks in prison history since Heidi Fleiss cooled her heels there. I've felt that Paris Hilton should be incarcerated for some time. Much to my vehement objection, it seems like confusing the possessive form of "your" for the contraction "you're" is not a jailworthy offense, nor is generally being an insufferable cunt and media whore, nor is fucking Joe Francis (unless, of course, you're Joe Francis, who deserves every cornholing he's probably getting right now in Florida):
Time to pay the fiddler, whore!
Labels: alcoholism, assholes, comeuppance, crime and punishment, driving, I LOVE IT, sluts
The proof is in the pussy-loving hat
LL Cool Jew's abilities as a highly trained graduate of THE Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism have proved themselves yet again, as she has solved the greatest mystery currently confounding Hollywood gossip aficionados: is Lindsay Lohan licking snatch, or is she not?
I received the following e-mail from LL Cool Jew this morning with several compromising photographs and LL Cool Jew's commentary:
is this perhaps a subtle reference to her allegedly lesbish fling with that girl dj?? you know the one...
Indeed I do. "That girl dj" is this chick, Samantha Ronson, who would be awesome because she's the daughter of Mick Jones from Foreigner and has a deal with Roc-A-Fella records, except she runs around with Lindsay Lohan acting like a complete and total celebutante tool most of the time. She also lists "turntabology" as her musical style on her MySpace page, and that annoys me...since when did spinning shitty house music at Hyde or whatever become a fucking science? Anyway, take one gander at Samantha Ronson, and see if you agree that this chick is awash in a super dykified aura:
Yes, the only way it could be more obvious that Samantha Ronson likes to stick her face in that firecrotch is if she put that peace sign up to her face and started flicking her tongue through it. She and Lohan have probably exchanged matching friendship bracelets by now.
Anyway, the pictures that LL Cool Jew directed me to are these, and I think they basically close the book on whether or not Lohan is hitting that hot butchy mess above:
YES! Lindsay Lohan gives a millinery shoutout to my alma mater, the most famous liberal arts institution of higher learning catering to wealthy white box-munchers in America: Smith College, baby! And why would Lindsay be showing love for Smith and repping 413? She certainly didn't go there, but maybe if she were to pursue a bachelor of arts, it would be her first choice. Smith is basically famous for three things: depressed poets, feminazis, and dykestravaganza, so unless Lohan is secretly a closet Sylvia Plath fan or really LOVED reading Revolution from Within (assuming she can read), I'm betting that this is a coded message to all the women-loving women.
Samantha Ronson is tapping that vadge for sure. Go Pioneers!
I received the following e-mail from LL Cool Jew this morning with several compromising photographs and LL Cool Jew's commentary:
is this perhaps a subtle reference to her allegedly lesbish fling with that girl dj?? you know the one...
Indeed I do. "That girl dj" is this chick, Samantha Ronson, who would be awesome because she's the daughter of Mick Jones from Foreigner and has a deal with Roc-A-Fella records, except she runs around with Lindsay Lohan acting like a complete and total celebutante tool most of the time. She also lists "turntabology" as her musical style on her MySpace page, and that annoys me...since when did spinning shitty house music at Hyde or whatever become a fucking science? Anyway, take one gander at Samantha Ronson, and see if you agree that this chick is awash in a super dykified aura:
Anyway, the pictures that LL Cool Jew directed me to are these, and I think they basically close the book on whether or not Lohan is hitting that hot butchy mess above:
Samantha Ronson is tapping that vadge for sure. Go Pioneers!
Labels: celebrities, Dumb Smith bitches, lezbollah, LL Cool Jew, media whores, sex, sluts
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Let the healing begin
For those of you who thought that pain caused by Seung-hui Cho shooting up Virginia Tech would never go away, you can relax. My boyfriend is here to help, and he's dressed in an appropriately authoritative manner to put everyone's mind at ease. Never fear, Tech...Lieutenant Colonel Kells is here, looking for a few solid barely legal teenagers to piss on console.
It seems that while on his way to a mind-blowingly awesome show somewhere outside of the Chi, he became absorbed with cable news coverage of the tragedy at Virginia Tech, and immediately took it upon himself to right the wrongs done to the Hokie Spirit. His new song "Rise Up," which presumably will be more along the lines of "I Wish" and "I Believe I Can Fly" than "Feelin' on Yo Booty" or "R&B Thug" in terms of tone, is supposed to inspire the devastated community at Virginia Tech to overcome their grief and pain and will raise money for the memorial fund established in the names of those blown away by the socially inept loser and aspiring playwright Seung Cho. Besides, nothing brings a fresh breeze of hope to the lank sails of the despairing like the inspirational gleam of a 20-karat diamond pinky ring reflecting in a stage light:
Just looking at him soulfully exhorting the Hokie faithful to "Rise Up" in his finest funereal bling and his somber black do-rag is bringing a tear to my cruel eye and an uncomfortable sensation that I think could be characterized as warmth to my icy heart.
Labels: boyfriends, I LOVE IT, people who died, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
The P-N-Dub versus the Volcano
One of the things about the P-N-Dub (and that means PACIFIC NORTHWEST, to the many people who STILL haven't figured that out in spite of my explaining it several different times) that is notable besides the abundance of salmon, coffee, Costcos, and Windows billionaires, is our lovely natural scenery. We have beautiful bays, verdant year-round evergreen forests, mighty rivers (as anyone who, like me, repeatedly failed at successfully sailing their wagon down the Columbia River from the Dalles at the end of the elementary school "Oregon Trail" computer game can attest), crashing Pacific surf, and majestic mountains. Our largest and most famous mountain, for which our tastiest and most famous local beer Vitamin R is formally named, can be seen here in all its snow-capped glory: Mt. Rainier, known as "Tahoma" by the local Native American tribes, towering over Tacoma, a city whose name is also derived from its magnificence.
Yes, it's very breathtaking and awe-inspiring (as is the hideously triangular outdoor wallpaper design on the Tacompton Dome). Adding to its impressiveness is the fact that Mt. Rainier is an active volcano. It hasn't erupted in 500 years, but apparently it's due any time now. After Mt. St. Helens erupted in 1980, it occurred to the US geological survey that Mt. Rainier might also blow its top. However, unlike Mt. St. Helens, which is in the middle of buttfuck nowhere, Mt. Rainier towers over the heavily populated Seattle-Tacoma metropolitan area, the land that spawned yours truly. Therefore, the possibility for mass casualties and subsequent FEMA ineptitude in the event of a catastrophic eruption is considerably more worrisome regarding Rainier than St. Helens.
Apparently the big eruption, when it occurs, will not be like those you see on a tropical island or like what happened at the end of LOTR: Return of the King after the One Ring was destroyed, with lava spouting out and flowing everywhere. There will be plenty of lava, but nobody will be able to see it unless they are inside the crater at the time of eruption, a vantage point that equates to instant death. All that magma trying to spurt out of the mountain will hit the underside of Rainier's scenic snowy peak, which is actually billions of gallons of water frozen into several huge-ass glaciers. Those glaciers will instantly liquefy, forming clouds of superheated sulfuric acid gas (called the "pyroclastic flow") and giant walls of boiling mud (called "lahars") that will rocket down the mountainside at the speed of an F-16 fighter jet. While the pyroclastic flow can mix with the hot ash flying out of the mountain to create severe lightning storms and sulfuric acid rainstorms and that's pretty dangerous, the lahars are worse. They will pick up everything, from houses to giant boulders to entire forests, as they speed down the mountain to destroy the towns below. Obviously when the geologists realized that this has a very high probability of happening sometime within the next century, they concluded that maybe a little planning was in order.
My high school best friend G-Boner grew up about ten minutes away from my parents' house in a town called Orting. Orting is located in a valley at the confluence of several riverbeds formed by ancient glaciers leaking off Mt. Rainier. If the mountain erupts, geologists say it's highly likely that a lahar 30-100 feet in height will bury Orting almost immediately. They estimate that the people in Orting will have 30-40 minutes to evacuate before its curtains for them. This is so imminent that when I was in college, a lot of my friends took a Rocks for Jocks course called "Natural Disasters." The hypothetical eruption of Mt. Rainier formed the basis for the ENTIRE COURSE, and everyone in it had to form a group and make a detailed presentation about all the ways my hometown and the surrounding areas are seriously, unequivocally, unfixably fucked. A couple of my friends formed a group and actually incorporated video footage of an interview with me answering questions like, "How does it feel to live in the shadow of impending destruction?" and "Do you experience any anxiety that your friends, family, dog, and everything you grew up knowing might be wiped out at any moment?" and (my favorite) "Are you terrified of seismic activity?" (One popular theory is that an earthquake might set off an eruption).
Fortunately, I don't have to experience constant anxiety while I'm home visiting the P-N-Dub, because the area is prepared. Valleys that will presumably be buried in lahars have installed sirens, and there are various emergency notification alert systems using phones, radio, and TV announcements that will warn us to drop what we're doing and get the fuck out of the lahar zone. For several years, signs advising people of "volcano evacuation routes" have been placed at the bottom of various elevated areas, and basically instruct people that in the event of an eruption, they should literally head for the hills.
I arrived back in the P-N-Dub right in time for a Pierce County-wide lahar drill. Apparently, a bunch of the sirens in such distinguished towns as McMillen and Alderton didn't work, and now the county is freaking out. Apparently, even though these towns have a killer view of the Rainier, none of the inbred dumbasses living there will be perturbed when they hear really loud EXPLODING SOUND, look up, and notice A GIANT FUCKING MUSHROOM CLOUD COMING OUT OF IT:
By the way, that's Mt. St. Helens, and it's like Rainier's kid sister. St. Helens was way smaller, with substantially less glacial mass on top of it, and this is what it did. Mt. Rainier's emissions will be at least twice as big and frightening. If you can't see the fucking mushroom cloud coming out of Rainier, then you had better be blind, because I don't see how you could miss it otherwise. Even if one of these valley-dwellers is too blind or stupid to see an intact mushroom cloud, one would think that sky being blotted out by a huge Apocalyptic-looking curtain of volcanic ash would suggest that it might be time to check out that volcano evacuation route. This is another picture from when St. Helens erupted in 1980. I guarantee that if I walked outside and saw this going on, I wouldn't respond by shrugging and noting, "Wow, the sky sure does look weird today." I mean, we are also famous for our cloudy skies here in the P-N-Dub, but there's overcast with a slight chance of rain and then there's overcast with a 100% chance of Biblically proportioned fire and brimstone, and this is the latter.
My personal opinion is that if the mountain blows and you need a siren or a phone call from the county sheriff to tell you that it's time to make like a tree and leave your double-wide behind alongside the Orting-Kapowsin highway, you would be doing our species a favor by staying right where you are and allowing the lahars to crush you and all those in your inferior gene pool to dust. Who needs eugenics when we've got mother nature, right?
On the bright side, when the mountain blows, my family and I will probably all get FEMA checks to spend on bags of oo-wee and baby mama's new weaves. Since all the dumb people will have succumbed to the fury of the lahars because they were too busy sitting around their sketchily financed Rent-a-Center flatscreens watching NASCAR and cooking meth to evacuate, and will subsequently be dead, there will be plenty of disaster relief to go around for the rest of us to spend inappropriately. Score!
Apparently the big eruption, when it occurs, will not be like those you see on a tropical island or like what happened at the end of LOTR: Return of the King after the One Ring was destroyed, with lava spouting out and flowing everywhere. There will be plenty of lava, but nobody will be able to see it unless they are inside the crater at the time of eruption, a vantage point that equates to instant death. All that magma trying to spurt out of the mountain will hit the underside of Rainier's scenic snowy peak, which is actually billions of gallons of water frozen into several huge-ass glaciers. Those glaciers will instantly liquefy, forming clouds of superheated sulfuric acid gas (called the "pyroclastic flow") and giant walls of boiling mud (called "lahars") that will rocket down the mountainside at the speed of an F-16 fighter jet. While the pyroclastic flow can mix with the hot ash flying out of the mountain to create severe lightning storms and sulfuric acid rainstorms and that's pretty dangerous, the lahars are worse. They will pick up everything, from houses to giant boulders to entire forests, as they speed down the mountain to destroy the towns below. Obviously when the geologists realized that this has a very high probability of happening sometime within the next century, they concluded that maybe a little planning was in order.
My high school best friend G-Boner grew up about ten minutes away from my parents' house in a town called Orting. Orting is located in a valley at the confluence of several riverbeds formed by ancient glaciers leaking off Mt. Rainier. If the mountain erupts, geologists say it's highly likely that a lahar 30-100 feet in height will bury Orting almost immediately. They estimate that the people in Orting will have 30-40 minutes to evacuate before its curtains for them. This is so imminent that when I was in college, a lot of my friends took a Rocks for Jocks course called "Natural Disasters." The hypothetical eruption of Mt. Rainier formed the basis for the ENTIRE COURSE, and everyone in it had to form a group and make a detailed presentation about all the ways my hometown and the surrounding areas are seriously, unequivocally, unfixably fucked. A couple of my friends formed a group and actually incorporated video footage of an interview with me answering questions like, "How does it feel to live in the shadow of impending destruction?" and "Do you experience any anxiety that your friends, family, dog, and everything you grew up knowing might be wiped out at any moment?" and (my favorite) "Are you terrified of seismic activity?" (One popular theory is that an earthquake might set off an eruption).
Fortunately, I don't have to experience constant anxiety while I'm home visiting the P-N-Dub, because the area is prepared. Valleys that will presumably be buried in lahars have installed sirens, and there are various emergency notification alert systems using phones, radio, and TV announcements that will warn us to drop what we're doing and get the fuck out of the lahar zone. For several years, signs advising people of "volcano evacuation routes" have been placed at the bottom of various elevated areas, and basically instruct people that in the event of an eruption, they should literally head for the hills.
I arrived back in the P-N-Dub right in time for a Pierce County-wide lahar drill. Apparently, a bunch of the sirens in such distinguished towns as McMillen and Alderton didn't work, and now the county is freaking out. Apparently, even though these towns have a killer view of the Rainier, none of the inbred dumbasses living there will be perturbed when they hear really loud EXPLODING SOUND, look up, and notice A GIANT FUCKING MUSHROOM CLOUD COMING OUT OF IT:
By the way, that's Mt. St. Helens, and it's like Rainier's kid sister. St. Helens was way smaller, with substantially less glacial mass on top of it, and this is what it did. Mt. Rainier's emissions will be at least twice as big and frightening. If you can't see the fucking mushroom cloud coming out of Rainier, then you had better be blind, because I don't see how you could miss it otherwise. Even if one of these valley-dwellers is too blind or stupid to see an intact mushroom cloud, one would think that sky being blotted out by a huge Apocalyptic-looking curtain of volcanic ash would suggest that it might be time to check out that volcano evacuation route. This is another picture from when St. Helens erupted in 1980. I guarantee that if I walked outside and saw this going on, I wouldn't respond by shrugging and noting, "Wow, the sky sure does look weird today." I mean, we are also famous for our cloudy skies here in the P-N-Dub, but there's overcast with a slight chance of rain and then there's overcast with a 100% chance of Biblically proportioned fire and brimstone, and this is the latter.
My personal opinion is that if the mountain blows and you need a siren or a phone call from the county sheriff to tell you that it's time to make like a tree and leave your double-wide behind alongside the Orting-Kapowsin highway, you would be doing our species a favor by staying right where you are and allowing the lahars to crush you and all those in your inferior gene pool to dust. Who needs eugenics when we've got mother nature, right?
On the bright side, when the mountain blows, my family and I will probably all get FEMA checks to spend on bags of oo-wee and baby mama's new weaves. Since all the dumb people will have succumbed to the fury of the lahars because they were too busy sitting around their sketchily financed Rent-a-Center flatscreens watching NASCAR and cooking meth to evacuate, and will subsequently be dead, there will be plenty of disaster relief to go around for the rest of us to spend inappropriately. Score!
Labels: natural disaster, oh the horror, P-N-Dub, tragedy
Catching crabs
The Crab Feed, a fundraiser for my high school which is the reason for my trip back to the P-N-Dub every April, was a smashing success. For one thing, my parents and all their old friends were unable to attend, so it was a kids-only Crab Feed (by "kids" I mean everyone was aged 25-30). HotLawyer instructed me to pose for some pictures, so naturally I obliged with my favorite standard pose, what is otherwise known as the "descending Girl Gone Wild" (the "ascending" version of this pose is when you lift your shirt up, as opposed to pulling the neck down):
(Ignore the scary face I'm making...it really gives it that whole "Jay Leno's chin" feel, which may not exactly embody the epitome of hotness, but at least my tits distract from the neck-up horror) Unfortunately, it seems that flashing your breasts in a high school gymnasium in front of your former Honors American Lit teacher and your parents' friends at another table is not encouraged. After posing for several similar photographs, the off-duty but still uniformed Tacoma police officer on hand to keep minors out came and stood menacingly at the end of our table. I can almost hear him saying, "Go on, honey, show your tits again...I haven't thrown anyone at the crab feed in the pokey for fifteen years and I'm itching to lay the smackdown on some drunken alum supporting the Bellarmine Boosters athletic fund." My brother Lil' Tevie probably would have put the handcuffs on me and tossed me into the backseat of the Crown Vic himself, he was so mortified by my behavior. I could see him at the other end of the table looking determinedly in the other direction.
The truth is that it was all a cleverly orchestrated scheme to take pictures of my cans juxtaposed with some crab legs, so that I can send them on to the broiling inferno of sexiness that is Sig Hansen and the crew of the F/V Northwestern. This is why they risk the terrors of the swiftly moving (and DEADLY) Bering Sea Arctic ice pack during Opie season: so drunk bitches can incorporate them into seductive titty shots for their websites devoted to useless bullshit. Oh, and because they're pretty delicious, too.
I hope that next year my parents and all their friends have some wedding or something to go to on Crab Feed weekend, because I think I need to be encouraging talk about my arreolas for many crab feeds to come. And Sig...that could be you with the great view and the crab cracker on your nose! Especially because I'm in the Seattle area right now, so it would be easy to meet if you're not currently in Dutch Harbor, Alaska! Holler at your girl if you too would like to stroke my bosom with your snow crab legs: razzy@razzy.org!
(Ignore the scary face I'm making...it really gives it that whole "Jay Leno's chin" feel, which may not exactly embody the epitome of hotness, but at least my tits distract from the neck-up horror) Unfortunately, it seems that flashing your breasts in a high school gymnasium in front of your former Honors American Lit teacher and your parents' friends at another table is not encouraged. After posing for several similar photographs, the off-duty but still uniformed Tacoma police officer on hand to keep minors out came and stood menacingly at the end of our table. I can almost hear him saying, "Go on, honey, show your tits again...I haven't thrown anyone at the crab feed in the pokey for fifteen years and I'm itching to lay the smackdown on some drunken alum supporting the Bellarmine Boosters athletic fund." My brother Lil' Tevie probably would have put the handcuffs on me and tossed me into the backseat of the Crown Vic himself, he was so mortified by my behavior. I could see him at the other end of the table looking determinedly in the other direction.
The truth is that it was all a cleverly orchestrated scheme to take pictures of my cans juxtaposed with some crab legs, so that I can send them on to the broiling inferno of sexiness that is Sig Hansen and the crew of the F/V Northwestern. This is why they risk the terrors of the swiftly moving (and DEADLY) Bering Sea Arctic ice pack during Opie season: so drunk bitches can incorporate them into seductive titty shots for their websites devoted to useless bullshit. Oh, and because they're pretty delicious, too.
I hope that next year my parents and all their friends have some wedding or something to go to on Crab Feed weekend, because I think I need to be encouraging talk about my arreolas for many crab feeds to come. And Sig...that could be you with the great view and the crab cracker on your nose! Especially because I'm in the Seattle area right now, so it would be easy to meet if you're not currently in Dutch Harbor, Alaska! Holler at your girl if you too would like to stroke my bosom with your snow crab legs: razzy@razzy.org!Labels: Deadliest Catch, hot chicks, HotLawyer, nudity, overcompensation, P-N-Dub, Razzification
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