Friday, June 29, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Pat Kiernan
Real Name: Patrick Kiernan
DOB: Sometime in 1968
Occupation: NY1 Morning News Anchor; Host, World Series of Pop Culture
Hometown: Edmonton, Alberta, Canada
Current Residence: New York, NY
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I've been swooning over Pat Kiernan's sarcastic morning newscasts on NY1 ever since I moved to the fair isle of Mannahattas four years ago. There is a section of the NY1 morning newscast called "In the Papers" where the anchor actually reads articles of interest from the various New York papers on the air ("Our city is known for it's many newspapers...with so many papers, who can read them all?"). When Pat Kiernan does this, he spends most of his time making snarky comments. Nobody can make a dry quip about a Post or Daily News headline like Pat Kiernan can. His mastery of the "In the Papers" section even gets a special shout-out on his Wikipedia page: "Kiernan has become widely known in the City for his 'In the Papers' feature, in which he wryly summarizes the colorful content in Manhattan's daily newsprint."
This New York Magazine article has some great anecdotal Pat Kiernan hilarity. Once the New York Times apparently described conditions at a police precinct in Queens as "Dickensian" and Kiernan immediately made some deadpan smartass remark questioning whether any member of the NYPD would use such a term. Another time while summarizing an article from the Post questioning the difficulty of David Blaine's magic tricks (such as freezing himself into a block of ice) he irreverently tested the hypothesis by clutching a frozen can of Coke for eight minutes. Concerning the finale of "American Idol" season four, he said of Katharine McPhee, "Katharine looks great - but even if she's the runner-up, you can still count on the fact that we'll get to see her in person when she comes to Broadway. Every musical needs the occasional dose of B-list celebrity in the cast to attract the tourists." He's stoic, unflappable, and you can never quite tell if he's contemptuous or amused or both.
After watching the entirety of last year's "World Series of Pop Culture" on Vh1 (the face of which, I concluded, LL Cool Jew, myself, and whoever we nominate for the third member of our team will absolutely rock off next year when we enter it), I went into paroxysms of joy upon seeing four straight hours of Pat Kiernan crafting sexily condescending witticisms about the contestants' inability to name more than two ABBA songs or identify any singers nominated for "Entertainer of the Year" at the CMAs. Pat Kiernan may be the hottest Canadian of all time.
Labels: Canucks, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, NYC, TV
Daily Douchebag: Dumb motherfuckers waiting for an iPhone
Name: Gadget-crazy unemployed losers
DOB: N/A
Occupation: Obnoxious loiterers, sidewalk crowders, and hangers-about
Hometown: the suburbs
Current Residence: the sidewalk outside any given Apple store
Douchebaggery: Apple annoys the shit out of me in general. I hate those stupid "I'm a Mac, I'm all superior and snobby and geekily hip...I'm a PC, I'm fat and ugly and incompetent and a waste of space" commercials. Those ads make me want to never touch an Apple product, because if my computer acted remotely like that son of a bitch who plays a Mac in the commercials (an actor previously known for having his eyes eaten out in Jeepers Creepers and awkwardly pursuing the affections of Lindsay Lohan in Herbie: Fully Loaded) I'd spend all day bitch-slapping it. Also, I hate Applephiles. Every time you talk to one of them they won't shut up about "the power of OS X" and a bunch of BS about how Apples don't crash and don't get viruses. I use a Mac at work, and can provide first hand evidence that this fucker has crashed on MORE THAN ONE occasion. Furthermore, unless you're hanging out with a bunch of other nerds fluent in UNIX, shut the fuck up about the goddamn operating system because nobody cares. Also, geeks would design more viruses for Macs if they had a larger market share, so the more people talk about that, the more viruses will come out for Macs just to spite these Applephilic tools bragging about it. And don't get me started on what I think about the fact that Apple bestows the title of "genius" on its tech support staff. J-Sexy's iBook broke one and she had to take it to the Genius Bar at the Apple Store, and I ranted for about an hour and a half about how that is the most misleading thing in the world, since you'll find neither exceptionally intelligent people nor booze there. Genius Bar...SHA RIGHT.
Needless to say, I have a very low opinion of people who take time off work (if they have jobs to begin with) because they're so FUCKING EXCITED to get a goddamn iPhone that they have to hang out in front of the Apple store for three days. Here in NYC, lines started forming on Tuesday, so if anyone wants to know what a bunch of good-for-nothing losers look like, just head to your nearest Apple retailer. I cannot understand why purchasing an iPhone as close to 6 p.m. today as possible is so imperative for these people. The first iPhones will probably have a bunch of bugs and other problems anyway, so isn't it better to wait until they've ironed out the problems before coughing up $500-600 for one? Oh wait, I see why people wouldn't want to wait even a second for the opportunity to be like this tool:
Anyway, if you feel like laughing at an entire assembled pool of fucktards at once, just head over to your nearest Apple Store. They'll probably be equipped with folding chairs, fleece blankets, and empty latte cups, and they'll be in a line going around the block.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, nerd alert, overcompensation, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Daily Douchebag: Smith Alumnae Quarterly
Nickname: SAQ (of shit)
DOB: N/A
Occupation: Annoying Smith alumnae
Hometown: Northampton, Assachusetts
Current Residence: the bottom of many an alumnae garbage can or recycling bin
Douchebaggery: Here is a sample of the scintillating news stories a Smith College alumna can expect when opening her glossy new issue of the SAQ:
Knitting a Mobius band
In interterm class, professor combines two loves: knitting and high-level math
By Elise Gibson
Knitting scarves and socks may be all the rage, but during interterm an informal class went well beyond knit-one-purl-two and took the practical craft of knitting into the realm of mathematical theory.
Led by knitting enthusiast and visiting assistant professor of mathematics sarah-marie belcastro (she prefers to go by the lower case), the class in mathematical knitting promised to instruct students on how to knit mathematical objects, like a Möbius band and a double-holed torus (a single torus is shown at left). “I thought these shapes would be cool to have around,” said Evy Johnson AC, on why one might want to knit a model of hyperbolic space or a projective plane.
No math knowledge was required for the five-session class, but nonetheless, it attracted several math majors, as well as students of linguistics, biochemistry, and medieval studies. A few students showed up packing their own needles and bedecked in handmade creations. One boasted about her senior hat with its knitted DNA-style double helix.
This reminded me of the fact that when I was at Smith, knitting was the hot hobby to take up if you were a fugly fat bitch who didn't drink on account of some prior bad experience with a half-jigger of peach schnapps. There was actually a club called the Knitwits where these bitches would get together and make ugly rainbow-colored Pride scarves for their mustachioed boobmashing partners. I'd ask what kind of loser would boast about knitting a fucking DNA-shaped hat if I hadn't suffered through four years of biology classes with these unremarkable hookers. Color me completely unsurprised that sarah-marie belcastro looks precisely as I would imagine knitting enthusiast, math teacher, and eschewer of capital letters should: frumpy, unkempt, and snuggling up to some obese pussy.
Smith sells shirts that say "Smith College: 125 years of women in exciting positions." I'll tell you why they're "exciting positions"...because most of the bitches at Smith are so ugly you HAVE to hit that shit from the back. The Rally Day medalists are, as usual, no exception.
Anyway, after getting progressively more annoyed with the news articles and disgusted by the pictures in this issue of the SAQ, I went to the "Class Notes" section to see if there was any interesting news about people I know. Most of it was the standard "so-and-so got married and/or got a stupid hyphenated last name and/or popped out a squalling brat" that I don't give two shits about. However, I did see a bunch of stupid shit about some ho in grad school who I don't know saying that "in between western blots and PCRs, I found God, met my husband, and got married!" That's a match made in heaven right there, because the only human beings on earth as reliably unattractive as Smith bitches are male graduate students in the biomedical sciences. Also, I was less-than-pleased to see that friends-turned-sworn enemies of mine were sending in their predictable updates:
Ethan Suniewick writes, “I came out as trans, transitioned my gender from female to male, and graduated from San Francisco State with an MA in human sexuality.”Ethan nee Abby defriended me during my senior year because--according to her--I was too selfish. That means I stopped buying cigarettes for her (she "didn't smoke", but I realized that I was buying two packs a day to support her shameless bumming), got tired of listening to her whine about her constant bitchery-fests with her LUG (lesbian until graduation) girlfriend, and I refused to attend any more Smithereens (the SHITTY acapella group she was in) concerts because I was concerned that I would succumb to homicidal impulses if I had to listen to yet another butchered choral harmonic rendition of "When Doves Cry." As a result, Abby told me very passive-aggressively that she didn't need people in her life anymore who were self-absorbed and I should keep my meat-eating, boy-fucking, PBR-swilling, non-Parliament Light-sharing ass back on the second floor of Jordan House where it belonged. I told her to fuck off and we weren't friends after that. Now that I think about it, the bitch never gave me back any of the shit she had borrowed from me when we were friends! Ethan--who no doubt has a great job with his recent very professionally useful masters degree in human sexuality--owes me a pack of Zig-Zag rolling papers, a REI zip-up fleece, and a Smiths The Queen is Dead CD! He's probably smoking a joint, fending off the chilly San Fran weather with my cozy jacket, and rocking out to "Bigmouth Strikes Again" while laughing at my expense, the son-of-a-bitch bastard.
Anyway, the SAQ has me all fired up, and when I get too hot under the collar about it, problems usually ensue. Long-time Razzyphiles may recall that the entire Tej Offensive began when Tej Bindra '07 took exception to a post I wrote making fun of an article about her housing lottery fortunes in the SAQ. Therefore, I should just do what's good for me and send that SAQ straight to the landfill where it belongs.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, Dumb Smith bitches, oh the horror, overcompensation, ranting, scathing indictments, you're ugly
Wish you were here at my murder trial
A couple years ago, crazy-ass Phil Spector sent one of his buddies at the record company in New York a postcard apprising him of the goings on in lovely Los Angeles, specifically concerning his little legal problem (murder charges). Luckily the Smoking Gun got a copy of this document, which is evidence or something in his trial. I don't know what it's evidence of besides Phil's ability to craft amazing variations of "your mama" jokes concerning his nemesis, the LA District Attorney:
Man, Phil Spector is giving LL Cool Jew a run for her money in the giving good postcard department. I truly respect his ability to suggest the DA would have been better off as a BJ and then immediately transition into a discussion of his friend's "inimitable Silk Sweater Shirt" with a well-placed "Say!" He actually even managed to incorporate "'twas" into this masterfully crafted bit of correspondence! Here's hoping I see a lot more of this crap on the Smoking Gun as his trial progresses. I could care less about his "Wall of Sound" of whatever, but I want to read all his collected written works.
Man, Phil Spector is giving LL Cool Jew a run for her money in the giving good postcard department. I truly respect his ability to suggest the DA would have been better off as a BJ and then immediately transition into a discussion of his friend's "inimitable Silk Sweater Shirt" with a well-placed "Say!" He actually even managed to incorporate "'twas" into this masterfully crafted bit of correspondence! Here's hoping I see a lot more of this crap on the Smoking Gun as his trial progresses. I could care less about his "Wall of Sound" of whatever, but I want to read all his collected written works.
Labels: assholes, correspondence, crazies, crime and punishment, hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery
It's going to take me a hot second
I got about three hours of sleep last night because my friend G-Boner is in town, and I might still be drunk--I can't yet tell if the way I feel is hungover, still-intoxicated, or just exhausted. So forgive my not being as on top of posting shit in a timely manner today.
In the meantime, below find the (awesome) e-mail that LL Cool Jew sent me. I missed Paris Hilton's appearance on Larry King last night, but thankfully she did not, and her summation is, as usual, perfect.
I'm watching Larry King interview Paris Hilton. I've been looking
forward to this since they announced she would appear on the show.
Because I'm a masochist.
I flirted for a moment with being almost like, happy for her. She
genuinely seemed happy to see her mom when she dove into Kathy's arms
grinning at 12:15 a.m. Tuesday, and as a girl who loves her mom, for a
moment I could almost relate to Paris Hilton. And she came out kind of
humble, saying she had changed, insinuating she understood the whorish
outrage she has always been. I was ready for Paris Hilton finally to
participate in her public shaming, so she could begin, perhaps, to
redeem herself.
And it was a shockingly tough interview with King, whose show is
preferred widely first-interview-exclusive among political figures and
celebrities at the height of scandal. It's because of his softball
questions, usually variations on "So what do you make of the situation
in Iraq?" And he was really socking it to her with a bit of our
collective disgust, croaking in that deadpan rather empassioned
questions like "Do you do drugs?" The exchange went kind of like this:
King: Do you do drugs.
Hilton: No.
King: You don't do drugs.
Hilton (smiling): No!
King: You've never done drugs. Do you have a drinking problem?
Hilton: No, I'm not a big drinker.
King: The perception is that you're a party girl.
Hilton: People make up crazy stories...
He really went at her, giving her one opportunity after another to
acknowledge the Bacchanalian frivolity of her pre-jail and during-jail
behavior. She insisted over and over again that lies about her were
spread in the media. Unbelievably, when given an opportunity to be a
little bit self-reflective and admit she had made some mistakes
because Larry asked what she'd like to change most about herself, she
said she would change the annoying way her voice gets higher when
she's nervous, that she really is just social and likes music, but
she's a businesswoman and of all things, that she's an Aquarius?
What?? She said her life-threatening medical problem was
claustrophobia and attention deficit disorder; she stared blankly when
Larry asked whether she's now cured of claustrophobia having spent two
more weeks quietly in jail. Despite parading around ostentatiously
with a Bible the week before she went to jail, she could not quote ONE
PASSAGE from the Bible when Larry asked her which was her favorite.
There is no coda for this display. I am so hot under the collar about
it, but more than anything I'm so enraged that I am paying such close
attention to it! My visceral hatred for Paris Hilton is so ingrained
at this point. Can we declare a Fatwa on her?
In the meantime, below find the (awesome) e-mail that LL Cool Jew sent me. I missed Paris Hilton's appearance on Larry King last night, but thankfully she did not, and her summation is, as usual, perfect.
I'm watching Larry King interview Paris Hilton. I've been looking
forward to this since they announced she would appear on the show.
Because I'm a masochist.
I flirted for a moment with being almost like, happy for her. She
genuinely seemed happy to see her mom when she dove into Kathy's arms
grinning at 12:15 a.m. Tuesday, and as a girl who loves her mom, for a
moment I could almost relate to Paris Hilton. And she came out kind of
humble, saying she had changed, insinuating she understood the whorish
outrage she has always been. I was ready for Paris Hilton finally to
participate in her public shaming, so she could begin, perhaps, to
redeem herself.
And it was a shockingly tough interview with King, whose show is
preferred widely first-interview-exclusive among political figures and
celebrities at the height of scandal. It's because of his softball
questions, usually variations on "So what do you make of the situation
in Iraq?" And he was really socking it to her with a bit of our
collective disgust, croaking in that deadpan rather empassioned
questions like "Do you do drugs?" The exchange went kind of like this:
King: Do you do drugs.
Hilton: No.
King: You don't do drugs.
Hilton (smiling): No!
King: You've never done drugs. Do you have a drinking problem?
Hilton: No, I'm not a big drinker.
King: The perception is that you're a party girl.
Hilton: People make up crazy stories...
He really went at her, giving her one opportunity after another to
acknowledge the Bacchanalian frivolity of her pre-jail and during-jail
behavior. She insisted over and over again that lies about her were
spread in the media. Unbelievably, when given an opportunity to be a
little bit self-reflective and admit she had made some mistakes
because Larry asked what she'd like to change most about herself, she
said she would change the annoying way her voice gets higher when
she's nervous, that she really is just social and likes music, but
she's a businesswoman and of all things, that she's an Aquarius?
What?? She said her life-threatening medical problem was
claustrophobia and attention deficit disorder; she stared blankly when
Larry asked whether she's now cured of claustrophobia having spent two
more weeks quietly in jail. Despite parading around ostentatiously
with a Bible the week before she went to jail, she could not quote ONE
PASSAGE from the Bible when Larry asked her which was her favorite.
There is no coda for this display. I am so hot under the collar about
it, but more than anything I'm so enraged that I am paying such close
attention to it! My visceral hatred for Paris Hilton is so ingrained
at this point. Can we declare a Fatwa on her?
Labels: LL Cool Jew, Razzification, sluts
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Give them a Pulitzer already
If you ever disputed that the New York Post is the greatest newspaper in the history of print journalism, you need look no further than today's extremely awesome cover to be proven WRONG. This may be the most sublimely brilliant Post cover of all time:
Furthermore, on the back cover the headline says "BAWL FOUR" and notes that "the Yankees misery continues." In spite of stifling weather and temporary blackouts wreaking havoc with the subway system, it is truly a wonderful day to live in New York City.
Labels: fuck the Yankees, I LOVE IT, large exclamatory font, sluts
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Hatshepsut
Name: Hatshepsut
DOB: 1400-something BC
Occupation: Fifth pharoah of the 18th dynasty
Hometown: Probably Thebes (?)
Current Residence: She splits time between her tomb at KV60 and the Cairo Museum
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Hatshepsut was the first queen to rule Egypt like a man, and I mean literally like a man. To retain her power, she wore a fake beard and men's clothing, and carved images of herself all over the Temple of Karnak. To ascend to the pharoah's throne she cleverly connived to steal power from her adolescent son Thutmose III. She then ruled Egypt for 22 years until her death at approximately 50 years old from metastatic bone cancer. Unfortunately when she died, Thutmose III waged a campaign to erase her from the historical record, pulling a routine similar to Seti's in The Ten Commandments when he discovered that Moses was Hebrew: he demanded that her likeness be stricken from every temple and obelisk. Luckily for everyone, he didn't get all of her hieroglyphics torn down, and Egyptologists have been able to construct ample evidence that she was the hottest F2M tranny in all of history. DNA tests just confirmed that her mummy, dug out of the Valley of Kings a century ago, is indeed her.
Truthfully, I wouldn't be too excited about getting with her now, because she looks like this:
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot chicks, tyrannical rulers
Daily Douchebag: Takeru Kobayashi
Nickname: The Tsunami
DOB: March 15, 1978
Occupation: Competetive eater
Hometown: Nagano, Japan
Current Residence: Japan, I guess (Wikipedia doesn't say)
Douchebaggery: Takeru would normally get lots of applause from me for being at the top of his game. He is a machine who shatters world competetive eating records in contests called things like the Glutton Bowl and the Alka-Seltzer US Open of Competetive Eating. To date, the only competition he has ever lost was a show called "Man vs. Beast" on the Fox Network (of course), in which a half-ton Kodiak grizzly bear ate 50 bunless hot dogs in 2 minutes compared to Takeru's 31. However, his true dominance is at the marquis event in the world of competetive eating: the annual Fourth of July Nathan's hot dog eating contest at Coney Island. Last year he set a new world record, downing 53.75 Nathan's famous hot dogs in 12 minutes.
This year was shaping up to be a real throwdown when some other dude ate 59 hot dogs in 12 minutes at some event in California and proved to be the first real contender for Takeru's crown.
However, rather than actually compete against someone that could possibly beat him, now he's suddenly come down with "jaw arthritis" and claims he can't open his mouth. Sha right. He just doesn't want to lose so he's being a big quitter instead. Pussy.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, gluttony
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Reader poll: can you read this?
So Ryle from Over Adulthood just bitched to me that because I write such lengthy pieces, the font is "hard to read" against the white background. At first I thought he was just jealous because my site is infinitely more awesome than his could ever be in his wildest dreams, but then I thought maybe he was actually trying to be helpful. I don't see how relatively large black serif-free font against a white background is hard to read, but if it is I'd like to change that. I might be hard on people, but it's not my intent to be hard on their eyes.
So for once I welcome complaints. Should I change the background and/or font? Is it hard to read, or fine the way it is? If you have an opinion, please weigh in.
So for once I welcome complaints. Should I change the background and/or font? Is it hard to read, or fine the way it is? If you have an opinion, please weigh in.
Labels: computer incompetence, internet domination
Good thing I can't afford foie gras very often
I was trolling through the e-mailed Table of Contents for the scintillating journal Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences (PNAS, or "Pe-NAS", as J-Sexy and I call it) today and something caught my eye in the "Medical Sciences" category:
Amyloidogenic potential of foie gras
Alan Solomon, Tina Richey, Charles L. Murphy, Deborah T. Weiss, Jonathan S. Wall, Gunilla T. Westermark, and Per Westermark
The human cerebral and systemic amyloidoses and prion-associated spongiform encephalopathies are acquired or inherited protein folding disorders in which normally soluble proteins or peptides are converted into fibrillar aggregates. This is a nucleation-dependent process that can be initiated or accelerated by fibril seeds formed from homologous or heterologous amyloidogenic precursors that serve as an amyloid enhancing factor (AEF) and has pathogenic significance in that disease may be transmitted by oral ingestion or parenteral administration of these conformationally altered components. Except for infected brain tissue, specific dietary sources of AEF have not been identified. Here we report that commercially available duck- or goose-derived foie gras contains birefringent congophilic fibrillar material composed of serum amyloid A-related protein that acted as a potent AEF in a transgenic murine model of secondary (amyloid A protein) amyloidosis. When such mice were injected with or fed amyloid extracted from foie gras, the animals developed extensive systemic pathological deposits. These experimental data provide evidence that an amyloid-containing food product hastened the development of amyloid protein A amyloidosis in a susceptible population. On this basis, we posit that this and perhaps other forms of amyloidosis may be transmissible, akin to the infectious nature of prion-related illnesses.
FUCK! For those of you who don't speak science, I'll translate. These dudes at the University of Tennessee and their Swedish collaborators decided to feed or inject a bunch of transgenic mic susceptible to developing amyloidosis with amyloid protein from foie gras. Amyloidosis is a name for a grab-bag of diseases characterized by the formation of plaques or build-ups of amyloid proteins. The best known is Alzheimer's disease, but they can cause all sorts of other problems and come in a variety of forms. Anyway, these mice all developed a bunch of amyloid plaques, and they are saying this proves that amyloidosis is transmissible, like mad cow disease (AKA "prion-associated spongiform encephalopathies").
Granted, this study is a little flawed since these mice have been genetically fucked with to be more susceptible to amyloidosis, and nobody sits down and eats a plate of amyloid protein extracted from foie gras or anything else, but nonetheless this is bad news for staunch carnivores like myself. For one thing, the next time I have enough money or am dining at the expense of someone rich enough to afford foie gras, it's going to be just a smidge less delicious since I'm going to start associating it with Alzheimer's, and thus old people. I guarantee that a bunch of stupid animal rights assholes are going to jump on this like Heather Mills McCartney on rich vegan dick if they get wind of it. Animal rights people love appropriating the odd piece of scientific information supporting their bullshit anti-eating delicious animal campaigns. While nothing makes eating meat more sweet than knowing it's pissing off a bunch of self-righteous PETA people, having some obnoxious bitch be like, "Don't you know that gives you Alzheimer's?!" and then engaging me in a scientific throwdown is less appealing than the prospect of having a theological debate with my Aunt Jesus.
I'd rather eat my fatty bird liver and relish the product of inhumanely force-fed poultry in peace.
Amyloidogenic potential of foie gras
Alan Solomon, Tina Richey, Charles L. Murphy, Deborah T. Weiss, Jonathan S. Wall, Gunilla T. Westermark, and Per Westermark
The human cerebral and systemic amyloidoses and prion-associated spongiform encephalopathies are acquired or inherited protein folding disorders in which normally soluble proteins or peptides are converted into fibrillar aggregates. This is a nucleation-dependent process that can be initiated or accelerated by fibril seeds formed from homologous or heterologous amyloidogenic precursors that serve as an amyloid enhancing factor (AEF) and has pathogenic significance in that disease may be transmitted by oral ingestion or parenteral administration of these conformationally altered components. Except for infected brain tissue, specific dietary sources of AEF have not been identified. Here we report that commercially available duck- or goose-derived foie gras contains birefringent congophilic fibrillar material composed of serum amyloid A-related protein that acted as a potent AEF in a transgenic murine model of secondary (amyloid A protein) amyloidosis. When such mice were injected with or fed amyloid extracted from foie gras, the animals developed extensive systemic pathological deposits. These experimental data provide evidence that an amyloid-containing food product hastened the development of amyloid protein A amyloidosis in a susceptible population. On this basis, we posit that this and perhaps other forms of amyloidosis may be transmissible, akin to the infectious nature of prion-related illnesses.
FUCK! For those of you who don't speak science, I'll translate. These dudes at the University of Tennessee and their Swedish collaborators decided to feed or inject a bunch of transgenic mic susceptible to developing amyloidosis with amyloid protein from foie gras. Amyloidosis is a name for a grab-bag of diseases characterized by the formation of plaques or build-ups of amyloid proteins. The best known is Alzheimer's disease, but they can cause all sorts of other problems and come in a variety of forms. Anyway, these mice all developed a bunch of amyloid plaques, and they are saying this proves that amyloidosis is transmissible, like mad cow disease (AKA "prion-associated spongiform encephalopathies").
Granted, this study is a little flawed since these mice have been genetically fucked with to be more susceptible to amyloidosis, and nobody sits down and eats a plate of amyloid protein extracted from foie gras or anything else, but nonetheless this is bad news for staunch carnivores like myself. For one thing, the next time I have enough money or am dining at the expense of someone rich enough to afford foie gras, it's going to be just a smidge less delicious since I'm going to start associating it with Alzheimer's, and thus old people. I guarantee that a bunch of stupid animal rights assholes are going to jump on this like Heather Mills McCartney on rich vegan dick if they get wind of it. Animal rights people love appropriating the odd piece of scientific information supporting their bullshit anti-eating delicious animal campaigns. While nothing makes eating meat more sweet than knowing it's pissing off a bunch of self-righteous PETA people, having some obnoxious bitch be like, "Don't you know that gives you Alzheimer's?!" and then engaging me in a scientific throwdown is less appealing than the prospect of having a theological debate with my Aunt Jesus.
I'd rather eat my fatty bird liver and relish the product of inhumanely force-fed poultry in peace.
Labels: ranting, science, sexy delicious animals
Another stupid sunburn
I went to the beach yesterday with my grad school co-president I'mNotRussianGoddammit, which was great. It was a Monday, so Long Beach was refreshingly free of the glut of obese guidos that usually populate it on the weekends, and there weren't even enough children to do anything but mildly annoy me. I didn't see a single kid swimming in diapers, which to me is the grossest thing EVER, so I was able to swim around without too many concerns about santitation or my bacteriological well-being. I also fully exercised my right to go topless in the state of New York as did I'mNotRussianGoddammit, prompting some smartass 15-year-old passing by to quip, "Nice rack."
"Nice manners," I responded. "But right back at ya." He was kind of fat. I hope I gave him a complex that will spur him to pursue the course of diet and exercise his physique so clearly warranted.
Anyway, my tits got nicely browned, and I was very careful to apply sunscreen regularly to avoid ugly sunburns like the one I got the last time I went to the beach. Unfortunately, I realized upon arriving home that I'd missed a spot again. This time, my right ass cheek suffered the punishing effects of the sun. A small portion of my left ass cheek did as well, but obviously I did a much better job of sunscreening and hiking my bikini down on that one than I did on the right side.
(BTW, sorry for the poor picture quality, but you have no idea how hard it is to take a picture of your own ass with a crappy camera.)
Looks like no doggystyle or right ass cheek spanking for me this week!
"Nice manners," I responded. "But right back at ya." He was kind of fat. I hope I gave him a complex that will spur him to pursue the course of diet and exercise his physique so clearly warranted.
Anyway, my tits got nicely browned, and I was very careful to apply sunscreen regularly to avoid ugly sunburns like the one I got the last time I went to the beach. Unfortunately, I realized upon arriving home that I'd missed a spot again. This time, my right ass cheek suffered the punishing effects of the sun. A small portion of my left ass cheek did as well, but obviously I did a much better job of sunscreening and hiking my bikini down on that one than I did on the right side.
(BTW, sorry for the poor picture quality, but you have no idea how hard it is to take a picture of your own ass with a crappy camera.)Looks like no doggystyle or right ass cheek spanking for me this week!
Labels: destroy all children, nudity, oh the horror, Razzification
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: LL Cool Jew
Real Name: Rachel
DOB: February 20, 1981
Occupation: Reporter (but soon to be PR flunky for a Trotskyite non-profit organization)
Hometown: San Francisco, CA
Current Residence: Gulfport, MS (but soon to be New Orleans, LA)
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Yesterday when I got back from the beach, cringing because I was worried that my e-mail would be full of exhortations to hurry up and write a post about her wedding, I was instead excited to see this e-mail from BigBagel:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org), Killer (killer@idontrememberwhereheworks.com), a bunch of other Columbia J-School alums
From: BigBagel (bigbagel@pulitzerprizewinningdirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
Subject: LL Cool Jew=John Elway
LL Cool Jew won the Bill Minor Award for General News Reporting on Saturday for her coverage of the exoneration of Clyde Kennard, a Hattiesburg man who in the late 1950s and early 1960s attempted repeatedly to become the University of Southern Mississippi's first black student and was eventually framed on bogus burglary charges and sent to prison. There are two such awards given to 'Ssippi journos yearly, which means technically LL Cool Jew tied for best reporter in the Hospitality State in 2006. While Some Dude Who Went to J-School With Us may have tied for the best YOUNG journalist nationally, LL Cool Jew had to battle some real codgers. Best of all, she won $550, which in Mississippi is no chump change. We had a good weekend in New Orleans as a result.
And that brings me to the next thing I wish to share: Deciding to take the John Elway route, LL Cool Jew has taken a position at Leftist Revolutionaries Central in New Orleans. Details on the job to come later, but it's more or less a staff writer/PIO position. She'll start towards the middle/end of July. She handed in her resignation to the Dirrty Dirrty newspaper at which she currently works this morning. While I do not know if this is the end of her newspapering career - and have and will continue to encourage against that - she is leaving the profession on top, a winner, like John Elway. (Or Lawrence Taylor, who sustained his career-ending injury shortly after winning his second Super Bowl for the New York Football Giants in 1991. And I digress.)
So, we're now going to start looking for rental homes in the Uptown neighborhood (not a lot of murders, never flooded), and fortunately the current real estate market will make that easy. So we'll be officially saying goodbye to the Baptist Belt (and hypertension belt, diabetes belt, stroke belt, morbid obesity belt) and saying hello to Catholic Cajun country as of Aug. 1 at the latest, so start thinking about how badly you'll want to escape your cold climes for some remoulade, live jazz and hurricanes. (The drink and not the weather system.)
-BigBagel
I then got an e-mail from LL Cool Jew which, in her typically humble way, simply stated that she was moving to New Orleans and that we should come visit, making nary a mention about her big award. Since she won't tell about it, and BigBagel doesn't have a blog (anymore, and then that was just about Hurricane Katrina...although my mom read it religiously), I'll just have to tell the world about her accomplishment reaching the pinnacle of Mississippi journalism. LL Cool Jew is awesome. Plus she's hot, has a righteous set of knockers, is probably the most fashionable woman in all of the Southern states (bitch just wrote an article about SEERSUCKER), is so nice that she actually won an award in J-school for her pleasant personality, and is a more talented writer than myself (a compliment that I have yet to pay anyone else, because I consider myself the absolute and undisputable king of everything). I immediately instructed the members of the Cool Jew-Bagel household to stock up on beads and dollar bills for the strip clubs, crank the Juvenile, boil some crawfish, and polish their Brangelina-bashing sticks in preparation for my visit (hopefully this fall). LL Cool Jew advised me that a Scores was recently opened on Bourbon Street and had already received her and Motherbucker's seals of approval and they would buy the Costco-sized box of beads necessary for the wealth of tit-flashing I plan to impart upon the Big Easy.
I therefore extend MAJOR congratulations to LL Cool Jew and thank my lucky stars this hooker is one of my best friends. I also thank her for her patience regarding the composition of her wedding blog (by the end of this week...I PROMISE!). She is the unrivalled hotness.
Labels: correspondence, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Dirrty Dirrty, LL Cool Jew
Daily Douchebag: Paris Hilton
Real Name: Paris Whitney Hilton
DOB: February 17, 1981
Occupation: Drunk driver, probation violator, cultural succubus, infectious disease hazard, whore
Hometown: New York, NY
Current Residence:
Douchebaggery: Unfortunately for everyone, Paris was released from jail around midnight. During and before her stint in the clink, she was using every excuse imaginable to keep her slut ass out of jail. First she had ADD (translation: speed addiction), then she found Jesus and/or possibly Buddha, and then when all else failed, she turned on the waterworks. Hot-Ass LA City Attorney Rocky Delgadillo and the judge were unmoved, and ho did her time
Now that she's probably got some extra-strength prison-caliber clap, the CDC should take notice, as there will probably be an outbreak of killer VD on the Hollywood club scene. Brody Jenner, the entire male cast of "The Hills", and random dudes late of the "Desperate Housewives" set will be reporting unpleasant discharges/odors, itching, and burning by the end of the week. Greasy oil heir Brandon Davis will undoubtedly have some festering pustules to go along with his apparent glandular problem, and Stavros Niarchos will be getting some antibiotics to go along with the refills on his Valtrex scrip. I wish this ho would have caught that multidrug-resistant strain of the consumption and thus wound up in quarantine along with that globe-trotting personal injury lawyer. As a microbiologist, I find it reprehensible and dangerous that public health officials are not more concerned that her pathogenic ass has been unleashed upon an unsuspecting public.
It's really a shame that Paris didn't molest any children, because if she had, there would be a chance she'd be stuck into one of those offender programs that holds pedophiles and rapists indefinitely. The world would be a better place if she was permanently imprisoned. Maybe they could get one of those puzzle boxes like from the Hellraiser movies and find some configuration that will send her forever into the Cenobite dimension or something. Just keep her off the streets, and off my internet celebrity gossip pages!
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, sluts, stank vaginas
Together in hell
I was pretty sad a while back to hear that Eddie "Latino Heat" Guerrero had croaked on account of years of steroid and drug abuse in his late thirties. Unfortunately, WWE has lost another of its own, and this time the situation is even more tragic. Basically, Hell these days is looking an awful lot like an episode of Monday Night Raw circa 2003:
Over the weekend, Chris Benoit, also known as "The Canadian Crippler" and "The Rabid Wolverine", killed his wife (a WWE "manager"--otherwise known as random piece of ass who escorts other wrestlers to the ring and occasionally interferes by distracting the extremely impartial WWE referees or tripping the opponent--known simply by the moniker "Woman"), and his seven-year-old son before offing himself. God, steroids are a hell of a drug.
Ironically, tonight's episode of Raw was supposed to be a memorial service for Vince McMahon, who was killed off in a recent storyline. I haven't been following WWE for the past couple years (my interest waned once Kurt Angle was gone--I loved that asshole and his impossibly thick neck wreathed by his signature Olympic gold medals), but killing off Vince McMahon is even more ridiculous than when Linda McMahon was in a catatonic state at some mental institution after witnessing the horror of Vince hooking up with Trish Stratus. I might have to start watching WWE again, since the scripts seem to be achieving unprecedented heights of absurdity. Unfortunately, this ridiculous storyline can't be borne out, because yesterday when Raw was being filmed, Vince had to cancel it, then miraculously reincarnate himself to inform an empty arena that Chris Benoit was dead in real life. The whole episode will be a tribute to Chris Benoit, although I bet WWE is going to be regretting that now that it's out that Benoit is a wife-killing infanticidal lunatic.
I'm not surprised that someone--especially a short, overcompensating, toothless Canadian like Chris Benoit--in the WWE finally succumbed to roid rage and got homicidal on his family's asses. What I am surprised about is that the news is reporting that he did not kill them or himself with a gun. Did he perform a couple Crippler Crossfaces and not let them tap out or something? I'm not sure a signature submission move has ever been lethal, so that's a first. And more importantly, how did he manage to off himself with a wrestling technique...jump off a ladder onto his head or something? Actually, I think I saw one of the Hardy Boys do that in a long ago tables-ladders-chairs match and walk away unscathed. I am curious to hear more about the forensics. Double murder-suicide by wrestling doesn't happen every day.
Ironically, tonight's episode of Raw was supposed to be a memorial service for Vince McMahon, who was killed off in a recent storyline. I haven't been following WWE for the past couple years (my interest waned once Kurt Angle was gone--I loved that asshole and his impossibly thick neck wreathed by his signature Olympic gold medals), but killing off Vince McMahon is even more ridiculous than when Linda McMahon was in a catatonic state at some mental institution after witnessing the horror of Vince hooking up with Trish Stratus. I might have to start watching WWE again, since the scripts seem to be achieving unprecedented heights of absurdity. Unfortunately, this ridiculous storyline can't be borne out, because yesterday when Raw was being filmed, Vince had to cancel it, then miraculously reincarnate himself to inform an empty arena that Chris Benoit was dead in real life. The whole episode will be a tribute to Chris Benoit, although I bet WWE is going to be regretting that now that it's out that Benoit is a wife-killing infanticidal lunatic.
I'm not surprised that someone--especially a short, overcompensating, toothless Canadian like Chris Benoit--in the WWE finally succumbed to roid rage and got homicidal on his family's asses. What I am surprised about is that the news is reporting that he did not kill them or himself with a gun. Did he perform a couple Crippler Crossfaces and not let them tap out or something? I'm not sure a signature submission move has ever been lethal, so that's a first. And more importantly, how did he manage to off himself with a wrestling technique...jump off a ladder onto his head or something? Actually, I think I saw one of the Hardy Boys do that in a long ago tables-ladders-chairs match and walk away unscathed. I am curious to hear more about the forensics. Double murder-suicide by wrestling doesn't happen every day.
Labels: crime and punishment, oh the horror, people who died, ridiculous absurdity, TV, wrasslin
Monday, June 25, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: the Hamburg Sea Devils
Name: Hamburg Sea Devils
DOB: N/A
Occupation: World Bowl Champions, the envy of NFL Europe
Hometown: Hamburg, Germany (or more likely, the good old U.S. of A., since most of the players are American)
Current Residence: Hamburg, Germany
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: My buddy Js and Ps alerted me to the fact that his hometown NFL team, the fabled Sea Devils, kicked some Frankfurt Galaxy ass at the Yello Strom World Bowl XV over the weekend. They brought the World Bowl crown (apparently the Europeans have a crown instead of a Lombardi trophy knock-off) back to Hamburg for the first time ever after the highest scoring game in World Bowl history at Commertzbank Arena in Frankfurt.
This game was an offensive juggernaut. Galaxy quarterback J.T. O'Sullivan, who is on the Chicago Bears practice squad, threw for 299 yards and two touchdowns. With those kind of numbers, his ass should have played in the damn Super Bowl this year instead of that easily-rattled bitch Rex Grossman. O'Sullivan looks like an incompetent piece of shit next to Sea Devils quarterback Casey Bramlet, however, who threw 347 yards and four TDs, finishing the day with a most impressive 155.5 rating. After a lot of back-and-forth scoring drives (and a lot of missed extra points and field goals...NFL Europe kickers clearly suck), the Sea Devils' hot defense made a key interception with a few minutes left that allowed them to run out the clock and prevail over the Galaxy, 37-28. This is in spite of them actually playing this game in Frankfurt, which gave the Galaxy a decided home field advantage and probably included indignities such as the 47,000+ crowd of pilsner-swilling drunken Frankfurters throwing various types of wurst on the field or similarly awesome Deutsch means of heckling the opposition.
Casey Bramlet is affiliated with the Redskins, so maybe this fall when they come to the Meadowlands to play the Giants I can sneak over to New Jersey and lurk by the locker room looking for some professional athlete action. You know all the bitches hanging around Giant Stadium are looking to hit it with FAS (Fetal Alcohol Syndrome) Manning or one of the (lame) Giants, anyway...and all the people by the Skins locker room are probably after either Clinton Portis or Santana Moss. I'll probably be the only one going, "Hey, has anyone seen Casey Bramlet? He probably keeps himself busy fetching Gatorade for the more marquis players, but tell him he finally has a groupie who is actually not German!" I think my prospects are good.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, international intrigue, NFL football
Daily Douchebag: Razzy
Real Name: Angie
DOB: November 17, 1978
Occupation: Grad student, exhibitionist, drunk, skank, purveyor of useless bullshit
Hometown: Puyallup, WA
Current Residence: Sugar Hill, Harlem, NYC
Douchebaggery: After spending all day Saturday with a hangover so serious I couldn't move, much less make it anywhere near the Coney Island Mermaid parade I was supposed to attend, I SHOULD have spent Sunday writing up LL Cool Jew's wedding post as I promised her (and Motherbucker, and everyone else who is hassling me about it). However, I instead went to J-Sexy's, where I tended her ailing, Vicodin-doped ass with Guinness milkshakes, watched TV, and argued good-naturedly about whether or not Bobby Flay is hot (I say no, but J-Sexy is in LOVE), and whether or not "Throwdown" is rigged to favor Bobby's opponent. Then I went to work for awhile and then ran some errands.
When I got home last night, I SHOULD have sat down and written the wedding report, but I got sucked into some show on the History Channel about Jupiter. This is all especially shitty of me because when she sent around some photos of her wedding expressly for the purpose of this fabled blog entry that has yet to be written, LL Cool Jew also sent the following e-mail in which she basically calls me out in front of her entire Smith College e-mail list:
Ladies,
Thank you all so, so much for making these pictures possible. It is my
great great honor to be yalls girl.
Now, all right Razzy, let's get down to business. I'm saying this
publicly. You've said for the record you were waiting on THIS to blog
Cool Jew-Bagelmania 2007, and I have slogged through hundreds of repetitive
digital photographs of said event to locate these *just* for you. I
approach you with the deepest humility now – because, ahem, with due
respect to HotLawyer and MorrisseysHair, I think I qualify for the
title of "RazzyPhile No. 1." You are my Captain Sig, except without
the sexual feelings! And I would be only so stoked to have for the
record, might I suggest, a quick Top 10 highlights? Even Top 5?
Just a hint: The file "smithgirlsscatter" contains the beginning of
PartyFoul's assault on myself. It continued upstairs, after photograph
time. Yes, I christened her. It works just for that night, but it's
also appropriate over history when you think about it. Just a
suggestion, you could probably come up with something better. Cap'n!
As an aside, Raz, it's more than a little gratuitous for me to fawn
so. Let my genuflection serve as your best evidence of how ardent my
fandom has become!
Anyway, everyone, you all are the hotness.
xo,
LL Cool Jew
Even with such a lovely, eloquent piece of asskissery, I remained unable to tear myself away from shit concerning Jupiter's numerous jet streams and plans to explore the ice moon Europa for microbial life to concentrate on the rather daunting task of summarizing LL Cool Jew's wedding. I PROMISE I'll do it tonight and have it up by tomorrow or the next day, but today I'm blowing off lab and going to the fucking beach. I got up especially early (4:30 a.m.) today just to make sure I get something written here, but it's not enough time to do justice to the three-day titfest, boozestravaganza, and general orgy of ridiculousness that was LL Cool Jew's and BigBagel's nuptials, including the absurd and self-explanatory incident involving the "PartyFoul" character, who, as I will get into later, decided that LL Cool Jew's wedding was a perfect forum for whining about her personal insecurities. Smith College in the heezy! You can see PartyFoul, in spite of the revelry going on in front of her (me and KatieScarlett) and behind her (FalloniusMonk and JerseyGirl) trying to process with LL Cool Jew about her exclusion issues after barely saying hi and congratulations, and LL Cool Jew giving her a (totally priceless) look that plainly says, "What the fuck...are you seriously talking to me about your fucking fat issues at my wedding?!"
Anyway, I swear I'll get this written up in the next day or two. PROMISE! And I suck for not doing it yet, as Captain Sig would probably not have kept you waiting, but that's why I earned the title of douchebag for today.
Patience, precious, patience!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, holy fucking matrimony, LL Cool Jew, overcompensation, Razzyphiles
Sunday, June 24, 2007
The rebellion is incorrectly styled
I could not be more excited because as ads all over bus shelters and subway platforms everywhere are informing me that THE REBELLION BEGINS on July 11!
Man, this is awesome, even though it means watching Harry Potter be a whining, antagonistic, angst-filled teenager for two hours. In the book, Harry was completely intolerable on account of being a typical 15-year-old: temperamental, moody, easily provoked, irrational, and full of piss and vinegar. I suppose it's probably realistic and fair to expect this sort of behavior from Harry, given that he's not only a teenager with raging hormones and what-have-you, but at the end of book four he watched Cedric Diggory get avada kedavre-d by the recently restored to his body Lord Voldemort, barely escaped the same fate himself thanks to a fortuitous use of his favorite Disarming Spell Expelliarmus and the subsequent even-more-fortuitous reverse spell effect on account of his and the Dark Lord's wands having the same phoenix feather core from Dumbledore's pet Fawkes, and then suffering a blitz of bad press suggesting that he's an attention-seeking media whore with a brain-addling scar. By contrast, when I was fifteen and acting like the world's biggest asshole, it was because my dumb ex-girlfriend cheated on and then dumped me and I developed an unhealthy fixation with suicide. I guess Harry Potter's excuse is better than mine was, but nonetheless, his "Boo hoo, nobody understands me, and I'm even going to be an asshole to Ron and Hermione because I have no other outlet for my misplaced rage" routine gets old FAST.
However, I still spent a bunch of time checking out all the screen shots and other assorted Harry Potter geek bullshit at the movie's official site, as well as a bunch of even dorkier fan sites. Sadly, it appears that there will be no full-frontal nude shots of Harry in this film (I can't imagine why). Also, I'm a little unhappy with some of the casting choices. For starters, casting Helena Bonham Carter as Death Eater Bellatrix Lestrange.
I always pictured Bellatrix as having straight hair and being way hotter than this cooch. I'm having the same problems with her as I had with the casting of Gary Oldman as Sirius Black. I realize they're both supposed to look busted from over a decade of having the happiness sucked out of them by the dementors of Azkaban, but they're still both supposed to retain some vestiges of their pre-imprisonment hotness. Sirius Black would have been better played by Clive Owen, who could still pull off looking damaged and beaten down while reminding us why he'd lay waste Professor McGonagall and Peter Pettigrew in the UK's Hottest Animagus Ever contest (if such a thing existed). At least Gary Oldman can pull off crazy and rash, which is also important for Sirius. Helena Bonham Carter, on the other hand, looks like some kind of vampire whore with a bad spiral perm. She should be humping Vince Neil's vinyl-covered leg in a vintage Motley Crue video, not concocting elaborate ruses based on Harry's love for Sirius and his unwillingness to pay attention during Snape's Occlumency lessons to trick Harry and his DA loyalists into retrieving the prophecy from the Department of Mysteries at the Ministry of Magic. They should have shelled out for Cate Blanchett to dye her hair black and do Bellatrix; it would have been better acting and a better look than Helena, who is basically just Britishing up her signature tough but ridiculously needy goth bitch character.
Another bad casting choice is this hooker playing the goofy auror Nymphadora Tonks. According to the book, Tonks is cheerful, clumsy, and has a short, butchy haircut that is either bright purple or bubble-gum pink depending on her mood. She favors Weird Sisters shirts (the Ramones of the Wizarding world) over the standard Wizarding robes. Tonks is also always doing funny shit for laughs in book 5 (she spends most of book 6 pining away for Remus Lupin and consequently is a real drag to be around), like using her talents as a Metamorphmagus to replace her nose with a pig snout and stuff like that. They seriously should have gotten some comedienne to play Tonks, but instead they dug up this hooker:
Where did they find this brooding lezbot, Smith College? She looks like she's just finished overusing the phrases "like, that is so wrong" and "I feel that as a..." at a heated women's studies discussion panel and is on her way to perform a bunch of bad Indigo Girls covers with the Smiffenpoofs at the annual Smith acapella group sing-off. I can just imagine this ho raising her hand in some humanities (let's say for fun that it's "History of the Roman Empire") class and saying, "As an alternative-hair-colored daughter of a commodities trader from Connecticut who likes to sail, I feel that Caligula was probably just misunderstood and it's discriminatory to categorize him as a tyrant, he was a pioneer who fought for women's empowerment, just ask his sister Drusilla" or "As a recently-professed non-sex-having lesbian with a boobmashing partner on the rugby team, I feel that Messalina's nymphomania was fiction created to disparage her, since she was obviously a strong womyn-loving-womyn threatening the patriarchal Roman paradigm." This chick looks like she belongs in some sort of confusing clusterfuck performance art piece with the Dead Gays, while Tonks should be winking at people all the time and saying "Wotcher," whatever that means. BAD CASTING CHOICE!
Finally, I was looking at the poster and I was like, "Who is that hot blonde chick?" I identified every other character. There's Ron, Hermione, Harry, Ginny, Neville, Cho Chang...and who the fuck is that blonde chick? Then it hit me...THAT'S LUNA LOVEGOOD! I'm sorry, but this ho playing Luna is too hot and not even remotely crazy enough to pull off Looney Lovegood:
Luna is supposed to have stringy, dishevelled, dishwater blonde hair and a penchant for accessorizing with radish earrings and necklaces made out of butterbeer corks. She's supposed to be weird-looking and even weirder acting. This girl, however, looks like she's got all the boys at Hogwarts in a dead swoon on account of looking like a proto-porn star. Actually, all three of these chicks look like the Plastics from Mean Girls, and the only one of them who is supposed to be conventionally good looking is Cho Chang. Cho Chang is hot (and check out the ass on her!), but she also gives some serious dominatrix face, and I recall Cho spending most of book 5 crying and being confused. Hermione's look is also a problem, and I hate to criticize Hermione. I identify with Hermione more than any other character (duh), as she's always so eager to show off her smarts that she blurts out answers in class and practically jumps out of her chair raising her hand, she likes to play the field when it comes to boys, she always has her nose in a book, she's intolerant of stupidity and always has a waspish retort for idiotic statements or queries, she's extremely passionate about her beliefs, she doesn't take any bullshit, her vengeance is merciless, and she is not the prettiest girl but works with what she's got. I AM Hermione, or at least her American Muggle counterpart. Because of how deeply I feel Hermione, I have to point out that the movie stylists spent WAY too much time fixing her fucking hair! That shit is supposed to look like birds nest in it!
Of course all this isn't going to stop me from getting my geek on and suffering the presence of thousands of horrible, screaming children at the movie theater on July 11th, but it bugs me nonetheless and will continue to do so. I still haven't gotten over the Gary Oldman-as-Sirius Black thing and that's from two movies ago. Hopefully, the actress playing Dolores Umbridge will be horrible enough (despite not being fat enough) to distract me from all the inconsistencies that I tend to dwell on. At least the trailer is dope enough to make me hyperventilate more than just a little with excitement:
P.S. To everyone who seems to have taken a new interest in this post I wrote last December about how Harry Potter should not have anal sex with Draco Malfoy, YES, dumbasses, I KNOW it's Photoshopped and I did not think it's going into this movie, nor did I think it was approved by J.K. Rowling or Warner Brothers, nor did I think it was anything but a stupid picture that some geek with too much time on their hands made for shits and giggles. I do not expect some kind of gay sex plot twist to occur in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, so quit e-mailing and commenting shit like "loLz, that picture's fake" or "you must be very stupid not to realize that's Photoshop" or passing on your fan fiction recommendations. I KNOW IT'S FAKE! Everyone who calls me stupid should stop congratulating themselves on their superior intellect and take a look in the mirror, because I'd argue that you're not exactly Nobel laureate material if you think I'm always serious when I profess my site to be 100% useless bullshit.
However, I still spent a bunch of time checking out all the screen shots and other assorted Harry Potter geek bullshit at the movie's official site, as well as a bunch of even dorkier fan sites. Sadly, it appears that there will be no full-frontal nude shots of Harry in this film (I can't imagine why). Also, I'm a little unhappy with some of the casting choices. For starters, casting Helena Bonham Carter as Death Eater Bellatrix Lestrange.
Another bad casting choice is this hooker playing the goofy auror Nymphadora Tonks. According to the book, Tonks is cheerful, clumsy, and has a short, butchy haircut that is either bright purple or bubble-gum pink depending on her mood. She favors Weird Sisters shirts (the Ramones of the Wizarding world) over the standard Wizarding robes. Tonks is also always doing funny shit for laughs in book 5 (she spends most of book 6 pining away for Remus Lupin and consequently is a real drag to be around), like using her talents as a Metamorphmagus to replace her nose with a pig snout and stuff like that. They seriously should have gotten some comedienne to play Tonks, but instead they dug up this hooker:
Where did they find this brooding lezbot, Smith College? She looks like she's just finished overusing the phrases "like, that is so wrong" and "I feel that as a..." at a heated women's studies discussion panel and is on her way to perform a bunch of bad Indigo Girls covers with the Smiffenpoofs at the annual Smith acapella group sing-off. I can just imagine this ho raising her hand in some humanities (let's say for fun that it's "History of the Roman Empire") class and saying, "As an alternative-hair-colored daughter of a commodities trader from Connecticut who likes to sail, I feel that Caligula was probably just misunderstood and it's discriminatory to categorize him as a tyrant, he was a pioneer who fought for women's empowerment, just ask his sister Drusilla" or "As a recently-professed non-sex-having lesbian with a boobmashing partner on the rugby team, I feel that Messalina's nymphomania was fiction created to disparage her, since she was obviously a strong womyn-loving-womyn threatening the patriarchal Roman paradigm." This chick looks like she belongs in some sort of confusing clusterfuck performance art piece with the Dead Gays, while Tonks should be winking at people all the time and saying "Wotcher," whatever that means. BAD CASTING CHOICE!
Finally, I was looking at the poster and I was like, "Who is that hot blonde chick?" I identified every other character. There's Ron, Hermione, Harry, Ginny, Neville, Cho Chang...and who the fuck is that blonde chick? Then it hit me...THAT'S LUNA LOVEGOOD! I'm sorry, but this ho playing Luna is too hot and not even remotely crazy enough to pull off Looney Lovegood:
Luna is supposed to have stringy, dishevelled, dishwater blonde hair and a penchant for accessorizing with radish earrings and necklaces made out of butterbeer corks. She's supposed to be weird-looking and even weirder acting. This girl, however, looks like she's got all the boys at Hogwarts in a dead swoon on account of looking like a proto-porn star. Actually, all three of these chicks look like the Plastics from Mean Girls, and the only one of them who is supposed to be conventionally good looking is Cho Chang. Cho Chang is hot (and check out the ass on her!), but she also gives some serious dominatrix face, and I recall Cho spending most of book 5 crying and being confused. Hermione's look is also a problem, and I hate to criticize Hermione. I identify with Hermione more than any other character (duh), as she's always so eager to show off her smarts that she blurts out answers in class and practically jumps out of her chair raising her hand, she likes to play the field when it comes to boys, she always has her nose in a book, she's intolerant of stupidity and always has a waspish retort for idiotic statements or queries, she's extremely passionate about her beliefs, she doesn't take any bullshit, her vengeance is merciless, and she is not the prettiest girl but works with what she's got. I AM Hermione, or at least her American Muggle counterpart. Because of how deeply I feel Hermione, I have to point out that the movie stylists spent WAY too much time fixing her fucking hair! That shit is supposed to look like birds nest in it!
Of course all this isn't going to stop me from getting my geek on and suffering the presence of thousands of horrible, screaming children at the movie theater on July 11th, but it bugs me nonetheless and will continue to do so. I still haven't gotten over the Gary Oldman-as-Sirius Black thing and that's from two movies ago. Hopefully, the actress playing Dolores Umbridge will be horrible enough (despite not being fat enough) to distract me from all the inconsistencies that I tend to dwell on. At least the trailer is dope enough to make me hyperventilate more than just a little with excitement:
P.S. To everyone who seems to have taken a new interest in this post I wrote last December about how Harry Potter should not have anal sex with Draco Malfoy, YES, dumbasses, I KNOW it's Photoshopped and I did not think it's going into this movie, nor did I think it was approved by J.K. Rowling or Warner Brothers, nor did I think it was anything but a stupid picture that some geek with too much time on their hands made for shits and giggles. I do not expect some kind of gay sex plot twist to occur in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, so quit e-mailing and commenting shit like "loLz, that picture's fake" or "you must be very stupid not to realize that's Photoshop" or passing on your fan fiction recommendations. I KNOW IT'S FAKE! Everyone who calls me stupid should stop congratulating themselves on their superior intellect and take a look in the mirror, because I'd argue that you're not exactly Nobel laureate material if you think I'm always serious when I profess my site to be 100% useless bullshit.
Labels: Dumb Smith bitches, epic geekery, Harry Potter, movies, nerd alert, ranting, Razzification
Friday, June 22, 2007
J-Sexy is silenced
As the lovely J-Sexy's platonic life partner, one of my relationship duties is picking her narc-ed out ass up from the ear, nose, and throat hospital today after her tonsillectomy. Apparently she's going to be in severe pain, possibly nauseated, and unable to eat solid foods for two weeks. I thought tonsillectomies weren't supposed to be that bad, but I looked it up on the internet and the shit looks PAINFUL, not to mention gross:
Ow, ow! Two big gaping holes in the back of your mouth seems pretty fucking unpleasant. This is even worse for J-Sexy, because from what I can tell, the only thing she'll be able to consume is beer. Almost everything she eats is on a bone or at least is some type of tough animal connective tissue (cow foot, oxtail, goat intestine, fish head, bones complete with marrow, etc.) and is jerked, curried, or otherwise heavily peppered and spiced. She's resigned herself to two weeks of milkshakes and Guinness floats, which I'm sure will compliment the Vicodin and the not-working nicely.
In addition to fucking with her diet, this tonsillectomy is seriously cramping her honey-getting style. J-Sexy is a classy girl and is not like me; she won't just jump on some dude's dick because she's drunk/horny and he's offering the way I will. She is, however, up for a little making out from time to time after a steamy round of dutty wining at occasions like our close friends' weddings.
Alas, poor J-Sexy! No solid foods, no hot makeout seshes with random ex-Peace Corps volunteers, and no lab. She's going to be so sad for the next two weeks (especially because of the lab part, which is infinitely worse than not being able to eat or French random dudes). The only thing that will brighten her spirits is the fact that I plan to drop in whenever possible and sit through whatever weird foreign films she's recently Netflixed, or catch a little "Irie Vibes" or Jamaican news if I happen to be lucky enough to stop by on the one day per week the Caribbean channel is being broadcast.
As hard as this all will be, I think the lack of talking is going to be the worst for her. J-Sexy is almost as loud and as chattery as myself, which is quite the achievement in noisemaking. Not talking for two weeks is synonymous with a fortnight of hell. So everyone send prayers or good vibes or well wishes or whatever her way...ho needs a speedy recovery!
In addition to fucking with her diet, this tonsillectomy is seriously cramping her honey-getting style. J-Sexy is a classy girl and is not like me; she won't just jump on some dude's dick because she's drunk/horny and he's offering the way I will. She is, however, up for a little making out from time to time after a steamy round of dutty wining at occasions like our close friends' weddings.
Alas, poor J-Sexy! No solid foods, no hot makeout seshes with random ex-Peace Corps volunteers, and no lab. She's going to be so sad for the next two weeks (especially because of the lab part, which is infinitely worse than not being able to eat or French random dudes). The only thing that will brighten her spirits is the fact that I plan to drop in whenever possible and sit through whatever weird foreign films she's recently Netflixed, or catch a little "Irie Vibes" or Jamaican news if I happen to be lucky enough to stop by on the one day per week the Caribbean channel is being broadcast.
As hard as this all will be, I think the lack of talking is going to be the worst for her. J-Sexy is almost as loud and as chattery as myself, which is quite the achievement in noisemaking. Not talking for two weeks is synonymous with a fortnight of hell. So everyone send prayers or good vibes or well wishes or whatever her way...ho needs a speedy recovery!
Labels: gross, J-Sexy, oh the horror
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Gordon Ramsay
Name: Gordon Ramsay
Real Name: Gordon James Ramsay
DOB: November 8, 1966
Occupation: Chef, restauranteur, and television personality
Hometown: Johnstone, Scotland
Current Residence: London, England and Los Angeles, CA
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Just watch "Hell's Kitchen" on FOX and no explanation is necessary. "HK" is a reality show where Gordon runs around screaming at all these would-be chefs just because he enjoys it. He stands at the front of the kitchen while the chefs prepare the same bullshit menu every night, and woe betide the chef who fucks up the slightest thing. I've seen him jam a dude's face into a plate of poorly cooked Dover sole. When you put your food up for his inspection, you had better not try to pass off any uncooked scallops or burned beef Wellington because you will suffer Gordon Ramsay's wrath, which is vengeful Old Testament God-like in its severity and tenor.
Gordon doesn't take any crap from the rest of the world, either. He once threw some famous food critic and his date, Joan Fucking Collins, out of his restaurant! He also hates vegetarians and vegans. When PETA assholes dumped a ton of horse manure outside his restaurant at Claridge's in London to retaliate against his urging British people to eat more horse, he and some journalist served horse steaks at the Cheltenham horse races. Another time he admitted to serving a party of vegetarians a dish with chicken stock in it just to be an asshole. You go, Gordon!
I also love that Gordon only got into the fancy executive chef line of work because he destroyed his knee while trying to make it as a professional footballer. Normally I hate everything having to do with soccer--especially when it's erroneously referred to as football and causing confusion as to whether or not its anywhere near as awesome as what foreigners call "American football"--but in this case I can make an exception. I bet a young Gordon Ramsay running around screaming at his teammates and opponents alike was hotter than an overpeppered plate of shrimps. I'd sample one of his horse steaks any day.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, gluttony, hot dudes, TV
Daily Douchebag: Rick and Kathy Hilton
Name: Rick and Kathy Hilton
Real Name: Richard Howard Hilton and Kathleen Elizabeth Avanzino Richards
DOB: August 17, 1955 (Rick), March 13, 1959 (Kathy)
Occupation: Real Estate Developer (Rick), 70s B-movie actress (Kathy), Media Whore (Both)
Hometown: Whittier, CA (Kathy); Los Angeles, CA (Rick)
Current Residence: Bel-Air, Los Angeles, CA
Douchebaggery: Apart from the obvious crime against humanity of cursing us with Paris Hilton, these two have done everything to ensure that they will profit from their demon spawn's criminal career. Ever since Paris was sentenced, these two have been sounding off to anyone with a microphone unlucky enough to cross their path about the injustice of Paris having to actually pay her debt to society like the rest of us. Rick just sold the rights for Paris's first interview out of the slammer to Meredith Viera on NBC's Today show for one million dollars because as far as rich people go, they're kind of poor. Rick's net worth is estimated at $300 million, which is pretty pathetic considering grandpa Barron's hotel chain is worth over a billion. That's probably why Rick will sell anything and everything for which there is a buyer. I wouldn't be surprised if he sold the rights to Paris's first post-prison sex tape as well. The only reason Rick is even around is to squeeze every last drop of money from his depraved daughter, probably so he can go buy more fugly linen shorts and gut-accentuating polo shirts.
Kathy is even worse. After failing to catch on as an actress in such memorable films as 1979's The Dark (co-starring William Devane, Lifetime movie bad guy extraordinaire) and guest stints on forgotten episodes of "The Rockford Files" and "Happy Days", she decided to shelve her dreams of being a thespian and just marry a rich guy. Since then, she's focused her efforts on breeding the most spoiled, self-indulgent, vapid socialite whores imaginable, and hawking gaudy CZ bracelets on QVC. She also had a rapidly cancelled reality show a couple summers ago called "I Want to Be a Hilton" in which a bunch of uncouth, redneck gold-diggers competed for some apartment in the Waldorf-Astoria so tiny that I suspect a scullery maid lived there back in the days when there were things like scullery maids and they lived where they worked. Watching ten minutes of this show when I was bored one night made me consider suicide so seriously I almost thought I'd gone back in time to being a depressed, poetry-writing, Sylvia Plath-fixated teenage lesbian.
These two may be the antichrist, considering all the misery and despair they've unleashed upon the world. Just take them to the valley of Meggido and let them start the world war predicted by the Book of Revelations, already. If they are truly forbears of cataclysmic destruction, then I say bring on the Apocalypse. The end of days sounds far preferable to watching them attempt some pathetic PR on Greta van Susteren or Nancy Grace or whoever is hard-up enough for guests to actually book them.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, media whores, overcompensation
Thursday, June 21, 2007
As God is my witness, my friends are also huge geeks
LL Cool Jew sent me some pictures from her wedding and all the festivities leading up to it. Myself and all the other bridesmaids all got dressed at LL Cool Jew's suite at the Union Square W Hotel, where they have some service called "Whatever, Whenever" or something. Basically this means you can call them up at any hour and be like, "I want a bottle of Strawberry Fields Boone's Farm, an economy sized pack of Rough Riders, a bag of pepper jerky, and a copy of Us Weekly" and they'll send some dude right up with it. We didn't ask for any of that, but we did call and demand a half dozen champagne glasses and a Gone With the Wind DVD. Well, we initially tried to get Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers and The Ten Commandments, but for some inexplicable reason they didn't have any of those DVDs in their "epic awesomeness" collection (a major oversight, if you ask me). Anyway, this is how all brides-to-be should spend their last moments of freedom:
God damn, we're nerds. HUGE nerds.
"As God is my witness, as God is my witness they're not going to lick me. I'm going to live through this and when it's all over, I'll never be hungry again. No, nor any of my folk. If I have to lie, steal, cheat or kill. As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again!"Clearly I wasn't going hungry. I can't decide if I'm happy with the fact that my tits look absolutely ginormous in that bridesmaids dress or unhappy because it also makes the rest of me look upsettingly on the zaftig side. In spite of that, though, I think this picture perfectly illustrates why LL Cool Jew and I are friends. Nobody else can really get this excited about dorky epics based on excessively long books written by Smith College alumnae, and I really can't imagine who would use this to get pumped for their WEDDING, or who would use this as a third string wedding pep rally option after not being able to watch the Battle of Helm's Deep or the studly bald hunk of steaming sex that is Hot Jew Yul Brynner sneeringly tell Moses to take his plagues back to Goshen and shove it up his sanctimonious ass.
God damn, we're nerds. HUGE nerds.
Labels: epic geekery, holy fucking matrimony, LL Cool Jew, movies, nerd alert
All new extra-Razzified awesomeness!!!!
This last week, I've been extremely busy and extremely stressed out. In addition to the miserable drudgery that is also called my thesis project, I have a part-time job analyzing intellectual property for Columbia's patent-selling office and I'm also the stupid president of the grad student government. This means I literally get up at 6 a.m. or earlier every day to ensure that I write something on the blog, because if I don't, the Razzyphiles get restless. Last weekend, LL Cool Jew showed her former teacher stripes and actually gave me a "check minus" for failing to post for a couple days! The only problem with blogging so early is that I find it difficult to be angrily creative when I'm half-asleep. Therefore, I decided that from now on, I'm going to institute a daily feature to ensure that I've always got something to write about when I'm groggy, and to ensure that it's all check pluses from here on out.
A lot of other websites and blogs that I read have some sort of daily featured gimmick, and I figured that this would be a good addition to all the mind-blowing hotness that is here otherwise. Besides, it will ensure there is still some fresh Razzification on days when I am either strapped for time or uninspired. No matter how mentally or physically exhausted I am, I can always think of two things: assholes that infuriate me, and sexy people reminiscent of R. Kelly's jeep who I would like to ride. Henceforth, you can now see whose leading the pack for me in both of those categories every day with my new regular features: Daily Douchebag and Daily Dude I Want to Hit. And I don't mean "hit" like "punch in the nose akin to when Joy beat me in the spelling bee when I was ten", I mean "hit" like "tap that fine ass." Also, "Dude" can and will refer to those of the feminine persuasion on occasion.
Anyway, the first installments of these features are below. Pope Benedixteen is naturally the first "Daily Douchebag", and HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair tied for the illustrious honor of first "Daily Dude I Want to Hit" (it's their birthday and they were reading RAZZY.org even when I thought it was stupid).
So go enjoy it, bitches!
A lot of other websites and blogs that I read have some sort of daily featured gimmick, and I figured that this would be a good addition to all the mind-blowing hotness that is here otherwise. Besides, it will ensure there is still some fresh Razzification on days when I am either strapped for time or uninspired. No matter how mentally or physically exhausted I am, I can always think of two things: assholes that infuriate me, and sexy people reminiscent of R. Kelly's jeep who I would like to ride. Henceforth, you can now see whose leading the pack for me in both of those categories every day with my new regular features: Daily Douchebag and Daily Dude I Want to Hit. And I don't mean "hit" like "punch in the nose akin to when Joy beat me in the spelling bee when I was ten", I mean "hit" like "tap that fine ass." Also, "Dude" can and will refer to those of the feminine persuasion on occasion.
Anyway, the first installments of these features are below. Pope Benedixteen is naturally the first "Daily Douchebag", and HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair tied for the illustrious honor of first "Daily Dude I Want to Hit" (it's their birthday and they were reading RAZZY.org even when I thought it was stupid).
So go enjoy it, bitches!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, internet domination, Razzification
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair
Name: HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair
Real Name: Raul and Fidel. Just kidding! Their names are withheld--they have important jobs and don't need some judge Googling them and asking them why they associate with a dipshit like myself
DOB: June 21, 1978--THEIR BIRTHDAY IS TODAY!!!!!
Occupation: Attorneys-at-Law. According to their MySpaces, HotLawyer "serves as a check to prevent the government from incarcerating the poor at will" (ie: he provides dumbasses who blow up their meth labs with a vigorous defense) and Morrissey'sHair is "counsel to the insolvent" (ie: he structures bankruptcy settlements).
Hometown: Federal Way, WA in the magnificent P-N-Dub
Current Residence: Tacoma, WA, City of Destiny (HotLawyer) and Seattle, WA, City of Hipster Al Gore-Worshipping Snobs (Morrissey'sHair).
Reasons Why I Want to Hit That Hotness: For starters, it's their birthday. Last year I tracked Morrissey's mopey ass down and forced him to sing for them, because they both are abnormally fixated on him. Last time I was in the P-N-Dub, Morrissey'sHair actually blew off going down to Tacoma for my last Saturday in town because he had to retire early, so he could wake up at the cock's crow and STALK MORRISSEY AROUND SEATTLE all day on Sunday. Their Morrissey fetishes are no joke. Anyway, since this year Morrissey is off touring somewhere (to avoid the same thing happening, no doubt), and I've been slammed with work and didn't have time to go abduct him, I thought I'd give them a shout-out here. I went to high school with these two characters, and back then we mainly functioned as philosophical adversaries in various honors classes-turned-forums for debate. After college, they became my Friendsters, but I didn't see them often since they were off in law school. However, shortly after I started this very website, when there was nothing on it but a 50 Cent album review and some poorly laid out news blurbs about the Pope, they both independently e-mailed me to tell me how great they thought it was. Before any of my closest friends could be persuaded to read my site, HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair were checking it on the daily. As a result, I consider them both good friends and great guys, and they're right up there with MillerTime on my "must-call-immediately" list when I go back to the P-N-Dub.
I shouldn't actually say they are "Dudes I Want to Hit" because in truth, I've already got carnal knowledge of one of them (and I'm not saying which one) from one very drunken night a long, long time ago. On another occasion, I tried to convince the other one to indulge in the overwhelmingly awesome experience of banging me, if for no other reason than I wanted to take the sexual equivalent of the Pepsi challenge. I mean, come on, who doesn't want to hit a pair of twins?! Unfortunately for me, he gave me some song and dance about how I was like a sister to him and he's known me forever and it would be weird and blah blah blah, so I couldn't do any kind of comparative study. Oh well. I'll just have to settle for their excellent company. They're both super smart, hilarious, witty, swarthy, devastatingly handsome, and I'm lucky to count them among my close friends and most beloved, platinum elite Razzyphiles. So HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GUYS! Make sure you guys get drunk, get crunk, and get laid!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, HotLawyer, Morrissey'sHair, P-N-Dub
Daily Douchebag: Pope Benedict XVI
Nickname: Benedixteen
Real Name: Joseph Alois Ratzinger, sometimes also called John Ratzinger (not to be confused with John Ratzinberger, who played Cliff Claven on "Cheers")
DOB: April 16, 1927
Occupation: Vicar of Christ
Hometown: Marktl am Inn, Bavaria, Weimar Republic (holy shit, he was actually born when there was a Weimar Republic...dude is old)
Current Residence: Basilica of St. John Lateran, Vatican City, The Vatican
Douchebaggery: After being elected the Head Pedophile in Charge of the Roman Catholic faith at the papal conclave in April 2005, Benedixteen promptly got down to business undoing all the good PR built up by his predecessor JP Dos. He's spent the last two years shopping for designer shoes, discouraging condom use, bashing the gays, interfering with other people's politics, further fucking with Western-Islamic relations by quoting Crusade-loving Byzantine emperors, jacking people's stashes, hating on capitalism, holding hands (and possibly receiving fellatio from...it's implied by the body language) and giving daps to Dubya, and generally finding new ways to condemn people. Also, he looks like some kind of fell being created by Saruman the White before he got the formula for making Uruk-Hai right, or some other type of orc or goblin. I could totally see him scampering up a pillar in the Mines of Moria after stupid-ass Pippin announced the Fellowship of the Ring's presence by chucking a rock followed by an entire armor-clad dwarf skeleton down that well. If only Aragorn son of Arathorn were around to liberate his head from his body with Anduril, Flame of the West, forged from the shards of Narsil. Lord of the Rings geekery aside, Benedixteen may not actually be the distant cousin of the hordes of Mordor, but he is without question the creepiest-looking Pope in the entire two thousand year history of cranky old codgers to occupy the Holy See.
Labels: Catholicism, Daily Douchebag, Pope Benedixteen
Pimp my Pug
My mom sent me this, cautioning me not to open it at work. I was like, "Mom?! Sending me NSFW shit???" Then I watched it, and while it's actually TOTALLY safe for work (I guess my mom thought the whole pimp theme was inappropriate for the lab...or something), it's also fucking hilarious. I actually laughed out loud watching it. I wonder if Petco carries this outfit in XXXL Pug size, because this is the type of ensemble Chingy! would wear well:
CHONGAY CHONG, player-ass pimp!
CHONGAY CHONG, player-ass pimp!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, hilarious shit, ridiculous absurdity
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Why Paris should stay in jail
I have just gotten a chance to take a breather after approximately five straight days of absolutely brutal work. The last two nights I've only gotten a combined five hours of sleep and at my old age, that's not cutting it. I don't even have the energy to write an end-of-the-season sendoff to "Deadliest Catch;" I'm too exhausted to think up clever crab fishing-related metaphors for Skipper Sig Hansen's hotness. So to wind down from the nonstop activity and large quantities of Sugar Free Red Bull for the refreshing nap I plan on taking, I decided to peruse the fluffy, pithy gossip posts on Dlisted, and noticed a post headed with the banner "Serial Killer Handwriting" about this letter:
Apparently Paris is so bored in prison that she's breaking out her best second-grade penmanship to send to the extraordinarily stupid people who mailed her letters of support. Color me completely unsurprised that bitch dots her i's with hearts and failed to retain the old "i before e except after c" rule we all learned in the first fucking grade. I went through a phase where I did that when I was eleven, but even in my EXCEPTIONALLY dorky tween years I quickly realized how obviously retarded that practice is, and immediately reverted to the classic dot. Anyway, her handwriting definitely has some eerie serial killer qualities to it, and I should know. I'm from the P-N-Dub and we have almost as many serial killers as we do Starbucks. Ted Bundy grew up several blocks away from my mom's childhood (and later my post-college) home on 10th and K Street. Rumor has it that he threw his first victim, a young girl from the neighborhood he met on his paper route, into the gulch across the street from Magoo's, the bar where my parents met and where I've gotten drunk on MANY an occasion back in Tacoma. However, Ted Bundy was an evil genius and kind of a hottie. Mark Harmon totally played him in a made-for-TV movie. He landed that role when he was hot, sexy, Vuarnet shades and Hawaiian shirt-wearing Mark Harmon, not the present day old and busted Mark Harmon. Ted Bundy was pretty foxy for a man who killed hundreds of women in Washington and later Florida, where they fried his ass for it.
This is not Ted Bundy writing, though. I expect Ted Bundy's handwriting had a lot of bells and whistles, and may have been very messy, since he was always wearing a cast on his arm to lure his victims into his gold VW bug. Ted Bundy was a complex man, who probably had a complex scrawl. Paris's writing reminds me instead of our other really famous serial killer:
That's a letter from Gary Leon Ridgway, better known as the Green River Killer. In the 80s, he killed a shitload of prostitutes and runaways and chucked their bodies into the Green River. When I was a little kid, a couple of my crazy aunts used to use the Green River Killer as a some sort of mythical cautionary boogeyman who would sniff me out and get me if I was bad to frighten me into behaving. I never fell for that one, since even as a young child I was insightful enough to point out that I wasn't hooking on Highway 99 out near Sea-Tac, in what is basically the chode of King County. Years later, after the advent of DNA forensics when I was almost done with college, they tracked some old pubes down and matched them to samples found in a truck Gary used to own, and captured his ass.
My friend HotLawyer worked on some kind of task force involved with tracking down the remains of his other victims, and he told me that Gary--or "Gare Bear," as he calls him--was certifiably mentally retarded. His IQ is less than 100 and he literally killed so many women that he couldn't remember all of them, much less where they all were. Apparently he would not be able to talk about his "ladys" unless he ate Herfy's fish and chips morning, noon, and night, and when the detectives had to play hardball with him, they'd go in shouting, "No more Herfy's for you! It's cheeseburgers from here on out!" and Gare Bear would lapse into histrionics, followed by catatonia. I imagine shit like that going down with Paris, too. She'd be pretty easy to manipulate by alternately offering and denying her favorite foods (Adderall and greasy Greek shipping heir dick). You could probably get her to confess to kidnapping the Lindbergh baby that way.
HotLawyer also mentioned that as part of the evidence from Gare Bear's case there was a whole sheaf of photos of him in various states of undress, and some joker in the office copied a picture of him in his skivvies, glued it to cardboard, cut it out, and they'd dress it up like a paper doll in a Seahawks uniform, lei and hula skirt, velvet pimp suit, Gary Payton jersey, etc. I imagine that the highly professional staff of the LA County Jail are doing something very similar with some analogous Paris Hilton effigy right now. I certainly would be.
In any event, the extreme similarity between the handwriting, the mental competency, and the speculative scenarios I offer here makes me wonder if there isn't something much more dark and sinister about Paris than anyone ever imagined. I could see that dumb hooker getting all Green River on some unsuspecting Z-list Hollywood ho (like one of those bitches from "The Hills"...they all seem like hapless murder victims waiting to happen) who happens to accept a ride home from Hyde or wherever with her once she's released. Since they can't hold her in jail for the remainder of her natural life because of some lame technicality in the Constitution, I hope that the cops keep an eye on her when she's loosed upon the world like the Eleventh Plague of Egypt in a few days. Something with her is just not right.
This is not Ted Bundy writing, though. I expect Ted Bundy's handwriting had a lot of bells and whistles, and may have been very messy, since he was always wearing a cast on his arm to lure his victims into his gold VW bug. Ted Bundy was a complex man, who probably had a complex scrawl. Paris's writing reminds me instead of our other really famous serial killer:
That's a letter from Gary Leon Ridgway, better known as the Green River Killer. In the 80s, he killed a shitload of prostitutes and runaways and chucked their bodies into the Green River. When I was a little kid, a couple of my crazy aunts used to use the Green River Killer as a some sort of mythical cautionary boogeyman who would sniff me out and get me if I was bad to frighten me into behaving. I never fell for that one, since even as a young child I was insightful enough to point out that I wasn't hooking on Highway 99 out near Sea-Tac, in what is basically the chode of King County. Years later, after the advent of DNA forensics when I was almost done with college, they tracked some old pubes down and matched them to samples found in a truck Gary used to own, and captured his ass.
HotLawyer also mentioned that as part of the evidence from Gare Bear's case there was a whole sheaf of photos of him in various states of undress, and some joker in the office copied a picture of him in his skivvies, glued it to cardboard, cut it out, and they'd dress it up like a paper doll in a Seahawks uniform, lei and hula skirt, velvet pimp suit, Gary Payton jersey, etc. I imagine that the highly professional staff of the LA County Jail are doing something very similar with some analogous Paris Hilton effigy right now. I certainly would be.
In any event, the extreme similarity between the handwriting, the mental competency, and the speculative scenarios I offer here makes me wonder if there isn't something much more dark and sinister about Paris than anyone ever imagined. I could see that dumb hooker getting all Green River on some unsuspecting Z-list Hollywood ho (like one of those bitches from "The Hills"...they all seem like hapless murder victims waiting to happen) who happens to accept a ride home from Hyde or wherever with her once she's released. Since they can't hold her in jail for the remainder of her natural life because of some lame technicality in the Constitution, I hope that the cops keep an eye on her when she's loosed upon the world like the Eleventh Plague of Egypt in a few days. Something with her is just not right.
Labels: crazies, crime and punishment, HotLawyer, oh the horror, P-N-Dub, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Behold...the world's most embarrassing lesbian
No, not Kelli. As far as I can tell, she does nothing but maintain that snappy Anne Heche-during-the-Ellen-years haircut:
Nor Boy George:
I'm talking exclusively about this repugnant scourge of all humankind:
Up until today, I made a conscious effort to avoid talking about my hatred for Rosie O'Donnell. Many things about her bother me. For one thing, her blog is like a poetry-inclined crybaby Smith girl meets one of the super kewl pedophiles from "To Catch a Predator." This, for example, is what Rosie had to say about her feud with Donald Trump over her remarks about the hot drunken coked-up lesbo former Miss USA Tara Conner:
so what happens
when u say the emperor has no clothes
the comb over goes ballistic
via phone to mr king
choices
every minute
every day
everyone
i imagine it is interesting
as celeb feuds tend 2 b
so here r my thoughts
didnt watch
didnt u tube
restrict
i have no time 2 make art now
i am only off friday
which is never enuf
to detox
the pipes get full
bits of sludge
clog the flow
so tiny books
now
express in torn images
my inside
No shit, her pipes are full of sludge. I would have said bullshit, but whatever. I refuse to believe that, however bad her childhood or upbringing, this bitch can't spell a FUCKING BASIC PRONOUN LIKE "YOU". It goes on like that for about three pages of unintelligible, meandering, stream-of-consciousness verse, and if you are into masochism you can read pages upon pages of similar material on her blog to your heart's content.
I willed myself to ignore this and refrain from commenting, if only because that heifer doesn't deserve any more attention and fame than her fat ass already gets. I even ignored it (despite feeling completely traumatized and like a hollow shell of a human being) when she made a guest appearance on "Nip/Tuck", one of my favorite TV shows, and this happened:
I would have absolutely lost it when my boyfriend Dr. Christian Troy porked Rosie on his super classy zebra skin rug if her character on the show hadn't paid his ass 400 grand to do so. Although the show was also redeemed in a later episode when James "Jim Walsh" Eckhouse guest-starred as a preachy Scientologist OB/GYN, I'm never going to be able to rub one off to the hotness that is Dr. Troy without the above horrible image jumping into my head.
Add to her transgressions against the sanctity of "Nip/Tuck" and her incomprehensible introspective poetry blogging the fact that she's unrepentantly fat, and probably calls herself a BBW. Fat bitches who insist that they are beautiful in any physical realm not populated exclusively by the blind really piss me off. Don't run around telling me that I have to like your cellulite because your Hot Pockets-eating ass is too lazy to go to the fucking gym or give up your nightly gallon of Chunky Monkey. I'm not encouraging women to diet unnecessarily or develop huge issues about their bodies, but when you are Rosie's size, your body is most definitely an issue. Unless, of course, you don't consider heart disease, diabetes, and the astronomical health bills that most people who aren't as rich as Rosie will be burdening all us hardworking taxpayers with to be issues. So her morbid obesity is strike three against Rosie Ho'Donnell.
Anyway, I would have just let all this anti-Rosie aggression fester within me, turning my soul ever more black, if she didn't open her big fat pizzahole and sound off with some seriously intolerant bullshit that worked me into a frenzy of righteous outrage. Since maturely storming off "The View" after a catfight with a vapid, possibly retarded woman who can list achievements like "Survivor" loser on her CV, Rosie has been keeping busy by rolling with Cyndi Lauper's True Colors tour. While performing her lamentable standup routine, Rosie announced:
Now, before anyone is like, "But you make fun of (gays/straights/transgendered/all human beings/insert your group of choice here), Razzy! Where do YOU get off?", let me state clearly that I really wouldn't care that she said this had she not appointed herself the biggest gay mouthpiece on the planet. She organizes gay cruises. She promotes gay concert tours. She turned her lesbian wedding into a media event. She called Kelly Ripa a homophobe simply because she didn't appreciate Clay Aiken clapping his hand over her mouth, and as much as Kelly Ripa annoys me, I wouldn't want some dude physically silencing me in that manner either. Even worse, Clay Aiken--despite being one of the most obvious fruitcakes on the planet--isn't even out of the closet. Granted, the fear of being associated with Rosie in any way is certainly strong incentive to stay closeted. Whenever some sort of gay issue comes up, Rosie takes it upon herself to sound off on behalf of everyone rocking it on the same-sex tip, and as a practicing bisexual, I don't appreciate it one bit. The last thing I want to think about when my face is firmly entrenched in some hot bitch's crotch is Rosie congratulating herself for standing up for my right to do so. Furthermore, although I make fun of EVERYONE (because there are stupid gay, lesbian, bi, tranny, and straight people in the world to make fun of), I don't think that making fun of all straight people because of a childish personal grudge against one's former colleagues is any way to score points for the gay rights cause. Not only does it antagonize and alienate heterosexuals who support the LGBT community, but it makes you look every bit as bad as the "God Hates Fags" types of intolerant bigoted assholes.
I'm sure the True Colors tour organizers really appreciated Ho'Donnell using their concert as a forum for some quality breeder bashing, given that their promotional material includes a prominent quote from Ms. Lauper stating "We should all have the right to live with the same dignity, opportunity, and safety. It shouldn't matter what anyone's sexual orientation is." That underscores better than anything else what an embarrassment Rosie is as a mouthpiece for the gays. Bitch needs to stuff some Ho-Hos in that fucking hetero-bashing yap of hers and go back to tending her duckies or whatever the hell she does in her spare time, and quit giving those of us who like hot girl-on-girl (or guy-on-guy, or whatever) action a bad name.
so what happens
when u say the emperor has no clothes
the comb over goes ballistic
via phone to mr king
choices
every minute
every day
everyone
i imagine it is interesting
as celeb feuds tend 2 b
so here r my thoughts
didnt watch
didnt u tube
restrict
i have no time 2 make art now
i am only off friday
which is never enuf
to detox
the pipes get full
bits of sludge
clog the flow
so tiny books
now
express in torn images
my inside
No shit, her pipes are full of sludge. I would have said bullshit, but whatever. I refuse to believe that, however bad her childhood or upbringing, this bitch can't spell a FUCKING BASIC PRONOUN LIKE "YOU". It goes on like that for about three pages of unintelligible, meandering, stream-of-consciousness verse, and if you are into masochism you can read pages upon pages of similar material on her blog to your heart's content.
I willed myself to ignore this and refrain from commenting, if only because that heifer doesn't deserve any more attention and fame than her fat ass already gets. I even ignored it (despite feeling completely traumatized and like a hollow shell of a human being) when she made a guest appearance on "Nip/Tuck", one of my favorite TV shows, and this happened:
Add to her transgressions against the sanctity of "Nip/Tuck" and her incomprehensible introspective poetry blogging the fact that she's unrepentantly fat, and probably calls herself a BBW. Fat bitches who insist that they are beautiful in any physical realm not populated exclusively by the blind really piss me off. Don't run around telling me that I have to like your cellulite because your Hot Pockets-eating ass is too lazy to go to the fucking gym or give up your nightly gallon of Chunky Monkey. I'm not encouraging women to diet unnecessarily or develop huge issues about their bodies, but when you are Rosie's size, your body is most definitely an issue. Unless, of course, you don't consider heart disease, diabetes, and the astronomical health bills that most people who aren't as rich as Rosie will be burdening all us hardworking taxpayers with to be issues. So her morbid obesity is strike three against Rosie Ho'Donnell.
Anyway, I would have just let all this anti-Rosie aggression fester within me, turning my soul ever more black, if she didn't open her big fat pizzahole and sound off with some seriously intolerant bullshit that worked me into a frenzy of righteous outrage. Since maturely storming off "The View" after a catfight with a vapid, possibly retarded woman who can list achievements like "Survivor" loser on her CV, Rosie has been keeping busy by rolling with Cyndi Lauper's True Colors tour. While performing her lamentable standup routine, Rosie announced:
"I got to tell you, I've been hanging around with these heteros for a full year and it's not fun! Turn around one minute and they'll stab you in the back with a high heel. They will."I almost punched my computer screen when I read this. Where the hell does this bitch get off blaming her unprofessionalism on the sexual orientation of her co-stars on "The View"? It's really a crying shame that Rosie had such a bad experience being paid millions of dollars to sit around dishing with a bunch of feminine "heteros" instead of the insufferably self-righteous softball dykes she'd obviously rather be drinking chamomile tea and complaining about George Bush with.
Now, before anyone is like, "But you make fun of (gays/straights/transgendered/all human beings/insert your group of choice here), Razzy! Where do YOU get off?", let me state clearly that I really wouldn't care that she said this had she not appointed herself the biggest gay mouthpiece on the planet. She organizes gay cruises. She promotes gay concert tours. She turned her lesbian wedding into a media event. She called Kelly Ripa a homophobe simply because she didn't appreciate Clay Aiken clapping his hand over her mouth, and as much as Kelly Ripa annoys me, I wouldn't want some dude physically silencing me in that manner either. Even worse, Clay Aiken--despite being one of the most obvious fruitcakes on the planet--isn't even out of the closet. Granted, the fear of being associated with Rosie in any way is certainly strong incentive to stay closeted. Whenever some sort of gay issue comes up, Rosie takes it upon herself to sound off on behalf of everyone rocking it on the same-sex tip, and as a practicing bisexual, I don't appreciate it one bit. The last thing I want to think about when my face is firmly entrenched in some hot bitch's crotch is Rosie congratulating herself for standing up for my right to do so. Furthermore, although I make fun of EVERYONE (because there are stupid gay, lesbian, bi, tranny, and straight people in the world to make fun of), I don't think that making fun of all straight people because of a childish personal grudge against one's former colleagues is any way to score points for the gay rights cause. Not only does it antagonize and alienate heterosexuals who support the LGBT community, but it makes you look every bit as bad as the "God Hates Fags" types of intolerant bigoted assholes.
I'm sure the True Colors tour organizers really appreciated Ho'Donnell using their concert as a forum for some quality breeder bashing, given that their promotional material includes a prominent quote from Ms. Lauper stating "We should all have the right to live with the same dignity, opportunity, and safety. It shouldn't matter what anyone's sexual orientation is." That underscores better than anything else what an embarrassment Rosie is as a mouthpiece for the gays. Bitch needs to stuff some Ho-Hos in that fucking hetero-bashing yap of hers and go back to tending her duckies or whatever the hell she does in her spare time, and quit giving those of us who like hot girl-on-girl (or guy-on-guy, or whatever) action a bad name.
Labels: assholes, fat fucks, lezbollah, oh the horror, overcompensation, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, stank vaginas, you're ugly
Monday, June 18, 2007
Flattery works
I received this e-mail today:
From: Ed Philly (the_tedman@hotmail.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: hook a brotha up
whats up lady?
I hate begging, but I've exhausted all my other options aside from swallowing my pride,
and doing this:
i need a link!
I'm all for a fair trade, and since I cannot offer you head, I am willing to kiss your
ass instead, so here it is:
<-----Start Asskissing------>
-My, you are looking lovely today!
-If there was a title for "Most Badass Bitch", you would be the undisputed champion
-Any unholy love child produced by you and Capt. Sig, would end up being far sexier than
anything Brad Pitt, and Angelina are popping out.
-Did I mention that your breasts are perfection?
-Your awesomeness is under-rated, I will petition to have a street named after you,
immediately!
<--------End Asskissing------->
thats the best i got!
All I ask is you check my site out. If you like it, link it. If not, fuck it!
www.whiteboystyle.com
thanks for your time
-Ed Philly
http://www.whiteboystyle.com
Okay, so if you haven't figured out, Ed's website is at http://www.whiteboystyle.com, where you can catch up on his thoughts and see many pictures of him dressed like some sort of cross between Kevin Federline and (appropriately) Whiteboy from "I Love New York."
Since Ed is clearly a committed Razzyphile--with his carefully crafted flattery of my breasts, nomination of me for the "Most Badass Bitch" award (not to be confused with the "Baddest Bitch" title held in perpetuity by Trina), and knowledge of my extreme Sig Hansen fetish--I am more than happy to send a little linkity love his way. Apparently he can't give me head in exchange for this link/shout-out because he's married and has a kid, so I'll cut him some slack there.
As far as his site goes, it's not as good as mine (but what is? NOTHING), but it is entertaining. There are many anecdotal tales of his interactions with morons, which meet my hearty approval. He also admits to having "a penis smaller than the average clitoris," which means that he has balls, because that's what it takes for a dude to write that on the internets. Further validating that hypothesis is the fact that he asked for a link in the first place, meaning that he knew he was setting himself up for some serious internet mockery. You never know what kind of mean-spirited shit I'm going to say, so props to him for actually BEGGING. There's also some sort of webcam feature, which he was not on when I looked at it, but presumably when he is online you can watch him doing his thing (which, as far as I can tell, involves smoking, blogging, chasing around his employees, and launching petitions to Vivid demanding albino porn).
Anyway, you should go check it out...as he himself stated, "If you like it, link it. If not, fuck it!!!"
http://www.whiteboystyle.com/
From: Ed Philly (the_tedman@hotmail.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: hook a brotha up
whats up lady?
I hate begging, but I've exhausted all my other options aside from swallowing my pride,
and doing this:
i need a link!
I'm all for a fair trade, and since I cannot offer you head, I am willing to kiss your
ass instead, so here it is:
<-----Start Asskissing------>
-My, you are looking lovely today!
-If there was a title for "Most Badass Bitch", you would be the undisputed champion
-Any unholy love child produced by you and Capt. Sig, would end up being far sexier than
anything Brad Pitt, and Angelina are popping out.
-Did I mention that your breasts are perfection?
-Your awesomeness is under-rated, I will petition to have a street named after you,
immediately!
<--------End Asskissing------->
thats the best i got!
All I ask is you check my site out. If you like it, link it. If not, fuck it!
www.whiteboystyle.com
thanks for your time
-Ed Philly
http://www.whiteboystyle.com
Okay, so if you haven't figured out, Ed's website is at http://www.whiteboystyle.com, where you can catch up on his thoughts and see many pictures of him dressed like some sort of cross between Kevin Federline and (appropriately) Whiteboy from "I Love New York."
+
=
As far as his site goes, it's not as good as mine (but what is? NOTHING), but it is entertaining. There are many anecdotal tales of his interactions with morons, which meet my hearty approval. He also admits to having "a penis smaller than the average clitoris," which means that he has balls, because that's what it takes for a dude to write that on the internets. Further validating that hypothesis is the fact that he asked for a link in the first place, meaning that he knew he was setting himself up for some serious internet mockery. You never know what kind of mean-spirited shit I'm going to say, so props to him for actually BEGGING. There's also some sort of webcam feature, which he was not on when I looked at it, but presumably when he is online you can watch him doing his thing (which, as far as I can tell, involves smoking, blogging, chasing around his employees, and launching petitions to Vivid demanding albino porn).
Anyway, you should go check it out...as he himself stated, "If you like it, link it. If not, fuck it!!!"
http://www.whiteboystyle.com/
Labels: correspondence, down with OPB (other people's blogs), internet domination, Kevin Federline, porn, Razzyphiles
I live in the right city
One of my signature party moves, as anyone who has ever gotten drunk with me can attest, is exposing my breasts. I think that this is my way of revelling in the fact that my rack is pretty cantastic after an adolescence characterized by all the boys in my eighth grade class making fun of me for being flat-chested. In most areas, flashing the girls will get me some sort of citation for indecent exposure. However, it seems that my decision to pursue my doctoral studies in New York City has been fortuitous in more ways than one, according to this news article:
Tits out and beers up to you, Phoenix Feeley!
[RAZZY UPDATE: My friend HippieSympathizer, after freely admitting in an e-mail that "I haven't had a chance to check out RAZZY.org lately," just sent me the link to the above article with the comment, "I saw this and thought of you." My tit-showing is a thing of legend.]
New York City pays $29,000 for arresting topless womanYou go, Jill Coccaro AKA Phoenix Feeley! Even though with her new name, you know this ho is some type of detestable hippie artfag type, I have to applaud her efforts to ensure that slutty exhibitionists like myself can continue exposing our knockers with impunity for some time to come. Just to salute her efforts, I may as well dig out this classic:
NEW YORK (AP) -- A woman arrested for exposing her breasts has accepted a $29,000 settlement from the city, her lawyer said.
Jill Coccaro, 27, was arrested on a topless stroll two years ago, despite a 1992 state appeals court ruling that concluded women should have the same right as men to take off their shirts.
Coccaro, who now goes by the name Phoenix Feeley, remained in custody for 12 hours before she was told prosecutors were not going to pursue charges.
Her attorney, Jeffrey Rothman, told the Daily News that his client won the civil rights settlement from the city, which did not admit or deny wrongdoing.
"We hope the police learn a lesson and respect the rights of women to go topless," Rothman said.
Feeley told the New York Post that she was not treated well after her August 4, 2005, arrest in Manhattan's Lower East Side section. She claimed in an October lawsuit that a police officer yanked her out of a patrol car by her hair and police took her to a hospital for a psychiatric evaluation.
She told the newspaper she had gone bare-breasted after running the 2004 city marathon without police bothering her.
"I've always just felt that was something natural," Feeley said of going topless. "I've kind of always done it out of practicality."
Tits out and beers up to you, Phoenix Feeley!
[RAZZY UPDATE: My friend HippieSympathizer, after freely admitting in an e-mail that "I haven't had a chance to check out RAZZY.org lately," just sent me the link to the above article with the comment, "I saw this and thought of you." My tit-showing is a thing of legend.]
Labels: comeuppance, I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, nudity, NYC, vengeance is sweet
One of the biannual instances in which I was embarrassed
I don't get embarrassed very easily, but every once in awhile, I feel strange burning sensations in my face that puzzle me until I remember that's what shame feels like. Oddly enough, I tend to only feel this way because of something that's not really my fault, like I spill a bunch of buffer on my crotch at work and thus look like I wet my pants or something. It's not my fault the way that me getting drunk, flashing my tits to everyone in sight, and pissing in full view of the traffic on 14th Street is my fault; I'm not embarrassed about doing stuff like that, so it's odd that I get embarrassed about accidents. However, I do, and this weekend I got to experience that firsthand.
I spent most of the weekend safely tucked away working where nothing too embarrassing could occur (and even if it did, it's not like anyone was there to see; J-Sexy was getting her hair done and the other girl in our lab NEVER goes in on weekends). However, on Saturday night, I went out with Rack and her boyfriend The Old Guy for some cocktails and fried foods at McAleer's, this bar we frequent on the Upper West Side. We go there because we can sit outside, and because it's relatively cheap. We all had a nice time, drinking summery beverages (scotch and beer), talking about David Lynch movies and cocaine and my sex life and The Old Guy's 14-year-old son's punk friends and this very website. (Rack, in fact, complained that she doesn't get enough shoutouts, so...HEY RACK, WHAT'S UP? I'M JUST SAYING HI TO MY FRIEND RACK! LET'S GO TO McALEER'S WITH JERSEYGIRL SOMETIME THIS WEEK AGAIN, OKAY?) We had a nice time, and then decided to head our separate ways.
As I was about to leave, it did not escape my notice that there was a Tasti-D-Lite across the street from McAleer's. Tasti-D-Lite is this frozen yogurt-type substance that has like three calories in it. You could eat your weight in Tasti-D and probably not gain a pound. The same is not true for their wide selection of toppings, as I'm pretty sure their chocolate chips and M&Ms aren't fat free, but nonetheless, I always gladly rush to Tasti-D for a large cup of whatever-the-hell-their-frozen-dessert is with cookie crunch on top. I decided that this would be nice for my cab ride home and my mild buzz.
I said adios to Rack and The Old Guy, then trekked across Amsterdam, eager to see what flavors they had. There was a bit of a line, so while I waited for some bitch to hem and haw about what she wanted in her waffle cone, I got to check out the selection of both flavors and other customers. This couple came in behind me and the girl was really annoying. She was treating everyone to a loud debate with herself about whether she should get Oreo or cheesecake-flavored Tasti-D. I turned around to see if she looked as irritating as she sounded (she did), and caught a glimpse of her boyfriend. He was hot. Such a shame, I thought, that a perfectly fuckable specimen like him was stuck with such a nagging, shrill shrew of a woman.
Then it was my turn to order, and while the Tasti-D-Lite employee set up my cup of Oreo with cookie crunch on top, I kept giving covert looks in the direction of the annoying girl's hot boyfriend. Every time I'd look back out of the corner of my eye, I saw him looking at my ass. "Ha!" I thought to myself. "While you're busy being indecisive about which Tasti-D flavor you like, your hot boyfriend is checking out my ass! Razzy wins again and as usual! Stupid bitch!" As I grabbed my frozen treat and prepared to depart, I swiveled around all the way to give him a view of my tits, since I was wearing a typically cleavage-baring halter top. We made eye contact and I gave him what I thought was my standard I'm-sexy-and-I-know-it smirk. He smirked back, but in a way that was pointedly less sexy and more amused (at me, not with me), and slightly pitying. I was taken aback and rushed out in a state of confusion and turmoil. I was expecting some fuck me eyes, not the look he gave me. Why did he look at me so weird?
My Tasti-D-Lite was nowhere near as much of a tasty delight as it should have been because I was trying to solve the riddle of the hot guy giving me weird looks. Unfortunately, when I arrived home, I changed into loungewear and discovered with shock and horror what the problem was: a huge PERIOD STAIN on my skirt!
I thought my period was over, and since I'm on the pill, usually when it's over, it's completely over. Not this weekend. I must have had some spotting or something and thus had a bloodstain the size of a baseball right below my ass. Even though I was home alone when I finally discovered why hot boyfriend guy was giving me such strange face, I was completely mortified. I know I'm not the first girl ever to have this type of feminine accident, but since we ladies have an unspoken compact with the rest of the world to keep our menstrual cycles as under wraps and out of the public eye as possible, it was nonetheless humiliating. I'd rather have my mom find a hundred pictures of me flashing my tits at the Crab Feed on her computer desktop than suffer unknown period stain ignonimy at the Tasti-D-Lite at the hands (or actually, the eyes) of a hot guy. If anyone could have seen me at home, they'd see my face growing to a deeper shade of magenta than the linen skirt I'd soiled.
Unfortunately, this whole incident made the Tasti-D more bitter than the herbs Jews eat at Passover to remind them of their days of captivity in Goshen. Alas, I was humiliated. On the bright side, however, that means I've gotten one instance of being ashamed out of the way for this year. That means I'll have to suffer through this once (maybe twice, tops) more this year. Hopefully the next time I get embarrassed, there will be neither a period stain nor a hot guy involved. Uff da.
I spent most of the weekend safely tucked away working where nothing too embarrassing could occur (and even if it did, it's not like anyone was there to see; J-Sexy was getting her hair done and the other girl in our lab NEVER goes in on weekends). However, on Saturday night, I went out with Rack and her boyfriend The Old Guy for some cocktails and fried foods at McAleer's, this bar we frequent on the Upper West Side. We go there because we can sit outside, and because it's relatively cheap. We all had a nice time, drinking summery beverages (scotch and beer), talking about David Lynch movies and cocaine and my sex life and The Old Guy's 14-year-old son's punk friends and this very website. (Rack, in fact, complained that she doesn't get enough shoutouts, so...HEY RACK, WHAT'S UP? I'M JUST SAYING HI TO MY FRIEND RACK! LET'S GO TO McALEER'S WITH JERSEYGIRL SOMETIME THIS WEEK AGAIN, OKAY?) We had a nice time, and then decided to head our separate ways.
As I was about to leave, it did not escape my notice that there was a Tasti-D-Lite across the street from McAleer's. Tasti-D-Lite is this frozen yogurt-type substance that has like three calories in it. You could eat your weight in Tasti-D and probably not gain a pound. The same is not true for their wide selection of toppings, as I'm pretty sure their chocolate chips and M&Ms aren't fat free, but nonetheless, I always gladly rush to Tasti-D for a large cup of whatever-the-hell-their-frozen-dessert is with cookie crunch on top. I decided that this would be nice for my cab ride home and my mild buzz.
I said adios to Rack and The Old Guy, then trekked across Amsterdam, eager to see what flavors they had. There was a bit of a line, so while I waited for some bitch to hem and haw about what she wanted in her waffle cone, I got to check out the selection of both flavors and other customers. This couple came in behind me and the girl was really annoying. She was treating everyone to a loud debate with herself about whether she should get Oreo or cheesecake-flavored Tasti-D. I turned around to see if she looked as irritating as she sounded (she did), and caught a glimpse of her boyfriend. He was hot. Such a shame, I thought, that a perfectly fuckable specimen like him was stuck with such a nagging, shrill shrew of a woman.
Then it was my turn to order, and while the Tasti-D-Lite employee set up my cup of Oreo with cookie crunch on top, I kept giving covert looks in the direction of the annoying girl's hot boyfriend. Every time I'd look back out of the corner of my eye, I saw him looking at my ass. "Ha!" I thought to myself. "While you're busy being indecisive about which Tasti-D flavor you like, your hot boyfriend is checking out my ass! Razzy wins again and as usual! Stupid bitch!" As I grabbed my frozen treat and prepared to depart, I swiveled around all the way to give him a view of my tits, since I was wearing a typically cleavage-baring halter top. We made eye contact and I gave him what I thought was my standard I'm-sexy-and-I-know-it smirk. He smirked back, but in a way that was pointedly less sexy and more amused (at me, not with me), and slightly pitying. I was taken aback and rushed out in a state of confusion and turmoil. I was expecting some fuck me eyes, not the look he gave me. Why did he look at me so weird?
My Tasti-D-Lite was nowhere near as much of a tasty delight as it should have been because I was trying to solve the riddle of the hot guy giving me weird looks. Unfortunately, when I arrived home, I changed into loungewear and discovered with shock and horror what the problem was: a huge PERIOD STAIN on my skirt!
I thought my period was over, and since I'm on the pill, usually when it's over, it's completely over. Not this weekend. I must have had some spotting or something and thus had a bloodstain the size of a baseball right below my ass. Even though I was home alone when I finally discovered why hot boyfriend guy was giving me such strange face, I was completely mortified. I know I'm not the first girl ever to have this type of feminine accident, but since we ladies have an unspoken compact with the rest of the world to keep our menstrual cycles as under wraps and out of the public eye as possible, it was nonetheless humiliating. I'd rather have my mom find a hundred pictures of me flashing my tits at the Crab Feed on her computer desktop than suffer unknown period stain ignonimy at the Tasti-D-Lite at the hands (or actually, the eyes) of a hot guy. If anyone could have seen me at home, they'd see my face growing to a deeper shade of magenta than the linen skirt I'd soiled.
Unfortunately, this whole incident made the Tasti-D more bitter than the herbs Jews eat at Passover to remind them of their days of captivity in Goshen. Alas, I was humiliated. On the bright side, however, that means I've gotten one instance of being ashamed out of the way for this year. That means I'll have to suffer through this once (maybe twice, tops) more this year. Hopefully the next time I get embarrassed, there will be neither a period stain nor a hot guy involved. Uff da.
Labels: gross, hot dudes, NYC, oh the horror, Rack, Razzification, stank vaginas
Sunday, June 17, 2007
The deadliest shout-outs
Tonight I was watching "Ice Road Truckers," which is the History Channel's pathetic attempt to compete with "Deadliest Catch," the awesomeness of which I have documented extensively. The entire show is such a "Deadliest Catch" rip-off, it's not even funny. Instead of being about cantankerous crab fishermen, it's about cantankerous truck drivers who are supposedly in constant danger of...their engine breaking down and heat turning off. Supposedly the trucks can fall through the ice into the lake below the titled "ice road," but it seems like that doesn't happen often. The biggest danger these truckers are facing, frankly, seems to be methamphetamine addiction. Furthermore, I can't even figure out why these guys are driving on the ice road. Presumably they're delivering something, but what and to whom has not come up yet. I'm already not interested. For one thing, these truckers look like a group of grizzled, hunchbacked trolls compared to a certain blisteringly hot Norwegian skipper whose name starts with S and rhymes with "Ig Hansen." They wouldn't last a second on the vast and tempestuous Bering Sea. For another, I could give a shit less about the ins and outs of hydraulic braking systems in extreme cold, and, along with the pre-trucking drug test, that's most of the action so far. It's not like they're battling rogue waves and fifty-foot seas, and the "terrors of the ice road" don't come close to the dangers of the Arctic ice pack. I thought, "Fuck 'Ice Road Truckers', I'll see what's up with the internets."
I was dicking around, looking at my site statistics, and noticed that I was getting hits from something besides my usual referral sources (Sig's MySpace blog and Google image searches for "Andrea Lowell Fucking"--which I don't have a picture of, but because I once wrote "Andrea Lowell is a fucking idiot", it always seems to send a lot of dudes seeking free porn erroneously my way). Specifically, something called Deadliest Reports. I checked this out, and was already excited by the fact that everything there is DEADLY AS HELL:
After spending a moment contemplating whether I wanted to listen to the undoubtedly dulcet tones of the Deadliest Music, pick up a few crab-related items at the Deadliest Mall, or catch up on some of the Deadliest Writing in the Deadliest Library, I was thrilled to see that my writing is hot on the "Deadliest Catch"-related blog syndication circuit:
SWEET! At least not all of the Deadliest Fans think I'm some kind of delusionally obsessive Glenn Close-type character who is lurking in Sig Hansen's house, waiting to play some operatic tunes from Madama Butterfly and chase him around with a pair of sewing shears or whatever. Opilia, the author of Deadliest Reports, has accurately characterized my writing as "awesome" and "entertaining" and not the work of a frightening stalker. As an added bonus, Opilia, as if she understands my overwhelming distaste for children, has advised her readers that it is "adults only," ensuring that the Deadliest Bratty Kids will stay away. Rock on, Deadliest Reports, and thanks for the traffic!
I was dicking around, looking at my site statistics, and noticed that I was getting hits from something besides my usual referral sources (Sig's MySpace blog and Google image searches for "Andrea Lowell Fucking"--which I don't have a picture of, but because I once wrote "Andrea Lowell is a fucking idiot", it always seems to send a lot of dudes seeking free porn erroneously my way). Specifically, something called Deadliest Reports. I checked this out, and was already excited by the fact that everything there is DEADLY AS HELL:
After spending a moment contemplating whether I wanted to listen to the undoubtedly dulcet tones of the Deadliest Music, pick up a few crab-related items at the Deadliest Mall, or catch up on some of the Deadliest Writing in the Deadliest Library, I was thrilled to see that my writing is hot on the "Deadliest Catch"-related blog syndication circuit:
SWEET! At least not all of the Deadliest Fans think I'm some kind of delusionally obsessive Glenn Close-type character who is lurking in Sig Hansen's house, waiting to play some operatic tunes from Madama Butterfly and chase him around with a pair of sewing shears or whatever. Opilia, the author of Deadliest Reports, has accurately characterized my writing as "awesome" and "entertaining" and not the work of a frightening stalker. As an added bonus, Opilia, as if she understands my overwhelming distaste for children, has advised her readers that it is "adults only," ensuring that the Deadliest Bratty Kids will stay away. Rock on, Deadliest Reports, and thanks for the traffic!
Labels: computer incompetence, Deadliest Catch, I LOVE IT, internet domination, Razzification
Friday, June 15, 2007
Blowing up my phone
Over the last week, I have had four separate people bitch at me about my telephone habits, specifically my custom of sending people to voicemail and then failing to listen to my messages or call them back in a timely manner. This irritates the shit out of me, because I have always been like this with regard to phone use, and I'm not going to change in response to what I consider petulant nagging. I feel too strongly about hating talking on the phone.
I do not like talking on the phone. From about the ages of 10-16, I was a phone junkie, but that was because I was an adolescent girl and not yet able to drive. After my driver's license freed me from being stuck in Puyallup without a ride, however, I found that I much preferred conversing with my friends and associates in person than via phone. Since then, my phone conversations are usually terse, and limited to "What time do you want to meet? Where? See you there." There are exceptions where I will indulge long phone conversations. These are in three particular situations:
1. I'm talking to my parents and/or brother, who live in the glorious P-N-Dub and who I cannot get together with in person.
2. I'm talking with friends who also don't live in the greater New York metropolitan area, who I cannot get together with in person.
3. I'm calling customer service at (select: Time Warner Cable/Con Ed/Sprint PCS/credit card company/some other bullshit account for a paid service I require), and am either stuck on hold forever or occasionally shouting at some semi-literate representative who can do nothing but say, "Please hold, Ms. Rommizen, while I get my manager", leaving me infuriated that no matter how many fucking times I spell it out, these people always butcher the pronunciation of my last name.
Unless it's an emergency, I can't be bothered with long phone conversations when I could just make plans to meet and chat about whatever in person. Emergencies happen very rarely, but often people disagree with me about what one entails. G-Boner thinks she has an emergency every other week, when really it's just some sort of minor tiff with one of the Deckmates or whatever nautical term they use to refer to her underlings at the Trader Joe's she manages, or a retelling of some sort of humorous correspondence with some distant acquaintance on MySpace. In my mind, emergencies are "I have cancer, venereal disease, or some other grave medical condition" (this is particularly relevant to me because all my non-grad school friends think I'm the next best thing to a real doctor on account of being the only one who understands a damn thing about biology or science), "My significant other hit me or otherwise abused me and I need help moving out and a place to stay", and "OH MY GOD, I'm PREGNANT!", not "so-and-so didn't stock the cheese cooler correctly" or "look at the comment so-and-so left on my MySpace page."
If people need a lengthy opinion from me, I prefer to e-mail. I can express myself most clearly in writing, and because I can type very fast, most efficiently as well. Furthermore, I don't have to deal with being interrupted by cell phone issues. Since I'm in lab approximately 99% of the time, where I get a fucking horrible cell phone signal, I don't usually even bother taking my phone out of my bag because attempts to conversate via it are routinely dropped or full of static. Also, I find it very difficult to multitask when talking on the phone. It distracts me, and if I try to do even the most mundane tasks while on the phone (enter data, load gels, dilute samples, etc.), I usually end up not paying attention to half the conversation and fucking up whatever I'm working on, making it a double exercise in futility. If people need to get hold of me for whatever reason while I'm at work, e-mail, instant message, or text message are my preferred means of contact.
On several occasions, people have tried to change my anti-phone ways, at their peril. I went out with this one guy a few times, and he would call me in between dates and just start chit-chatting away about everything from his favorite TV shows to his educational debt to his recent trip to Nigeria. When I told him, "Okay, let's just figure out what day we're both available to go have dinner and then subsequent sex, I'm busy watching Bev Niner," he would be like, "Well, then you can talk!" When I would say, "But I don't like talking on the phone, let's just get together," he would cockily reply, "You'll like talking on the phone after you hang out with me for awhile." I privately wondered why, because his phone conversations mainly revolved around his weight lifting regimen, his love for WWE wrestling, the bureaucratic ins and outs of his residency, and what new South Beach Diet-friendly stir-fry recipes he'd invented. I put up with this temporarily, because the sex was okay, his weiner was pretty solid, and he was just the type of dude I like (hot, smart black doctor with an interest in celebrity gossip, my ass, performing oral, and paying for copious amounts of scotch). Unfortunately, the phone thing got old after a while, since he'd always harp on it. Furthermore, there were a couple other unrelated things he did that bothered me. One time, he kept taking a condom off and putting it back on because he liked to ride bareback but then would have guilt about doing so, which was incredible enough in itself considering he had gone to medical school and should know that if you're going to do that, what's the point of even using the damn thing? This stretched the condom out to the point that it lost some of its elasticity, and it got balled up and stuck up in my vadge. He offered to perform a PELVIC EXAM on me, which I balked at, because even if dude was a doctor, he's not my damn gynecologist. I informed him that his only business with my vagina was sticking his dick in it, and I'd fish out the condom ball myself. Another time, after he gave me yet another string of complaints about the brevity of my phone mannerisms, he made it apparent that he was keeping track of how many orgasms I'd had since we started dating, and referred to it as "you cummed twice the last time I stayed over." The scorekeeping certainly put me off, as did hearing someone who graduated from an Ivy League medical school using verb conjugation apparently learned from erotic letters to Swank. Plus he had the weirdest nipples I have ever seen. They were literally bifurcated, and looked like fleshy carving forks sticking out of his chest. Between these incidences, his regular hinting about his fondness for monogamous relationships, and his near-constant nagging about my not talking to him on the phone enough, I decided that his behavior was cumulatively a deal-breaker. I figured the punishment should fit the crime, so I dumped him by never answering another one of his calls. I never promised his ass a rose garden, and indeed all he ever got from me after that was a trip directly to my voice mail.
The moral of this story is that pestering me about my phone habits will get one nowhere. In fact, it will only draw my attention to other things that annoy me, and ultimately provoke my ire and scorn. Granted, I won't drop most people like some random honey with bifurcated nipples, bizarre birth control practices, and bad grammar who I've slept with on a handful of occasions, but I will be entirely less likely to take your calls if hassled about it. My associates, especially those who live in New York and who can eventually see me in person, need to take this under advisement, because I'm really getting sick of hearing passive-aggressive bullshit like, "God, I totally called you last weekend and you didn't return my call...I hope you were doing something REALLY IMPORTANT" or "I called you like FOUR HOURS AGO. What could you POSSIBLY have been doing?" Well, I could have been working, hanging with someone else and not wanting to be rude, at a movie, in the subway, running, walking my dogs, or just NOT IN THE MOOD TO TALK ON THE FUCKING PHONE. If it's important, send me a fucking text saying to call you back ASAP, or just keep calling and eventually I'll figure out that it's critical for me to pick up. I don't like the phone and I'm not going to change. Either learn to text me as a first-line means of communication or learn to love my voicemail, because me changing this aspect of my life elicits the same response as the prospect of me going brunette: SHA RIGHT.
I do not like talking on the phone. From about the ages of 10-16, I was a phone junkie, but that was because I was an adolescent girl and not yet able to drive. After my driver's license freed me from being stuck in Puyallup without a ride, however, I found that I much preferred conversing with my friends and associates in person than via phone. Since then, my phone conversations are usually terse, and limited to "What time do you want to meet? Where? See you there." There are exceptions where I will indulge long phone conversations. These are in three particular situations:
1. I'm talking to my parents and/or brother, who live in the glorious P-N-Dub and who I cannot get together with in person.
2. I'm talking with friends who also don't live in the greater New York metropolitan area, who I cannot get together with in person.
3. I'm calling customer service at (select: Time Warner Cable/Con Ed/Sprint PCS/credit card company/some other bullshit account for a paid service I require), and am either stuck on hold forever or occasionally shouting at some semi-literate representative who can do nothing but say, "Please hold, Ms. Rommizen, while I get my manager", leaving me infuriated that no matter how many fucking times I spell it out, these people always butcher the pronunciation of my last name.
Unless it's an emergency, I can't be bothered with long phone conversations when I could just make plans to meet and chat about whatever in person. Emergencies happen very rarely, but often people disagree with me about what one entails. G-Boner thinks she has an emergency every other week, when really it's just some sort of minor tiff with one of the Deckmates or whatever nautical term they use to refer to her underlings at the Trader Joe's she manages, or a retelling of some sort of humorous correspondence with some distant acquaintance on MySpace. In my mind, emergencies are "I have cancer, venereal disease, or some other grave medical condition" (this is particularly relevant to me because all my non-grad school friends think I'm the next best thing to a real doctor on account of being the only one who understands a damn thing about biology or science), "My significant other hit me or otherwise abused me and I need help moving out and a place to stay", and "OH MY GOD, I'm PREGNANT!", not "so-and-so didn't stock the cheese cooler correctly" or "look at the comment so-and-so left on my MySpace page."
If people need a lengthy opinion from me, I prefer to e-mail. I can express myself most clearly in writing, and because I can type very fast, most efficiently as well. Furthermore, I don't have to deal with being interrupted by cell phone issues. Since I'm in lab approximately 99% of the time, where I get a fucking horrible cell phone signal, I don't usually even bother taking my phone out of my bag because attempts to conversate via it are routinely dropped or full of static. Also, I find it very difficult to multitask when talking on the phone. It distracts me, and if I try to do even the most mundane tasks while on the phone (enter data, load gels, dilute samples, etc.), I usually end up not paying attention to half the conversation and fucking up whatever I'm working on, making it a double exercise in futility. If people need to get hold of me for whatever reason while I'm at work, e-mail, instant message, or text message are my preferred means of contact.
On several occasions, people have tried to change my anti-phone ways, at their peril. I went out with this one guy a few times, and he would call me in between dates and just start chit-chatting away about everything from his favorite TV shows to his educational debt to his recent trip to Nigeria. When I told him, "Okay, let's just figure out what day we're both available to go have dinner and then subsequent sex, I'm busy watching Bev Niner," he would be like, "Well, then you can talk!" When I would say, "But I don't like talking on the phone, let's just get together," he would cockily reply, "You'll like talking on the phone after you hang out with me for awhile." I privately wondered why, because his phone conversations mainly revolved around his weight lifting regimen, his love for WWE wrestling, the bureaucratic ins and outs of his residency, and what new South Beach Diet-friendly stir-fry recipes he'd invented. I put up with this temporarily, because the sex was okay, his weiner was pretty solid, and he was just the type of dude I like (hot, smart black doctor with an interest in celebrity gossip, my ass, performing oral, and paying for copious amounts of scotch). Unfortunately, the phone thing got old after a while, since he'd always harp on it. Furthermore, there were a couple other unrelated things he did that bothered me. One time, he kept taking a condom off and putting it back on because he liked to ride bareback but then would have guilt about doing so, which was incredible enough in itself considering he had gone to medical school and should know that if you're going to do that, what's the point of even using the damn thing? This stretched the condom out to the point that it lost some of its elasticity, and it got balled up and stuck up in my vadge. He offered to perform a PELVIC EXAM on me, which I balked at, because even if dude was a doctor, he's not my damn gynecologist. I informed him that his only business with my vagina was sticking his dick in it, and I'd fish out the condom ball myself. Another time, after he gave me yet another string of complaints about the brevity of my phone mannerisms, he made it apparent that he was keeping track of how many orgasms I'd had since we started dating, and referred to it as "you cummed twice the last time I stayed over." The scorekeeping certainly put me off, as did hearing someone who graduated from an Ivy League medical school using verb conjugation apparently learned from erotic letters to Swank. Plus he had the weirdest nipples I have ever seen. They were literally bifurcated, and looked like fleshy carving forks sticking out of his chest. Between these incidences, his regular hinting about his fondness for monogamous relationships, and his near-constant nagging about my not talking to him on the phone enough, I decided that his behavior was cumulatively a deal-breaker. I figured the punishment should fit the crime, so I dumped him by never answering another one of his calls. I never promised his ass a rose garden, and indeed all he ever got from me after that was a trip directly to my voice mail.
The moral of this story is that pestering me about my phone habits will get one nowhere. In fact, it will only draw my attention to other things that annoy me, and ultimately provoke my ire and scorn. Granted, I won't drop most people like some random honey with bifurcated nipples, bizarre birth control practices, and bad grammar who I've slept with on a handful of occasions, but I will be entirely less likely to take your calls if hassled about it. My associates, especially those who live in New York and who can eventually see me in person, need to take this under advisement, because I'm really getting sick of hearing passive-aggressive bullshit like, "God, I totally called you last weekend and you didn't return my call...I hope you were doing something REALLY IMPORTANT" or "I called you like FOUR HOURS AGO. What could you POSSIBLY have been doing?" Well, I could have been working, hanging with someone else and not wanting to be rude, at a movie, in the subway, running, walking my dogs, or just NOT IN THE MOOD TO TALK ON THE FUCKING PHONE. If it's important, send me a fucking text saying to call you back ASAP, or just keep calling and eventually I'll figure out that it's critical for me to pick up. I don't like the phone and I'm not going to change. Either learn to text me as a first-line means of communication or learn to love my voicemail, because me changing this aspect of my life elicits the same response as the prospect of me going brunette: SHA RIGHT.
Labels: for serious people, intentional buffoonery, ranting, Razzification, real-life rejects
The retard next door is in denial
The name Kendra Wilkinson may not mean much to you unless you are like my friend MillerTime and spend every spare moment watching "The Girls Next Door." Kendra is Hugh Hefner's girlfriend #3, and is a 21-year-old aspiring massage therapist, Chargers fan, and closeted twat aficionado. Kendra is also so unbelievably stupid that I question whether or not she has some form of mild retardation.
(Razzy aside to Kendra: TRIM YOUR FUCKING FRENCH MANICURE! You know your special girlfriends must hate that shit...Lord knows I do.)
Anyway, if you don't believe me that Kendra cannot list "scholar" or "great thinker" alongside her CV of "Model. Athlete. Actress. Sports Fan." listed on the banner of her website, then just check out gokendra.com or her MySpace. Or just watch "The Girls Next Door." Listening to Kendra speak is like listening to a short-circuiting talking Barbie gratingly babbling an aimless stream of nonsensical sporty bimbo gibberish: "Hahahahaha yay me! Go Chargers! I want a condo! Where's my socks? If you think I wear granny panties, you're TRIPPIN'. Hahahahaha! Yay San Diego! I love the mansion! Go Chargers! Hef's a pimp. Spaghetti is good. Booty booty booty. My ass hurts. Chargers rule! Hahahaha!"
Kendra seems to be in denial about her own paucity of intellect, however, because according to the internets, she's mad as hell that Hef told Elle magazine that her appeal is her stupidity, or as he put it, "her decidedly unintellectual charm." When she threw a tantrum befitting her toddler-caliber IQ and maturity level, Hef wrote the author of the piece a letter praising it for being "the most perceptive to date." Because guess why, dumb bitch? Your career is not being a model, athlete, actress, and sports fan. Your career is doing this:
That's right. In exchange for room, board, and unlimited plastic surgery at the Playboy Mansion, you have to occasionally let this decrepit old skeleton stick his shrivelled weiner in you and pretend to like it. You also have to put up with him making fun of your ass if he so desires, because he's Hugh Hefner, and you are his third-string gold-digging whore. Your lack of status is probably why Hef didn't want to shell out for a dermatologist or a subscription to Proactiv solution, because one can see that underneath that thick shellacking of pancake, your skin probably looks worse than Hef's!
If anything, Kendra's complaining about Hef calling her stupid just showcases her remarkable lack of intellect. Her relationship with him is basically a fair exchange of goods and services. If she wants to keep her life of leisure at the mansion, she better shut the fuck up and go back to exercising and playing what I imagine is some type of dumbed down lesbian strip chess with Girl Next Door #2 Bridget:
Kendra is almost certainly asking Bridget if this funny castle-looking piece can vibrate, and is not about to claim her bishop and shout "checkmate!" in triumph. I'd be amazed if Kendra knows how to spell her own damn name, so I refuse to believe that she's some kind of chess grand master unless its via being an idiot savant. Homegirl needs to take a look in the mirror and give herself an honest appraisal. There's no better way she could prove she has the merest dash of higher cognition than to say, "I've got one of the best gold-digger jobs in the world, and I'm just going to take my two Playboy spreads, my massage degree, the fabulous vacations, and the condo that Hef spotted me the down payment for, and appreciate it." It's not like she's Einstein, but if she wants to not be rubbing her woman-loving cooch against a stripper pole somewhere outside San Diego, it would be the smart thing to do.
Anyway, if you don't believe me that Kendra cannot list "scholar" or "great thinker" alongside her CV of "Model. Athlete. Actress. Sports Fan." listed on the banner of her website, then just check out gokendra.com or her MySpace. Or just watch "The Girls Next Door." Listening to Kendra speak is like listening to a short-circuiting talking Barbie gratingly babbling an aimless stream of nonsensical sporty bimbo gibberish: "Hahahahaha yay me! Go Chargers! I want a condo! Where's my socks? If you think I wear granny panties, you're TRIPPIN'. Hahahahaha! Yay San Diego! I love the mansion! Go Chargers! Hef's a pimp. Spaghetti is good. Booty booty booty. My ass hurts. Chargers rule! Hahahaha!"
Kendra seems to be in denial about her own paucity of intellect, however, because according to the internets, she's mad as hell that Hef told Elle magazine that her appeal is her stupidity, or as he put it, "her decidedly unintellectual charm." When she threw a tantrum befitting her toddler-caliber IQ and maturity level, Hef wrote the author of the piece a letter praising it for being "the most perceptive to date." Because guess why, dumb bitch? Your career is not being a model, athlete, actress, and sports fan. Your career is doing this:
If anything, Kendra's complaining about Hef calling her stupid just showcases her remarkable lack of intellect. Her relationship with him is basically a fair exchange of goods and services. If she wants to keep her life of leisure at the mansion, she better shut the fuck up and go back to exercising and playing what I imagine is some type of dumbed down lesbian strip chess with Girl Next Door #2 Bridget:
Labels: hot chicks, media whores, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Use a condom, for Chrissake!
This probably isn't true, but according to my gossip sites, Shar Jackson is knocked up with Kevin Federline's latest bastard child.
Why on earth Shar Jackson would let Kevin Federline's uncovered weiner anywhere near her vadge is beyond me. Obviously the man's only talent--besides smoking Marlboro Lights and wearing an askance baseball cap in the most trashtastic manner possible--is impregnating desperate skanks, so even considering unprotected sex with him is about as good an idea as sitting on the barrel of a grapeshot-loaded blunderbuss and releasing the flintlock (I've been watching a lot of "Modern Marvels: Pirate Tech" lately). Shar Jackson isn't winning any awards for her sensible decision making, though. If this rumor is true, then this is the THIRD bastard child Kevin Federline has fathered, so her curriculum vitae includes more of his illegitimate children than it does her legitimate acting jobs. Her latest project is some reality show where she helps bitches get back at their exes, so I think she's given up entirely on having a career for anything besides being his scorned ex/baby mama. Flipping burgers at Mickey D's would be a more dignified career.
Labels: assholes, Kevin Federline, oh the horror, retard rage
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
They've got crab legs
I take my responsibilities as Captain Sigurd Hansen's .1 fan very seriously. As such, I would be remiss if I didn't observe how each week, "Deadliest Catch" is getting progressively more awesome. Unfortunately, last night Mike Douchebag Rowe appeared in a commercial for "Dirty Jobs" to advise viewers that after next week, "Deadliest Catch" will be making its last trip back to Dutch Harbor for the season, then taunted, "I'm getting my time slot back! I'm getting my time slot back!" Thanks for rubbing it in, asshole!
Since my time for waxing on and on about the sublime greatness of "Deadliest Catch" is running short, I've got to make the most of it while I still can, and I'm going to start with mentioning that last night Sig hadn't shaved in a few days and he was thus continuing his unwitting crusade against Al Gore by ensuring that climate change continues to trend toward HOT HOT HOT.
He's like the Bering Sea's equivalent of Don Johnson as James "Sonny" Crockett, except in a pair of cozy Helly Hansen thermal underwear instead of a pastel linen suit. Also, instead of cruising around Miami Beach in a Ferrari, he's show-stopping at the edge of the treacherous Arctic ice pack behind the wheel of the majestic F/V Northwestern. This week Sig ventured into the ice pack to check it out, and amazingly it didn't immediately melt in his scorching presence. He allowed Edgar to run around making snow angels and harassing sea lions on it before returning to his soaking pots plugged full of "orange gold"--Bering Sea Opilio crab. In spite of the dangers of the ice pack, "Sig has found his honey hole, and he's staying put." Things are running fabulously aboard the Northwestern, excepting a minor crybaby freakout from the dumb greenhorn that required Sig telling him to nut up and take the grind like a man. Since their tanks are filling up with Opies, Sig is in a good mood, as he notes on "After the Catch", "you just get an adrenaline rush when you're coming with a full load." If Sig keeps talking all dirty like that, I'm going to have to take a cold shower, because the concept of Sig coming with a full load has me experiencing paroxysms of yearning.
The other exciting thing that happened last night on "Deadliest Catch" was that, after Andy had to attend to urgent business on his horse farm in Indiana, Johnathan took over the helm of the F/V Time Bandit, and did something that I've been longing to see on this show since its inception: he sang the Sea Galley jingle! Sea Galley was this nautically-themed seafood restaurant serving all-you-can-eat crab legs that used to have these ads where a trio of executive chefs wearing giant King crab leg pants can-canned and sang, "We've got crab legs...Sea Galley! We've got crab legs...Sea Galley!" Amazingly, this was available on YouTube, described as "Epic 1980s Sea Galley TV Commercial. This is a cult classic for people living in the Northwest." It's like Fame by way of Moulin Rouge, except about all-you-can-eat crab legs.
Up until I was about 10, Sea Galleys dominated western Washington's all-you-can-eat seafood scene, but ultimately lost their entire regional market share when the corporate tyrants that run Red Lobster decided to expand operations into the P-N-Dub. Now the internets tell me that Sea Galley is limited to several small restaurants in Alaska, and they no longer have similarly awesome commercials.
Anyway, last night the Time Bandit had finally gotten over its streak of bad luck, including mechanical problems, a crew member needing to be bailed out of the Dutch Harbor pokey, and Andy's unexpected departure, and as they hauled in their first fully plugged pot, Johnathan starts muttering, "We've got crab legs...Sea Galley! Lots of crab legs...Sea Galley!" I about fell off the couch with excitement; it's SO P-N-Dub! The only thing he could do to make me more nostalgic for the 253 would be to start raving about Taco Time's crisp beef burrito.
All I know is that "Deadliest Catch" better drop on DVD immediately after giving up its time slot to Douchebag Rowe's "Dumbass Jobs" or whatever, along with "After the Catch." Apart from being able to drool over the hotness that is Sig Hansen year-round, I can't miss awesome things like Captain Phil of the Cornelia Marie informing his son, deckhand Jake, that "you're not a man until you've pulled out your own tooth with a pair of pliers." When Jake doesn't succeed in extracting the tooth, Phil exclaims, "you're not makin' love to it...just give it a yank!" Phil admitted that he once removed one of his own teeth with a chisel and a claw hammer, so seemingly impromptu dentistry is a Harris family tradition. Man, I'm going to miss this show so much. I can't believe there's only one week left.
Since my time for waxing on and on about the sublime greatness of "Deadliest Catch" is running short, I've got to make the most of it while I still can, and I'm going to start with mentioning that last night Sig hadn't shaved in a few days and he was thus continuing his unwitting crusade against Al Gore by ensuring that climate change continues to trend toward HOT HOT HOT.
The other exciting thing that happened last night on "Deadliest Catch" was that, after Andy had to attend to urgent business on his horse farm in Indiana, Johnathan took over the helm of the F/V Time Bandit, and did something that I've been longing to see on this show since its inception: he sang the Sea Galley jingle! Sea Galley was this nautically-themed seafood restaurant serving all-you-can-eat crab legs that used to have these ads where a trio of executive chefs wearing giant King crab leg pants can-canned and sang, "We've got crab legs...Sea Galley! We've got crab legs...Sea Galley!" Amazingly, this was available on YouTube, described as "Epic 1980s Sea Galley TV Commercial. This is a cult classic for people living in the Northwest." It's like Fame by way of Moulin Rouge, except about all-you-can-eat crab legs.
Up until I was about 10, Sea Galleys dominated western Washington's all-you-can-eat seafood scene, but ultimately lost their entire regional market share when the corporate tyrants that run Red Lobster decided to expand operations into the P-N-Dub. Now the internets tell me that Sea Galley is limited to several small restaurants in Alaska, and they no longer have similarly awesome commercials.
Anyway, last night the Time Bandit had finally gotten over its streak of bad luck, including mechanical problems, a crew member needing to be bailed out of the Dutch Harbor pokey, and Andy's unexpected departure, and as they hauled in their first fully plugged pot, Johnathan starts muttering, "We've got crab legs...Sea Galley! Lots of crab legs...Sea Galley!" I about fell off the couch with excitement; it's SO P-N-Dub! The only thing he could do to make me more nostalgic for the 253 would be to start raving about Taco Time's crisp beef burrito.
All I know is that "Deadliest Catch" better drop on DVD immediately after giving up its time slot to Douchebag Rowe's "Dumbass Jobs" or whatever, along with "After the Catch." Apart from being able to drool over the hotness that is Sig Hansen year-round, I can't miss awesome things like Captain Phil of the Cornelia Marie informing his son, deckhand Jake, that "you're not a man until you've pulled out your own tooth with a pair of pliers." When Jake doesn't succeed in extracting the tooth, Phil exclaims, "you're not makin' love to it...just give it a yank!" Phil admitted that he once removed one of his own teeth with a chisel and a claw hammer, so seemingly impromptu dentistry is a Harris family tradition. Man, I'm going to miss this show so much. I can't believe there's only one week left.
Labels: Deadliest Catch, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, P-N-Dub, TV
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
A total bomb
I think that this is hilarious. Disturbing and offensive, but nonetheless hilarious:
So let me get this straight (or maybe I mean straight but not narrow): the Bomb Inventing department at the Pentagon thought that driving an enemy force wild with guy-on-guy urges would devastate them militarily. Good thinking, guys, except for one thing: even though we currently have this retarded "don't ask, don't tell" policy (which excludes me from military service due to my bisexual tendencies and big mouth), militaries from around the world have a rich tradition of faggotry going back to ancient times. Gay marriage was legal in Sparta, and common, since dudes were basically sequestered from women at the age of seven and regarded chicks as new-Spartan-making machines (no matter what 300 implies about Leonidas's epic love for his wifey...Lysistrata was similarly flawed, as if the women of Sparta, Boetia, and Corinth all decided to not give it up, their husbands would just hit with each other...that shit did NOT end the Peloponnesian War). Homos were all the rage in the imperial Roman guard, as like the Greeks, soldiers had to have some diversion while they were off conquering the known world. Aristotle describes the Celts and Gauls as getting down with some hot same-sex action as they marauded around Europe (back in the good old days when the French actually admitted to being barbarians). The Sioux and the Cheyenne encouraged marriages between chiefs and transvestite shamans. And don't get me started on any type of navy. The Village People wrote a damn song about naval life that puts to rest any notion that the average seaman is unacquainted (or, for that matter, unenthused) with the concept of buggering their bunkmate. In fact, they make it sound like a horny dude can get more action sailing the bounding main for ones country than cruising the bars on Christopher Street.
I investigated further on the internets and realized that there's a good reason why the war in Iraq is presently such an overbudget shitshow. According to the BBC, the military's greatest minds are busy brainstorming bullshit like this ridiculous "gay bomb", along with a bad breath bomb, a fart-inducing bomb, a vermin-attracting bomb, and a sunburn bomb. The Bomb Inventing department is apparently where the most offensively retarded higher-ups at the Department of Defense get transferred to, because of these dumb concepts. The fart bomb, also called the "Who...me?" bomb, was discarded because it would be useless against armies from developing nations who "do not find fecal odor offensive, since they smell it on a regular basis." Instead, these geniuses thought the gay bomb would be much better for causing a "distasteful but non-lethal" epidemic of faggotry. Supposedly, this mystery gay chemical would make enemy soldiers "sexually irresistable" to one another, causing them to abandon their posts, crank the Erasure, and commence the orgiastic sodomizing with nary another thought about armed combat. Was the military planning on hitting the entire enemy front with a devastating combo of nitrate poppers, crystal meth, and upbeat house music or something? That's the stupidest fucking idea I've ever heard of, and it's not even a "this might just be crazy enough to work" stupid idea. It's a "that would be almost impossible to develop, overwhelmingly difficult to deliver, not remotely guaranteed to work, and not worth the ridiculous amounts of taxpayer money needed to build a prototype, so let's not waste time speaking of it again" stupid idea.
As a taxpayer, I strongly encourage the folks over at the Pentagon to quit coming up with weapon ideas based on items sold at Spencer's Gifts and to just keep designing bombs according to the old-school paradigm (ie: that blow shit up). That way they can spend time brainstorming solutions for more important, impossible-to-surmount projects, such as GETTING US THE FUCK OUT OF IRAQ. Just a suggestion, you fucktards.
So let me get this straight (or maybe I mean straight but not narrow): the Bomb Inventing department at the Pentagon thought that driving an enemy force wild with guy-on-guy urges would devastate them militarily. Good thinking, guys, except for one thing: even though we currently have this retarded "don't ask, don't tell" policy (which excludes me from military service due to my bisexual tendencies and big mouth), militaries from around the world have a rich tradition of faggotry going back to ancient times. Gay marriage was legal in Sparta, and common, since dudes were basically sequestered from women at the age of seven and regarded chicks as new-Spartan-making machines (no matter what 300 implies about Leonidas's epic love for his wifey...Lysistrata was similarly flawed, as if the women of Sparta, Boetia, and Corinth all decided to not give it up, their husbands would just hit with each other...that shit did NOT end the Peloponnesian War). Homos were all the rage in the imperial Roman guard, as like the Greeks, soldiers had to have some diversion while they were off conquering the known world. Aristotle describes the Celts and Gauls as getting down with some hot same-sex action as they marauded around Europe (back in the good old days when the French actually admitted to being barbarians). The Sioux and the Cheyenne encouraged marriages between chiefs and transvestite shamans. And don't get me started on any type of navy. The Village People wrote a damn song about naval life that puts to rest any notion that the average seaman is unacquainted (or, for that matter, unenthused) with the concept of buggering their bunkmate. In fact, they make it sound like a horny dude can get more action sailing the bounding main for ones country than cruising the bars on Christopher Street.
I investigated further on the internets and realized that there's a good reason why the war in Iraq is presently such an overbudget shitshow. According to the BBC, the military's greatest minds are busy brainstorming bullshit like this ridiculous "gay bomb", along with a bad breath bomb, a fart-inducing bomb, a vermin-attracting bomb, and a sunburn bomb. The Bomb Inventing department is apparently where the most offensively retarded higher-ups at the Department of Defense get transferred to, because of these dumb concepts. The fart bomb, also called the "Who...me?" bomb, was discarded because it would be useless against armies from developing nations who "do not find fecal odor offensive, since they smell it on a regular basis." Instead, these geniuses thought the gay bomb would be much better for causing a "distasteful but non-lethal" epidemic of faggotry. Supposedly, this mystery gay chemical would make enemy soldiers "sexually irresistable" to one another, causing them to abandon their posts, crank the Erasure, and commence the orgiastic sodomizing with nary another thought about armed combat. Was the military planning on hitting the entire enemy front with a devastating combo of nitrate poppers, crystal meth, and upbeat house music or something? That's the stupidest fucking idea I've ever heard of, and it's not even a "this might just be crazy enough to work" stupid idea. It's a "that would be almost impossible to develop, overwhelmingly difficult to deliver, not remotely guaranteed to work, and not worth the ridiculous amounts of taxpayer money needed to build a prototype, so let's not waste time speaking of it again" stupid idea.
As a taxpayer, I strongly encourage the folks over at the Pentagon to quit coming up with weapon ideas based on items sold at Spencer's Gifts and to just keep designing bombs according to the old-school paradigm (ie: that blow shit up). That way they can spend time brainstorming solutions for more important, impossible-to-surmount projects, such as GETTING US THE FUCK OUT OF IRAQ. Just a suggestion, you fucktards.
Labels: hilarious shit, international intrigue, retard rage, ridiculous absurdity, scathing indictments, United States of Asskickery, vulgar display of faggotry
Monday, June 11, 2007
This is not why I'm hot
I am an idiot when it comes to the sun. Because of the decided lack of melanin in my skin, I burn very easily, but that doesn't stop me from running around on the beach all day without reapplying sunscreen. Then, when I've inevitably been sunburned, I bitch and moan about my own stupidity concerning sun protection. A couple years ago, I got burned so badly in Belize that my chest was blistered and literally bleeding. This year, I've decided to take my sun safety more seriously, since getting melanoma is decidely uncool. So when J-Sexy and I went to beach it up on Fire Island yesterday, I made sure to bring SPF 40 waterproof sunscreen.
Even though it was somewhat overcast, I still started diligently applying my sunscreen. This was "Sport" sunscreen that came in a spray bottle, and after spritzing myself with it, decided to make a dirty joke.
"Hey J-Sexy, what does this look like?"
"Huh?" she looked up from sunscreening herself. "Oh my God, Razzy, you disgosting whore!"
Then we sat around drinking large quantities of Hawaiian punch and rum, swimming, and having a lovely day. However, when we returned to Nieuw Amsterdam after a long ride on the LIRR I noticed that my face was a little sore and peeked at myself in the mirror. Apparently I should have imitated a sunscreen facial as opposed to a pearl necklace because today I look like this:
I look like one of those bitches from Discovery Health surgery shows about people with port-wine birthmarks and other disfiguring anomalous medical conditions. It doesn't help that my straggly hair makes me seem like I should be hooking under a freeway overpass somewhere. It seems like I won't be reeling in any fly honeys this week with this freakish dermatological condition, at least since I'm not going to be anywhere near Puyallup, WA, one of the few places in the world where.the exploded meth lab survivor look is considered super hot. I'm about to head into lab, and I can't wait to hear from everyone how busted I look. It's going to be a great week.
Even though it was somewhat overcast, I still started diligently applying my sunscreen. This was "Sport" sunscreen that came in a spray bottle, and after spritzing myself with it, decided to make a dirty joke.
"Hey J-Sexy, what does this look like?"
"Huh?" she looked up from sunscreening herself. "Oh my God, Razzy, you disgosting whore!"
Then we sat around drinking large quantities of Hawaiian punch and rum, swimming, and having a lovely day. However, when we returned to Nieuw Amsterdam after a long ride on the LIRR I noticed that my face was a little sore and peeked at myself in the mirror. Apparently I should have imitated a sunscreen facial as opposed to a pearl necklace because today I look like this:
I look like one of those bitches from Discovery Health surgery shows about people with port-wine birthmarks and other disfiguring anomalous medical conditions. It doesn't help that my straggly hair makes me seem like I should be hooking under a freeway overpass somewhere. It seems like I won't be reeling in any fly honeys this week with this freakish dermatological condition, at least since I'm not going to be anywhere near Puyallup, WA, one of the few places in the world where.the exploded meth lab survivor look is considered super hot. I'm about to head into lab, and I can't wait to hear from everyone how busted I look. It's going to be a great week.
Labels: J-Sexy, oh the horror, Razzification, vanity, you're ugly
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Asshole convention
As much as yesterday's Paris-related news made me feel positively buoyant, CNN's lead story today proceeded to do the opposite. All they need to do is get Paris Hilton and Osama Bin Laden in this photo, and you've got all four horsemen of the Apocalypse in one room together:
Why does Bush look so touched? Fundamentalist Jesus lovers like him usually hate Catholics. We worship idols and ritualize cannibalism and shit like that, at least that's what my Aunt Jesus usually complains about. He probably looks so overcome with reverence because they were both congratulating each other self-righteously on their efforts to erode Western relations with the Islamic world and impede embryonic stem cell research. I can just hear Benedixteen saying something like, "Nice use of the veto, bra," and giving Dubya a knuckle pound. Fucking assholes.
Labels: assholes, Catholicism, international intrigue, politics, Pope Benedixteen
Friday, June 08, 2007
MY HERO!
No disrespect to Captain Sig, Curtis Jackson, or Robert Sylvester Kelly, but today my heart and all my affection was wholly captured by one of the hottest dudes on our fair planet:
This is Rockard John "Rocky" Delgadillo, Los Angeles City Attorney. After Paris Hilton was released from jail for "medical reasons" (aka she didn't like doing pilates in jail), he was irate concerning what he felt was "celebrity justice" and filed a motion to have her thrown back in the clink, along with the Sheriffs who let her overprivileged herpetic ass out!
It turns out the judge agreed, and ordered her back to the slammer. The only thing that can make me as deliriously happy as I was earlier this week when Captain Sig "The Hotness" Hansen gave me a shoutout and declared me his #1 fan is reading a headline that says: "A judge orders Paris Hilton back to jail. She is dragged from court screaming."
Apparently, they picked her up at home, hauled her into court weeping, and then wrangled her into a Sheriff's car to take her to court as she screamed, "This isn't right!" and "MOM!" For the next five years, every time I'm feeling crappy, I'm just going to look at the following pictures and feel my spirits immediately lift:
Though I have yet to see the Goodyear Blimp flying around saying "Razzy's a pimp", it's nonetheless what both myself and O'Shea "Ice Cube" Jackson would characterize as a good day. Actually, it's more like a FUCKING EXCEPTIONALLY AWESOME DAY. I have a little more faith in our justice system, in a mere hour I'll be freed from the fetters of lab to drink, and now I have something to raise my Yuengling to. All is right and well in the world.
It turns out the judge agreed, and ordered her back to the slammer. The only thing that can make me as deliriously happy as I was earlier this week when Captain Sig "The Hotness" Hansen gave me a shoutout and declared me his #1 fan is reading a headline that says: "A judge orders Paris Hilton back to jail. She is dragged from court screaming."
Apparently, they picked her up at home, hauled her into court weeping, and then wrangled her into a Sheriff's car to take her to court as she screamed, "This isn't right!" and "MOM!" For the next five years, every time I'm feeling crappy, I'm just going to look at the following pictures and feel my spirits immediately lift:
Labels: celebrities, comeuppance, crime and punishment, I LOVE IT, media whores, sluts, vengeance is sweet
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Steer clear of ADULTSPACE
While I am accustomed to having webcam whores and people hawking free (but not actually free) iPods and various gift cards blowing up my spot on MySpace, it's rare that I'm so violently revolted by the person doing so. However, today I checked my MySpace inbox, and found this piece of correspondence awaiting me:
I tried to reply and tell her to take the solicitations for casual sex with her morbidly obese ass elsewhere, but I was immediately prompted to enter my name and password. Since I was already logged into MySpace, I was like, "What the fu...HEY! This ho is trying to steal my password!" I really cannot imagine why this hooker was Phishing for my MySpace account login information, but I imagine it was probably to similarly spam all my friends in the guise of me.
In order to respond without stupidly divulging my private MySpace information, I went to her MySpace page, and after I willed myself not to have an epileptic seizure on account of the holocaust of animated glitter Playboy Bunny logos on her profile, I grew progressively even more annoyed with "sweetnspoiled25" Mistie. In keeping with the Playboy wallpaper, she has about 8 million glitter .gifs on her site that say shit like, "I taught your boyfriend how to do that thing you like!" Unless "that thing I like" is achieving the female superior position without him dying from either suffocation beneath a prodigious FUPA or sheer crushing force, I can't imagine what kind of tricks she is teaching any men unfortunate and/or drunk enough to stick their dicks anywhere near what I suspect is her frighteningly flappy vadge. Needless to say, I did not mince words in the message I sent her:
If for some reason I decided that I must resort to scraping the bottom of the internet barrel and use Adult Friend Finder or some similar online sex-with-gross-losers clearinghouse to get laid, I sure as shit would not accept references for such from a sloppy, spiral-permed cow like yourself. The prospect of even logging on to such a site and seeing naked pictures of your undoubtedly heavily dimpled ass has caused me to start dry heaving.
Also, since not only was this spam, but because replying directly to the e-mail required me to enter my MySpace password although I was already logged in, I suspect you're also involved in some type of Phishing scam. So consider your tubby self reported to MySpace, as well as called out on my blog:
http://www.razzy.org/RazzyBlog/razzyblog.html
Enjoy!
Razzy
PS-And please, please, please, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD AND ALL THAT IS HOLY put a picture of Gisele or old school pre-Restalyne/anorexia Jenna or someone hotter than yourself (God, even Paris Hilton would be more appealing, and I never thought I'd say that) if you plan to continue encouraging most of MySpace to sign up and have casual sex with you.
Wow, that was mean-spirited, even for me. That's what happens when I receive correspondence like hers when I'm overworked, sleep deprived, starving, cigarette-free, and crabbier than Walter Matthau in one of those Grumpy Old Men movies. Crap, I can't even make good jokes. I'm just going to stop now.
I tried to reply and tell her to take the solicitations for casual sex with her morbidly obese ass elsewhere, but I was immediately prompted to enter my name and password. Since I was already logged into MySpace, I was like, "What the fu...HEY! This ho is trying to steal my password!" I really cannot imagine why this hooker was Phishing for my MySpace account login information, but I imagine it was probably to similarly spam all my friends in the guise of me.
In order to respond without stupidly divulging my private MySpace information, I went to her MySpace page, and after I willed myself not to have an epileptic seizure on account of the holocaust of animated glitter Playboy Bunny logos on her profile, I grew progressively even more annoyed with "sweetnspoiled25" Mistie. In keeping with the Playboy wallpaper, she has about 8 million glitter .gifs on her site that say shit like, "I taught your boyfriend how to do that thing you like!" Unless "that thing I like" is achieving the female superior position without him dying from either suffocation beneath a prodigious FUPA or sheer crushing force, I can't imagine what kind of tricks she is teaching any men unfortunate and/or drunk enough to stick their dicks anywhere near what I suspect is her frighteningly flappy vadge. Needless to say, I did not mince words in the message I sent her:
If for some reason I decided that I must resort to scraping the bottom of the internet barrel and use Adult Friend Finder or some similar online sex-with-gross-losers clearinghouse to get laid, I sure as shit would not accept references for such from a sloppy, spiral-permed cow like yourself. The prospect of even logging on to such a site and seeing naked pictures of your undoubtedly heavily dimpled ass has caused me to start dry heaving.
Also, since not only was this spam, but because replying directly to the e-mail required me to enter my MySpace password although I was already logged in, I suspect you're also involved in some type of Phishing scam. So consider your tubby self reported to MySpace, as well as called out on my blog:
http://www.razzy.org/RazzyBlog/razzyblog.html
Enjoy!
Razzy
PS-And please, please, please, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD AND ALL THAT IS HOLY put a picture of Gisele or old school pre-Restalyne/anorexia Jenna or someone hotter than yourself (God, even Paris Hilton would be more appealing, and I never thought I'd say that) if you plan to continue encouraging most of MySpace to sign up and have casual sex with you.
Wow, that was mean-spirited, even for me. That's what happens when I receive correspondence like hers when I'm overworked, sleep deprived, starving, cigarette-free, and crabbier than Walter Matthau in one of those Grumpy Old Men movies. Crap, I can't even make good jokes. I'm just going to stop now.
Labels: correspondence, fat fucks, gross, MySpace, oh the horror, perversion, retard rage, stank vaginas
This is getting so ti(RED)
For some completely unfathomable reason, the world leaders who get together for the big pretend-to-care-fest known as the G8 Summit invited Bono and Bob Geldof to hang out. THANK GOD...because I would hate for the richest nations in the world to make important decisions regarding things like AIDS, global warming, and nuclear disarmament without letting a couple of aging, barely relevant celebretards throw in their two cents. As usual, Bono proceeded to alternate between kissing Bush's ass and acting self-righteous, and Bob Geldof, when he did speak, was completely unintelligible. Seriously, T.I. enunciates more clearly than Geldof, and when that dude speaks, the only discernible words you can distinguish are usually "Bankhead" and "pussy popper."
Anyway, apparently what's actually happening at the G8 with the World Leaders is of little consequence to the folks at CNN, because the top story from the G8 was "BONO TAKES OFF GLASSES."
Here is Bono, waving around his yellow Lance Armstrong bracelet like a big tool (what, no red bracelet/ribbon for AIDS? And he calls himself an activist...):
Then, here comes the exciting lead news story of the day. Wait for it...wait for it...
Are you fucking kidding me? It's news that Bono was so upset about AIDS, poverty, conflict diamonds, and debt that he took off the trademark rose-colored shades that he views the world through? Granted, at the last G8 summit the big news was that George W. Bush gave the prime ministress of Germany an unrequested and very skeezy backrub, but at least that involved actual elected world leaders. I don't like the fact that Bono can do bullshit like this and this is bigger fucking news than Bush and Putin making diplomatic deals about missile defense systems.
Morrissey'sHair once pointed out a terrific quote from one of those drunken hooligans in Oasis regarding Bono's political activism: "Just sing 'One' and shut the fuck up about Africa."
That says it all. And keep those $800 Armani shades on, Bono, just to remind us all what a preachy, hypocritical, self-indulgent asshole you really are. Go try to break even on those stupid INSPI(RED) t-shirts at the Gap and get the hell out of my world news streaming video.
By the way, if for some reason you want to watch this video in its entirety, CNN's got the "exclusive" for you to watch and be simultaneously enraged and bored out of your mind.
Anyway, apparently what's actually happening at the G8 with the World Leaders is of little consequence to the folks at CNN, because the top story from the G8 was "BONO TAKES OFF GLASSES."
Here is Bono, waving around his yellow Lance Armstrong bracelet like a big tool (what, no red bracelet/ribbon for AIDS? And he calls himself an activist...):
Are you fucking kidding me? It's news that Bono was so upset about AIDS, poverty, conflict diamonds, and debt that he took off the trademark rose-colored shades that he views the world through? Granted, at the last G8 summit the big news was that George W. Bush gave the prime ministress of Germany an unrequested and very skeezy backrub, but at least that involved actual elected world leaders. I don't like the fact that Bono can do bullshit like this and this is bigger fucking news than Bush and Putin making diplomatic deals about missile defense systems.
Morrissey'sHair once pointed out a terrific quote from one of those drunken hooligans in Oasis regarding Bono's political activism: "Just sing 'One' and shut the fuck up about Africa."
That says it all. And keep those $800 Armani shades on, Bono, just to remind us all what a preachy, hypocritical, self-indulgent asshole you really are. Go try to break even on those stupid INSPI(RED) t-shirts at the Gap and get the hell out of my world news streaming video.
By the way, if for some reason you want to watch this video in its entirety, CNN's got the "exclusive" for you to watch and be simultaneously enraged and bored out of your mind.
Labels: assholes, celebrities, international intrigue, media whores, overcompensation, politics, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
The Governator strikes back
I had forgotten that awhile back, I wrote a lengthy missive detailing both my passionate love for the cinematic legacy of Governator Arnold Schwarzenegger (R-CA), and begging him not to pardon Paris Hilton for being a dumb, entitled, criminally drunk-driving and probation-violating whore. However, his lackeys didn't overlook it, and it seems they were just a little behind schedule in responding to what must have been a deluge of similar correspondence. I received the following e-mail this afternoon:
From: governor@govmail.ca.gov
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: RE: CDCR issues/concerns
Thank you for contacting Governor Schwarzenegger regarding Paris Hilton. The Governor always appreciates hearing from constituents on issues important to them.
Although the Governor's office has not received a formal request for assistance from Ms. Hilton, the Governor generally will not consider intervening in private legal matters. While the Governor does have executive clemency power, Governor Schwarzenegger will exercise his clemency power only in unusual or extraordinary cases and generally after all judicial remedies have been exhausted.
On behalf of the Governor, thank you again for writing. An informed and engaged citizenry is essential to a successful and responsive government.
Sincerely,
Patrick Campbell
Office of Constituent Affairs
I didn't think it was possible for me to love Arnold Schwarzenegger any more than I already do, but I certainly love having statements I've written such as "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" be regarded as indicative of "an informed and engaged citizenry." Granted, Arnold's staffers may not have read the whole thing (although I don't know how they could have put it down...everything I write makes Steinbeck and Hemingway look like a couple of illiterate hacks), because if they had, they'd know that I'm not a constituent.
Also, it's not news to me that Arnold decided to give Paris the old Tookie Williams treatment and ignore her cries for mercy, since right now she's on day 2 of her three-week service. My travels of the gossip-related internets inform me that not only is she being a big baby (as expected), crying all the time and whatnot, but that there's an epidemic of multi-drug resistant Staphylococcus aureus wreaking infectious havoc at the pokey where she's being held. In a perfect world, she'll have a nice, possibly incurable bacterial infection to go with her herpes. Hopefully she'll die, or at least get some righteous impetigo, a skin infection that under no circumstances will compel Paris to say "that's hot" when looking at her own reflection.
Anyway, I appreciate the Governator getting back to me on the matter. I'm totally going to watch Predator right now to celebrate.
From: governor@govmail.ca.gov
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: RE: CDCR issues/concerns
Thank you for contacting Governor Schwarzenegger regarding Paris Hilton. The Governor always appreciates hearing from constituents on issues important to them.
Although the Governor's office has not received a formal request for assistance from Ms. Hilton, the Governor generally will not consider intervening in private legal matters. While the Governor does have executive clemency power, Governor Schwarzenegger will exercise his clemency power only in unusual or extraordinary cases and generally after all judicial remedies have been exhausted.
On behalf of the Governor, thank you again for writing. An informed and engaged citizenry is essential to a successful and responsive government.
Sincerely,
Patrick Campbell
Office of Constituent Affairs
I didn't think it was possible for me to love Arnold Schwarzenegger any more than I already do, but I certainly love having statements I've written such as "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" be regarded as indicative of "an informed and engaged citizenry." Granted, Arnold's staffers may not have read the whole thing (although I don't know how they could have put it down...everything I write makes Steinbeck and Hemingway look like a couple of illiterate hacks), because if they had, they'd know that I'm not a constituent.
Also, it's not news to me that Arnold decided to give Paris the old Tookie Williams treatment and ignore her cries for mercy, since right now she's on day 2 of her three-week service. My travels of the gossip-related internets inform me that not only is she being a big baby (as expected), crying all the time and whatnot, but that there's an epidemic of multi-drug resistant Staphylococcus aureus wreaking infectious havoc at the pokey where she's being held. In a perfect world, she'll have a nice, possibly incurable bacterial infection to go with her herpes. Hopefully she'll die, or at least get some righteous impetigo, a skin infection that under no circumstances will compel Paris to say "that's hot" when looking at her own reflection.
Anyway, I appreciate the Governator getting back to me on the matter. I'm totally going to watch Predator right now to celebrate.
Labels: correspondence, crime and punishment, politics, sluts
Polar ice caps are melting because the Bering Sea is so damn hot
As I've discussed at length, Sig Hansen pretty much sets an impossibly high bar for men to achieve. However, that hasn't stopped some other fine honeys employed in the world's deadliest occupation from trying (and failing, but they get points for effort) to meet Sig's gold platinum standard. There are the choice baker's dozen of fellas (and a couple ladies) that are causing the frigid waters to warm up just a few degrees with their sexy appeal.
13. Josh Harris, greenhorn, F/V Cornelia Marie
Josh wasn't even going to make the list, because he's been flipping his dad, Captain Phil, an inordinate amount of self-important, argumentative bullshit not accordant with the dues he has yet to pay before graduating to full-share status. I was going to put up Nick, the greenhorn from the F/V Wizard instead, but Nick has been replaced by some quitter bitch for Opilio season. The quitter is a pretty boy who stomps off deck and goes to bed because his fancy Under Armour sweatshirt wasn't keeping him warm enough. That just goes to show you not to hire guys named "Guy"--they're either unremarkable or French, and you don't want to be trusting either on a crab boat in the violent and unpredictable Bering Sea. Anyway, Josh also redeemed himself in my eyes this week when, after his thumb was smashed to shit by a falling crab pot, didn't complain once, patched it back together with electrical tape, and went back to work. Now if he would just stop not listening to the skipper/his dad, he'd move up on this list a little.
12. The entire crew of the F/V Rollo, but especially Captain Stien Erik Nyhammer
I don't know why the Rollo isn't on "Deadliest Catch" anymore, but the crew on that boat was fucking hilarious. I miss them. They had about 50 inflatable outfits like this that they were always putting on and goofing around for the cameras, and nothing is sexier than dudes who can make me laugh. However, they were all young and hot, too, especially Captain Erik.
Captain Stien Erik Nyhammer not only has one of the most badass Viking names ever, but he also has that rough, rugged hotness that Keanu Reeves tries unsuccessfully to imitate. Plus, sometimes he wears glasses, which makes him look intellectual as well as hilarious and tough. Fuck the Wizard and its boring-ass crew...bring back the Rollo, Discovery Channel!
11. Nicole Tilley, deckhand, F/V Aleutian Ballad
The Aleutian Ballad is also a boat emeritus from "Deadliest Catch", but last season in one of the most terrifying episodes ever, it got hit by a rogue wave. Nicole here got tossed from her bunk and was mildly injured (nothing that an ice pack made of frozen sweet corn couldn't fix). Plus, she's a hot bitch who, when not taking crabbing-related injuries like a man on the deck of the Aleutian Ballad, tends a rowdy bar in Westport, Washington. Westport is a nice hick town located on the scenic Washington coast where my family used to camp and my father once almost hit a cow wandering alongside a cranberry bog because he was too busy rocking out to BTO's classic "Takin' Care of Business" to pay attention to the ocean mist-obscured road. Seriously, that's par for the course in Westport-Grayland-greater Grays Harbor County. Needless to say, this hooker is tough.
10. Hiram Johnson, deckhand, F/V Maverick
Hiram was around last season, and he was a grouchy "old salt" who liked to wryly bitch at all the young whippersnappers wreaking havoc at the Maverick rail. When he wasn't saying funny shit, he was busy being entirely unforgiving to anyone foolish enough to whine or complain. I don't know where he went this season; he probably couldn't stand putting up with Blake's dumb ass any longer. Or maybe he retired, but I get the feeling that Hiram isn't the retiring type. He'll be out grinding until he has to use a walker, and possibly even after that. So where is Hiram? I miss that curmudgeonly old S.O.B.!
Note: NO, dumbass Blake isn't getting a spot on this list. I refuse to even call him "Captain." He's been a bitch from day one, and I can't stand his ass, even if he's somewhat physically attractive.
I can just tell that Blake has a small penis, both by his skeezy look (he's got Dale Earnhardt, Jr. syndrome, where he looks like a possibly roofie-slipping date rapist you do NOT want to leave an unattended Kokanee with) and his constant need to overcompensate. I bet Blake is also a shoulder-pusher. I HATE shoulder-pushers. For those of you who aren't big sluts like me, a shoulder-pusher is a guy who, while you're getting frisky with him, starts shoving insistently on your shoulders (or if he's really rude, the top of your head), to indicate that he would like a blow job. I'm always like, "Oh, you want a blow job? NO SHIT! ALL guys want blow jobs!" It's a given, so know that we ladies will give you one when we're good and ready, not because you physically wrangled our head and necks down into the vicinity of your dick and think we'll both put two and two together and ignore your blatant disregard for common courtesy. Blake strikes me as that type. Blake once said that "crab fishing is better'n sex"...probably because he SUCKS AT SEX! Also, he's a crybaby. Last year he bitched and moaned when Captain Rick wouldn't let him sit in for Opilio season. That was apparently for good reason, because he's an incompetent captain. At the end of last year's king crab season, he miscalculated the amount of crab he caught and cost his crew like $5 grand each. What an asshole. NOT HOT!
9. Ragnhild Moncrief, cook/Valkyrie/rubber boot fashionista, F/V Farwest Leader
This hot, feisty blonde originally hails from Sykkylven, Norway and met her husband, Farwest Leader captain Greg, while on an Alaskan cod trawler, probably one of the most romantic places on earth. Ragnhild does all kinds of useful shit to impress the rest of the crew, including set strings and pick pots out of the water with a pink hook, but her main specialty is cooking. Every time I see one of Ragnhild's spreads, I'm instantly hungry. She's clearly a student of the "if it ain't meat, it's garnish" school of cooking, and all of her meals include stuff like pork chops with gravy, bacon, sausage, eggs, steak, and home fries. Throw in some pepperoni pizza and beer and that's the ultimate Razzy diet. Whenever she serves up another spread of veggie-less awesomeness, I always wish Ragnhild was in my kitchen cooking for me. I'd really be impressed if she started incorporating some Scandinavian delicacies into her cuisine, however. I think that it's high time to up her game and break out the krumkake iron, the painted lefse stick, or the abelskiver pan and get Viking on everyone's gastronomies.
8. Captain Andy Hillstrand, F/V Time Bandit
Last night, Andy was so hot in his scuba diving outfit as he cut away a length of rope wreaking havoc on the Time Bandit's propellor. Granted, it was his bad driving that caused the rope to get wrapped around the propellor in the first place, but you've got to love a man who finishes what he starts, even if it's a fuckup. Plus, his cowboy hat goes so well with the deck slicker he wears when his brother Johnathan is in the wheelhouse.
7. Captain Johnathan Hillstrand, F/V Time Bandit
God, why does Mike Rowe always have to ruin everything with his excessive douchebagginess? You're better heard and not seen, Mike Rowe! Anyway, Johnathan manages to overcome Slutbag Rowe's contaminating presence by hotting it up in his standard "USA" motorcycle jacket and his crab pendant. Johnathan is awesome because not only does he do a now-infamous "crab jig" when the pots are full of clean keepers, but earlier this season he saved a dude's life after the guy fell off the stack of pots. The dude (who was fully butt naked) was grabbing onto Johnathan and between hypothermic shivers kept wailing, "YOU SAVED MY LIFE, MAN! YOU SAVED MY FUCKIN LIFE!" Johnathan was moved to tears, and there's something really sexy about seeing a dude who you know shows that kind of emotion once a decade weeping. Bless Johnathan's guarded but obviously giant heart.
6. Jake Harris, deckhand, F/V Cornelia Marie
This season, Jake pulled out his own cracked tooth without anesthetic using a handy pair of pliers. His father, Captain Phil, noted, "You're not a man until you've yanked out your own tooth." Here's Jake sharing one of his cowboy killers with a Chingy! of the sea. I have no idea how they wound up catching a walrus, but I guess that's just one of things that gets stuck in your crab pots sometimes.
5. Captain Phil Harris, F/V Cornelia Marie
Captain Phil is no Captain Sig, that's for sure, but he does look pretty badass on his Harley. Plus Phil always says funny shit. He'll be hard at pulling strings of pots, and say something like "I feel like a one-legged man in an asskicking contest!", followed with a peal of wheezy laughter. This appeal has conquered his lack of conventional hotness.
4. Tico Tyson, deckhand, F/V Farwest Leader
Could it be? There's actually a fine brother among all these Norwegians?! HELL YES! Man, when I die, I don't want to go to heaven...I want to go to Dutch Harbor! I about pissed myself with excitement a few weeks ago when Tico was demonstrating how to don a survival suit in a sinking ship on forty-foot seas. I was really hoping they'd show him taking it off, too, but alas...it was not to be. In another episode, when he complimented Ragnhild for making a particularly delicious egg sandwich, I actually shouted at my TV, "I can make that too, Tico!"
3. Norman Hansen, engineer, F/V Northwestern
I'm not sure I've EVER heard Norman speak. He's the shy type, but he emerged from the same gene pool as the two gentlement below, so that fact alone has gotten him into the holy trinity of hotness.
2. Edgar Hansen, deck boss, F/V Northwestern
My buddy MillerTime is INSANELY CRAZY about Edgar, and I have to admit, he's pretty funny. He's always got a very high energy level and loves nothing more than harassing greenhorns aboard the Northwestern, and I think that if I were a deckhand, I would be the exact same way. That's certainly how I am in lab, always dancing around, making up rap lyrics about PCR and polio, and telling the rotation students that they have to do half my work for me. That would probably work if J-Sexy didn't tell them to ignore me.
1. Captain Sigurd Hansen, F/V Northwestern
Come on, who did you think was going to be #1? I figured out why Sig has to stay up in the wheelhouse all the time--if he got too close to the deck, the crab in the hold below would literally BOIL in the hold due to their proximity to Sig's hotness. Well, also because Sig is a little rusty when it comes to deck work as I learned last night. He actually donned a slicker and hauled metal for a while, and it was awesomely sexy. I almost had an aneurysm. All the while, he delivered a lot of classic Sig moments, including him orchestrating a game/learning experience that can best be described as strip hook-throwing to fuck with the greenhorn. The greenhorn ended up pulling pots in his longjohns. After that, Sig made him coil thousands of feet of rope by hand and shake free "clingers" from the pots without the benefit of hydraulics. This was followed by Sig providing an animated description of how he would "ride the pots" in the old days (and by the way, I'm not above dressing up as a crab pot to inspire a riding), then telling the greenhorn to "shut the fuck up" and returning to the wheelhouse. As Mike Rowe noted, it takes a lot to impress this "hard-nosed Norwegian skipper" and his "seasoned Norwegian crew." God, SIG RULES! I am his #1 fan in a way that borders on pathological. I wanted to cry when 10 o'clock rolled around and the festival of Sig ended...until I remembered that "After the Catch" was on afterward!
"After the Catch" is basically Sig steaming up all of Ballard by hanging out in this bar there and swapping thrilling fishing tales with some other captains. I'd hang out there every night next time I'm in the P-N-Dub unless Mike Rowe was also there, uglying it up with his overcoiffed beard and touristy Dutch Harbor shirt, trying WAY too hard to give off a grizzled fisherman vibe. I bet Mike Rowe isn't there as often as Sig and crew, though, so I'll give it a shot. Where is this "deadliest bar in Seattle"? I mean, YOU CAN SMOKE THERE!!!!! Seriously, where is the Lockspot? Like, how do you get there from I-5? Ballard confuses the hell out of me.
13. Josh Harris, greenhorn, F/V Cornelia Marie
Josh wasn't even going to make the list, because he's been flipping his dad, Captain Phil, an inordinate amount of self-important, argumentative bullshit not accordant with the dues he has yet to pay before graduating to full-share status. I was going to put up Nick, the greenhorn from the F/V Wizard instead, but Nick has been replaced by some quitter bitch for Opilio season. The quitter is a pretty boy who stomps off deck and goes to bed because his fancy Under Armour sweatshirt wasn't keeping him warm enough. That just goes to show you not to hire guys named "Guy"--they're either unremarkable or French, and you don't want to be trusting either on a crab boat in the violent and unpredictable Bering Sea. Anyway, Josh also redeemed himself in my eyes this week when, after his thumb was smashed to shit by a falling crab pot, didn't complain once, patched it back together with electrical tape, and went back to work. Now if he would just stop not listening to the skipper/his dad, he'd move up on this list a little.
12. The entire crew of the F/V Rollo, but especially Captain Stien Erik Nyhammer
I don't know why the Rollo isn't on "Deadliest Catch" anymore, but the crew on that boat was fucking hilarious. I miss them. They had about 50 inflatable outfits like this that they were always putting on and goofing around for the cameras, and nothing is sexier than dudes who can make me laugh. However, they were all young and hot, too, especially Captain Erik.
Captain Stien Erik Nyhammer not only has one of the most badass Viking names ever, but he also has that rough, rugged hotness that Keanu Reeves tries unsuccessfully to imitate. Plus, sometimes he wears glasses, which makes him look intellectual as well as hilarious and tough. Fuck the Wizard and its boring-ass crew...bring back the Rollo, Discovery Channel!
11. Nicole Tilley, deckhand, F/V Aleutian Ballad
The Aleutian Ballad is also a boat emeritus from "Deadliest Catch", but last season in one of the most terrifying episodes ever, it got hit by a rogue wave. Nicole here got tossed from her bunk and was mildly injured (nothing that an ice pack made of frozen sweet corn couldn't fix). Plus, she's a hot bitch who, when not taking crabbing-related injuries like a man on the deck of the Aleutian Ballad, tends a rowdy bar in Westport, Washington. Westport is a nice hick town located on the scenic Washington coast where my family used to camp and my father once almost hit a cow wandering alongside a cranberry bog because he was too busy rocking out to BTO's classic "Takin' Care of Business" to pay attention to the ocean mist-obscured road. Seriously, that's par for the course in Westport-Grayland-greater Grays Harbor County. Needless to say, this hooker is tough.
10. Hiram Johnson, deckhand, F/V Maverick
Hiram was around last season, and he was a grouchy "old salt" who liked to wryly bitch at all the young whippersnappers wreaking havoc at the Maverick rail. When he wasn't saying funny shit, he was busy being entirely unforgiving to anyone foolish enough to whine or complain. I don't know where he went this season; he probably couldn't stand putting up with Blake's dumb ass any longer. Or maybe he retired, but I get the feeling that Hiram isn't the retiring type. He'll be out grinding until he has to use a walker, and possibly even after that. So where is Hiram? I miss that curmudgeonly old S.O.B.!
Note: NO, dumbass Blake isn't getting a spot on this list. I refuse to even call him "Captain." He's been a bitch from day one, and I can't stand his ass, even if he's somewhat physically attractive.
I can just tell that Blake has a small penis, both by his skeezy look (he's got Dale Earnhardt, Jr. syndrome, where he looks like a possibly roofie-slipping date rapist you do NOT want to leave an unattended Kokanee with) and his constant need to overcompensate. I bet Blake is also a shoulder-pusher. I HATE shoulder-pushers. For those of you who aren't big sluts like me, a shoulder-pusher is a guy who, while you're getting frisky with him, starts shoving insistently on your shoulders (or if he's really rude, the top of your head), to indicate that he would like a blow job. I'm always like, "Oh, you want a blow job? NO SHIT! ALL guys want blow jobs!" It's a given, so know that we ladies will give you one when we're good and ready, not because you physically wrangled our head and necks down into the vicinity of your dick and think we'll both put two and two together and ignore your blatant disregard for common courtesy. Blake strikes me as that type. Blake once said that "crab fishing is better'n sex"...probably because he SUCKS AT SEX! Also, he's a crybaby. Last year he bitched and moaned when Captain Rick wouldn't let him sit in for Opilio season. That was apparently for good reason, because he's an incompetent captain. At the end of last year's king crab season, he miscalculated the amount of crab he caught and cost his crew like $5 grand each. What an asshole. NOT HOT!
9. Ragnhild Moncrief, cook/Valkyrie/rubber boot fashionista, F/V Farwest Leader
This hot, feisty blonde originally hails from Sykkylven, Norway and met her husband, Farwest Leader captain Greg, while on an Alaskan cod trawler, probably one of the most romantic places on earth. Ragnhild does all kinds of useful shit to impress the rest of the crew, including set strings and pick pots out of the water with a pink hook, but her main specialty is cooking. Every time I see one of Ragnhild's spreads, I'm instantly hungry. She's clearly a student of the "if it ain't meat, it's garnish" school of cooking, and all of her meals include stuff like pork chops with gravy, bacon, sausage, eggs, steak, and home fries. Throw in some pepperoni pizza and beer and that's the ultimate Razzy diet. Whenever she serves up another spread of veggie-less awesomeness, I always wish Ragnhild was in my kitchen cooking for me. I'd really be impressed if she started incorporating some Scandinavian delicacies into her cuisine, however. I think that it's high time to up her game and break out the krumkake iron, the painted lefse stick, or the abelskiver pan and get Viking on everyone's gastronomies.
8. Captain Andy Hillstrand, F/V Time Bandit
Last night, Andy was so hot in his scuba diving outfit as he cut away a length of rope wreaking havoc on the Time Bandit's propellor. Granted, it was his bad driving that caused the rope to get wrapped around the propellor in the first place, but you've got to love a man who finishes what he starts, even if it's a fuckup. Plus, his cowboy hat goes so well with the deck slicker he wears when his brother Johnathan is in the wheelhouse.
7. Captain Johnathan Hillstrand, F/V Time Bandit
God, why does Mike Rowe always have to ruin everything with his excessive douchebagginess? You're better heard and not seen, Mike Rowe! Anyway, Johnathan manages to overcome Slutbag Rowe's contaminating presence by hotting it up in his standard "USA" motorcycle jacket and his crab pendant. Johnathan is awesome because not only does he do a now-infamous "crab jig" when the pots are full of clean keepers, but earlier this season he saved a dude's life after the guy fell off the stack of pots. The dude (who was fully butt naked) was grabbing onto Johnathan and between hypothermic shivers kept wailing, "YOU SAVED MY LIFE, MAN! YOU SAVED MY FUCKIN LIFE!" Johnathan was moved to tears, and there's something really sexy about seeing a dude who you know shows that kind of emotion once a decade weeping. Bless Johnathan's guarded but obviously giant heart.
6. Jake Harris, deckhand, F/V Cornelia Marie
This season, Jake pulled out his own cracked tooth without anesthetic using a handy pair of pliers. His father, Captain Phil, noted, "You're not a man until you've yanked out your own tooth." Here's Jake sharing one of his cowboy killers with a Chingy! of the sea. I have no idea how they wound up catching a walrus, but I guess that's just one of things that gets stuck in your crab pots sometimes.
5. Captain Phil Harris, F/V Cornelia Marie
Captain Phil is no Captain Sig, that's for sure, but he does look pretty badass on his Harley. Plus Phil always says funny shit. He'll be hard at pulling strings of pots, and say something like "I feel like a one-legged man in an asskicking contest!", followed with a peal of wheezy laughter. This appeal has conquered his lack of conventional hotness.
4. Tico Tyson, deckhand, F/V Farwest Leader
Could it be? There's actually a fine brother among all these Norwegians?! HELL YES! Man, when I die, I don't want to go to heaven...I want to go to Dutch Harbor! I about pissed myself with excitement a few weeks ago when Tico was demonstrating how to don a survival suit in a sinking ship on forty-foot seas. I was really hoping they'd show him taking it off, too, but alas...it was not to be. In another episode, when he complimented Ragnhild for making a particularly delicious egg sandwich, I actually shouted at my TV, "I can make that too, Tico!"
3. Norman Hansen, engineer, F/V Northwestern
I'm not sure I've EVER heard Norman speak. He's the shy type, but he emerged from the same gene pool as the two gentlement below, so that fact alone has gotten him into the holy trinity of hotness.
2. Edgar Hansen, deck boss, F/V Northwestern
My buddy MillerTime is INSANELY CRAZY about Edgar, and I have to admit, he's pretty funny. He's always got a very high energy level and loves nothing more than harassing greenhorns aboard the Northwestern, and I think that if I were a deckhand, I would be the exact same way. That's certainly how I am in lab, always dancing around, making up rap lyrics about PCR and polio, and telling the rotation students that they have to do half my work for me. That would probably work if J-Sexy didn't tell them to ignore me.
1. Captain Sigurd Hansen, F/V Northwestern
Come on, who did you think was going to be #1? I figured out why Sig has to stay up in the wheelhouse all the time--if he got too close to the deck, the crab in the hold below would literally BOIL in the hold due to their proximity to Sig's hotness. Well, also because Sig is a little rusty when it comes to deck work as I learned last night. He actually donned a slicker and hauled metal for a while, and it was awesomely sexy. I almost had an aneurysm. All the while, he delivered a lot of classic Sig moments, including him orchestrating a game/learning experience that can best be described as strip hook-throwing to fuck with the greenhorn. The greenhorn ended up pulling pots in his longjohns. After that, Sig made him coil thousands of feet of rope by hand and shake free "clingers" from the pots without the benefit of hydraulics. This was followed by Sig providing an animated description of how he would "ride the pots" in the old days (and by the way, I'm not above dressing up as a crab pot to inspire a riding), then telling the greenhorn to "shut the fuck up" and returning to the wheelhouse. As Mike Rowe noted, it takes a lot to impress this "hard-nosed Norwegian skipper" and his "seasoned Norwegian crew." God, SIG RULES! I am his #1 fan in a way that borders on pathological. I wanted to cry when 10 o'clock rolled around and the festival of Sig ended...until I remembered that "After the Catch" was on afterward!
"After the Catch" is basically Sig steaming up all of Ballard by hanging out in this bar there and swapping thrilling fishing tales with some other captains. I'd hang out there every night next time I'm in the P-N-Dub unless Mike Rowe was also there, uglying it up with his overcoiffed beard and touristy Dutch Harbor shirt, trying WAY too hard to give off a grizzled fisherman vibe. I bet Mike Rowe isn't there as often as Sig and crew, though, so I'll give it a shot. Where is this "deadliest bar in Seattle"? I mean, YOU CAN SMOKE THERE!!!!! Seriously, where is the Lockspot? Like, how do you get there from I-5? Ballard confuses the hell out of me.
Labels: Deadliest Catch, hot chicks, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, P-N-Dub
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
"Jerusalem's Most Hated", per LL Cool Jew
[RAZZY EDIT: This entire thing was written by LL Cool Jew. Those dumb magicians really pissed her off, so she crafted this asskicking piece of awesomeness. Since right now I'm busy right now pissing myself with excitement given that "After the Catch" is on and it's like 99.9% Sig Hansen being super fucking hot, so I'm just going to skip the fancy formatting and file folder creating/uploading and let LL speak for herself. I'll stick up some pictures of these douches acting as such tomorrow. Enjoy.]
Here's the Wall of Judaica Shame...ie: L.L. Cool Jew's Hall of Heinously Embarrassing Judaica
By LL Cool Jew
We Jews have much to be proud of. Our exploits in math, law, journalism and fiction, finance and comedy are storied and universally recognized (though the sheer marvel of great Jews like Eddie "The Jewish Giant" Carmel, who at 8 feet 9 inches once literally towered over the Big Top as a star with Ringling Bros' Circus and was lauded as the "tallest man alive" all too often go unnoticed). But let's be frank: every great race of men have a few bad apples in the genetic barrel. Modern republican traditions (the highest achievements of civilization) can be traced to the Roman Senate; that culture also produced Caligula. Spain brought us both Picasso and the Scourge of Iglesias. Lord Horatio Nelson will be remembered as the brave, hot, seas-dominating credit to the British race he was; Margaret Thatcher was a real C.U.Next.Tuesday. And even with the sons and daughters of David, for every Einstein, Koufax and Baron Cohen, sadly there's a Copperfield (nee David Seth Kotkin), Wolfowitz and Geraldo Rivera.
David Blaine: (born David Blaine White on April 4, 1973 in Brooklyn, New York, USA) is an American illusionist and stunt performer.
His father was Spanish-Puerto Rican and his mother, Patrice White, was of Jewish and Russian origin. You know him better as the freak in the big glass ball of water for three weeks like a fucking idiot just to get attention. I know him better as an embarrassment to my kind. And his mom's even the Jew, so you can't even deny ownership of him Good thing he changed his name a little so as to disguise himself slightly from the gentiles. But that hirsute, swarthy, cheap-blond-fucking air about you gives you right away.
David Copperfield: (born David Seth Kotkin on September 16, 1956) is a world-renowned American magician and illusionist best known for his combination of spectacular illusions and storytelling.
Copperfield was born in Metuchen, New Jersey, to Jewish-Ukrainian immigrants. Right, so, as we were telling your bro Blaine over there, changing your name to blunt the embarrassment to your fellow descendents of Eastern European immigrants can be a really helpful thing, but giving yourself some fairy, make-believe, Dickensian pseudonym just does more damage. Because you know what that does? It sends middle American potential Jew-haters to Google saying to their cousins, "Yo, what's that douche's real name?" Keep humping away at Claudia Schiffer's aging bones, you Fuhrer-lover.
David Frum: (born 1960) is a Jewish Canadian-American former speechwriter for President George W. Bush, and the author of the first "insider" book about the Bush presidency.
He is also a prominent neoconservative. David Frum now speaks on behalf of the American Enterprise Institute along with Frederick Kagan on CNN. Their views are still sympathetic to neo-conservative ideology. This is the man who brought you the memorable, constructive phrase "axis of evil," then ditched his boss to drag his sorry Canadian ass around every political sounding-off forum, from "Anderson Cooper 360" to the venerable NPR political chat hour, the "Diane Rehm Show," just drooling his pompous, played-out politics on behalf of that witches' coven the American Enterprise Institute. He's an embarrassment, but he ain't half as embarrassing as his intellectual godfathers.
Paul Wolfowitz: (born December 22, 1943) is an American former academic and government official.
As United States Deputy Secretary of Defense during the administration of President George W. Bush, he was a principal "architect" of the Iraq War. On June 1, 2005 he was appointed president of the World Bank Group, but resigned on May 17, 2007 (effective June 30, 2007), as a result of an investigation by the World Bank's board of executive directors, which accepted his resignation, "ending a protracted and tumultuous battle over his stewardship, sparked by a promotion he arranged for his companion." And by "companion," we mean his "fat Arab girlfriend," but that is the least of the strikes against this truly timeless fuck-up. This is the guy that planted that image of "being greeted as liberators" into a distracted, nervous Congress browbeaten by post-Sept. 11 jingoism. This is the guy off of whose intellectual nuts former SecDef Donald Rumsfeld (WASP tyrant that he is) just could not remove himself. We will be paying for this Jew's damage for some time. Every time he gets on TV, I'm like, "When are they going to figure out this guy is a Jew and start rounding us up?"
Noam Chomsky: Avram Noam Chomsky, Ph.D (born December 7, 1928) is an American linguist, theorist, and political activist.
He is the Institute Professor Emeritus of linguistics at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Beginning with his critique of the Vietnam War in the 1960s, Chomsky has become more widely known — especially internationally — for his media criticism and politics. He is generally considered to be a key intellectual figure within the left wing of United States politics. Chomsky is widely known for his political activism, and for his criticism of the foreign policy of the United States and other governments. OK, to be honest, Noam Chomsky is obviously a smart guy.
I'm not sure whether I dislike Noam Chomsky, or whether I just dislike people who say they read Noam Chomsky. But it troubles me somehow that he's Jewish.
Lizzie Grubman: Elizabeth S. "Lizzie" Grubman (born January 30, 1971) is a publicist who gained notoriety for committing a felony crime.
She is the daughter of multi-millionaire entertainment lawyer, Allen Grubman, and his wife, the late Yvette Grubman. In July 2001 Grubman drove her SUV into a crowd of people outside a Long Island nightclub, injuring 16 people. I had to actually call this woman on her cell phone about this case when I interned as a news girl at a New York area tabloid. Sigh. That she partially represents work to me is not reason enough for her to be hung on the Wall of Shame. It's really just the fact that she soaked her Mercedes-jeep-on-innocent-bystanders incident for media coverage that takes care of her embarrassment quota.
Andrea Dworkin: (September 26, 1946 -April 9, 2005) was an American radical feminist and writer best known for her criticism of pornography, which she linked with rape and other forms of violence against women.
This is a bitch against whom I passionately railed as a righteously sexually liberated Smith College junior for her repressive, primitive, man-hating, female-sexuality-mistrusting, straight-up-First-Amendment-violating crusade against porn. Saying porn does damage to women necessarily means that women don't enjoy porn, and every woman I know can attest against that. Anyway, don't get me started. Suffice it to say, thank God the good old U.S. Constitution was around to fend off that fat, embarrassing Jewess.
Rob Bourdon, drummer, and Brad Delson, guitarist, Linkin Park:
A favorite to gum-snapping, nitrous-huffing, C-getting little self-involved, fake-me-out-depressed sluts across the nation. Thanks guys.
Kenny G. (Gorelick).
I don't know anyone who owns a Kenny G album, but I'm pretty damn sure that guy's tunage has cock-blocked many a long-deprived suburban husband's stab at getting grudgingly laid because his bitch wife was listening to her Kenny G CDs. Shudder.
Paula Abdul: This is a good one.
Abdul was born in San Fernando, California, to Harry Abdul, who once worked as a livestock trader and owns a sand and gravel business in California, and Lorraine Rykiss, a former concert pianist who once worked as an assistant to film director Billy Wilder. Abdul's father was a Mizrahi Syrian Jew who immigrated with his family to Brazil and then to the U.S., while her mother is also Jewish and originally from Saint Boniface, an area of Winnipeg, Canada. Fancy! But that doesn't forgive Abdul her crazy near Chihuahua missing, nose-breaking escapades; the video for "Opposites Attract" or her generally disheveled, neurotic, poorly dressed persona. I mean, ew!, Paula Abdul.
Geraldo Rivera: Now, contrary to popular belief, it's an urban legend that the bombastic television "journalist" changed his name from Jerry Rivers, but the fact remains that Geraldo's mother is a full-blooded Jew.
For Christ's sake. Rivera was born in New York City, New York to Cruz Rivera (later "Allen Cruz Rivera"), a Puerto Rican, and Lillian Friedman Rivera, a Jewish American (what a monicker!) We needn't display the evidence of his being an embarrassment. We go through it on a weekly basis on Fox News.
Julius and Ethel Rosenberg: TRAITOROUS RAT BASTARDS.
America has been good to us--why bite the hand that feeds you? Glad they fried your asses.
Phish: Like the Grateful Dead, Phish play unstructured, jammy, jazz-inflected music, tour incessantly, and occupy a special place in the hearts of many a Jewish hippie.
Phish have a leg up over their predecessors in the Jewish department, though: the band has not one but two Jewish members. Both drummer Jon Fishman and bassist Mike Gordon are Yids, making Phish officially one-half Jewish. The band embraces its roots, playing "Yerushalayim Shel Zhahav" and "Avenu Malkenu" in concert. That was taken from a pretty hilarious Web site, www.jewsrock.com, because I don't really know anything about Phish except for that I hate them and they suck. I don't think I've ever heard a Phish song (and I know I couldn't identify one if it happened to come on ) but I fucking can't stand Phish fans or Phish culture and I don't want anything to do with it. Gentiles obviously love that hippie bullshit, and it's embarrassing.
[RAZZY EDIT #2: LL Cool Jew is fucking hilarious. I wish she would write for the blog more often! It's more fun than reporting on local Southern Mississippi political intrigue (albeit maybe not as rural Southern beauty pageants, Christian choirs, or colorful gents who won't clean all the rusting hulks of bat-inhabited car chassis in their yards, anyway...*HINT*]
[RAZZY EDIT #3: FYI--trust fund hippies everywhere have ruined the reputation of the goyim via their unfortunate Phish fetish, as well, and I am equally resentful. Did you know that those assholes in Phish covered "Gin and Juice"? No, seriously. And every time I'm like, "I hate Phish," some dreadlocked fucktard goes, "Well, they totally jammed out to 'Gin and Juice' dude, you'll like that. Here, let me pop in my 'Tucson, August 12, 1994' cassette!" Then it gets played, and I avoid committing mass murder only by going to a happy place, where a young Calvin Broadus squashes hordes of unbathed, overprivileged morons beneath the cheerfully bouncing tires of his '60s model hydraulic-equipped Impala without even knowing who they are. Gentiles with half a modicum of taste gladly join their Judaic counterparts in cursing the name of Phish.]
Here's the Wall of Judaica Shame...ie: L.L. Cool Jew's Hall of Heinously Embarrassing Judaica
By LL Cool Jew
We Jews have much to be proud of. Our exploits in math, law, journalism and fiction, finance and comedy are storied and universally recognized (though the sheer marvel of great Jews like Eddie "The Jewish Giant" Carmel, who at 8 feet 9 inches once literally towered over the Big Top as a star with Ringling Bros' Circus and was lauded as the "tallest man alive" all too often go unnoticed). But let's be frank: every great race of men have a few bad apples in the genetic barrel. Modern republican traditions (the highest achievements of civilization) can be traced to the Roman Senate; that culture also produced Caligula. Spain brought us both Picasso and the Scourge of Iglesias. Lord Horatio Nelson will be remembered as the brave, hot, seas-dominating credit to the British race he was; Margaret Thatcher was a real C.U.Next.Tuesday. And even with the sons and daughters of David, for every Einstein, Koufax and Baron Cohen, sadly there's a Copperfield (nee David Seth Kotkin), Wolfowitz and Geraldo Rivera.
David Blaine: (born David Blaine White on April 4, 1973 in Brooklyn, New York, USA) is an American illusionist and stunt performer.
His father was Spanish-Puerto Rican and his mother, Patrice White, was of Jewish and Russian origin. You know him better as the freak in the big glass ball of water for three weeks like a fucking idiot just to get attention. I know him better as an embarrassment to my kind. And his mom's even the Jew, so you can't even deny ownership of him Good thing he changed his name a little so as to disguise himself slightly from the gentiles. But that hirsute, swarthy, cheap-blond-fucking air about you gives you right away.
David Copperfield: (born David Seth Kotkin on September 16, 1956) is a world-renowned American magician and illusionist best known for his combination of spectacular illusions and storytelling.
Copperfield was born in Metuchen, New Jersey, to Jewish-Ukrainian immigrants. Right, so, as we were telling your bro Blaine over there, changing your name to blunt the embarrassment to your fellow descendents of Eastern European immigrants can be a really helpful thing, but giving yourself some fairy, make-believe, Dickensian pseudonym just does more damage. Because you know what that does? It sends middle American potential Jew-haters to Google saying to their cousins, "Yo, what's that douche's real name?" Keep humping away at Claudia Schiffer's aging bones, you Fuhrer-lover.
David Frum: (born 1960) is a Jewish Canadian-American former speechwriter for President George W. Bush, and the author of the first "insider" book about the Bush presidency.
He is also a prominent neoconservative. David Frum now speaks on behalf of the American Enterprise Institute along with Frederick Kagan on CNN. Their views are still sympathetic to neo-conservative ideology. This is the man who brought you the memorable, constructive phrase "axis of evil," then ditched his boss to drag his sorry Canadian ass around every political sounding-off forum, from "Anderson Cooper 360" to the venerable NPR political chat hour, the "Diane Rehm Show," just drooling his pompous, played-out politics on behalf of that witches' coven the American Enterprise Institute. He's an embarrassment, but he ain't half as embarrassing as his intellectual godfathers.
Paul Wolfowitz: (born December 22, 1943) is an American former academic and government official.
As United States Deputy Secretary of Defense during the administration of President George W. Bush, he was a principal "architect" of the Iraq War. On June 1, 2005 he was appointed president of the World Bank Group, but resigned on May 17, 2007 (effective June 30, 2007), as a result of an investigation by the World Bank's board of executive directors, which accepted his resignation, "ending a protracted and tumultuous battle over his stewardship, sparked by a promotion he arranged for his companion." And by "companion," we mean his "fat Arab girlfriend," but that is the least of the strikes against this truly timeless fuck-up. This is the guy that planted that image of "being greeted as liberators" into a distracted, nervous Congress browbeaten by post-Sept. 11 jingoism. This is the guy off of whose intellectual nuts former SecDef Donald Rumsfeld (WASP tyrant that he is) just could not remove himself. We will be paying for this Jew's damage for some time. Every time he gets on TV, I'm like, "When are they going to figure out this guy is a Jew and start rounding us up?"
Noam Chomsky: Avram Noam Chomsky, Ph.D (born December 7, 1928) is an American linguist, theorist, and political activist.
He is the Institute Professor Emeritus of linguistics at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Beginning with his critique of the Vietnam War in the 1960s, Chomsky has become more widely known — especially internationally — for his media criticism and politics. He is generally considered to be a key intellectual figure within the left wing of United States politics. Chomsky is widely known for his political activism, and for his criticism of the foreign policy of the United States and other governments. OK, to be honest, Noam Chomsky is obviously a smart guy.
I'm not sure whether I dislike Noam Chomsky, or whether I just dislike people who say they read Noam Chomsky. But it troubles me somehow that he's Jewish.
Lizzie Grubman: Elizabeth S. "Lizzie" Grubman (born January 30, 1971) is a publicist who gained notoriety for committing a felony crime.
She is the daughter of multi-millionaire entertainment lawyer, Allen Grubman, and his wife, the late Yvette Grubman. In July 2001 Grubman drove her SUV into a crowd of people outside a Long Island nightclub, injuring 16 people. I had to actually call this woman on her cell phone about this case when I interned as a news girl at a New York area tabloid. Sigh. That she partially represents work to me is not reason enough for her to be hung on the Wall of Shame. It's really just the fact that she soaked her Mercedes-jeep-on-innocent-bystanders incident for media coverage that takes care of her embarrassment quota.
Andrea Dworkin: (September 26, 1946 -April 9, 2005) was an American radical feminist and writer best known for her criticism of pornography, which she linked with rape and other forms of violence against women.
This is a bitch against whom I passionately railed as a righteously sexually liberated Smith College junior for her repressive, primitive, man-hating, female-sexuality-mistrusting, straight-up-First-Amendment-violating crusade against porn. Saying porn does damage to women necessarily means that women don't enjoy porn, and every woman I know can attest against that. Anyway, don't get me started. Suffice it to say, thank God the good old U.S. Constitution was around to fend off that fat, embarrassing Jewess.
Rob Bourdon, drummer, and Brad Delson, guitarist, Linkin Park:
A favorite to gum-snapping, nitrous-huffing, C-getting little self-involved, fake-me-out-depressed sluts across the nation. Thanks guys.
Kenny G. (Gorelick).
I don't know anyone who owns a Kenny G album, but I'm pretty damn sure that guy's tunage has cock-blocked many a long-deprived suburban husband's stab at getting grudgingly laid because his bitch wife was listening to her Kenny G CDs. Shudder.
Paula Abdul: This is a good one.
Abdul was born in San Fernando, California, to Harry Abdul, who once worked as a livestock trader and owns a sand and gravel business in California, and Lorraine Rykiss, a former concert pianist who once worked as an assistant to film director Billy Wilder. Abdul's father was a Mizrahi Syrian Jew who immigrated with his family to Brazil and then to the U.S., while her mother is also Jewish and originally from Saint Boniface, an area of Winnipeg, Canada. Fancy! But that doesn't forgive Abdul her crazy near Chihuahua missing, nose-breaking escapades; the video for "Opposites Attract" or her generally disheveled, neurotic, poorly dressed persona. I mean, ew!, Paula Abdul.
Geraldo Rivera: Now, contrary to popular belief, it's an urban legend that the bombastic television "journalist" changed his name from Jerry Rivers, but the fact remains that Geraldo's mother is a full-blooded Jew.
For Christ's sake. Rivera was born in New York City, New York to Cruz Rivera (later "Allen Cruz Rivera"), a Puerto Rican, and Lillian Friedman Rivera, a Jewish American (what a monicker!) We needn't display the evidence of his being an embarrassment. We go through it on a weekly basis on Fox News.
Julius and Ethel Rosenberg: TRAITOROUS RAT BASTARDS.
America has been good to us--why bite the hand that feeds you? Glad they fried your asses.
Phish: Like the Grateful Dead, Phish play unstructured, jammy, jazz-inflected music, tour incessantly, and occupy a special place in the hearts of many a Jewish hippie.
Phish have a leg up over their predecessors in the Jewish department, though: the band has not one but two Jewish members. Both drummer Jon Fishman and bassist Mike Gordon are Yids, making Phish officially one-half Jewish. The band embraces its roots, playing "Yerushalayim Shel Zhahav" and "Avenu Malkenu" in concert. That was taken from a pretty hilarious Web site, www.jewsrock.com, because I don't really know anything about Phish except for that I hate them and they suck. I don't think I've ever heard a Phish song (and I know I couldn't identify one if it happened to come on ) but I fucking can't stand Phish fans or Phish culture and I don't want anything to do with it. Gentiles obviously love that hippie bullshit, and it's embarrassing.
[RAZZY EDIT #2: LL Cool Jew is fucking hilarious. I wish she would write for the blog more often! It's more fun than reporting on local Southern Mississippi political intrigue (albeit maybe not as rural Southern beauty pageants, Christian choirs, or colorful gents who won't clean all the rusting hulks of bat-inhabited car chassis in their yards, anyway...*HINT*]
[RAZZY EDIT #3: FYI--trust fund hippies everywhere have ruined the reputation of the goyim via their unfortunate Phish fetish, as well, and I am equally resentful. Did you know that those assholes in Phish covered "Gin and Juice"? No, seriously. And every time I'm like, "I hate Phish," some dreadlocked fucktard goes, "Well, they totally jammed out to 'Gin and Juice' dude, you'll like that. Here, let me pop in my 'Tucson, August 12, 1994' cassette!" Then it gets played, and I avoid committing mass murder only by going to a happy place, where a young Calvin Broadus squashes hordes of unbathed, overprivileged morons beneath the cheerfully bouncing tires of his '60s model hydraulic-equipped Impala without even knowing who they are. Gentiles with half a modicum of taste gladly join their Judaic counterparts in cursing the name of Phish.]
Labels: LL Cool Jew, magick is bullshit, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Monday, June 04, 2007
Be still my uncontrollably palpitating heart
Today could have been a really bad day. I had a very long day at work, I'm off the cancer sticks and thus somewhat bitchy, and when I arrived home wanting nothing more than finish up a few work things, watch TV, and cool off with a frosty cold Heineken, my key made a funny noise as I turned it in the lock. Then it wouldn't move. After ten minutes of twisting it, banging on my door, twisting the key again, kicking my door, and swearing at it, I called a locksmith. I found out that my lock had "collapsed", and I only barely avoided an obscene bill to replace the entire lock. Instead I "got lucky" and just needed a new cylinder, according to the short but dirtily sexy Czechoslovakian number who fixed it. Thus I had a $450, marginally less obscene bill to pay in cash.
However, it's all good, because as far as I'm concerned, nothing bad can happen today. Captain Sigurd "The Hotness" Hansen of "Deadliest Catch" fame, after posting a link to my original ode to his rugged good looks and excellence in crab boat captaining and subsequently defending me against allegations of stalking, has once again opined on his MySpace blog, and I am OVER THE FUCKING MOON with excitement.
THAT'S RIGHT! According to Sig (who is infallible) I'm the number one fan (I'm assuming he hit the period key instead of the pound key by accident) of the crew of the F/V Northwestern. Yes, you heard it STRAIGHT FROM SIG HIMSELF...I'm the #1 FAN! Take that, all you hos who called me a stalker! Even cooler is the fact that, judging by his exclamatory "WOOT!," he is absolutely thrilled that I am occupying that lofty position. Because let's face it, what kind of crazy hot Viking fisherman WOULDN'T want a Norwegian-American wannabe pirate from Puyallup in her underwear adoring them? Which reminds me, I'm going to have to get a picture of me in my "I'm a Sig Girl" thong to send the Hansen boys as a morale booster before they brave the violent and unpredictable Bering Sea in this modern day gold rush next fall. Maybe I can convince MillerTime, who is almost as obsessed with Sig's brother Edgar as she is "The Girls Next Door", that she should pose with me in the "I'm an Edgar Girl" thong that undoubtedly she has purchased by now. We can find someone who likes the strong, silent type (ie: Norman Hansen), and complete the trifecta of Northwestern adulation.
This is tantamount to Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson dissing me on his next album, or Robert Sylvester Kelly calling me up and asking if he could sex me up, strip for me, or piss on me (all in spite of my old age), or Ernest Hemingway coming back from the dead to take me lion hunting and/or foreign civil war fighting with him. No matter how many bullshit broken locks or failed experiments in lab I have to deal with, Sig has bestowed upon me what I think is the Northwestern's equivalent of the Congressional Medal of Fucking Honor. Now, the Seahawks just have to win a Super Bowl and my life will be pretty much complete.
However, it's all good, because as far as I'm concerned, nothing bad can happen today. Captain Sigurd "The Hotness" Hansen of "Deadliest Catch" fame, after posting a link to my original ode to his rugged good looks and excellence in crab boat captaining and subsequently defending me against allegations of stalking, has once again opined on his MySpace blog, and I am OVER THE FUCKING MOON with excitement.
THAT'S RIGHT! According to Sig (who is infallible) I'm the number one fan (I'm assuming he hit the period key instead of the pound key by accident) of the crew of the F/V Northwestern. Yes, you heard it STRAIGHT FROM SIG HIMSELF...I'm the #1 FAN! Take that, all you hos who called me a stalker! Even cooler is the fact that, judging by his exclamatory "WOOT!," he is absolutely thrilled that I am occupying that lofty position. Because let's face it, what kind of crazy hot Viking fisherman WOULDN'T want a Norwegian-American wannabe pirate from Puyallup in her underwear adoring them? Which reminds me, I'm going to have to get a picture of me in my "I'm a Sig Girl" thong to send the Hansen boys as a morale booster before they brave the violent and unpredictable Bering Sea in this modern day gold rush next fall. Maybe I can convince MillerTime, who is almost as obsessed with Sig's brother Edgar as she is "The Girls Next Door", that she should pose with me in the "I'm an Edgar Girl" thong that undoubtedly she has purchased by now. We can find someone who likes the strong, silent type (ie: Norman Hansen), and complete the trifecta of Northwestern adulation.
This is tantamount to Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson dissing me on his next album, or Robert Sylvester Kelly calling me up and asking if he could sex me up, strip for me, or piss on me (all in spite of my old age), or Ernest Hemingway coming back from the dead to take me lion hunting and/or foreign civil war fighting with him. No matter how many bullshit broken locks or failed experiments in lab I have to deal with, Sig has bestowed upon me what I think is the Northwestern's equivalent of the Congressional Medal of Fucking Honor. Now, the Seahawks just have to win a Super Bowl and my life will be pretty much complete.
Labels: Deadliest Catch, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, MillerTime, MySpace, Razzification
The Red Sox faithful redeem themselves
Normally I can't stand Red Sox fans. They're annoying and act like the world is out to get them. Maybe I would have bought that before they won the World Series (and three Super Bowls), but Boston fans still act like they're always getting screwed over and whining about it. I had more problems concerning the Red Sox than anything else with my college boyfriend Benzo. He and I had a great relationship, until the MLB postseason started anyway. He would rip on me mercilessly about the Mariners, but the second I'd try to flip a little of that back his way, he'd freak out. I'd hear a lot of, "Well, you just can't understand what it's like for your team to be around 90 years and never win a World Series!" and "We've had it STOLEN from us" (and if he wants an example of that actually happening to a sports team, I would now refer him to Super Bowl XL). My retorts about "Well, whose fault is it that Bill Buckner can't field a simple grounder?", "I'm glad the Mets won...Ron Darling was hot," and other choice nastiness concerning the 1986 World Series did nothing to stem the tide of Red Sox-related minor spats. The only time he ever hung up a phone on me was when Boston lost the 1998 AL Divisional Series, and after enduring his taunts during the Wild Card playoff regarding the Seattle Mariners, I couldn't resist a little payback. "How about those Cleveland Indians?" I said, and then heard an angry click as he slammed down the phone. Our relationship was much more peaceful once baseball season mercifully ended. I loved Benzo, but I couldn't STAND that constant woe-is-us Red Sox bullshit.
However, the Red Sox fans have a new, special place in my heart, because if there's one thing I hate more than the fellas at Fenway, it's those pinstriped assholes in the Bronx. When I first moved to New York, I tried to keep my negative feelings about the Yankees to myself, because Yankees fans are so ridiculously easy to provoke to violence via disparaging comments about their team. Then, I soon realized that I'm not going to let a bunch of dumb, obnoxious meatheads in Jeter shirts and Yanks caps intimidate me into keeping my anti-Yankee sentiments to myself, and I'm a girl, so it's unlikely that a little mild Yankees trash talk will incur an actual beatdown. Last time I was at Yankee Stadium I got drunk (because it's the most frightening baseball stadium in America in terms of design...I'm not afraid of heights, but my life flashes before my eyes when I'm climbing up to the nosebleed section where I usually sit), and started mouthing off about Jeter being a pussy , Mariano Rivera being a Jesus freak, and A-Rod being a sell-out. I got a lot of dirty looks, but remained unmolested. I now vocally celebrate anything bad that happens to the Yankees, which this year means their entire season.
There is also one Yankee I hate more than any other. He used to be a Mariner, and may be the biggest fucktard in the history of professional baseball. He's also a passive, whiny bitch who is on the down low with Jeter and who invariably bats .005 in the postseason (which this year, the Yankees will be lucky to even get anywhere near, and too bad, because I'll miss Post headlines like "THE CHOKE'S ON US!"). I am talking, of course, about the lowest of the low, the most overpaid former shortstop in baseball, and the scourge of the Bronx: ALEX FUCKING RODRIGUEZ, or Gay-Rod, as I like to call him.
Last week, the best newspaper in New York City had some breaking news about Gay-Rod cheating on his wife, and surprisingly not with a man:
Apparently he was running all over Toronto with this bitch, who is a Playboy reject, an ex-Scores dancer, and currently a stripper at some Canadian titty bar where Gay-Rod made like R. Kelly and was steadily tossing that cash flow. What this chick is not is Gay-Rod's beard wife Cynthia. This has apparently caused a big scandal with Yankees fans, who are used to Gay-Rod being boring and pretentious, not an unrepentant philanderer in the same league as the Giants Tackle known to Post readers as Michael STRAY-han.
This weekend, the Yanks were in Boston, and the Red Sox fans decided to capitalize on the NYC tabloids proclaiming him "STRAY-ROD" and "YANKEE DOODLE RANDY" and thus redeem themselves in my eyes, for a little while anyway. Every time Gay-Rod was up to bat, the fans sitting behind home plate did this:
Those are some hot assholes right there. The Post and Daily News covers this weekend were crowing headlines like "BLONDE BIM-BOSOX" and "MASK HYSTERIA IN BEANTOWN!" If the Red Sox fans continue to be such awesomely unsportsmanlike bad winners, then maybe I can forget what a bunch of crybaby losers they typically are. This is the best thing to come out of Assachusetts in quite some time. Good show, Boston fans.
[RAZZY ASIDE: Benzo, how long will it take you to post some comment dissing the Mariners to revenge your beloved Sox? My prediction is that you'll craft some snotty cracks about the M's pitching staff before noon!]
However, the Red Sox fans have a new, special place in my heart, because if there's one thing I hate more than the fellas at Fenway, it's those pinstriped assholes in the Bronx. When I first moved to New York, I tried to keep my negative feelings about the Yankees to myself, because Yankees fans are so ridiculously easy to provoke to violence via disparaging comments about their team. Then, I soon realized that I'm not going to let a bunch of dumb, obnoxious meatheads in Jeter shirts and Yanks caps intimidate me into keeping my anti-Yankee sentiments to myself, and I'm a girl, so it's unlikely that a little mild Yankees trash talk will incur an actual beatdown. Last time I was at Yankee Stadium I got drunk (because it's the most frightening baseball stadium in America in terms of design...I'm not afraid of heights, but my life flashes before my eyes when I'm climbing up to the nosebleed section where I usually sit), and started mouthing off about Jeter being a pussy , Mariano Rivera being a Jesus freak, and A-Rod being a sell-out. I got a lot of dirty looks, but remained unmolested. I now vocally celebrate anything bad that happens to the Yankees, which this year means their entire season.
There is also one Yankee I hate more than any other. He used to be a Mariner, and may be the biggest fucktard in the history of professional baseball. He's also a passive, whiny bitch who is on the down low with Jeter and who invariably bats .005 in the postseason (which this year, the Yankees will be lucky to even get anywhere near, and too bad, because I'll miss Post headlines like "THE CHOKE'S ON US!"). I am talking, of course, about the lowest of the low, the most overpaid former shortstop in baseball, and the scourge of the Bronx: ALEX FUCKING RODRIGUEZ, or Gay-Rod, as I like to call him.
Last week, the best newspaper in New York City had some breaking news about Gay-Rod cheating on his wife, and surprisingly not with a man:
This weekend, the Yanks were in Boston, and the Red Sox fans decided to capitalize on the NYC tabloids proclaiming him "STRAY-ROD" and "YANKEE DOODLE RANDY" and thus redeem themselves in my eyes, for a little while anyway. Every time Gay-Rod was up to bat, the fans sitting behind home plate did this:
[RAZZY ASIDE: Benzo, how long will it take you to post some comment dissing the Mariners to revenge your beloved Sox? My prediction is that you'll craft some snotty cracks about the M's pitching staff before noon!]
Labels: Assachusetts, assholes, comeuppance, fuck the Yankees, I LOVE IT, large exclamatory font, vengeance is sweet
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Because he was feeling left out
I've been raving so much about Skipper Sig Hansen and Robert Sylvester Kelly lately that I've been neglecting to laud my #1 boyfriend, Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson. I was watching the MTV Movie Awards tonight, and after spending about ten minutes ranting to myself about how overrated and annoying Sarah Silverman and Dane Cook both are, and thinking murderous thoughts about the Pinkett-Smiths and their obnoxious kid, I was calmed by two things. First, a Transformers trailer (and HOLY SHIT, it looks awesome) replaced my feelings of rage with kid-on-Christmas-morning giddy excitement, and then a commercial for Vitamin Water starring none other than my boyfriend Curtis. The premise of this commercial is that not only has Formula 50 consumption given Fitty the business acumen to earn $400 million dollars last week when Coca-Cola acquired Vitamin Water manufacturer Glaceau (which Fitty owns a stake in), but the conductorial skills to lead a full symphony in a freestyle orchestral arrangement of "In Da Club:"
This makes me wish I actually liked Formula 50. Despite what the name might lead you to believe, it's grape-flavored, not Curtis Jackson-flavored. As much as I love Fitty, I can't stand grape-flavored anything, as it reminds me of Dimetapp and thus of being sick. Maybe if I could choke down enough Formula 50, I would graduate tomorrow, achieve fame, fortune, and wealth beyond imagination (the plan for that is TBA), buy the Seahawks, get elected president, and live happily ever after comparing myself to Beethoven. Since I can't tolerate it, though, I guess I'll have to do it the old-fashioned way: plenty of stick-to-it-iveness, elbow grease, American pride, and fucking people in influential positions. In the meantime, however, I'll have to not hate, and rather congratulate. Nice marketing, Curtis, and nice symphonic skills.
**Golf claps**
This makes me wish I actually liked Formula 50. Despite what the name might lead you to believe, it's grape-flavored, not Curtis Jackson-flavored. As much as I love Fitty, I can't stand grape-flavored anything, as it reminds me of Dimetapp and thus of being sick. Maybe if I could choke down enough Formula 50, I would graduate tomorrow, achieve fame, fortune, and wealth beyond imagination (the plan for that is TBA), buy the Seahawks, get elected president, and live happily ever after comparing myself to Beethoven. Since I can't tolerate it, though, I guess I'll have to do it the old-fashioned way: plenty of stick-to-it-iveness, elbow grease, American pride, and fucking people in influential positions. In the meantime, however, I'll have to not hate, and rather congratulate. Nice marketing, Curtis, and nice symphonic skills.
**Golf claps**
Labels: 50 cent, boyfriends, capitalism, hilarious shit, hot dudes, media whores, ridiculous absurdity, TV
Saturday, June 02, 2007
OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG!!!!!
I was dicking around and looking at my site statistics today and noticed I was getting a lot of hits from some MySpace blog. I clicked on the link to see which MySpacer had given me a shout-out, and just about had a fucking heart attack:
Oh my God. Oh. My. GOD. OH! MY! GOD! Captain Sigurd Hansen, the crab captain singlehandedly responsible for global warming because of his blistering hotness, READS MY BLOG! This is like rolling Christmas, my birthday, my wedding, the birth of my first child, and a Super Bowl where the Seahawks don't get flagrantly robbed by terrible officiating all into one uber-joyous occasion.
Unfortunately, it seems that the majority of Sig's MySpace blog readers misinterpreted my prosaic ode to Sig (and suggested that they didn't like my site...one bitch even wrote "I'm no Whitman, but Razzy needs to bone up on her writing skills"), and responded with a lot of comments along the lines of "This bitch is SCARY," "Watch your back, this girl is a crazy freak," and "Watch out, Sig, you have a stalker."
Obviously I'm the world's least competent stalker, since it took a month for me to notice that Sig had gotten a straight blast of Razzification and liked it so much that he linked to me. If I'd been a better stalker I'd have been more up to speed on his MySpace. Furthermore, since his tour of all the late night talk shows is now over, Sig probably isn't going to be in NYC anytime soon, so I'll have a hard time actually physically stalking him. Last week on "After the Catch," a companion special to "Deadliest Catch" where the captains sit around shooting the shit with Mike Rowe at some bar in Seattle, I thought for about two seconds about trying to find that establishment the next time I'm in the P-N-Dub. However, it's in Ballard, and I always get totally lost trying to find anything in Ballard. My friend Sexxxica lives around there and every time I try to meet up with her I'm filled with terror as I try to negotiate the confusing shitshow of streets with changing names and six-way intersections common in that part of Seattle. I get lost trying to find Ballard itself, so the chances of me even getting there to skulk about looking for Sig are slim indeed.
I don't need to worry about Sig being afraid that he'll show up at home one day and find one of his kids' pet rabbits boiling away on the stove, because he understands where I'm coming from and DEFENDS ME! I appreciate that, since "Blister!!" below seems inclined to take a contract with some frightening Croatians out on me or something, just because I read and retained (aka am "privvy" to) the information from Sig's MySpace and Wikipedia pages.
Sig's got it right. While his dashing good looks, roguishly amusing commentary, and authoritative barking at his goofy brothers and terrified greenhorns are incredibly sexy to me, I have to say that I am a hardcore Northwestern fan for a variety of other reasons. First, I'm likewise of Norwegian descent, and any hot Nordic fellas who like to get their lutefisk on, bite the heads off herring and swallow codfish hearts for luck, and say "uff da" are my kind of dudes. Second, I'm also from the P-N-Dub, and I root for any local boys that make good. I like to see Pacific Northwesterners prominently featured in the national media, especially not in the context of a "Cops" episode focusing on the Pierce County Sheriff meth lab squad. I strongly support hometown heroes like Sig and the Hansens, who are better looking and more admirable than standard famous P-N-Dubbers such as Kurt Cobain, Robb Weller (host of the now-defunct game show "Win, Lose, or Draw"), and Apolo Anton Ohno (who may be the world's biggest pretty boy professional athlete, and who you just know is an asshole in person). Third, I grew up fishing, and although mining the Hood Canal for Dungeness gold in June is considerably easier and more relaxing than braving the violent and tempestuous Bering Sea trying to fill pots with Opilio in January, I can nonetheless appreciate what he does for a living. Finally, I think that Sig and his brothers have BALLS OF GALVANIZED STEEL to keep grinding away season after season, but I love that they are relatively modest about it and regard it simply as continuing with their family business. My hardcore Northwestern fan status is just that, and am not going to try to follow Sig around Seattle or show up at his front door or anything like that.
However, I am DEFINITELY going to not shut up about Captain Sig "The Hotness" Hansen giving me some good URL on his MySpace for at least the next decade. He just made my entire fucking year. Thanks, Sig. I'm going to invest in at least ten more pairs of "I'm a Sig Girl" panties and force everyone I know to park their asses in front of the Discovery Channel Tuesdays at 9, so that we can root for the Northwestern to defeat the nefarious Captain Phil of the Cornelia Marie in the Yellow Book Crab Count every week! Captain Sig RULES!
Oh my God. Oh. My. GOD. OH! MY! GOD! Captain Sigurd Hansen, the crab captain singlehandedly responsible for global warming because of his blistering hotness, READS MY BLOG! This is like rolling Christmas, my birthday, my wedding, the birth of my first child, and a Super Bowl where the Seahawks don't get flagrantly robbed by terrible officiating all into one uber-joyous occasion.
Unfortunately, it seems that the majority of Sig's MySpace blog readers misinterpreted my prosaic ode to Sig (and suggested that they didn't like my site...one bitch even wrote "I'm no Whitman, but Razzy needs to bone up on her writing skills"), and responded with a lot of comments along the lines of "This bitch is SCARY," "Watch your back, this girl is a crazy freak," and "Watch out, Sig, you have a stalker."
Obviously I'm the world's least competent stalker, since it took a month for me to notice that Sig had gotten a straight blast of Razzification and liked it so much that he linked to me. If I'd been a better stalker I'd have been more up to speed on his MySpace. Furthermore, since his tour of all the late night talk shows is now over, Sig probably isn't going to be in NYC anytime soon, so I'll have a hard time actually physically stalking him. Last week on "After the Catch," a companion special to "Deadliest Catch" where the captains sit around shooting the shit with Mike Rowe at some bar in Seattle, I thought for about two seconds about trying to find that establishment the next time I'm in the P-N-Dub. However, it's in Ballard, and I always get totally lost trying to find anything in Ballard. My friend Sexxxica lives around there and every time I try to meet up with her I'm filled with terror as I try to negotiate the confusing shitshow of streets with changing names and six-way intersections common in that part of Seattle. I get lost trying to find Ballard itself, so the chances of me even getting there to skulk about looking for Sig are slim indeed.
I don't need to worry about Sig being afraid that he'll show up at home one day and find one of his kids' pet rabbits boiling away on the stove, because he understands where I'm coming from and DEFENDS ME! I appreciate that, since "Blister!!" below seems inclined to take a contract with some frightening Croatians out on me or something, just because I read and retained (aka am "privvy" to) the information from Sig's MySpace and Wikipedia pages.
Sig's got it right. While his dashing good looks, roguishly amusing commentary, and authoritative barking at his goofy brothers and terrified greenhorns are incredibly sexy to me, I have to say that I am a hardcore Northwestern fan for a variety of other reasons. First, I'm likewise of Norwegian descent, and any hot Nordic fellas who like to get their lutefisk on, bite the heads off herring and swallow codfish hearts for luck, and say "uff da" are my kind of dudes. Second, I'm also from the P-N-Dub, and I root for any local boys that make good. I like to see Pacific Northwesterners prominently featured in the national media, especially not in the context of a "Cops" episode focusing on the Pierce County Sheriff meth lab squad. I strongly support hometown heroes like Sig and the Hansens, who are better looking and more admirable than standard famous P-N-Dubbers such as Kurt Cobain, Robb Weller (host of the now-defunct game show "Win, Lose, or Draw"), and Apolo Anton Ohno (who may be the world's biggest pretty boy professional athlete, and who you just know is an asshole in person). Third, I grew up fishing, and although mining the Hood Canal for Dungeness gold in June is considerably easier and more relaxing than braving the violent and tempestuous Bering Sea trying to fill pots with Opilio in January, I can nonetheless appreciate what he does for a living. Finally, I think that Sig and his brothers have BALLS OF GALVANIZED STEEL to keep grinding away season after season, but I love that they are relatively modest about it and regard it simply as continuing with their family business. My hardcore Northwestern fan status is just that, and am not going to try to follow Sig around Seattle or show up at his front door or anything like that.
However, I am DEFINITELY going to not shut up about Captain Sig "The Hotness" Hansen giving me some good URL on his MySpace for at least the next decade. He just made my entire fucking year. Thanks, Sig. I'm going to invest in at least ten more pairs of "I'm a Sig Girl" panties and force everyone I know to park their asses in front of the Discovery Channel Tuesdays at 9, so that we can root for the Northwestern to defeat the nefarious Captain Phil of the Cornelia Marie in the Yellow Book Crab Count every week! Captain Sig RULES!
Labels: Deadliest Catch, down with OPB (other people's blogs), hot dudes, I LOVE IT, MySpace, P-N-Dub, Razzification
Friday, June 01, 2007
Feeling spella good
I am a big fan of watching the Scripps National Spelling Bee every year, which is why I was so psyched to come home last night and realize that it was on ABC live in prime time! This is a major upgrade from its former home on ESPN 2, haphazardly scheduled between some dumb bowling tournament and the World Series of Texas Hold 'Em or whatever is usually on. The move to a network prime time slot was sorely needed, as there is only one annual competition more riveting than the Spelling Bee, and that is the Super Bowl.
I first started watching the Spelling Bee in 2003, when it came on while I was on a road trip with my buddies T-Bag and HippieSympathizer. We were supposed to be on the road to Las Vegas, but not even the lure of strippers, booze, and gambling could tear us away from the riveting Spelling Bee action. We got to Vegas a couple hours behind schedule. That year there was this Jamaican chick named Trudy competing, and she was awesome. She was very imperative but at the same time extremely courteous ("I require the word origin, please, Dr. Bailly?", "I will pronounce it 'gwee-shay', please, Dr. Bailly?"), and I was rooting for her bold, hot ass like crazy.
Unfortunately Trudy lost (although to J-Sexy's pride and delight, another Jamaican took home the cup to Kingston in 2004, where it held a place of honor the hallowed offices of the Jamaica Gleaner.)
Anyway, after Trudy's stint bossing around official Bee pronouncer Dr. Jacques Bailly (who normally has the unremarkable job of associate professor of classics at UVM), I was hooked on the National Spelling Bee. Also, given my history as a speller so competetive that I actually once resorted to violence when outspelled by my nemesis in the fourth grade, I find the entire contest riveting and enjoyable. Now that I am almost two decades past eligibility for the Bee, I can finally relax and just enjoy the thrills of watching adolescent nerdlings spell impossibly difficult words.
When I got home last night, I was right in time for the final rounds, and immediately picked out my favorite. From the moment she took the stage, I knew I'd be supporting this little minx, Isabel Jacobson, of Madison, Wisconsin:
Her hobbies are playing the violin and writing short stories, and her trademark is wearing every bracelet she owns for luck. Basically, she is a proto-Razzy. You can tell she tried to really up her hotness level for the national stage (a tough job, since she's at that horrible awkward age where everything, from your teeth to your hips, seems oddly proportioned, your skin and hair look like hell, and you have no idea how to manage your weird little starter breasts), and it completely reminded me of how I spent about two hours banana-clipping my hair back when I went to the Pierce County district spelling bee in the sixth grade. I also made sure to wear my favorite sweater (a cable knit sage green number from the Gap's cardigan collection, circa 1990) and talked my mom into letting me apply mascara. Isabel actually did a much better job than I ever did cleaning up for the camera; she almost has a "7th Heaven"-era Jessica Biel thing going on. Unfortunately, like me, Isabel was thwarted by that pesky Greek "phy." My dreams of spelling glory went down in one fell swoop when I misspelled "asphyxiate" as "assfixiate." Isabel lost on the word "cyanophycean." I was truly disappointed, especially since this was her final year of eligibility and thus her last shot at spelling glory. When the bell dinged indicating that she was incorrect, you could just see the despair in her face as she saw her dreams crushed.
Isabel didn't take her loss nearly as hard as her parents did, however. Spelling Bee parents are right up there with stage and pageant moms in terms of relentless, highly dysfunctional child-pushing. You could see Isabel's mom looking PISSED that Isabel's Greek word origins were a little rusty, and you know that Isabel's getting an earful the entire plane ride back to Madison. Isabel's dad, meanwhile, just placed his face heavily into his hands, as though he were mourning the champion speller that he USED to call "daughter." For years to come, poor Isabel is going to be reminded of how she fucked up "cyanophycean," which is unnecessary because this overachieving vixen doesn't need any parental encouragement, as she'll berate herself for years and years to come, much the same way that I glower at my lab notebook every time I have to write "I humanely sacrificed 4 6-8 week old BALB/c mice by CO2 asphyxiation" in it. I predict that as soon as she gets to high school, Isabel's going to start favoring unflattering thrift store clothes, writing poetry about death, sporting some seriously bad baby dyke hair, and generally doing everything in her power to counter the trauma of being precocious and paraded around for it. Mark my words, it's only a matter of time before girlfriend starts listening to Morrissey and carrying around a copy of The Bell Jar with her everywhere she goes. And possibly experimenting with lesbianism by fingerbanging the androgynous goalkeeper of the girls' soccer team.
After Isabel's departure, things got pretty fierce between the two final boys. They had to contend with some seriously hard words. The boy who ultimately took second place misspelled "coryza," which apparently means "the symptoms of an upper respiratory tract infection." I didn't know this word and the entire point of my doctoral thesis is getting a mouse to experience coryza! Obviously I know how I'm going to impress the pants off everybody at my next lab meeting. It was a shame the kid misspelled it, because he was then promptly beaten by child prodigy/idiot savant Evan O'Dorney.
In case anyone was wondering, Evan is not just a super, SUPER geeky kid. He is, in fact, TOTALLY AND FOR SURE autistic. His hobbies are fractal math and music, and I'm insanely jealous that at thirteen, he's a more accomplished pianist than I'll ever be, and I've been playing piano since I was six. He's currently attending some college-level conservatory of music because of his gifts condition. However, the kid has some obvious problems communicating. At the end of the Spelling Bee, Stuart Scott was interviewing him and trying to get him excited about his victory.
"What are you going to do now that you're the best speller in America, Evan?"
Evan, who always wears that same expressionless smile, replies, "People tell me that I should be happy, so I will be happy."
Stuart probes further, "Are you going to do anything in particular to celebrate?"
Evan replies, "I am going home and will continue my studies in math and piano." That, and he'll probably memorize the phone book or something super Rain Man-y like that.
Anyway, I'm so sad that there won't be another Spelling Bee for another year. I'll have to wait twelve whole months to see Dr. Bailly dryly making jokes about Latin root pronunciations, or the commentator saying asinine shit like, "He better really have a good handle on his German phonics here" and "Ethnic restaurant menus are worthy places to pick up a few extra words...epicurean habits can make the difference between a champion and just a finalist." Man, the Spelling Bee rules so hard.
I first started watching the Spelling Bee in 2003, when it came on while I was on a road trip with my buddies T-Bag and HippieSympathizer. We were supposed to be on the road to Las Vegas, but not even the lure of strippers, booze, and gambling could tear us away from the riveting Spelling Bee action. We got to Vegas a couple hours behind schedule. That year there was this Jamaican chick named Trudy competing, and she was awesome. She was very imperative but at the same time extremely courteous ("I require the word origin, please, Dr. Bailly?", "I will pronounce it 'gwee-shay', please, Dr. Bailly?"), and I was rooting for her bold, hot ass like crazy.
Anyway, after Trudy's stint bossing around official Bee pronouncer Dr. Jacques Bailly (who normally has the unremarkable job of associate professor of classics at UVM), I was hooked on the National Spelling Bee. Also, given my history as a speller so competetive that I actually once resorted to violence when outspelled by my nemesis in the fourth grade, I find the entire contest riveting and enjoyable. Now that I am almost two decades past eligibility for the Bee, I can finally relax and just enjoy the thrills of watching adolescent nerdlings spell impossibly difficult words.
When I got home last night, I was right in time for the final rounds, and immediately picked out my favorite. From the moment she took the stage, I knew I'd be supporting this little minx, Isabel Jacobson, of Madison, Wisconsin:
Isabel didn't take her loss nearly as hard as her parents did, however. Spelling Bee parents are right up there with stage and pageant moms in terms of relentless, highly dysfunctional child-pushing. You could see Isabel's mom looking PISSED that Isabel's Greek word origins were a little rusty, and you know that Isabel's getting an earful the entire plane ride back to Madison. Isabel's dad, meanwhile, just placed his face heavily into his hands, as though he were mourning the champion speller that he USED to call "daughter." For years to come, poor Isabel is going to be reminded of how she fucked up "cyanophycean," which is unnecessary because this overachieving vixen doesn't need any parental encouragement, as she'll berate herself for years and years to come, much the same way that I glower at my lab notebook every time I have to write "I humanely sacrificed 4 6-8 week old BALB/c mice by CO2 asphyxiation" in it. I predict that as soon as she gets to high school, Isabel's going to start favoring unflattering thrift store clothes, writing poetry about death, sporting some seriously bad baby dyke hair, and generally doing everything in her power to counter the trauma of being precocious and paraded around for it. Mark my words, it's only a matter of time before girlfriend starts listening to Morrissey and carrying around a copy of The Bell Jar with her everywhere she goes. And possibly experimenting with lesbianism by fingerbanging the androgynous goalkeeper of the girls' soccer team.
After Isabel's departure, things got pretty fierce between the two final boys. They had to contend with some seriously hard words. The boy who ultimately took second place misspelled "coryza," which apparently means "the symptoms of an upper respiratory tract infection." I didn't know this word and the entire point of my doctoral thesis is getting a mouse to experience coryza! Obviously I know how I'm going to impress the pants off everybody at my next lab meeting. It was a shame the kid misspelled it, because he was then promptly beaten by child prodigy/idiot savant Evan O'Dorney.
"What are you going to do now that you're the best speller in America, Evan?"
Evan, who always wears that same expressionless smile, replies, "People tell me that I should be happy, so I will be happy."
Stuart probes further, "Are you going to do anything in particular to celebrate?"
Evan replies, "I am going home and will continue my studies in math and piano." That, and he'll probably memorize the phone book or something super Rain Man-y like that.
Anyway, I'm so sad that there won't be another Spelling Bee for another year. I'll have to wait twelve whole months to see Dr. Bailly dryly making jokes about Latin root pronunciations, or the commentator saying asinine shit like, "He better really have a good handle on his German phonics here" and "Ethnic restaurant menus are worthy places to pick up a few extra words...epicurean habits can make the difference between a champion and just a finalist." Man, the Spelling Bee rules so hard.
Labels: brainiacs, I LOVE IT, nerd alert, Razzification
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