Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Daily Douchebag: Max Hardcore
Name: Max Hardcore
Real Name: Paul F. Little (worst last name for a male pornstar EVER)
DOB: August 10, 1956
Occupation: Porn star; wannabe pedophile
Hometown: Racine, Wisconsin
Current residence: Pasadena, California
Douchebaggery: Don't get me wrong, I love porn. I love it so much that the other day J-Sexy told me she thinks I'm a porn addict, and she was only half-joking. I am a big pervert, and I'm always up for watching people have all kinds of depraved, dirty sex in all kinds of ridiculous situations. However, I'm not into all kinds of porn. Specifically, I'm not into porn that prominently features women dressed like children (like the actress in the photo above, who on an intriguing aside, looks A LOT like this crazy bitch who goes to grad school with me...and given her generally accepted level of insanity and the fact that she bragged to everyone on her recruiting weekend that she moonlighted as a hooker, I would not be surprised if it actually is her). Wearing his trademark wild west sheriff's outfit (including badge, boots, and cowboy hat), Hardcore is known for violently sodomizing, pissing on, beating, fisting, and smearing their own vomit on his faux nymphettes. That is Max Hardcore's distinctive style. He makes faux kiddie porn that is as degrading and disgusting as possible.
I'm also into free speech, and Max Hardcore considers himself a first amendment defender. I suppose he is an advocate for free sexual speech, given that he's constantly fighting some type of criminal case for obscenity. He's been prosecuted on several occasions for obscenity, once by the hotness known as L.A. City Attorney Rocky Delgadillo for his work in Max Extreme 4. On that occasion, the charges were based on the fact that, although the actress was actually over 18, she stated in the movie that she was twelve. Max Hardcore's audience is clearly composed of the world's nicest, most decent people.
Max is currently fighting the justice department, who is hilariously trying to take over his web domains, which have classy names like pissedonpornstars.com. As far as these cases are concerned, they're probably all bullshit. Regardless of the content, the women in the videos are old enough and have signed off on consenting, and there's no reason why that shouldn't be legal. Max doesn't make my kind of porn, because while I can get down with all kinds of nasty shit in my porn including anal, DP-ing, deep throating, and some light degradation-type activities, I'm not into truly disgusting shit like watching a woman get ass-fucked via a camera inserted into a lighted speculum in her vadge, or drinking piss from her own asshole via a length of rubber tubing. Even Briana Banks--who can do no wrong as far as I'm concerned--failed to entice me in the unfortunate scene she filmed with Max early in her career, in which he roughly smeared lipstick all over her chin and washed the jizz off her face with a ferocious stream of piss.
Briana doesn't look like she had very much fun filming this one, and she usually acts like she's having the time of her fucking life. Girlfriend loves to bone, so it must have been unpleasant indeed to put such a look of misery and pain on her face. Also, she's majorly hot, so it's actually quite the achievement that Max managed to make her look so horrifyingly ugly.I'm also definitely not into the whole teen porn genre. I hate kids, and I don't want adults pretending to be kids turning me off when I'm trying to get off. It's not my thing, but he has the right to do it. I even applaud his guts for standing up and fighting the obscenity charges with gusto.
However, what I really don't like about Max is that he went too far when he allegedly raped some porn star on camera. Apparently she showed up for an "audition" without signing any kind of paperwork consenting to be filmed, went to shake his hand, and was shocked when he spun her around and stuck his dick in her ass. After being berated for not wanting to puke all over his dick and being throttled, she fled the scene, and in a fairly self-incriminating move, Max has never released the video. Presumably he wants to keep the evidence of forcible sodomy under wraps. If women want to subject themselves to the revolting scat play and abuse that are standard in Max Hardcore movies, then that's their business. If people want to jerk off to his films, that's their business too. I am certainly not one to censor his work. However, I have no respect for rapists. This motherfucker spends enough time coming up with clever ways to horribly degrade consenting women; he doesn't need to spend time doing it without their permission. If I ever meet him, I'm going to piss all over his face and see how he likes it, and then I'm going to kick him in the balls, slap him around, stick a baseball bat up his ass, and call him a stupid cunt. He's always complaining about injustice...well, if he wants some justice, then it's only fair that what goes around comes around. No pun intended.
Labels: assholes, crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, gross, oh the horror, perversion, porn, sexual assault
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Rob Schneider
DOB: October 31, 1963
Occupation: Actor, comedian
Hometown: San Francisco, California
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Normally Deuce Bigalow would hold little appeal for me, but after yesterday, I've reconsidered. A week ago, he replaced Lindsay Lohan on "The Tonight Show" after her arrest by dressing in drag and impersonating her. Dina Lohan then issued an extraordinarily lame rebuke, calling it "disappointing" during one of her many daily exclusive (aka paid-for) interviews to "Access Hollywood." On an aside, since when did "disappointing" become the new, bland "you asshole?" That's the same language the Atlanta Falcons used when Michael Vick got busted for dogfighting. Not getting into the college of your choice is disappointing. Not finding that shirt you wanted on sale in your size is disappointing. Getting busted on multiple federal charges for unspeakable cruelty to animals is despicable, cowardly, base, and undeserving of any future respect, not disappointing. Stop using soft, vague, noncommital language to call bullshit when you see it, people! Anyway, Rob Schneider shot back at Dina yesterday, and didn't mince any words:
"When Mrs. Lohan stops partying with her child, then I'll have an ounce of respect for her! I don't care if her parents are both crummy – you cannot blame your parents anymore. She's not a kid. Lindsay, get it together, America will forgive you but you gotta do something positive with your life.The only thing I disagree with here is his assertion that Lindsay Lohan has a cute ass. Her ass is flat and unremarkable. Otherwise, however, this is right on point. I never thought that a dude famous for saying "makin' some copies" and portraying the most unsexy male prostitute in the history of the oldest profession would somehow manage to provide the most cogent, insightful analysis of Lindsay Lohan's predicament I've ever heard, but I stand corrected. Rob Schneider kicks ass.
"I hope she does okay but at a certain point, there's so many bigger problems in the world than Lindsay Lohan. I hope she gets her head out of her nice, cute little rear end and finds a life for herself. She's very talented, and a special little actress but there are so many people out there who'd trade positions with her in a heartbeat and use it better than she is."
Labels: celebrities, Daily Dude I Want to Hit
Monday, July 30, 2007
Rock of Webcam Porn
Now according to my "Daily Dude I Want to Hit" section, I'm lusting after two porn stars, or at least one and a half. Briana Banks is, without a doubt, one of the greatest porn stars to have ever lived. Brandi M. from "Rock of Love", on the other hand, apparently was a low-rent cam whore before moving into the mansion to "get some rocker ass."
It seems that if she does get her wish and gets to "fuck Bret Michaels," she'll know what she's doing. LL Cool Jew wasn't too far off base when she compared me to Brandi M. ("you are Brandi M....and Bret Michaels loves it!") One of Brandi's (or per her extremely lame screen name, Pamela's) porn sites was called Amateur Facials. In terms of comparison, that sounds about right, given my illustrious history with that particular sex finale. The only difference is that I've never gotten a faceful of sperm for a paying audience of cheap webcam voyeurs.
Anyway, if you're inclined to see her working it, you can see her stripping down here, doing some sort of military-influenced burlesque show here, and giving head and getting facialized here. Be warned...it is porn. By no means is it the hardest core porn I've ever seen, but there's totally some dicksucking and a cumshot or two in there. Be wary of checking it out at work.
Anyway, if you're inclined to see her working it, you can see her stripping down here, doing some sort of military-influenced burlesque show here, and giving head and getting facialized here. Be warned...it is porn. By no means is it the hardest core porn I've ever seen, but there's totally some dicksucking and a cumshot or two in there. Be wary of checking it out at work.
Labels: buttrock, porn, Razzification, sluts, TV, Vh1
You can call your mama right now...
...and tell her you met a Pug. I don't really have anything interesting to say about my damn ruinous dog Chingy!, but I've been getting a lot of "oh, you are too hard on him...he's so cute!" comments lately and I thought I'd remind everyone what an asshole he is.
Okay, he's cute and all, but bear in mind that this is what he does all day long. At least Caesar barks and tries to catch flies. All Chingy! does is stink, shed, and catch some Zs. Oh, and he sneezes indignantly at me when he's not getting what he wants. Chingy! is really like a land manatee. He's basically useless, but people get all hot and bothered when he's threatened or otherwise fucked with. He's the Eric Cartman of dogs: his activities are devoted exclusively to eating, shitting, eating shit, sleeping, snoring, destroying my possessions, and generally causing trouble, all while sporting a "fuck you...I do what I want!" attitude.
CHONGAY CHONG, you assholes!
Okay, he's cute and all, but bear in mind that this is what he does all day long. At least Caesar barks and tries to catch flies. All Chingy! does is stink, shed, and catch some Zs. Oh, and he sneezes indignantly at me when he's not getting what he wants. Chingy! is really like a land manatee. He's basically useless, but people get all hot and bothered when he's threatened or otherwise fucked with. He's the Eric Cartman of dogs: his activities are devoted exclusively to eating, shitting, eating shit, sleeping, snoring, destroying my possessions, and generally causing trouble, all while sporting a "fuck you...I do what I want!" attitude.
CHONGAY CHONG, you assholes!
Labels: assholes, Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style
Best. SciFi Original Movie. Ever.
For some reason, I have not seen Shark Attack 3: Megalodon. This is surprising, because SciFi Original Movies are one of my weaknesses. I've seen everything from Mansquito to Snakehead Terror to Attack of the Sabretooth, and I'm not ashamed. Between all the Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter talk, and the PhD in science, it's not like it's a secret that I'm a huge fucking nerd. I love these low-budge pieces of moderately creative trash. It's also surprising because I'm kind of obsessed with shark movies ever since Jaws scared the living shit out of me at the age of five. That movie was singlehandedly responsible for my sleeping with the door open and the hall light on for the next eight years (as well as my bizarre sexual fascination with Roy Scheider--Chief Brody was a hot-ass drunk). I was so frightened that somehow Jaws would find its way under the hall carpet and drag me shrieking from my bed in my sleep that I wanted to see it coming. Jaws managed to tear up a shark cage, sink a boat, and eat Robert Shaw's character Quint, and he survived the USS Indianapolis disaster, which means he was practically immune to sharks. I figured it wasn't all that unlikely that Jaws would find a way to swim onto dry land, travel to Puyallup, and bite the fuck out of my overimaginative ass.
Anyway, I'm sad that I haven't seen Shark Attack 3: Megalodon, because based on this clip alone, it looks the awesomest cautionary tale ever about why you should always adhere to the "women-children first" custom when abandoning ship, lest you reap your karmic reward.
I'm thinking whoever was behind this is going to be a serious contender come Oscar season. I mean, if Three 6 Mafia can win one for crafting "Whoop That Trick" and "It's Hard Out Here For a Pimp," then the geniuses behind this masterpiece should at least be nominated. I'm not sure whether the special effects or the acting is better. Between the hot chick screaming "What? What?" when that asshole steals her life preserver (I'd be like, "FUCK YOU, asshole!") and the clearly sleazy older guy laughing as he speeds to his ultimate doom on a Sea Doo, this movie shows some thespians truly mastering their craft.
From a scientific perspective, the shark is actually also pretty realistic. Carcharodon megalodon, the evolutionary ancestor to the modern-day Great White, lived 10-25 million years ago and was thought to eat whales and other extremely large aquatic creatures. Anyone who has ever visited the Museum of Natural History knows that I go absolutely fucking crazy when passing by the giant C. megalodon jaws they have suspended from the ceiling in the fossilized fish section. "Paleo-Jaws" had a seriously massive bite radius, as evidenced by this classic shark biologist shot:
It's not hard to believe that, if extant, C. megalodon would be devouring Mexican yachts full of formalwear-sporting douchebags similar to the manner depicted here.
As if this clip weren't enough, IMDB informs me that there are some amazing quotes in this movie. For example, at one point, the lead male protagonist says to the lead female protagonist, "I'm a little wired...what do you say I take you home and eat your pussy?" I'd like to see someone come up with something to beat that in a contest for the world's greatest pickup line. Also, apparently when the same chick dispatches the shark with a well-placed gunshot (extremely well-placed, given the shark's size), she crows, "You're extinct, fucker!" That's a victorious one-liner which is almost at Arnold Schwarzenegger caliber.
Anyway, I don't know when SciFi plans on rerunning Shark Attack 3: Megalodon again, but I'm SO watching it when it does. In fact, I might even pick up the DVD, because it will probably only set me back $2.99, and that could be the bargain of the damn century.
Anyway, I'm sad that I haven't seen Shark Attack 3: Megalodon, because based on this clip alone, it looks the awesomest cautionary tale ever about why you should always adhere to the "women-children first" custom when abandoning ship, lest you reap your karmic reward.
I'm thinking whoever was behind this is going to be a serious contender come Oscar season. I mean, if Three 6 Mafia can win one for crafting "Whoop That Trick" and "It's Hard Out Here For a Pimp," then the geniuses behind this masterpiece should at least be nominated. I'm not sure whether the special effects or the acting is better. Between the hot chick screaming "What? What?" when that asshole steals her life preserver (I'd be like, "FUCK YOU, asshole!") and the clearly sleazy older guy laughing as he speeds to his ultimate doom on a Sea Doo, this movie shows some thespians truly mastering their craft.
From a scientific perspective, the shark is actually also pretty realistic. Carcharodon megalodon, the evolutionary ancestor to the modern-day Great White, lived 10-25 million years ago and was thought to eat whales and other extremely large aquatic creatures. Anyone who has ever visited the Museum of Natural History knows that I go absolutely fucking crazy when passing by the giant C. megalodon jaws they have suspended from the ceiling in the fossilized fish section. "Paleo-Jaws" had a seriously massive bite radius, as evidenced by this classic shark biologist shot:
It's not hard to believe that, if extant, C. megalodon would be devouring Mexican yachts full of formalwear-sporting douchebags similar to the manner depicted here.
As if this clip weren't enough, IMDB informs me that there are some amazing quotes in this movie. For example, at one point, the lead male protagonist says to the lead female protagonist, "I'm a little wired...what do you say I take you home and eat your pussy?" I'd like to see someone come up with something to beat that in a contest for the world's greatest pickup line. Also, apparently when the same chick dispatches the shark with a well-placed gunshot (extremely well-placed, given the shark's size), she crows, "You're extinct, fucker!" That's a victorious one-liner which is almost at Arnold Schwarzenegger caliber.
Anyway, I don't know when SciFi plans on rerunning Shark Attack 3: Megalodon again, but I'm SO watching it when it does. In fact, I might even pick up the DVD, because it will probably only set me back $2.99, and that could be the bargain of the damn century.
Labels: hilarious shit, movies, nerd alert, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity
At least you’re not…. William from my Junk Inbox
We all get junk e-mail. It is as unavoidable as regular junk mail.But with a simple click of a button, we can make it disappear. Although most people hate junk mail, I enjoy checking it on a frequent basis. I don’t let it pile up into the hundreds before I attack the problem; I barely let it reach 10 before I’m furiously clicking.And it is all due to people who are under appreciated like William from my Junk Inbox. As you will see above, William recently left me an amazing message in regards to growing out my penis. Now of course he could have gone the same route as Chasity Burkett, but William wanted to make my penis growing experience as magical as it could be. Although my penis is meant for women, I don’t want to be informed about getting a bigger penis from a woman named Chasity, especially not in the manner of outright claims that
a few inches can make a real difference.This is a special experience in a guy’s life when he decides its time to enlarge his penis. It says that Corvette and those extra muscles just aren’t cutting it. I know I would want to be swooned into this experience, not forced with facts. Chris H. Collins on the other hand tries flattery to appeal to my penis growing curiosity. He simply says, “You King,” and leaves me to figure out the rest by clicking.>But what Chris doesn’t realize is that clicking is half the dance. Everyone loves a compliment but mystery and intrigue are a lot more appealing. I wonder about William and this “big dick fairy.” Is he the “big dick fairy?” Is the “big dick fairy” a magical creature that will extend my penis to new lengths? Or maybe the “big dick fairy” is an angry homosexual with a large penis that is itching to visit.
Either way, William has to share a box with the rest of these assholes who don’t have a speck of creativity. While people like Amelia make demands out of my time and phone to call “Shaun ASAP”, people like Potter don’t even bother trying anymore with subject lines like “Proposal.” The Reply and Forward that Octavio and Carlo try respectively has been done to death so they don’t even peak my interest. But William, you have gotten me interested in your story. Sure, I may not want to enlarge my penis because I’m frankly happy with my size, but I wonder what works of yours the world was ignoring that drove you to write such amazing subject lines. William is probably dying a slow death because of the creativity that he shares is going unnoticed. William reminds me of Kevin Scott from the Public Service Announcements against drugs.
The only difference is that I’m the only one who hears William and I wish I could tell him, “Don’t give up.” But responding to his message would only resort to more junk email from people who might not be William. So be lucky you’re not William, a pearl in a sea of penis and money laundering emails.
Post by Ryle from OverAdulthood: Humor News Daily!
Labels: correspondence, hot dudes, perversion, Ryle
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Daryl Hall and John Oates
DOB: October 11, 1946 (Hall) and April 7, 1947 (Oates)
Occupation: Rock and Soulers
Hometown: Pottstown, Pennsylvania (Hall) and North Wales, Pennsylvania (Oates)
Current Residence: unknown, but they'll live forever wherever awesomeness dwells
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I LOVE Hall and Oates. As a small child, I remember singing "whoa-oh here she comes...watch out boy, she'll chew you up, whoa-oh here she comes, she's a maneater" frequently in the bathtub or shower, which is certainly fitting considering the woman I've grown to be. A couple years ago, LL Cool Jew asked all my friends to submit a song for a birthday mix CD she made for me and you bet your ass that "Maneater" was there alongside "Bump 'n' Grind", "Big Momma Thing," "How Many Licks?", "Cherry Pie", "Ain't No Fun (If the Homies Can't Have None)," and of course "Angie." I have many other happy associations with Hall and Oates. My friend Miss Corbutt's aunt once dated Oates (the dark-haired one), and I thought that was awesome. My ex-boyfriend Benzo used to get so excited when Hall and Oates would come on the radio that it was infectious ("It's 'Private Eyes'! YES!!!!") and we'd both be clapping along with the chorus. And the only redeeming quality about my ex-boyfriend TWOD was the fact that he sometimes indulged my desire to listen to Rock 'n' Soul: Volume 1 while we were getting it on. Hall and Oates can make anything bright and agreeable, and I could even overlook the horrendous effeminate moaning noises TWOD would make during sex when they were drowned out by "Rich Girl," "Kiss On My List," and "Adult Education."
Okay, I realize that the fringe jacket Hall is wearing and the airbrushed/puffy-painted muscle shirt Oates favors in the above photo is a little on the cheesy side, but presumably they don't wear that to bed. Back in their day, Hall and Oates were, without a doubt, raking in the hot, spiral-permed pussy with their fashion savvy. In that picture above, you can almost hear Daryl Hall saying, "YOU could be our next groupie running your fingers through our copiously Aqua Netted hair in our tour bus bathroom." Sadly, these days they have a more updated, middle-aged man-type look, and any residual hotness is further mitigated by their accompanying wild-eyed, frosted-hair-having fucktard Ryan Cabrera:
Hall and Oates are still together, and they would be still touring if Hall hadn't gone and gotten Lyme's disease. Even if their appearances are less awesomely ridiculous than they once were, and even if they aren't hitting the road as much to treat folks to their special brand of "blue-eyed soul", Hall and Oates will forever hold a place among the titans of music. And for anyone who wants to try and tell me otherwise...I can't go for that. Whoa, no. No can do.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, Razzification
Daily Douchebag: Shia LaBoeuf
DOB: June 11, 1986
Occupation: actor, "It Boy," annoying drag
Hometown: Los Angeles, California
Current residence: LA, of course
Douchebaggery: Born from nomadic Cajun-Jewish carny parents descended from lesbian beat poets and Jewish comedians, Shia had lots of promise to be interesting rather than a colossal fucktard. Unfortunately, now that he's getting all kinds of buzz about being Hollywood's next big thing, he's about as annoying as they get. The pictures of him drinking Hpnotq out of the bottle and attempting to eat a fat kid merely scratch the surface of Shia The Beef's ability to be an obnoxious tool wherever he appears.
Since he has plenty of interview opportunities these days, he makes sure that he says something stupid and erroneously arrogant whenever possible. For example, after leaving his Disney channel show "Even Stevens," he said that working at Disney was great and all, but it was "dehabilitating for an actor." It is not insignificant to note that he hated school. Maybe if he'd been a little more on top of his studies, he wouldn't be adding extra syllables to "debilitating." He claims his career in show business was launched during his stint as a stand-up comic at the age of 10, and in order to fit in on the LA comedy club scene, his routine was extremely raunchy. He described his stage persona as a "world-weary Richard Pryor with a bowl cut." Oh no he DIDN'T just compare his ass at the tender age of 10 to Richard Fucking Pryor! For starters, I bet he didn't spend the bulk of his routine dropping N-bombs and highlighting racial tensions. In fact, this "X-rated" routine revolved primarily around his first wet dream.
His zingy one-liners about the perils of male pubescence have won him a number of film roles, almost all of which feature him as a sidekick who would be better off dead. For example, in I, Robot (which I hated anyway, as the plot was moronic, the robots were as scary as a Furby and just as vexingly repetitive, and it had Will Smith in it), I was praying that Shia's supporting street tough character would get ripped limb from limb by the armies of marauding robots. Sadly, he survived. In movies like Holes (which, despite the title suggesting pornography, is actually about juvenile delinquents and racism and was BOOOORRRRRIIIING) and Transformers where he has a more prominent lead role, you want to spend most of your time smacking him around for being an annoying pain in the ass. His next project, the unnecessary travesty of shameless Spielbergian greed that will be Indiana Jones 4, will see him attempting to be more fucking exasperating than Short Round from Indiana Jones and Temple of Doom. That's a pretty tall order, but if anyone is up for it, then it's certainly Shia.
Almost as though Hollywood knows that Shia the Beef is destined to gall audiences for decades to come, he has been proclaimed "The Next Tom Hanks."
Labels: assholes, celebrities, Daily Douchebag, media whores, movies
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Straight Outta Puyallup
Actually, it's more like straight out of Foxes, a strip club located off Washington state route 512 in Parkland, a town/industrial park located between such luminous P-N-Dub villages as Puyallup, Lakewood, and Spanaway. These places breed meth-addled white trash like the stagnant water that pools inside illegally dumped tractor tires breeds mosquitoes (I know...I'm from Puyallup), and that's exactly where the aesthetic Britney Spears chose for her new video belongs:
A word of advice to Britney: nobody likes a fat stripper with torn-up fishnets and a bad weave. I like a girl with a little junk in the trunk, but this crosses that fine line between what Faheem "T-Pain" Najm would approvingly call "thick as hell" and what I would call cellulite city. And I know she supposedly had a tummy tuck after Jayden James Federline was ripped from her demon womb, but believe that she has nasty ass stretch marks on the FUPA which is very mercifully not visible in this photograph. That is not a pair of ill-fitting pleather panties I'd be stuffing so much as a lowly dollar into.
I don't know who Britney is trying to market her "comeback" to, but at this point, she looks more skankily busted than a reject from "Rock of Love." She looks like she narrowly escaped an exploding kettle of anhydrous ammonia and pseudoephedrine, and then didn't have time to change before reporting to work on the chlamydia-smeared pole at Foxes. Presumably the only people she expects to buy her new album based on this type of styling are those who make frequent appearances on either "Cops" or "Intervention," or who are somehow related to the late Anna Nicole Smith and dwelling in some Texas backwater. Rough.
I don't know who Britney is trying to market her "comeback" to, but at this point, she looks more skankily busted than a reject from "Rock of Love." She looks like she narrowly escaped an exploding kettle of anhydrous ammonia and pseudoephedrine, and then didn't have time to change before reporting to work on the chlamydia-smeared pole at Foxes. Presumably the only people she expects to buy her new album based on this type of styling are those who make frequent appearances on either "Cops" or "Intervention," or who are somehow related to the late Anna Nicole Smith and dwelling in some Texas backwater. Rough.
Labels: Britney Spears, celebrities, fat fucks, oh the horror, P-N-Dub, PWT, sluts, you're ugly
Cruise on past, asshole
I received the following e-mail today, and although I was about to delete it along with all my other spam offering me a harder and/or longer penis, increased frequency and/or longevity of ejaculation, and Adobe Photoshop for only $29.99, I opened it instead. This seemed like an unusual piece of spam. I like reading clever, eye-catching pieces of obvious spam with a unique hook, because I applaud innovation, even if it is by annoying spammers.
To: ben_edmunds@razzy.org (Since that e-mail doesn't exist, it was redirected to the inbox of the ultimate Razzy e-mail address: razzy@razzy.org)
From: EMC2 AIM Program (cruiseinfo@energeticmatrix.com)
Subject: AIM Consciousness Cruise with Stephen Lewis!
JOIN STEPHEN LEWIS, DEVELOPER OF THE AIM PROGRAM OF ENERGETIC BALANCING ON AN EXTRAORDINARY ONCE IN A LIFETIME ADVENTURE!
You are invited to join us as we sail the beautiful turquoise waters of the Caribbean with Stephen on February 9, 2008 for a 7 day adventure!
Okay, I do love the beautiful turquoise waters of the Caribbean, as well as the extraordinarily gluttonous, faux-classy shipboard buffets available 24/7 on many cruises. I also love a good adventure on the bounding main, but usually I prefer to hear about pirates/privateers (if they possess letters of marque), Magellan's liberal interpretation of the Treaty of Tordesillas, hot Norwegians crabbing on the vast and tempestuous Bering Sea, the Dutch East India Company's ships succumbing to epidemic disease at the docks in Batavia after procuring merchantmen full of silks and dyes, or explorers for His/Her Majesty's Royal Navy exacerbating native unrest in the South Pacific, and leave the bullshit New Age lingo about "energetic balancing" and "consciousness" back on dry land. The next part of this "adventure" also sounds less like questing for undiscovered passages, trading routes, and continents, Captain Sig Hansen looking more smoking hot than the ubiquitous Marb Light hanging from his sexy lips, battling swashbucklers on the high seas, hunting sperm whales, exchanging nails and twine for admittance to orgies with the sensual sluts of Otaheite, or disenchanted, scorbutic, horny, grog-addled seamen orchestrating bloody mutinies than getting straight conned.
We will be conducting over 12 hours of seminar time and as an added bonus:
HOW WOULD YOU LIKE A SPECIAL ENERGETIC EVALUATION - ONE ON ONE WITH STEPHEN LEWIS?
As a special offering Stephen will be providing PERSONAL energetic evaluations to 30 participants! Participants will be selected through a random lottery and you can be one of them!
I don't define "adventure" as over twelve hours of Power Point slides (replete with exclamation points, no doubt) and motivational speeches, followed by a personal consultation reminiscent of a Scientologist "stress test." And like there's going to be more than 30 people on board the Love Boat to necessitate a "random lottery?" I guarantee it's "random" enough to select the 30 wealthiest individuals to attend this shitshow, although that's a stretch. Most people intelligent enough to have a grand to drop on this cruise probably don't wait for spam about energetic balancing to find its way to their inbox before planning their next vacation adventure. And maybe I could manage to take lemons and make Lemon Drop shots and manage to enjoy a one-on-one with this Stephen Lewis character if he were hot and there were some possibility of him balancing my energies, or at least expending them, in a sexual manner. However, since I make it a point not to fuck former used car salesmen-turned-homeopathic New Age motivation speaker grifters who look like a genetics experiment involving DNA from Phil Hartman, Dr. John Martin (Donna's dad) from "Beverly Hills, 90210," and Razzy's Reject #1 Bryan gone horribly awry.
Come with us as we energize on the greatest energy on earth and set sail for San Juan, Puerto Rico, St. Thomas - Virgin Island, Grand Turks and Bahamas. Prices start at just $934 for this 7 day journey of a lifetime!
For more information contact your facilitator or copy and paste this link
to your browser:
http://www.ronoyer.com/StevenLewis/index1.html
to see all the information for this great event.
I don't have a "facilitator," unless that was their way of telling me to call my parents and borrow money for this "journey of a lifetime." I'd like to hear my mother's response to a request for almost a grand in order to take such a voyage. I can imagine it now: "Are you out of your mind, Razzy?! NO! I'm worried about you! You're not taking drugs, are you?"
ACT NOW - SPACE IS LIMITED! CALL WORLDVIEW TRAVEL TODAY AT 888-259-9191 X213 AND ASK IBIS FOR FULL DETAILS. BOOK NOW FOR THE BEST CABINS AVAILABLE.
SEE YOU ON THE HIGH SEAS!!
Or not. I don't really have $934 (which certainly excludes cost of course materials for this fabulous energy balancing adventure) to toss away for a week on Holland America's MS Zuiderdam with this crew of New Age scam victims and confidence men.
You received this notice because you have participated in or requested information about EMC2's AIM Program of Energetic Balancing.
LIAR! I most certainly did not. "Energetic balancing"? Sha right. That sounds like those stupid crystal therapy touchless massages people get to stabilize their energies, frequencies, vapours, humours, or whatever other New Age-meets-17th-century-medical-folklore term is used by the practitioners of this fraud. I'd rather request information about a week-long cruise devoted to my fucking horoscope. I think astrology is bullshit, too, but since Scorpios are all supposedly about sex and war, I could at least meet some hot people who fancy themselves outrageous, vengeful sluts if I signed up for a zodiac cruise. This "AIM Program" balances your energy by transferring large sums of cash from your accounts to Stephen Lewis (specifically, $1000 US per adult, per their website). So he and his crystal-toting cronies can continue their mission of expanding consciousness by fixing peoples' auras or whatever, no doubt.
EMC2 does not send emails often and we never share your contact information but if you prefer not to receive these messages from us, please reply to this email and put either REMOVE or UNSUBSCRIBE in the subject. We promise to promptly remove you from future mailings.
You may also contact us by mail or by telephone.
EMC2
2349-A Renaissance Dr.
Las Vegas, NV 89119
(702) 944-1801
At least I know who to report to....actually, I have no idea who I'd report these fuckers to for sending me spam. The FTC? The FCC? The FBI? The Department of Homeland Security? Does anyone know? Please advise. I'd like to send them some unsolicited correspondence from the authorities who should shut their spamming, thieving asses down.
To: ben_edmunds@razzy.org (Since that e-mail doesn't exist, it was redirected to the inbox of the ultimate Razzy e-mail address: razzy@razzy.org)
From: EMC2 AIM Program (cruiseinfo@energeticmatrix.com)
Subject: AIM Consciousness Cruise with Stephen Lewis!
JOIN STEPHEN LEWIS, DEVELOPER OF THE AIM PROGRAM OF ENERGETIC BALANCING ON AN EXTRAORDINARY ONCE IN A LIFETIME ADVENTURE!
You are invited to join us as we sail the beautiful turquoise waters of the Caribbean with Stephen on February 9, 2008 for a 7 day adventure!
Okay, I do love the beautiful turquoise waters of the Caribbean, as well as the extraordinarily gluttonous, faux-classy shipboard buffets available 24/7 on many cruises. I also love a good adventure on the bounding main, but usually I prefer to hear about pirates/privateers (if they possess letters of marque), Magellan's liberal interpretation of the Treaty of Tordesillas, hot Norwegians crabbing on the vast and tempestuous Bering Sea, the Dutch East India Company's ships succumbing to epidemic disease at the docks in Batavia after procuring merchantmen full of silks and dyes, or explorers for His/Her Majesty's Royal Navy exacerbating native unrest in the South Pacific, and leave the bullshit New Age lingo about "energetic balancing" and "consciousness" back on dry land. The next part of this "adventure" also sounds less like questing for undiscovered passages, trading routes, and continents, Captain Sig Hansen looking more smoking hot than the ubiquitous Marb Light hanging from his sexy lips, battling swashbucklers on the high seas, hunting sperm whales, exchanging nails and twine for admittance to orgies with the sensual sluts of Otaheite, or disenchanted, scorbutic, horny, grog-addled seamen orchestrating bloody mutinies than getting straight conned.
We will be conducting over 12 hours of seminar time and as an added bonus:
HOW WOULD YOU LIKE A SPECIAL ENERGETIC EVALUATION - ONE ON ONE WITH STEPHEN LEWIS?
As a special offering Stephen will be providing PERSONAL energetic evaluations to 30 participants! Participants will be selected through a random lottery and you can be one of them!
I don't define "adventure" as over twelve hours of Power Point slides (replete with exclamation points, no doubt) and motivational speeches, followed by a personal consultation reminiscent of a Scientologist "stress test." And like there's going to be more than 30 people on board the Love Boat to necessitate a "random lottery?" I guarantee it's "random" enough to select the 30 wealthiest individuals to attend this shitshow, although that's a stretch. Most people intelligent enough to have a grand to drop on this cruise probably don't wait for spam about energetic balancing to find its way to their inbox before planning their next vacation adventure. And maybe I could manage to take lemons and make Lemon Drop shots and manage to enjoy a one-on-one with this Stephen Lewis character if he were hot and there were some possibility of him balancing my energies, or at least expending them, in a sexual manner. However, since I make it a point not to fuck former used car salesmen-turned-homeopathic New Age motivation speaker grifters who look like a genetics experiment involving DNA from Phil Hartman, Dr. John Martin (Donna's dad) from "Beverly Hills, 90210," and Razzy's Reject #1 Bryan gone horribly awry.
For more information contact your facilitator or copy and paste this link
to your browser:
http://www.ronoyer.com/StevenLewis/index1.html
to see all the information for this great event.
I don't have a "facilitator," unless that was their way of telling me to call my parents and borrow money for this "journey of a lifetime." I'd like to hear my mother's response to a request for almost a grand in order to take such a voyage. I can imagine it now: "Are you out of your mind, Razzy?! NO! I'm worried about you! You're not taking drugs, are you?"
ACT NOW - SPACE IS LIMITED! CALL WORLDVIEW TRAVEL TODAY AT 888-259-9191 X213 AND ASK IBIS FOR FULL DETAILS. BOOK NOW FOR THE BEST CABINS AVAILABLE.
SEE YOU ON THE HIGH SEAS!!
Or not. I don't really have $934 (which certainly excludes cost of course materials for this fabulous energy balancing adventure) to toss away for a week on Holland America's MS Zuiderdam with this crew of New Age scam victims and confidence men.
You received this notice because you have participated in or requested information about EMC2's AIM Program of Energetic Balancing.
LIAR! I most certainly did not. "Energetic balancing"? Sha right. That sounds like those stupid crystal therapy touchless massages people get to stabilize their energies, frequencies, vapours, humours, or whatever other New Age-meets-17th-century-medical-folklore term is used by the practitioners of this fraud. I'd rather request information about a week-long cruise devoted to my fucking horoscope. I think astrology is bullshit, too, but since Scorpios are all supposedly about sex and war, I could at least meet some hot people who fancy themselves outrageous, vengeful sluts if I signed up for a zodiac cruise. This "AIM Program" balances your energy by transferring large sums of cash from your accounts to Stephen Lewis (specifically, $1000 US per adult, per their website). So he and his crystal-toting cronies can continue their mission of expanding consciousness by fixing peoples' auras or whatever, no doubt.
EMC2 does not send emails often and we never share your contact information but if you prefer not to receive these messages from us, please reply to this email and put either REMOVE or UNSUBSCRIBE in the subject. We promise to promptly remove you from future mailings.
You may also contact us by mail or by telephone.
EMC2
2349-A Renaissance Dr.
Las Vegas, NV 89119
(702) 944-1801
At least I know who to report to....actually, I have no idea who I'd report these fuckers to for sending me spam. The FTC? The FCC? The FBI? The Department of Homeland Security? Does anyone know? Please advise. I'd like to send them some unsolicited correspondence from the authorities who should shut their spamming, thieving asses down.
Labels: correspondence, ranting, Razzification, retard rage, scathing indictments, seamen
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Random lays say the darndest things
Last night I brought some dude home with me from the Bohemian beer garden in Queens where I wound up getting my drank on. Upon entering my crib, he observed its state of order and cleanliness, or lack thereof.
"Damn, your apartment is dirty. But I get the feeling YOU are too," he observed. His instincts were correct. Then again, he had ample evidence as to my perverted inclinations, since after about ten minutes of small talk about our jobs back at the beer garden, I was like, "Cut the crap, you want to get out of here and bang?" Apparently, in his experience, the ladies don't often say such things, but he liked it.
That basically ushered in some marathon drunk fucking, which was very fun AND amusing. While in the process of doing what Lil' Kim calls "cold suckin' his dick--rockin' the mic", he gave me one of the best compliments I've ever gotten on my cocksucking talents:
"Damn, you give head like a porn star! You've got FLAIR."
I was flattered that he was pleased with my skills at oral, but I just thought that "You've got FLAIR" comment was fucking hilarious. I've certainly had dudes express their happiness and pleasure at receiving fellatio, but nobody's ever given me style points for a BJ before. His ass may have just earned a call back. I may suck cock like a porn star, but he gives bedroom talk like R. Kelly, and I was amused. Amusement turns me on, so good thing the honey gave me his math before he bounced back to Queens or wherever.
"Damn, your apartment is dirty. But I get the feeling YOU are too," he observed. His instincts were correct. Then again, he had ample evidence as to my perverted inclinations, since after about ten minutes of small talk about our jobs back at the beer garden, I was like, "Cut the crap, you want to get out of here and bang?" Apparently, in his experience, the ladies don't often say such things, but he liked it.
That basically ushered in some marathon drunk fucking, which was very fun AND amusing. While in the process of doing what Lil' Kim calls "cold suckin' his dick--rockin' the mic", he gave me one of the best compliments I've ever gotten on my cocksucking talents:
"Damn, you give head like a porn star! You've got FLAIR."
I was flattered that he was pleased with my skills at oral, but I just thought that "You've got FLAIR" comment was fucking hilarious. I've certainly had dudes express their happiness and pleasure at receiving fellatio, but nobody's ever given me style points for a BJ before. His ass may have just earned a call back. I may suck cock like a porn star, but he gives bedroom talk like R. Kelly, and I was amused. Amusement turns me on, so good thing the honey gave me his math before he bounced back to Queens or wherever.
Labels: hilarious shit, hot dudes, perversion, sex, sluts, weiners
People v. Robert Sylvester Kelly: Razzy rules
I always thought I'd make a good lawyer, because I think I'm quite talented at taking a heaping helping of bullshit and identifying the salient points that can win an argument. Unfortunately, it seems that being a lawyer involves a lot less shouting "Objection! Badgering!" or cross-examining a bunch of hostile witnesses to tears and a lot more tedious paperwork than suits my tastes, so regarding my career, virology geekery it is.
However, I'm going to have to pretend to be a lawyer and a judge for the moment, because the greatest criminal case in the history of the penal code is FINALLY going to trial. After a number of bizarre setbacks including the judge breaking his leg and the defendant suffering a bout of appendicitis, this past week, jury selection finally began. Yes, it appears that after five years of delays and continuances, the trial of the century looks like it's finally going to begin:
The charges: 14 counts of child pornography
The stakes: Up to 15 years in prison, loss of my respect (obvi the latter is what keeps Robert up at night)
The prosecution's burden:
1. Prove that the sex tape (infamously showing a man banging a teenager and giving her a golden shower) that is the main piece of incriminating evidence is authentic
2. Prove that the man in the tape is the incomparable Robert Sylvester Kelly, hailing from the Chi
3. Prove that the girl in the tape is underage
The prosecution's case:
-The tape was verified by the FBI video forensics lab as unmodified or edited
-Robert has an unfortunate history of banging underage broads. Kells has settled 4 civil suits out of court related to porking teenagers, and married Aaliyah when she was 15.
-He also has an unfortunate history of making child porn, as a case in Florida for another sex tape was dropped because of legal technicalities related to wording in the search warrants that uncovered the tape
-Kells knew the victim. The chick in the sex tape is the niece of his former protege, Sparkle.
-Songs by The Backstreet Boys and Spice Girls, as well as a commercial that went off the air in 2000, play in the background, allowing the tape to be dated sometime between 1998 and 2000, when the victim was 14-16.
-The tape was allegedly recorded in "The Colorado Room" of one of Kells's former mansions, and supposedly the alpine chalet-esque decor of the room is extremely unique and distinctive
And in Robert Sylvester's defense:
-Carey Kelly, Robert's younger brother, looks like him and has had his share of pedophilia-related tangles with the law in the past. He also had access to the Colorado Room where the whole alleged incident went down.
-You can't see the dude's face in the sex tape--it only looks like R. Kelly from behind, and there are a lot of fellas sporting similar cornrow styles in their hair. The world is also full of dudes who like watersports.
-The tape was not acquired from the R-uh in R&B's house, but sent from an anonymous tipster to the Chicago Sun-Herald. Though it may be technically unmodified, its dubious source raises doubts about its authenticity.
-The case is years old, so the only witnesses will probably be Sparkle, her niece, and Robert Sylvester himself, should he elect to take the stand and subject himself to cross-examination. Since his position is that he knows nothing about it and didn't do it, he probably won't. Also, the prosecution has stated that they won't call the witness to avoid her further public humiliation, although since she testified that the girl on the tape was not her before a grand jury, she won't make the greatest witness for the State's attorney. In fact, she'd make a decent witness for the defense. So the prosecution's only witness is Sparkle (providing circumstantial testimony) and a bunch of experts who will confuse the jury.
-R. Kelly has been the target of numerous extortion attempts directed at getting him to cough up cash to avoid another incriminating sex tape on the internet. Granted, THAT sex tape supposedly showed Kells banging Gary Sheffield's wife, and that's not too terrible. After all, Kells is a flirt. Sometimes when he's with his chick on the low, and sometimes when she's with her man lookin' at him...damn right, he's a flirt! Please believe it's not R. Kelly's fault that Gary Sheffield's game isn't tight and he can't trust his wife. He shouldn't have brought her around Kells, because he's a flirt. Recognize it when he rolls up on them dubs. And recognize that there are blackmailers out there trying to take advantage of R-dot's sexual obligation to the women of America.
-R. Kelly is by his own lyrical admission most cautious about banging women who have reached the age of consent. After all, in the remix of his classic from the original Twelve Play, "Bump 'n' Grind," he instructs the object of his affections to "show me some I.D. before we get too deep."
-R. Kelly's music has hypnotic power, and it will be difficult for the jury not to fall in love with his musical lunacy. As Christopher "Ludacris" Bridges states of his 2 Fast 2 Furious soundtrack collaborator, "You can try not to like his music, but it's gonna get your ass eventually, for sure." Really, all the defense has to do is put the "Thoia Thoing" on and watch the hot bitches on the jury murder it.
Razzy's ruling: Since the prosecution seems unable to nail down exactly when the tape was recorded, the alleged victim is swearing she's not the girl getting drilled and pissed on in the video, and there is reasonable doubt with regard to the man in the tape, they have failed to meet their burden. NOT GUILTY!
Kells is going to walk. And thank God, because LL Cool Jew and I are depending him to put out an album or awesome ridiculousness every 18 months. I shudder deeply thinking about what we'll do if the World's Greatest is doing hard time at an Illinois state prison and can't release TP-4 or whatever his next genius opus is going to be called. Perish the thought.
However, I'm going to have to pretend to be a lawyer and a judge for the moment, because the greatest criminal case in the history of the penal code is FINALLY going to trial. After a number of bizarre setbacks including the judge breaking his leg and the defendant suffering a bout of appendicitis, this past week, jury selection finally began. Yes, it appears that after five years of delays and continuances, the trial of the century looks like it's finally going to begin:
The people of the state of Illinois
VERSUS
Robert Sylvester Kelly
The charges: 14 counts of child pornography
The stakes: Up to 15 years in prison, loss of my respect (obvi the latter is what keeps Robert up at night)
The prosecution's burden:
1. Prove that the sex tape (infamously showing a man banging a teenager and giving her a golden shower) that is the main piece of incriminating evidence is authentic
2. Prove that the man in the tape is the incomparable Robert Sylvester Kelly, hailing from the Chi
3. Prove that the girl in the tape is underage
The prosecution's case:
-The tape was verified by the FBI video forensics lab as unmodified or edited
-Robert has an unfortunate history of banging underage broads. Kells has settled 4 civil suits out of court related to porking teenagers, and married Aaliyah when she was 15.
-Kells knew the victim. The chick in the sex tape is the niece of his former protege, Sparkle.
-Songs by The Backstreet Boys and Spice Girls, as well as a commercial that went off the air in 2000, play in the background, allowing the tape to be dated sometime between 1998 and 2000, when the victim was 14-16.
-The tape was allegedly recorded in "The Colorado Room" of one of Kells's former mansions, and supposedly the alpine chalet-esque decor of the room is extremely unique and distinctive
And in Robert Sylvester's defense:
-Carey Kelly, Robert's younger brother, looks like him and has had his share of pedophilia-related tangles with the law in the past. He also had access to the Colorado Room where the whole alleged incident went down.
-You can't see the dude's face in the sex tape--it only looks like R. Kelly from behind, and there are a lot of fellas sporting similar cornrow styles in their hair. The world is also full of dudes who like watersports.
-The tape was not acquired from the R-uh in R&B's house, but sent from an anonymous tipster to the Chicago Sun-Herald. Though it may be technically unmodified, its dubious source raises doubts about its authenticity.
-The case is years old, so the only witnesses will probably be Sparkle, her niece, and Robert Sylvester himself, should he elect to take the stand and subject himself to cross-examination. Since his position is that he knows nothing about it and didn't do it, he probably won't. Also, the prosecution has stated that they won't call the witness to avoid her further public humiliation, although since she testified that the girl on the tape was not her before a grand jury, she won't make the greatest witness for the State's attorney. In fact, she'd make a decent witness for the defense. So the prosecution's only witness is Sparkle (providing circumstantial testimony) and a bunch of experts who will confuse the jury.
-R. Kelly has been the target of numerous extortion attempts directed at getting him to cough up cash to avoid another incriminating sex tape on the internet. Granted, THAT sex tape supposedly showed Kells banging Gary Sheffield's wife, and that's not too terrible. After all, Kells is a flirt. Sometimes when he's with his chick on the low, and sometimes when she's with her man lookin' at him...damn right, he's a flirt! Please believe it's not R. Kelly's fault that Gary Sheffield's game isn't tight and he can't trust his wife. He shouldn't have brought her around Kells, because he's a flirt. Recognize it when he rolls up on them dubs. And recognize that there are blackmailers out there trying to take advantage of R-dot's sexual obligation to the women of America.
-R. Kelly is by his own lyrical admission most cautious about banging women who have reached the age of consent. After all, in the remix of his classic from the original Twelve Play, "Bump 'n' Grind," he instructs the object of his affections to "show me some I.D. before we get too deep."
-R. Kelly's music has hypnotic power, and it will be difficult for the jury not to fall in love with his musical lunacy. As Christopher "Ludacris" Bridges states of his 2 Fast 2 Furious soundtrack collaborator, "You can try not to like his music, but it's gonna get your ass eventually, for sure." Really, all the defense has to do is put the "Thoia Thoing" on and watch the hot bitches on the jury murder it.
Razzy's ruling: Since the prosecution seems unable to nail down exactly when the tape was recorded, the alleged victim is swearing she's not the girl getting drilled and pissed on in the video, and there is reasonable doubt with regard to the man in the tape, they have failed to meet their burden. NOT GUILTY!
Kells is going to walk. And thank God, because LL Cool Jew and I are depending him to put out an album or awesome ridiculousness every 18 months. I shudder deeply thinking about what we'll do if the World's Greatest is doing hard time at an Illinois state prison and can't release TP-4 or whatever his next genius opus is going to be called. Perish the thought.
Labels: crime and punishment, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly, sexual assault
Friday, July 27, 2007
My secret identity
A while ago, KatieScarlett and I made a fake Friendster profile, "tugirlzhugging", expressly for the purpose of luring creeps out of the e-woodwork to make fun of on our blogs. Well, on my blog anyway...KatieScarlett's blog is more about photography and BloodyTosser's domination in the Muay Thai kickboxing ring. Anyway, I was just having a Google chat with KatieScarlett in our typical "To Catch a Predator" parlance (which I don't think either of us will ever get tired of) when I decided to let slip that I made a similar profile on MySpace exclusively for fucking with dumb people:
razzy: r we getting tewgether tewmorrow for brews?
katiescarlett: YAH!
razzy: SEWPER KEWL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! *<(;-D
katiescarlett: (((*BB!@WWK<><><>::
katiescarlett: that's a jellyfish
katiescarlett: KEWL!
razzy: I love the jellyfish!
katiescarlett: ( * ) ttha't a cat butt
razzy: ^`>********
razzy: That's a ewnikorn!
katiescarlett: YES!
katiescarlett: he's kewl!
katiescarlett: i like ewnikorns! do you ever go all the way like with a guy?
katiescarlett: i can send you some pics ;)
razzy: tottaly dewd i take it up the but!
katiescarlett: keeeeewwwl!
razzy: kewl lets get nekkid on r webcams!
katiescarlett: i'm coming over
katiescarlett: an' listen ot the stank!
razzy: i think u mean "cumming" over dewd!~;p
katiescarlett: sorry :P
razzy: dewd i've got my stank CD playing now!
razzy: btw, have u seen my myspace?
katiescarlett: im onna look now!
katiescarlett: ewe are kewt wi' nice bewbies!
razzy: actually dewd i meant my other myspace:
katiescarlett: oh
katiescarlett: i got carried away
razzy: http://www.myspace.com/darkangelzdare
katiescarlett: :)
katiescarlett: oh my god!
katiescarlett: did you make that up?
razzy: that's my secret myspace i use for fucking with people
katiescarlett: you are a genius
razzy: i got the pictures by googling "dumb emo bitches"
katiescarlett: specatacular!
razzy: it's not tugirlzhugging but we'll dew that myspace profile one of these days
katiescarlett: hoo is that girl?
razzy: i have no idea
razzy: but i get so many messages being like "ur so hott, ur so prity"
katiescarlett: i am astounded by your brilliance!
katiescarlett: did you make up that tag?
razzy: it's the natural progression of watching too much to catch a predator
katiescarlett: GAODDAMNIT!
katiescarlett: BRILLIANT
katiescarlett: WHERE DO YOU COME UP WITH THIS SHIT
razzy: i have no idea
razzy: i think deep down inside i'm a retarded tween with a hot topic fetish
katiescarlett: incredible
Since KatieScarlett though it was so funny, I thought I would reveal the secret of my MySpace alter ego. Besides, all the dumbasses who I plan to eventually make fun of are probably NOT under any cirucmstances reading this blog, so it's doubtful they'll come across this and realize they've been duped.
To answer KatieScarlett's question about where I come up with this shit, though, it's a simple process that goes as follows:
1. Set up a MySpace account and pick the stupidest URL imaginable for your profile.
2. Google "stupid (blank) bitches" and see what images pop up. Pick several to round out your photo section. They don't even have to be the same people...most of MySpace is very stupid and will not realize it.
3. Pick a horrible band or singer to idolize (in the case of "tugirlzhugging", this is Hoobastank, and for "darkangelzdare" it's Avril Lavigne), and MySpace befriend them, along with other related horrible bands. Thank them all for the adds and watch the idiot friend requests pile up. It also helps if you make a customized MySpace profile with the horrible band's marketing material all over it.
4. Write and spell everything exactly the opposite way that you normally world. If you cringe as you write it (ie: "I Think she's (Avril Lavigne) a great writer and so talented and never takes any bs pardon my strong language lolz!", replacing "people" with "Ppl", etc.), then it's moron-attracting gold.
5. Always say you love The Notebook. For some reason, everybody on MySpace says they love the fucking Notebook, a romantic non-comedy that I would rather stick a carving fork in my vagina than watch.
6. Sit back and wait for the fun to begin! I have more asinine messages in Dark Angel's MySpace inbox than I know what to do with.
So, you can all eagerly anticipate the many, many entries to come making fun of the tools who are propositioning Dark Angel. Just don't tell anyone that she's my secret identity...keep it on the hush.
razzy: r we getting tewgether tewmorrow for brews?
katiescarlett: YAH!
razzy: SEWPER KEWL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! *<(;-D
katiescarlett: (((*BB!@WWK<><><>::
katiescarlett: that's a jellyfish
katiescarlett: KEWL!
razzy: I love the jellyfish!
katiescarlett: ( * ) ttha't a cat butt
razzy: ^`>********
razzy: That's a ewnikorn!
katiescarlett: YES!
katiescarlett: he's kewl!
katiescarlett: i like ewnikorns! do you ever go all the way like with a guy?
katiescarlett: i can send you some pics ;)
razzy: tottaly dewd i take it up the but!
katiescarlett: keeeeewwwl!
razzy: kewl lets get nekkid on r webcams!
katiescarlett: i'm coming over
katiescarlett: an' listen ot the stank!
razzy: i think u mean "cumming" over dewd!~;p
katiescarlett: sorry :P
razzy: dewd i've got my stank CD playing now!
razzy: btw, have u seen my myspace?
katiescarlett: im onna look now!
katiescarlett: ewe are kewt wi' nice bewbies!
razzy: actually dewd i meant my other myspace:
katiescarlett: oh
katiescarlett: i got carried away
razzy: http://www.myspace.com/darkangelzdare
katiescarlett: :)
katiescarlett: oh my god!
katiescarlett: did you make that up?
razzy: that's my secret myspace i use for fucking with people
katiescarlett: you are a genius
razzy: i got the pictures by googling "dumb emo bitches"
katiescarlett: specatacular!
razzy: it's not tugirlzhugging but we'll dew that myspace profile one of these days
katiescarlett: hoo is that girl?
razzy: i have no idea
razzy: but i get so many messages being like "ur so hott, ur so prity"
katiescarlett: i am astounded by your brilliance!
katiescarlett: did you make up that tag?
razzy: it's the natural progression of watching too much to catch a predator
katiescarlett: GAODDAMNIT!
katiescarlett: BRILLIANT
katiescarlett: WHERE DO YOU COME UP WITH THIS SHIT
razzy: i have no idea
razzy: i think deep down inside i'm a retarded tween with a hot topic fetish
katiescarlett: incredible
Since KatieScarlett though it was so funny, I thought I would reveal the secret of my MySpace alter ego. Besides, all the dumbasses who I plan to eventually make fun of are probably NOT under any cirucmstances reading this blog, so it's doubtful they'll come across this and realize they've been duped.
To answer KatieScarlett's question about where I come up with this shit, though, it's a simple process that goes as follows:
1. Set up a MySpace account and pick the stupidest URL imaginable for your profile.
2. Google "stupid (blank) bitches" and see what images pop up. Pick several to round out your photo section. They don't even have to be the same people...most of MySpace is very stupid and will not realize it.
3. Pick a horrible band or singer to idolize (in the case of "tugirlzhugging", this is Hoobastank, and for "darkangelzdare" it's Avril Lavigne), and MySpace befriend them, along with other related horrible bands. Thank them all for the adds and watch the idiot friend requests pile up. It also helps if you make a customized MySpace profile with the horrible band's marketing material all over it.
4. Write and spell everything exactly the opposite way that you normally world. If you cringe as you write it (ie: "I Think she's (Avril Lavigne) a great writer and so talented and never takes any bs pardon my strong language lolz!", replacing "people" with "Ppl", etc.), then it's moron-attracting gold.
5. Always say you love The Notebook. For some reason, everybody on MySpace says they love the fucking Notebook, a romantic non-comedy that I would rather stick a carving fork in my vagina than watch.
6. Sit back and wait for the fun to begin! I have more asinine messages in Dark Angel's MySpace inbox than I know what to do with.
So, you can all eagerly anticipate the many, many entries to come making fun of the tools who are propositioning Dark Angel. Just don't tell anyone that she's my secret identity...keep it on the hush.
Labels: internet domination, KatieScarlett, kewlness, MySpace, ridiculous absurdity
Cover boys
If you haven't seen this month's cover of XXL magazine, consider yourself fortunate. And then don't read any further because here it is:
EWWWW!!!! I can't decide whether Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter or his adopted father Brian "Baby/Birdman" Williams is more revolting. Why they decided to have a contest to see whose prison tats are uglier is completely beyond me. I'm going with Baby's, only because it appears he has Carol Burnett tattooed on his stomach right below the faces of Weezy F Baby and what I think is blonde Lindsay Lohan with a killer case of coke bloat. And what's with the tattooed teardrops?! Unless they consider Cash Money Records' acrimonious business relationship with and eventual firing of Juvenile, Mannie Fresh, and B.G. to be murderous, they haven't killed anybody! The only incident their Wikipedia pages mentions even close to commission of a homicide is that as a child, Tha Carter shot himself in the foot with his biological, not-Baby father's gun.
This looks like it should be the box cover for some kind of hood-themed gay porn. Given that their fictional father-son relationship has seemed mighty incestuous on occasion, I wouldn't be surprised if this was shot during an outtake of Hung Thug Studz or something like that. Everything about this picture is pretty homolicious, from Birdman's arm draped a little too affectionately over Weezy's shoulder to that retarded Apolo Anton Ohno soul patch that Lil' Wayne is rocking. It should be subtitled "Survival of the Faggiest," because this is burying the needle on my gaydar. My only question is what they do with their jewelry when they're getting it on. It must be pretty tricky to 69 when you're wearing fifty pounds of chunky platinum around your neck! I have problems when I'm bending over a dick wearing one of my tiny Catholic saint medals, much less a 200 karat ruby and diamond-encrusted Birdman spinner chain.
On the bright side, however, it looks like Baby's been watching his carbs and hitting the gym more often, because he seems to have lost about 50 pounds. That's surprising, because I always heard that semen has lots of calories in it. Maybe he's like me and likes the money shot to go on his chest or face to avoid packing on the pounds. Either that, or maybe Lil' Wayne ejaculates TrimSpa. Who knows?
This looks like it should be the box cover for some kind of hood-themed gay porn. Given that their fictional father-son relationship has seemed mighty incestuous on occasion, I wouldn't be surprised if this was shot during an outtake of Hung Thug Studz or something like that. Everything about this picture is pretty homolicious, from Birdman's arm draped a little too affectionately over Weezy's shoulder to that retarded Apolo Anton Ohno soul patch that Lil' Wayne is rocking. It should be subtitled "Survival of the Faggiest," because this is burying the needle on my gaydar. My only question is what they do with their jewelry when they're getting it on. It must be pretty tricky to 69 when you're wearing fifty pounds of chunky platinum around your neck! I have problems when I'm bending over a dick wearing one of my tiny Catholic saint medals, much less a 200 karat ruby and diamond-encrusted Birdman spinner chain.
On the bright side, however, it looks like Baby's been watching his carbs and hitting the gym more often, because he seems to have lost about 50 pounds. That's surprising, because I always heard that semen has lots of calories in it. Maybe he's like me and likes the money shot to go on his chest or face to avoid packing on the pounds. Either that, or maybe Lil' Wayne ejaculates TrimSpa. Who knows?
Labels: Cash Money, Lil' Wayne, nudity, rap, vulgar display of faggotry, you're ugly
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Michael K.
Name: Michael K.
DOB: 1978
Occupation: scathing gossip blogger, flaming homosexual, HOT SUPER BITCH
Hometown: Los Angeles, California
Current residence: "Village of the East", New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Michael K. is the brilliant ultra-cunt behind Dlisted.com, which is by far my favorite gossip website. I am fucking addicted to Dlisted, and check it on the regular. In spite of the fact that he can't spell or type worth a damn, his commentary about whatever type of trashy celebretardation is going on with Lindsay, Paris, Britney, etc. is blistering. You know Michael K. was the kind of guy who would be great to sit outside and have drinks with, because he'd just rip on everyone who walked by in the style of the Kobra Kai dojo: with NO MERCY.
In contrast to the self-proclaimed Queen of all Media Mario "Perez Hilton" Lavandeira, Michael K. isn't always posting pictures of himself. In fact, I had to go to his MySpace to find out what he looked like at all. It's a pity, because he is substantially better looking than Perez (and Michael K.'s sweet little Hua-hua Elvie is better looking than Paris, for that matter):
Also unlike Perez, Michael K. doesn't fancy himself a driving force of the pop culture zeitgeist. He never encourages me to listen to faggy club music or to go see Dreamgirls. He also doesn't spend half of his time trying to pathetically imitate his quarries, like Perez Hilton who wants to be a celebrity so badly himself that 99% of his site now consists of discussing whatever Z-list event he just attended alongside the likes of Tara Reid and Screech from "Saved By the Bell." Michael K. doesn't front like he's famous. He just calls bullshit when he sees it, and usually in a way that cracks me up. I like it because he uses terms that I often bandy about, like "hot piece of trash" or "hot slut." I also love the way he always writes "Trust" to drive home his point (ie: "This bitch (Lindsay Lohan) is going to get off. Trust."). I find it adorable.
Sadly, Michael K. is faggier than a damn Cher CD, so the chances of me hitting his hotness are slim to none unless I become a F2M tranny...sha right. Anyway, Dlisted is brilliant and Michael K. rules. Trust.
Labels: celebrities, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, down with OPB (other people's blogs), hot dudes, I LOVE IT
Daily Douchebag: Dylan Avery
DOB: sometime in 1983
Occupation: 9/11 conspiracy theorist, "filmmaker", media whore
Hometown: Oneonta, New York
Current residence: Oneonta, New York--with his mom, most likely
Douchebaggery: In addition to loving Phish, being a two-time SUNY state film school reject, and having a righteous set of man-tits, Dylan Avery has distinguished himself by being the dipshit who brought America the Loose Change series of videos. Well, it's one video, but Dylan and his idiot friends have to spend a lot of time constantly editing it as their various inaccurate statements and copyright infringements keep getting pointed out and thus necessitate revision.
The genesis of this whole video was Dylan Avery's second film school rejection. He came home, got his mail, and noticed with a groan that once again, the small envelope from the admissions office was waiting for him. He noted that yet again, his application was not so much as wait-listed, but spurned outright. He soothed his rage by whacking off to an old "X-Files" episode, then decided he was going to make his own damn movie, and those elitist pricks at SUNY Purchase can just get bent. However, rather than shoot any scenes besides him sitting pompously before his sticker-adorned laptop, he figured that he would just cut a bunch of footage from some documentary about 9/11 and make up a story about a government conspiracy. He called up a couple of his douchebag friends, and in the course of making this movie, they all started believing their own bullshit.
Now, in spite of the fact that he's an unemployed college reject who lives with his mom, he's an expert in things like the effect of jet fuel burning on structural steel and the whereabouts of a secret trillion dollar cache of gold bullion that was supposedly squirreled away in the WTC basement. He also loves to showcase his daft facial expressions and voluptuous figure at various conferences put on by these conspiracy nutjobs whenever possible:
The problem with Dylan's propaganda is that there are a lot of people who want to believe it, and they tend to regard it as fact. One of my friends and I had a huge argument about it, as she declared the Loose Change video indisputable proof that it was a conspiracy, and questioned my logical abilities when I told her I thought it was bullshit. She called me closed-minded and implied that I'm a conformist sheep who believes everything the mainstream media tells me. She also said that the mainstream media was not "objective"...as opposed to Dylan and crew, who are COMPLETELY unbiased. I retorted that not only is that untrue (I'm a libertarian--my political philosophy requires a heaping helping of governmental mistrust), I'd still be more likely to believe the fact-checkers at the New York Times than some moron with a camcorder, a website, and a penchant for absurd, inventive reasons to mistrust the government. The fact is that it is MUCH more likely that the same terrorists who attacked the same target eight years prior went to tried-and-true terror tactics (hijacking planes), flew them into the damn buildings, and the ensuing fires caused the already damaged structures to destabilize and fall, rather than the entire government plotted to fake a bunch of hijackings, time those hijackings and building collisions perfectly with the detonation of preset explosives set secretly, and kill thousands of innocent Americans in the process FOR NO CONVINCING REASON.
In science, I often defer to a principle called Occam's razor, which basically suggests that the simplest solution is usually the correct one. Since they probably don't cover this in the high school rocks for jocks classes that were Dylan Avery's last exposure to the methods of rational discovery, it's safe to say that Dylan probably didn't have Occam's razor in his toolbox of detective principles available for application to his crack(ed out) analysis of the mechanics of the WTC collapse. He apparently also lacks any type of common sense, so I can see why his idiotic ass immediately gravitated toward the most unlikely, convoluted scenario as the only logical explanation for the tragedy of September 11th. Dylan makes Michael Moore seem impartial and accurate in comparison. He needs to shut up and get a real job.
Labels: crazies, Daily Douchebag, libertarians rule, retard rage, scathing indictments, terror
Thursday, July 26, 2007
If You Can't Take a Joke, Stay the Fuck Out of Washington.
Being a lawyer sucks for two primary reasons:
a) the general public tend to hate on you; and
b) finding solace amongst your peers is difficult insofar as most lawyers confirm the stereotypes giving rise to reason a, above.
If that weren't enough, most people (myself included) find the justice system itself deeply flawed, from the top down (see, Al Gonzalez, Irv Libby, Paris Hilton, etc...). Every now and then, however, something fucking amazing happens: the system works. And when it does, one can almost hear our Founding Fathers applauding all the way from their plantations in the sky.
Cut to Olympia, Washington, home of the nine biggest judicial playas in the state, and I would venture to say, the entire P-N-Dub: the Supreme Court of the State of Washington.
This morning the Supremes handed down a decision that while lacking in precedential value, will forever be cited by me as undeniable proof that sometimes appellate judges dominate so much butt that all one can do is tip his/her cap in their general direction.
The facts of Woo v. Fireman's Fund Insurance are these:
Robert Woo, an oral surgeon officed in the bustling mecca of commerce that is Auburn, Washington, was sued by a former nurse's assistant for what amounts to the greatest practical joke of all time. You see, Dr. Woo's nurse was an ardent adopter of pot-bellied pigs; she raised several of them, and apparently spoke of them often throughout her 5 year tenure at Woo's office. In turn, Woo incessantly joked about the topic with her, often times saying things to the effect of, "I'm going to barbecue your next adoption", etc. According to Woo (and apparently the nurse as well), the good natured banter simply created a fun work environment. One day, however, perhaps predictably, Woo crossed the line. While performing a procedure on the nurse, a procedure during which the nurse was under general anesthetic, Dr. Woo inserted two "spacers" in her mouth that had been custom-made to resemble boar tusks. He then took a few funny snapshots and circulated them around the office. When nurse found out, she brought suit against Woo for a panoply of torts, eventually settling with him for $250,000.00.
When Woo turned to his malpractice carrier, Fireman's Fund, to tender defense, they refused on the ground that the insurance contract permitted them to avoid coverage for intentional acts. Woo sued them for bad faith, and in a 5-4 decision, the Washington Supreme Court agreed, awarding him $750,000.00 in the process.
You don't have to be an attorney to understand the moral of this story: Dr. Woo is a big ol' pimp, and the Washington State Supreme Court fucking rules. Also, insurance companies blow (as if Hurricane Katrina, the 9-11 tragedy, and John Grisham's "Rainmaker" didn't already hammer that point home). Not sure if Dr. Woo will stay in the practice of dentistry in the wake of his near million dollar windfall, but if he does, that guy's getting my business for the rest of my life.
a) the general public tend to hate on you; and
b) finding solace amongst your peers is difficult insofar as most lawyers confirm the stereotypes giving rise to reason a, above.
If that weren't enough, most people (myself included) find the justice system itself deeply flawed, from the top down (see, Al Gonzalez, Irv Libby, Paris Hilton, etc...). Every now and then, however, something fucking amazing happens: the system works. And when it does, one can almost hear our Founding Fathers applauding all the way from their plantations in the sky.
Cut to Olympia, Washington, home of the nine biggest judicial playas in the state, and I would venture to say, the entire P-N-Dub: the Supreme Court of the State of Washington.
This morning the Supremes handed down a decision that while lacking in precedential value, will forever be cited by me as undeniable proof that sometimes appellate judges dominate so much butt that all one can do is tip his/her cap in their general direction.
The facts of Woo v. Fireman's Fund Insurance are these:
Robert Woo, an oral surgeon officed in the bustling mecca of commerce that is Auburn, Washington, was sued by a former nurse's assistant for what amounts to the greatest practical joke of all time. You see, Dr. Woo's nurse was an ardent adopter of pot-bellied pigs; she raised several of them, and apparently spoke of them often throughout her 5 year tenure at Woo's office. In turn, Woo incessantly joked about the topic with her, often times saying things to the effect of, "I'm going to barbecue your next adoption", etc. According to Woo (and apparently the nurse as well), the good natured banter simply created a fun work environment. One day, however, perhaps predictably, Woo crossed the line. While performing a procedure on the nurse, a procedure during which the nurse was under general anesthetic, Dr. Woo inserted two "spacers" in her mouth that had been custom-made to resemble boar tusks. He then took a few funny snapshots and circulated them around the office. When nurse found out, she brought suit against Woo for a panoply of torts, eventually settling with him for $250,000.00.
When Woo turned to his malpractice carrier, Fireman's Fund, to tender defense, they refused on the ground that the insurance contract permitted them to avoid coverage for intentional acts. Woo sued them for bad faith, and in a 5-4 decision, the Washington Supreme Court agreed, awarding him $750,000.00 in the process.
You don't have to be an attorney to understand the moral of this story: Dr. Woo is a big ol' pimp, and the Washington State Supreme Court fucking rules. Also, insurance companies blow (as if Hurricane Katrina, the 9-11 tragedy, and John Grisham's "Rainmaker" didn't already hammer that point home). Not sure if Dr. Woo will stay in the practice of dentistry in the wake of his near million dollar windfall, but if he does, that guy's getting my business for the rest of my life.
Labels: Law and Order, Morrissey'sHair, P-N-Dub, United States of Asskickery
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Chris Hansen
DOB: March 26, 1959
Occupation: Dateline investigative reporter, predator catcher
Hometown: Lansing, Michigan
Current residence: New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit That Hotness: I have been a fan of Dateline NBC's "To Catch a Predator" series ever since I first saw an episode. If, for some reason, you live underneath a rock and have never heard of this show, it involves a bunch of decoys going into various chat rooms and pretending to be teenagers. They engage pedophile creeps in chats that usually unfold like this:
Piledriver69: so hai r u relly 13?Then the creep comes over and instead of a thirteen-year-old ready to get drunk on cheap strawberry wine and experiment with anal, they get Chris Hansen and all his morally righteous fury. After he toys with them--letting them give him a bunch of dumb excuses like "oh, I'm here to warn her about the dangers of meeting men online" or "we're just friends, we were just going to hang out" or (my personal favorite) "I want to mentor her"--before breaking out the chat transcripts and confronting them with their own poorly spelled solicitations. Chris Hansen will frown mightily while saying, "Mentor? You just said here that you were going to quote 'toss her salad and teach her how to suck cock like a pro ho'. Do YOU think it's right to mentor her in FELONY SEXUAL ASSAULT?"
Lonelyand13: ya lolz i just turned 13 i got a iphone 4 my bday!
Lonelyand13: insted of the parental attention i desperately need
Piledriver69: thats kewl
Piledriver69: so do u like 2 take it up the but?
Lonelyand13:i dont know wont it hurt?
Piledriver69: not the way i do it u will luv it i promise
Lonelyand13: i dont know lol it soundz skerry
Piledriver69: its really fun all ur girlfriends will b jelous
Lonelyand13: lol
Lonelyand13: okay can u bring over some dranks? roflmao!
Lonelyand13: my parents arent coming home 4 a day they hate me lolz
Piledriver69: sure baby l bring sum boones farm
Lonelyand13: lolz kewlio! *<(;-p
Most of the time, the predators make a break for it at that point. However, usually there's about fifteen cops outside camouflaged as various bushes, shrubs, and other features of the landscaping. These cops proceed to tackle the predator and haul his ass off to jail, and it is SO satisfying. I never get tired of TCaP.
In his career, Chris Hansen has exposed child slavery rings, terrorist arms dealers, child sex trafficking, puppy mills, and unsafe aviation practices, but none of these breaking stories approach the power and gravitas of TCaP. I'd send Chris Hansen an inappropriate instant message if I didn't think he'd respond by humiliating me on national television. Chris Hansen is super kewl.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, kewlness, TV
Daily Douchebag: Michael Rasmussen
Name: Michael Rasmussen
Nickname: Kyllingen fra Tollose (the chicken from Tollose)
DOB: June 1, 1974
Occupation: competitive cyclist, disgrace to his sublime last name
Hometown: Tollose, Denmark
Current residence: somewhere in Italy
Douchebaggery: Michael Rasmussen was leading the Tour de France, up until his own team booted his ass for being a deceitful drug test skipper. I hate these fucking cyclists. They're all a bunch of erythropoietin-injecting cheaters, and I'm sick of hearing about yet another shameless dickhead going to elaborate lengths to dope his way to an unfair advantage. They're worse than major league baseball players in terms of their rampant performance-enhancing substance use.
When they get caught, they also use some ridiculous excuses that are just insultingly bad. Last year, Floyd Landis blamed a positive urine sample on whiskey. The last time I checked, booze wasn't broken down into metabolites of synthetic growth hormone. Just sack up and admit what we already know: you road cyclists are all a bunch of blood doping cheaters. Michael Rasmussen is no exception as a flagrant violator of the cycling community's drug policy. He apparently skipped several drug tests and lied about his whereabouts to excuse his absence. He also asked some dude to bring him a box of illegal South African bovine hemoglobin and told the dude that it was a pair of shoes. When the dude called him on it being a banned substance and destroyed it, Michael apparently screamed, "Do have any idea how much that shit cost?!"
Plus, Michael Rasmussen is damned unattracttive:
Labels: comeuppance, Daily Douchebag, sportsmen, you're ugly
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
At least you’re not…. Ward Churchill
Ward Churchill is a professor at the
Technocratic - pertaining to a theory and movement, prominent about 1932, advocating control of industrial resources, reform of financial institutions, and reorganization of the social system, based on the findings of technologists and engineers
Corps - a military unit of ground combat forces consisting of two or more divisions and other troops.
So essentially he meant to say the workers at the
This jackass looks like Rogue from X-men when she absorbed Magneto’s power. A senior professor with tenure being compared with a 16 yr old girl says something; it might be time to get that long overdue haircut. He looks like a washed up hippy that never got that beat down from a returning soldier he sorely deserved. I could only imagine what Ward was like in his college days. He was probably one of those radical retards who were all about conspiracies. People like him would sit around their dorm room and tell each other theories like ghost stories hoping for gasps or responses like “no way.” And when assholes like Ward attended parties (house parties because you know nobody was inviting his ass out on a Friday night) he would be the guy near the keg hoping someone would want to listen to his asinine hypothesis about the government.
What kind of name is Ward anyway? It reminds of me mental ward, where this nut would probably get a long best in. He could sit there and tell his shitty assumptions to someone who would probably be trying to figure out where the “voices” were coming from.
Don’t confuse me for some guy who is all about the government. I’m sure they have done their fare share of shifty shit but I don’t think going after the victims of 9/11 while saying the hijackers had “courage in their convictions” really does anything for anyone. In fact I have enough courage in my convictions to say that Ward Churchill should be kicked in the sack and then have them promptly removed. Anyone should be lucky they are not this guy.
This has been Ryle from OverAdulthood – sounding off... I see Razzy left me with an amazing intro. Well jealousy has to take its form in one way or another. But you can't blame her when she needs people like me to make her blog somewhat interesting.... oooh snap!
Labels: gross, Ryle, you're ugly
Meet Ryle
I have invited yet another writer to join the ranks of luminaries currently making occasional contributions to my humble blog. Ryle has a website called Overadulthood.com (that pales in comparison to mine, but props to the kid for trying), but its focus is poking fun at the news. Like me, he got kicked off Google Adsense (although his booting was due to someone overclicking on the ads rather than violation of Google's policy about promoting pornography that was behind my ousting), and wanted a forum to rant. I said, "Dude, my website was made for ranting," and welcomed his ass into the fold.
Anyway, hopefully he'll write something entertaining and you can all leave him comments. If you want to hate on him, here's some ammo: he lives with his mom's basement in Queens, he has braces, he's barely legal, and he once told me that sex with him plays out like the pivotal scene between Louis and Betty from Revenge of the Nerds. Oh, yeah, and he sells vacuum cleaners. Bombs away, people.
Anyway, hopefully he'll write something entertaining and you can all leave him comments. If you want to hate on him, here's some ammo: he lives with his mom's basement in Queens, he has braces, he's barely legal, and he once told me that sex with him plays out like the pivotal scene between Louis and Betty from Revenge of the Nerds. Oh, yeah, and he sells vacuum cleaners. Bombs away, people.
Labels: internet domination, ranting, Ryle
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Jack Wagner
DOB: October 3, 1959
Occupation: hot soap actor, singer/songwriter, dominator of the celebrity charity golf circuit
Hometown: Washington, Missouri
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: If you didn't watch "Melrose Place" or "General Hospital" WAY back in the day, you might not know who Jack Wagner is, but he's the ultimate soap stud. On GH he was the infamous spy, cop, and rock star Frisco Jones, a character whose legend endures to this day in Port Charles. I wasn't much of a GH watcher (although I did have a hard-on for Frisco and the swarthy crime lord/coffee smuggler Sonny Corinthos), but you best believe I got down with "Melrose Place." That show was one of the most ridiculously awesome masterpieces of trash ever created by the FOX network. Jack Wagner steamed up the hospital that employed half the cast of MP as Chief of Staff Dr. Peter Burns, and when he wasn't doing getting medical or playing politics with the hospital administrators, he was usually boning some hot broad on the show (for example, Jamie Luner, the hot bitch below, who played SMITH ALUMNA and mega-cunt Lexi Sterling on the show).
Peter could break out the crazy and manipulative when necessary. Although his medical specialty was unclear (he acted as a surgeon, psychiatrist, and oncologist), he had no qualms playing his "I'm a doctor" card when conspiring to get his lover, patient, tenant, and apparent legal client Dr. Kimberly Shaw lobotomized. Another time, he cleverly ousted MP's queen of mean Amanda Woodward from her job as CEO of D&D Advertising (because even though he was a multi-specialty physician he presumably wanted to get into the marketing biz) by encouraging her to get an insurance policy requiring mandatory employee drug tests, then prescribing her some opiates while telling her it was cold medicine. He also almost murdered her during an operation, was arrested, and then married her! And at the series finale, he came up with a clever plot to escape his homicidal cheerleader wife Eve by faking his and Amanda's deaths and moving to the Dominican Republic, where they were remarried and presumably lived happily ever after. Everything Dr. Peter Burns did was evil, calculating, sinister, and completely absurd, but had copious amounts of pointsworthy style.
The best part about Amanda and Peter is that THEY'RE A COUPLE IN REAL LIFE! After Heather ended her post-Richie Sambora rebound relationship with David Spade, she started banging Jack Wagner. They make a hot couple in the real world as well as in the Aaron Spelling one, and I wholeheartedly approve of their relationship. They probably have incredible sex.
Labels: celebrities, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, TV
Daily Douchebag: Alberto Gonzales
DOB: August 4, 1955
Occupation: U.S. Attorney General, asshole extraordinaire
Hometown: Humble, Texas
Current residence: Washington, D.C.
Douchebaggery: I guess if you overlook the illegal wiretapping, the summary firing of political opponents, the subversion of the right to habeas corpus, the declaring Geneva Convention passages pertaining to torture "obsolete", and the lying to Congress, Alberto Gonzales isn't a bad guy. Unfortunately, those things are all kind of difficult to overlook.
This motherfucker actually pretended to not remember his own middle name and said that "I didn't bestir myself to prepare for this hearing" during one of the chronic bouts of amnesia he suffers from whenever he sits his porky ass in front of the Senate. He doesn't remember anything he's ever written, done, or said, and he can't be bothered with explaining any of his actions because he has no idea why he does anything. Well, asshole, if you're so goddamn incompetent, then WHY ARE YOU THE FUCKING ATTORNEY GENERAL?! I mean, I don't think it's asking too much to expect the nation's lead prosecutor to remember his own middle name!
The whole incompetence act is just insulting. I don't appreciate being regarded by this bloated, toady yes-man as so stupid that I would buy the whole "I don't remember" excuse for pissing all over the Constitution. I never thought I'd say this, but I miss John Ashcroft. Sure, he was trying to jail dissidents, invade privacy, and read my e-mail too, but at least he was up front about being an evil, tyrannical, liberty-eroding dickhead. He also sang songs of his own composing about Jesus and America, and that entertained me. If I met John Ashcroft on the street, I'd compliment him on his musical stylings and request that the next time he gets together with Trent Lott and the other Singing Senators, they sing the barbershop quartet classic known as Rockapella's "Where In The World is Carmen Sandiego?" theme song. If I met Alberto Gonzales, on the other hand, I'd kick him in the balls and ask if that jogged his memory any.
Last night, Morrissey'sHair texted me to request that Alberto get Daily Douchebag honors, so I called him to ask why. Gonzales is like President Bush, Carrot Top, or Spencer from "The Hills"...such a gigantically obvious douchebag that I don't even need to point it out. He said, "Razzy, even ARLEN SPECTER called him a fucking liar!" Good point. Consider Alberto to be Douchebagged.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, Morrissey'sHair, politics, Trent Lott, tyrannical rulers
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
"Scrubs" is for scrubs
My little brother loves "Scrubs," and doesn't stop talking about it, so I decided to watch an episode tonight after a fourteen-hour rhinovirostravaganza. Every time I've seen this show, I've been wondering what it is about this show that I don't really like. I know there's something; I just can't quite isolate precisely what that something is. On one hand, I like that really sarcastic old stringy doctor who hates everyone, and who I would totally have sex with in spite of his physical lack of appeal.
Unfortunately, any awesomeness he brings is immediately canceled out by the rest of the unbelievably annoying cast.:
I then realized what I hate about this show: it's not that funny. The entire premise of the episode I watched tonight is that Zach Braff's character is too much of a pussy to kick his girlfriend...TARA REID...out of his apartment. He ends the episode weeping and meekly assenting like the bitch he is while Mollusca Contagiosum Reed picks the lint out of her repeatedly surgically mangled belly button and makes herself at home in his apartment. There are some side plots of the hot mean guy boning Heather Locklear (awesome...but that's about it), the hospital lawyer (I think) divulging disturbing details about his possibly incestuous feelings toward his mother, the hot blonde doctor chick and the hot Latina nurse's quest to find a male prostitute out of desperation, and Donald Faison having surgeon-related inadequacy issues. Okay...I get it. Everyone is hilariously dysfunctional and, with the exception of the mean asshole who is fucking Heather Locklear (whose character just asked "is she dating-David-Spade crazy?" IRONIC!), are pathetic human beings in spite of the fact that they're in the business of saving lives.
I still don't get it. This show just isn't that funny. Doctors who act like complete retards annoy and trouble me, in contradiction to the presumed intent of inducing belly-shaking laughter. The fact that Tara Reid just moved into a dude's house based on some sort of complicated toilet paper-acquiring scheme is more a thing of pity than hilarity. The only time I'm remotely shaken from my oh-Christ-I'm-back-at-Smith-College-in-a-Philosophy-of-Religion-class murder-avoiding torpor is to observe what's NOT funny about "Scrubs."
Then, just to really convince me that I hate this show, cue the Barenaked Ladies! Wow, nothing is more endearing than watching Zach Braff goofily dancing down the hallway with the hospital janitor to the dulcet tones of "If I Had a Million Dollars." Thank God I don't have access to any nuclear ICBMs, because if I did, Stephen Harper would have a headache (ie: the annihilation of Ottawa) on his hands for unleashing this auditory scourge upon our crappy sitcoms. Then they play "Ride Wit Me" by Nelly, while throwing some convenient dialogue over the "smoke a L in the back of the Benzy" to avoid any unnecessary drug references, and I'm supposed to think this shit is such a great show?!
Needless to say, the next conversation I have with my brother isn't going to revolve exclusively around Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows is going to be one chastising him for encouraging me to watch this damn show. "Scrubs" sucks.
Unfortunately, any awesomeness he brings is immediately canceled out by the rest of the unbelievably annoying cast.:
I then realized what I hate about this show: it's not that funny. The entire premise of the episode I watched tonight is that Zach Braff's character is too much of a pussy to kick his girlfriend...TARA REID...out of his apartment. He ends the episode weeping and meekly assenting like the bitch he is while Mollusca Contagiosum Reed picks the lint out of her repeatedly surgically mangled belly button and makes herself at home in his apartment. There are some side plots of the hot mean guy boning Heather Locklear (awesome...but that's about it), the hospital lawyer (I think) divulging disturbing details about his possibly incestuous feelings toward his mother, the hot blonde doctor chick and the hot Latina nurse's quest to find a male prostitute out of desperation, and Donald Faison having surgeon-related inadequacy issues. Okay...I get it. Everyone is hilariously dysfunctional and, with the exception of the mean asshole who is fucking Heather Locklear (whose character just asked "is she dating-David-Spade crazy?" IRONIC!), are pathetic human beings in spite of the fact that they're in the business of saving lives.
I still don't get it. This show just isn't that funny. Doctors who act like complete retards annoy and trouble me, in contradiction to the presumed intent of inducing belly-shaking laughter. The fact that Tara Reid just moved into a dude's house based on some sort of complicated toilet paper-acquiring scheme is more a thing of pity than hilarity. The only time I'm remotely shaken from my oh-Christ-I'm-back-at-Smith-College-in-a-Philosophy-of-Religion-class murder-avoiding torpor is to observe what's NOT funny about "Scrubs."
Then, just to really convince me that I hate this show, cue the Barenaked Ladies! Wow, nothing is more endearing than watching Zach Braff goofily dancing down the hallway with the hospital janitor to the dulcet tones of "If I Had a Million Dollars." Thank God I don't have access to any nuclear ICBMs, because if I did, Stephen Harper would have a headache (ie: the annihilation of Ottawa) on his hands for unleashing this auditory scourge upon our crappy sitcoms. Then they play "Ride Wit Me" by Nelly, while throwing some convenient dialogue over the "smoke a L in the back of the Benzy" to avoid any unnecessary drug references, and I'm supposed to think this shit is such a great show?!
Needless to say, the next conversation I have with my brother isn't going to revolve exclusively around Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows is going to be one chastising him for encouraging me to watch this damn show. "Scrubs" sucks.
Labels: pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, retard rage, TV
Dumbest bitch in the world
Not that I'm one to make judgments about the ups and downs of addiction recovery since my trials with Parliament Lights are an ongoing saga, but when I fall back on the cancer sticks, I smoke secretly, with the heavy measure of shame appropriate for a relapsing addict. That's basically the opposite of what Lohan did here, which was get behind the wheel of her Denali and do donuts in the parking lot of a civic center, where there is apparently a POLICE STATION! Yes, she drove drunk and high into a police station parking lot and started playing chicken with her friends in an Escalade, like that part in Footloose where the local dance-hating jock foolishly challenged Kevin Bacon to a game of tractor jousting and got owned. Unlike Kevin Bacon, however, she's not going to get to start fucking the town slut and leading a political movement challenging John Lithgow's laws prohibiting dancing. Girlfriend's going to rehab, and, most likely, to Paris Hilton's former home at the Lynwood Correctional Facility.
Now we just need Nicole Richie sentenced to prison, and Britney Spears to actually get caught drinking and/or drugging and driving, and the superfecta of dumb bitch celebrity crime will be complete!
Labels: celebrities, crime and punishment, drugs, sluts, you're ugly
Daily Douchebag: Kim Kardashian
DOB: October 21, 1980
Occupation: media whore, amateur porn star, and "Princess" per her appalling MySpace (Joe Francis is one of her top friends, for fuck's sake--you know she's a worthless waste of oxygen)
Hometown: Los Angeles, California
Current residence: Beverly Hills, California
Douchebaggery: Apart from sharing her pubic lice with my would-be boyfriend Reggie (Get In My) Bush, this ho really redefined poor taste over the weekend when she showed up at a benefit for the Nicole Brown Foundation at the Playboy Mansion. The Nicole Brown foundation is named for Orenthal James Simpson's murdered wife. Kim Kardashian is
Of course, in fairness to Kim, she might have just heard "party at the Playboy Mansion...there will be a red carpet", and didn't think to ask what the party was about. In spite of her father's reputation as a quick thinker in the courtroom, Kim isn't exactly Clarence Darrow, and I am sure is not in the habit of asking too many questions or putting too many things together, like this equation.: Daddy got the guy who in the public eye will forever be guilty of Nicole Brown's murder acquitted + Nicole Brown fundraiser=bad idea from a public relations standpoint. Then again, even if she thought about it first, it's hard to say if she'd object, since she's living proof that money can't buy class.
Kim's own major claims to fame include a stint on E!'s abortion of a reality show "Filthy Rich Cattle Drive" (I know...I actually watched it), replacing Nicole Richie as Paris Hilton's vice-asshole for five minutes, and starring in this fine piece of amateur porn with Brandy's little brother, "hip-hop star" (exaggeration of the year...that's worse than calling Halle Berry's ex Eric Benet a "famous R&B singer") Ray J:
Labels: Daily Douchebag, media whores, sluts
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: J.K. Rowling
DOB: July 31, 1965
Occupation: billionaire author, hottest MILF in England
Hometown: Yate, Gloucestershire, England
Current residence: Aberfeldy, Perth and Kinross, Scotland
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: J.K. Rowling--better known as Jo--is a MILF of the highest order. For starters, she looks pretty hot for a lady over 40, and she knows it. Girlfriend may be a children's book writer, but she always shows up to readings rocking some stellar cleavage, and I approve. Kids have the tendency to strip their mothers of their sexiness like the little succubi that they are, so tits out to Jo for resisting the frumpy Mrs. Weasley style that many moms adopt. You know she's a tiger in the sack, too. Every time you see her anesthesiologist husband, he looks like he's walking on air, and I suspect it's because the lady knows her way around a weiner.
However, while her sexy style is commendable, Jo's greatest achievement is writing the Harry Potter books. I will always be grateful to her for this, because I seriously, seriously love those books. Because of them, she's richer than the damn Queen, and probably more beloved too. I also love that she's as fiercely protective of Harry as she probably is of her own kids. When they made the movies, she was a total control freak about it, thus ensuring that Hollywood couldn't fuck it up horribly. If she hadn't, I could just see the producers casting Shia LeBoeuf as Harry Potter, Lindsay Lohan as Hermione, and Jack Nicholson as Dumbledore, and relocating Hogwarts to L.A. or something, which would have ruined everything.
Adding to the impressiveness of her Harry Potter empire, she started writing the first book in a coffee shop when she was a single mother on welfare. Clearly she was not sitting around trying to find a fucking husband/replacement baby daddy or have more kids to get a few extra shillings in her monthly state benefits check. Jo obviously thought she was something special, and time has since proven that she is indeed an inspiration to other baby-toting bitches who have fallen on hard times. She deserves every last pence of her billion-dollar fortune.
I doubt she'll write another Harry Potter book other than the encyclopedias she's said she'd publish as a companion to the series. I still have a few days before my self-imposed moratorium on discussing the content of book 7 at length expires, but with the way it ended, any future Harry Potter stories would be far-fetched and really unnecessary. Book 7 did a nice job of wrapping everything up. However, you bet your ass I'll buy those encyclopedias once she cranks those out. Jo Rowling is the super hotness, and at this point, she can do no wrong.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Harry Potter, hot chicks, sluts
Monday, July 23, 2007
Lil' Wayne's in this bitch with the Terror...
...except by "this bitch" he means "New York City Jail", and by "the Terror", he means erstwhile Terror Squad collaborator Jeffrey "Ja Rule" Atkins. Yesterday, Dwayne "Lil' Wayne/Weezy F Baby/Tha Carter" Carter was busted for burning some trees outside his tour bus on the Upper West Side. Upon closer investigation by arresting officers, he was also found to be carrying a .40-caliber handgun. Ja Rule, on the other hand, got busted for speeding, but was also found to be packing a Sig Sauer. Both of these gentlemen spent some quality time at the expense of the New York City taxpayers as a result.
Once again, I'm stunned by the stupidity of the average rapper. Lil' Wayne, a man who has lyrics such as "seat way back, listening to Anita Baker, ridin' by myself, smokin' weed by da acre" and "I see she wearin' them jeans that show her butt-crack, my girls can't wear that, why? That's where my stash at," should know that the police may be reasonably suspicious that he's in possession of a class D substance. Furthermore, he CONSTANTLY looks like he's one toke away from a vegetative state:
Like cops aren't suspicious of this guy. You could probably get high if you smoked his fingernail clippings. Everything about him--from his chronically bloodshot eyes to his tattooed teardrops (and has he REALLY killed two people? I doubt it)--screams "arrest me." You'd think that by now he'd have learned to keep his tweeds on the low!
Why didn't he just keep it inside the tour bus? Lil' Wayne gets busted for possession in almost every town he's in, so one would think that at this point, he'd let one of his people carry his shit for him. Or better yet, he'd stuff it down one of "his girls'" ass cracks. And he should definitely not just stand outside on 61st and Columbus for all the people bringing their kids home from the park to pass by. If he doesn't like snitching, then he should be a little more discreet about his illegal activities in a family neighborhood/snitch central. And WHY doesn't he just get a fucking permit for his damn gun? It can't be that hard...he's from the South, home of loose gun control laws! Lil' Wayne is dumb.
*This news update brought to you by LL Cool Jew and Morrissey'sHair, who are both unusually interested in all thangs Dwayne Carter.
Once again, I'm stunned by the stupidity of the average rapper. Lil' Wayne, a man who has lyrics such as "seat way back, listening to Anita Baker, ridin' by myself, smokin' weed by da acre" and "I see she wearin' them jeans that show her butt-crack, my girls can't wear that, why? That's where my stash at," should know that the police may be reasonably suspicious that he's in possession of a class D substance. Furthermore, he CONSTANTLY looks like he's one toke away from a vegetative state:
Like cops aren't suspicious of this guy. You could probably get high if you smoked his fingernail clippings. Everything about him--from his chronically bloodshot eyes to his tattooed teardrops (and has he REALLY killed two people? I doubt it)--screams "arrest me." You'd think that by now he'd have learned to keep his tweeds on the low!
Why didn't he just keep it inside the tour bus? Lil' Wayne gets busted for possession in almost every town he's in, so one would think that at this point, he'd let one of his people carry his shit for him. Or better yet, he'd stuff it down one of "his girls'" ass cracks. And he should definitely not just stand outside on 61st and Columbus for all the people bringing their kids home from the park to pass by. If he doesn't like snitching, then he should be a little more discreet about his illegal activities in a family neighborhood/snitch central. And WHY doesn't he just get a fucking permit for his damn gun? It can't be that hard...he's from the South, home of loose gun control laws! Lil' Wayne is dumb.
*This news update brought to you by LL Cool Jew and Morrissey'sHair, who are both unusually interested in all thangs Dwayne Carter.
Labels: crime and punishment, drugs, guns, Lil' Wayne, LL Cool Jew, Morrissey'sHair, NYC, rap
No more surgery!
Every time I bust on Lil' Kim's looks, it pains me a little. I love Kimberly "Lil' Kim" Jones. She is one of the bravest, most noble, most pro-cunnilingus feminist heroes in the history of women's liberation, and I applaud her many efforts at bringing women's sexuality to the forefront with her patriarchy-challenging lyrics ("he wanted me to suck him, but I didn't, I ain't frontin'") and creative personal style.
Unfortunately, Kim keeps shooting herself in the foot--or more accurately, the face--when it comes to her plastic surgery choices. It stared with fake tits, then moved on to lip injections, skin lighening, and facial implants. However, I think that it's time for the internets to step in and take some action, because what Lil' Kim has going on these days is downright wrong. I just saw this picture on Dlisted, and in spite of being familiar with her current level of aesthetic (or lack thereof), I couldn't help but be a little bit shocked:
She's finally moved into straight Michael Jackson territory. Her face is so horrifyingly distorted that it actually makes her weave look natural. Whether her dramatic painted-on eyebrows, the blotchy pigmentation of her complexion, the botched eye job and/or facelift that resulted in those frighteningly wide eyes, the bizarre shrinking nose, or the general puffy bloatedness of the whole package is more of an embarrassment to her surgeon is up for debate. I can't imagine why she's like, "My last procedure went really well, I think it's high time I got another one. My (insert unadulterated body part here) hasn't been rendered hideously deformed yet, maybe I'll get that lifted/implanted/grossly reshaped," except that she has some serious body dysmorphic disorder.
I must BEG Lil' Kim to not visit her surgeon any more. Eventually she's not even going to be able to rap raunchily about how fresh her pussy is (sha right), because you know that's on her "to surgically ruin" list, and I wouldn't be surprised if she is going to Jenna Jameson's surgeon. Word on the internets has it that Jenna's vaginoplasty went badly, and now her cooze is collapsing like a tunnel in the Big Dig. Avoid the vadge work, Kim...your vagina doesn't need to get any tighter or righter. Also, given that one of her implants is reportedly leaking silicone into her thoracic cavity, I suspect she has lupus or rheumatoid arthritis. I'm fairly convinced that her puffiness is the sure sign of an anti-inflammatory steroid regimen, and though I'm not a physician, I would say that treating an autoimmune disease with an immunosuppressant is counterindicative for invasive elective surgery. Just stop.
Unfortunately, Kim keeps shooting herself in the foot--or more accurately, the face--when it comes to her plastic surgery choices. It stared with fake tits, then moved on to lip injections, skin lighening, and facial implants. However, I think that it's time for the internets to step in and take some action, because what Lil' Kim has going on these days is downright wrong. I just saw this picture on Dlisted, and in spite of being familiar with her current level of aesthetic (or lack thereof), I couldn't help but be a little bit shocked:
I must BEG Lil' Kim to not visit her surgeon any more. Eventually she's not even going to be able to rap raunchily about how fresh her pussy is (sha right), because you know that's on her "to surgically ruin" list, and I wouldn't be surprised if she is going to Jenna Jameson's surgeon. Word on the internets has it that Jenna's vaginoplasty went badly, and now her cooze is collapsing like a tunnel in the Big Dig. Avoid the vadge work, Kim...your vagina doesn't need to get any tighter or righter. Also, given that one of her implants is reportedly leaking silicone into her thoracic cavity, I suspect she has lupus or rheumatoid arthritis. I'm fairly convinced that her puffiness is the sure sign of an anti-inflammatory steroid regimen, and though I'm not a physician, I would say that treating an autoimmune disease with an immunosuppressant is counterindicative for invasive elective surgery. Just stop.
Labels: Lil' Kim, oh the horror, plastic surgery, rap, ridiculous absurdity, you're ugly
Daily Douchebag: John Cusack
DOB: June 28, 1966
Occupation: thorn in the side of pop culture, actor
Hometown: Evanston, Illinois
Current residence: Hollywood, California
Douchebaggery: Every time I see John Cusack, I just want to punch him in that lopsided kisser and say, "Cheer up, asshole! I'm sick of seeing that simpering, hangdog expression on your face!" Even when he's happy, he looks pouty and confused. I don't know why, because his career as an actor has been inexplicably successful, considering he does the same kind of thing no matter what movie he's in: he's bumbling, self-deprecating, neurotic, insecure, and overcompensating, and for some reason, women find this cute and funny. Take, for example, the Say Anything poster above, a clear example of John Cusack, Cute Buffoon marketing tactics: "To know Lloyd Dobler is to love him." Whatever type of Svengali hoodwinkery he's using to convince most women that when they look at him they should say, "Awwwwwww" apparently does not faze me in the slightest, because my reaction to him is far different. Mine is more like this:
Hey, there's John Cusack, and what do you know, he's wearing that fucking London Calling shirt again. I get it, dumbass, you like the Clash. The world has known this since...what, 1986? I mean, I know we're all stupid and despite the fact that practically every non-horror movie you star in has a fucking Clash song on its soundtrack (probably sandwiched between tracks by the Thompson Twins and the Psychedelic fucking Furs), and despite the fact that whether you are portraying a hired assassin, an unconventional U.S. Marshal, or a record store owner you listen to this same music, we haven't yet gotten the point that you would like to be the poster boy for quirky '80s dudes. As if watching "I Love the 80s," "I Love the 80s Strikes Back", "I Love the 80s:3-D", "100 Greatest Teen Stars", "100 Greatest Child Stars", and whatever other bullshit Vh1 countdown show is lauding his 80s culture street cred didn't hammer that point home. Shut up about the 80s, already, you balding, pudgy, weak-faced dipshit.
When I was in high school, my best friend G-Boner was one of those pro-John Cusack girls. This may be partially due to her extreme 80s fetish (I think she still wears checkered Vans to this day). She ALWAYS wanted to watch Say Anything, I'd always protest, and I was not only treated to numerous viewings of this dumb movie, but numerous replays of its soundtrack in the tape deck of her '85 Celica as well. She cut out a picture of him as Lloyd Dobler lifting that boom box over his head and taped it to the cover of her TI-82 graphing calculator. I'd often have to restrain myself from smashing her graphing calculator cover because I could practically hear the Peter Gabriel issuing forth from it. If some obnoxious, lovesick beta male who I'd sent packing was squatting outside my window blasting "In Your Eyes," which has the dubious distinction of being both one of the cheesiest and most irritating love songs of all time, up at me when I was trying to cope with my life's entire anal retentive plan being disrupted (ie: masturbate in peace), I'd get out my thirty-ought and make that bitch dance the hell off my property. Grow a dick, have some damn dignity, and learn how to take rejection like a man, Lloyd Dobler! It might look cute in a movie, but that blasting-the-hokey-love-song-outside-the-window-of-the-chick-who-dumped-you looks desperate, pathetic, and mildly stalkerish in real life. That's grounds for alerting local law enforcement, not a committed relationship.
Since the only time John Cusack deviates from portraying characters who are variations on the theme of Lloyd Dobler are all those godawful PG-13 horror movies (no tits, no gore, no point), I have yet to see him in a movie role that I liked. Grosse Point Blank was fucking stupid, and John Cusack as what Lloyd Dobler would be like if he grew up to be a hit man was completely unconvincing. Obviously, I have not sat through all of High Fidelity, because the five minutes I did see made me want to bludgeon myself with the remote control. America's Sweethearts...SHA RIGHT. So far, his best work was in Con Air, and considering the only good things about that movie were "Johnny 23" the serial rapist (hilarious) and the multitude of scenes featuring Nicolas Cage's mullet greasily silhouetted against a giant explosion, that isn't saying much.
Ladies, wake up. John Cusack is always coming across as a pathetic loser, and there's nothing particularly sexy or charming about that. Quit going to see his movies, so he'll quit getting work! Dude needs to just go home and listen to "Rock the Casbah" and disappear.
Labels: celebrities, Daily Douchebag, intentional buffoonery, movies
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Daniel Radcliffe
DOB: July 23, 1989 (Today he's LEGAL!)
Occupation: Harry Potter, naked actor, groupie aficionado
Hometown: Fulham, London, England
Current residence: some swanky flat in London
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I've been going on and on about Harry Potter's hotness over the last year, at least since pictures of him naked in Equus started showing up around the internets. As of today, I can now discuss this without the fear that Chris Hansen might show up with a sheaf of incriminating chat transcripts (if only I had Daniel Radcliffe's IM handle) and a camera crew ready to share my depravity with all of Dateline's audience. Harry turns 18 today, and thus stops being totally kewl, and starts being totally legal.
As evidence of his legal adult status, today he takes the reins of his $41.1 million dollar fortune (thus making him one of the richest teens in the U.K.), although he insists it's not a big deal, since rather than go "buy a massive sportscar collection," he says he spends most of his money on books. BOOKS! Be still my geeky heart.
Plus, he said awhile back that he has zero problems with bitches who want to bang him just because he's Harry Potter, so long as they don't call him "Harry" during the act. It works out just fine for him because he's not looking for an exclusive girlfriend and is ready to enjoy his young adulthood. I'm sure I could restrain myself from calling him "Harry" and teach him a thing or twelve about what to do with his uncircumcised wand. I've got ten years of experience,
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Harry Potter, hot dudes, kewlness, sex
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Mischief managed
Harry Potter dies!
JUST KIDDING. I'm not telling if he does or doesn't. I've forbidden myself from discussing any spoilers from the book for at least a week, since not everyone is as fast a reader as myself, nor is everyone geeky enough to set aside an entire day and a half to read all 759 glorious pages of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. After a week, I'm going to talk about it to my heart's content, because if you can't get it all down in that time, then you're not a big enough HP fan to warrant protection from spoilers. I'm not going to be that asshole who was probably running around outside the bookstore at midnight in June 2005 hollering, "Snape kills Dumbledore! Snape kills Dumbledore!," but if your number one priority isn't reading HP and the DH within a week, then you don't care enough to have it seriously ruined for you once I start bragging about how many of predictions were correct (and a lot of them were, right down to Neville Longbottom's deft use of a Venemous Tentacula in battle).
From my judgment, most of New York City now has this book in its possession. On Friday night, I got together with FalloniusMonk and JerseyGirl to pre-funk for our trip to the Lincoln Center Barnes and Noble. We knew this was going to be crazy, so we reserved some books ahead of time. JerseyGirl lives right by there, so she stopped by early in the evening to check out the wristband situation, and was told that we would have a separate line which would expedite our getting our hands on the book. We decided not to show up until 12:10, because we were drinking and had to finish our beers.
Once we got there, where exactly our special reserved book VIP line began was unclear. All we could see was a gigantic line wrapping all the way around the block. We all found an employee in a robe outside who gave us wristbands and directed us to the "shorter" reserved line. I realized quickly that this reserved line was not remotely short, and I was already bored. So first, we cut in front of this kid who was the Muggle equivalent of the teenage Severus Snape: greasy, long-haired, and full of smoldering vitriol. He looked a lot like this douchebag:
Muggle Snivellus tried to get our attention to bitch at us with a feeble but snotty "excuse me." We ignored him. He persisted, "EXCUSE ME, there's a line."
"Yeah, and we just got in it," I replied, giving him a challenging look. Fifteen-year-old loser getting his Harry Potter by himself versus drunken Razzy crossing her arms and exuding I-dare-you-to-fuck-with-me,-son bitchy vibes isn't even a contest, so he just started grumbling to himself. However, I realized that our position in the line was still going to get us checking out our books by around 2:30 a.m. More cutting in line was necessary.
I have used the "pretend to be confused and rightfully deserving of your illicitly-acquried spot in line" strategy of line-cutting to great effect in New York. It was taught to me by my friend Dulap Vara at a Giants game one time, when I was too drunk to wait in the long line for buses from the Meadowlands back to Port Authority. "Let's just go blend into the front of the line as they're getting on the bus. That's how we do it in India," he said. We just walked inconspicuously to the front of the line and merged into the crowd boarding the next bus, and were back at Port Authority in 20 minutes. India style works like a charm.
I've done this several other times, like when I went to see Capote and when I didn't want to get stuck in the back of St. Patrick's on Easter at mass one year, and it works beautifully. People will usually notice and get pissed about your cutting, but if you just look at them like THEY'RE crazy and you have every right to be there, the worst that will happen is they'll grumble about it to their friends. They never actually get you thrown out of line, because most people are pussies who don't like confrontation. If you have the "What, motherfucker?" attitude necessary to pull it off, this cutting technique has a very high success rate. Also, when there are large crowds, you can easily escape anyone who is trying to get you in trouble for line-cutting by blending in with the mob. It's so effective.
So our line was at the point where it wrapped around the front of the line leading into the store. The store doorman was about to usher in a new flock of people at the front of the line, and I seized the opportunity. "Fortune favors the bold," I declared (yes, that's the stupid tagline from the shitshow of a movie known as Alexander, but it has a nice ring to it and in this situation it was an appropriate rallying cry), and led my posse alongside the line going into the store, only to merge into it at the very front. A group of teenagers in full Gryffindor regalia behind us began muttering mutinously and I said loudly, "Hey guys, I'm pretty sure we're still in the same line we've been waiting in all night, right? I think this is the line for the people with bracelets." The doorman nodded his assent, and I gave myself a mental high-five for once again orchestrating a successful India style cutting strategy.
"Okay, go!" the doorman said. "Go! Go! GO!" He ushered us in, and the teenagers behind us stopped caring as we were encouraged to not walk but RUN down a literal red carpet, complete with fake paparazzi snapping pictures and people cheering us on to "GO BUY THAT BOOK! GET IT NOW! GO!!!!!!!! YES! HARRY POTTER! GO! GO! GET IT!" I was a little dazed. I bought my copy and was out in less than five minutes. Even FalloniusMonk's order was quickly handled, and she bought a copy for everyone she knew and literally left that place with two gigantically heavy bags full of HP and the DH.
Since we saved so much time at the bookstore getting our copies, FalloniusMonk, JerseyGirl, and myself decided to wait just a little bit to start reading them, and bought a few six-packs instead. We should have all started reading because we're all big Harry Potter dorks. However, because we're also badass line-cutting rockstars who trimmed two hours of bored waiting off our Harry Potter-acquiring schedule, we drank and then went out for cheeseburgers. We are the coolest Harry Potter nerds ever.
From my judgment, most of New York City now has this book in its possession. On Friday night, I got together with FalloniusMonk and JerseyGirl to pre-funk for our trip to the Lincoln Center Barnes and Noble. We knew this was going to be crazy, so we reserved some books ahead of time. JerseyGirl lives right by there, so she stopped by early in the evening to check out the wristband situation, and was told that we would have a separate line which would expedite our getting our hands on the book. We decided not to show up until 12:10, because we were drinking and had to finish our beers.
Once we got there, where exactly our special reserved book VIP line began was unclear. All we could see was a gigantic line wrapping all the way around the block. We all found an employee in a robe outside who gave us wristbands and directed us to the "shorter" reserved line. I realized quickly that this reserved line was not remotely short, and I was already bored. So first, we cut in front of this kid who was the Muggle equivalent of the teenage Severus Snape: greasy, long-haired, and full of smoldering vitriol. He looked a lot like this douchebag:
Muggle Snivellus tried to get our attention to bitch at us with a feeble but snotty "excuse me." We ignored him. He persisted, "EXCUSE ME, there's a line."
"Yeah, and we just got in it," I replied, giving him a challenging look. Fifteen-year-old loser getting his Harry Potter by himself versus drunken Razzy crossing her arms and exuding I-dare-you-to-fuck-with-me,-son bitchy vibes isn't even a contest, so he just started grumbling to himself. However, I realized that our position in the line was still going to get us checking out our books by around 2:30 a.m. More cutting in line was necessary.
I have used the "pretend to be confused and rightfully deserving of your illicitly-acquried spot in line" strategy of line-cutting to great effect in New York. It was taught to me by my friend Dulap Vara at a Giants game one time, when I was too drunk to wait in the long line for buses from the Meadowlands back to Port Authority. "Let's just go blend into the front of the line as they're getting on the bus. That's how we do it in India," he said. We just walked inconspicuously to the front of the line and merged into the crowd boarding the next bus, and were back at Port Authority in 20 minutes. India style works like a charm.
I've done this several other times, like when I went to see Capote and when I didn't want to get stuck in the back of St. Patrick's on Easter at mass one year, and it works beautifully. People will usually notice and get pissed about your cutting, but if you just look at them like THEY'RE crazy and you have every right to be there, the worst that will happen is they'll grumble about it to their friends. They never actually get you thrown out of line, because most people are pussies who don't like confrontation. If you have the "What, motherfucker?" attitude necessary to pull it off, this cutting technique has a very high success rate. Also, when there are large crowds, you can easily escape anyone who is trying to get you in trouble for line-cutting by blending in with the mob. It's so effective.
So our line was at the point where it wrapped around the front of the line leading into the store. The store doorman was about to usher in a new flock of people at the front of the line, and I seized the opportunity. "Fortune favors the bold," I declared (yes, that's the stupid tagline from the shitshow of a movie known as Alexander, but it has a nice ring to it and in this situation it was an appropriate rallying cry), and led my posse alongside the line going into the store, only to merge into it at the very front. A group of teenagers in full Gryffindor regalia behind us began muttering mutinously and I said loudly, "Hey guys, I'm pretty sure we're still in the same line we've been waiting in all night, right? I think this is the line for the people with bracelets." The doorman nodded his assent, and I gave myself a mental high-five for once again orchestrating a successful India style cutting strategy.
"Okay, go!" the doorman said. "Go! Go! GO!" He ushered us in, and the teenagers behind us stopped caring as we were encouraged to not walk but RUN down a literal red carpet, complete with fake paparazzi snapping pictures and people cheering us on to "GO BUY THAT BOOK! GET IT NOW! GO!!!!!!!! YES! HARRY POTTER! GO! GO! GET IT!" I was a little dazed. I bought my copy and was out in less than five minutes. Even FalloniusMonk's order was quickly handled, and she bought a copy for everyone she knew and literally left that place with two gigantically heavy bags full of HP and the DH.
Since we saved so much time at the bookstore getting our copies, FalloniusMonk, JerseyGirl, and myself decided to wait just a little bit to start reading them, and bought a few six-packs instead. We should have all started reading because we're all big Harry Potter dorks. However, because we're also badass line-cutting rockstars who trimmed two hours of bored waiting off our Harry Potter-acquiring schedule, we drank and then went out for cheeseburgers. We are the coolest Harry Potter nerds ever.
Labels: epic geekery, FalloniusMonk, Harry Potter, JerseyGirl, librophilia, nerd alert
Friday, July 20, 2007
VOTE FOR SMITH!
Gawker is having a contest to decide which august institution deserves the title of "America's Most Annoying Liberal Arts College," and guess who's alma mater is on the short list of candidates? OF COURSE Smith is in the running.
Having attained a "baccalaurealum in artibus" degree at what my diploma calls "Collegii Smithensis" (seriously, they broke out the Latinese to class it up, ensuring that it stays buried beneath my sex toys, passport, and condom stash in my "stuff I can't lose" drawer), my reasons are myriad for believing that it is the clear winner. However, Gawker only scratched the surface by describing Smith simply as "lesbians and the LUGS that love them." Again, I have catalogued Smith's wealth of irritation extensively.
So PLEASE go to Gawker and vote for Smith. Smith is MUCH more annoying than Bard, Bennington, Brown (given the honorary status of liberal arts college), Hampshire, Kenyon, Oberlin, Reed, Sarah Lawrence, Vassar, or Wesleyan. We produced both Gloria Steinem AND Sylvia Plath AND Nancy Reagan! We are not a girls' school, but a women's college! And if you're a Razzy Hater, you'll probably have no problem voting for Smith for producing me! Smith cornered the damn market on annoying. Go vote for it!
THE POLLS ARE OPEN! WTF-Smith got demoted from the list? That's a fucking travesty! No wonder I think Gawker is a stupid website. I agree that Evergreen State College should make the list, but COME ON! Smith is annoying as hell! Well, go write-in Smith and in lieu of that, J-Sexy says vote for Bard's "Hos on the Hudson".
Having attained a "baccalaurealum in artibus" degree at what my diploma calls "Collegii Smithensis" (seriously, they broke out the Latinese to class it up, ensuring that it stays buried beneath my sex toys, passport, and condom stash in my "stuff I can't lose" drawer), my reasons are myriad for believing that it is the clear winner. However, Gawker only scratched the surface by describing Smith simply as "lesbians and the LUGS that love them." Again, I have catalogued Smith's wealth of irritation extensively.
So PLEASE go to Gawker and vote for Smith. Smith is MUCH more annoying than Bard, Bennington, Brown (given the honorary status of liberal arts college), Hampshire, Kenyon, Oberlin, Reed, Sarah Lawrence, Vassar, or Wesleyan. We produced both Gloria Steinem AND Sylvia Plath AND Nancy Reagan! We are not a girls' school, but a women's college! And if you're a Razzy Hater, you'll probably have no problem voting for Smith for producing me! Smith cornered the damn market on annoying. Go vote for it!
THE POLLS ARE OPEN! WTF-Smith got demoted from the list? That's a fucking travesty! No wonder I think Gawker is a stupid website. I agree that Evergreen State College should make the list, but COME ON! Smith is annoying as hell! Well, go write-in Smith and in lieu of that, J-Sexy says vote for Bard's "Hos on the Hudson".
Labels: down with OPB (other people's blogs), Dumb Smith bitches, intentional buffoonery, internet domination, lezbollah
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Khia
Real Name: Khia Simone Finch Chambers
DOB: November 8, 1970
Occupation: Rapper, self-proclaimed "Queen of the South", advice columnist
Hometown: Tampa, Florida
Current residence: Still Tampa, Florida
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Khia had a hit song a few years back that you may remember called "My Neck, My Back." I always found that song amusing because Khia's tone throughout the song was so blase and bored, considering the lyrics focus almost entirely on cunnilingus and rim jobs. I thought it was really funny that she could say lines like "lick it now, lick it good, suck that pussy just like you should...my neck, my back, lick my pussy and my crack" in much the same way one would recite a shopping list or the itemized deductions on a tax return. Khia's self-appointed status as "Queen of the South" has yet to be validated, since to date "My Neck, My Back" remains her only hit single. Apart from inspiring the sublime Todd "Too $hort" Shaw to write a song called "My Dick, My Sack" to equalize what he clearly felt was a one-sided plea for oral ("I know you ladies pop that pussy so quick,but now it's time to make sure you suck this dick, wavin' yo hands all up in the air, better recognize when you see a real player"), Khia hasn't done much besides talk all sorts of shit about her nemeses Katrina Le'verne "Trina" Taylor and Angela "Jacki-O" Kohn, on the basis that they too have declared their monarchic sovereignty over the southeastern U.S.
Khia may have taken Trina's advice, because she got a gig as Hood Magazine's resident advice columnist, providing kernels of wisdom about paternity tests, relationships, and careers.
Tough love is indeed what Khia provides. I guess she's a lot better at giving than taking advice, though, because I'm sure at some point someone told her to hike up those saggy sweater puppies with a bra! I'm glad she's got natural tits, but her girls are practically flopping on the table. Anyway, Khia's breasts are beside the point, because her advice transcends them. It is right on the fucking mark.
To Leshel, a young lady involved with an older, married man, Khia asks, "that's all it takes to get in your panties is a joy ride and some shoes?" and advises Leshel, "love yourself, hoe. Hello?!"
To Jason, a guy who took issue with Khia's disrespecting men who frequent gentlemen's clubs, she responds, "everybody don't hang out in strip clubs but there are a lot of pimps, hoes, tricks, simps, lames, drug dealers, perverts, stalkers, niggas cheating on they bitch, bitches cheating on they niggas, fucking, head giving, trappin, flossing, frontin, snitches, bitches, undercover cops watching, haters robbing, non-rapping ass niggas, and thugs in the strip club." Then she continues to say that strip clubs are fine so long as you understand they are a breeding ground for all the aforementioned ne'er-do-wells and not the place to meet a respectable lady (like her), noting "shit, I love strip clubs too, but I didn't meet my nigga there. Come on now, if the Air Forces don't fit, don't put them on."
To Mike, a man with a long-time girlfriend who isn't putting out, she says "this sounds like some Jerry Springer shit" and notes that something isn't quite right with this situation. Or in Khia's words, "something in the milk ain't clean." Dear God.
To CBF AKA Lil' Momma, a woman who is scared to tell her incarcerated boyfriend's that the rims were stolen off the car he let her use while indisposed at the expense of Dade County, Khia cuts right through the bullshit: "Now let's just keep it hooD--did you sell the rims?"
To Fucked in the HooD, a guy who may or may not have knocked up his sketchy, condom hole-piercing fuck buddy, she advises him to ask around: "Do you know her fucking any other niggas you know, the streets don't lie." Then she tells him to suck it up and cope until the paternity results come back, because "you'll look like a real ass nigga who stepped up to the plate and she'll look like a nasty whore that needs Muarry (Povich) to find her REAL baby daddy...You Are Not The Father!!!"
To B13 Boo, a woman with a deadbeat boyfriend she calls Dumbass, Khia advises her to get a job and set a good example. "Get ya own shit and then a nigga is gonna have to step his game up or get gone cause you only gonna attract a real nigga once you doing it big for yourself...Yall both better be out there getting money." Then she notes, "Damn I hate a lazy thug."
And finally, my favorite. To Curios Georgette, a woman who thinks she might be a lesbian, Khia advises a threesome. First, according to Khia, Georgette doesn't want to get the reputation of being "called all kinds of dike bitches," and second, "after all that pussy sucking and bumping, you and that chick gone be glad your man was there." Having done some pussy-bumping myself, I can attest that at least in my case, that's true. Khia, however, takes it to the next level with the quote of the century: "I mean, come on, who wants plastic dick when you can have the real thing hot and hard?" **Snicker**
I had no idea Khia was such a sage. Her tits might look like giant sacks of warm silly putty and her rap career might be stalled like a beater car, but I think she may be the greatest advice giver of all time. Seriously. She's encouraging people to use common sense, love themselves, take responsibility for their actions, and be respectful, but she's doing so in a way that is much, MUCH more compelling than any bullshit Dear Abby or Ann Landers ever could sling. I think I have to buy a subscription to Hood Magazine. I require the wisdom of the Thugmisses oracle on the regs.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Dirrty Dirrty, I LOVE IT, rap
Daily Douchebag: Nobody
I'm not writing a Daily Douchebag today because I'm in such an impossibly good mood I actually can't think of anything or anybody that makes me mad. This may be a first.
Why the glass-half-full outlook, you ask? In short, this:
YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I'm so excited I could be the fourth Pointer Sister, because not only can I not hide it, but I'm about to lose control and I KNOW I like it. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows drops tonight, and if you want to see me getting my drunken geeky swerve on while waiting in line with ten thousand other people in Gryffindor gear, stop on over to the Lincoln Center Barnes and Noble (67th and Broadway, I think) around midnight. And then get out of my way, because I plan to go home and bury my face in it like a hot lay's crotch.
Why the glass-half-full outlook, you ask? In short, this:
Labels: Daily Douchebag, Harry Potter, I LOVE IT, librophilia
Thursday, July 19, 2007
I take back what I said about Vh1
I just read on Dlisted that Vh1 cancelled out the stroke of brilliance that was signing Miss Cleo up for "The Surreal Life" by also giving Cisco Adler his own reality show. I guess they were trying to satisfy the Law of Conservation of Celebreality: For every awesome show, there has to be an opposing equally appalling bad show. Like, for "Rock of Love" (rules), Vh1 also has "Scott Baio is 45 and Single" (sucks--Charles is no longer in charge). Anyhoodles, in case you don't know who Cisco Adler is, he's a douchebag who fronts some shiteous band called Whitestarr, and whose main claim to fame has been porking Paris Hilton, Kimberly Stewart, and Mischa Barton. In other words, he's a talentless hack with herpes who fucks talentless hacks with herpes. Oh, and he also has RIDICULOUS balls. 
I'm sure it will make for 15 weeks of compelling television, except by "compelling television" I mean "television that I would rather watch twelve hours of 'The Nick and Jessica Variety Hour' repeats than suffer through." As if determined to prove that this show will be even more repllant than his nutsack, Cisco is now trying to promote the show by showcasing his razor-sharp wit, which basically consists of him talking about what a true playa for life he fancies himself as:
I also don't know how he defines "dope songs." Since I've never had any doubt that WhiteSTARR is nowhere NEAR as awesome as WhiteSNAKE, I never listened to any of their music. You can go to their MySpace if you are deeply masochistic and care to listen to such "dope songs" as "Beverly Hills Hotel", a song about his favorite spot up the above "hot bitches." You can also notice that Cisco claims to be from Compton, where his rich kid ass (his father is a famous record producer) would likely get carjacked, bitchslapped, and filled with several caps (if the world is lucky).
Anyway, Cisco Adler is a fucktard. Check minus, Vh1! I do NOT approve!
I'm sure it will make for 15 weeks of compelling television, except by "compelling television" I mean "television that I would rather watch twelve hours of 'The Nick and Jessica Variety Hour' repeats than suffer through." As if determined to prove that this show will be even more repllant than his nutsack, Cisco is now trying to promote the show by showcasing his razor-sharp wit, which basically consists of him talking about what a true playa for life he fancies himself as:"I have some sort of gift with women . . . I tend to find myself dating famous women sometimes. I just write dope songs and fuck hot bitches."I don't know how he defines "hot bitches," but my description of his crab-infested snatches of choice (poor little rich girls famous for driving drunk, getting blitzed on Vicodin and coke and making up racist lyrics to "It's a Small World", spreading VD through Hollywood like a raging wildfire, and generally irritating the shit out of all humanity) would not involve the word "hot." Based on just appearance alone, Paris looks like the bastard child of Popeye and a blow-up doll, Kimberly Stewart is about as fug as they get, and Mischa Barton looks like she is developmentally disabled. This "gift" with women must only apply to the most vapid, wasted, undiscerning women on the planet, because surprisingly I DON'T get totally wet looking at Cisco, whose personal style can be described as part-Jesus, part-Charles Manson, part-plumber, part-dirty hippie...in other words, ALL abhorrent. About the only kind of thing I'd want to do to his naked body is to determine the mass of his balls. I bet they feel like they're filled with lead! They look really heavy.
Anyway, Cisco Adler is a fucktard. Check minus, Vh1! I do NOT approve!
Labels: assholes, gross, oh the horror, overcompensation, TV, Vh1, you're ugly
Call her now resurrected
After many seasons of waiting, Vh1 has decided to put together a new season of "The Surreal Life." This show intrigues me because there's nothing more fun than watching a bunch of desperate-to-retain-their-long-gone-fame people forced to live together for a few months. I was even more excited when I saw that this crazy bitch just joined the cast! YES!
You may remember Miss Cleo, the self-proclaimed "mystical shaman from Jamaica" from her ubiquitous TV commercials in the late '90s, during which she would show herself on the phone playing solitaire with her tarot cards and crystal ball giving psychic readings (aka committing fraud) to people who would exclaim, "Oh my God, you're amazing, you're so right!". She would also include such strong selling points as "Why pay $4.99 a minute for psychic advice when you can get it for less than a dollar a minute?!" and "You'll never call another 900 number again!" Then she'd wrap it all up by reminding people that "The cards never lie!" and exhorting the viewer to "CALL ME NOW!" Sadly, Miss Cleo's commercials were pulled from the air when she was sued and fined by the FCC for deceptive advertising practices, but luckily a record of her genius survives on YouTube:
Not only does the addition of disgraced TV psychic really spice up the show, but it will drive J-Sexy crazy. Youree "Miss Cleo" Harris is an even bigger embarrassment to Jamaicans than the guys who starred in Cool Runnings, the book How Stella Got Her Groove Back, or Kingston's bronze medal for its world's-third-highest murder rate. I can almost guarantee that there's going to be a lot of "disgosting"'s and "ridicolos"-es flying around lab today when I advise her of Miss Cleo's latest career move. Even worse for J-Sexy is the fact that Miss Cleo, despite her patois renderings of the imperative "call me now!", is a POSER JAMAICAN! She was born in Los Angeles! Then she moved to the P-N-Dub, a place that I can attest suffers from a severe dearth of Jamaicans in general, although she faked bone cancer and fled a few years later to avoid her creditors. She based Miss Cleo's accent on a character she once portrayed in a one-woman play she put on in Seattle. What a faker.
I can't wait for her to be on "The Surreal Life," though, if only to see what she's like when cooped up with the likes of Dabney Coleman and Carrot Top. For one thing, she's a confidence artist of the highest and most shameless order, so you know she's going to start some shit. She's totally cool with being a has-been because she never was a real star in the first place, unless you define stardom as ignonimy. For another, reading between the lines of her Wikipedia page, I discovered that Miss Cleo is a big old lesbo! That's right...she produced a play with "her partner" called For Women Only: A Celebration of Love, Life, and Healing. If I can't immediately shout "LESBIAN!" after hearing that piece of information, I should just tear up my Smith diploma right now. Sure enough, as I scrolled down her Wikipedia, I learned that she actually came out in an interview with The Advocate. The fact that she came out is all the proof I need to know that this chick isn't Jamaican. J-Sexy has told me MANY times about the notorious homophobia rampant in Jamaica. Then again, being a lesbian is probably least of the reasons why Miss Cleo wouldn't dare show her face in Jamrock. Anyway, her dyke status is going to do nothing but add another dimension of awesomeness to interactions in the Surreal Life household.
I think now I can safely make, in the words of DJ Unk, some predictions like they Cleo's. I can make at least one, anyway: "Surreal Life 7" is going to be FUCKING AWESOME just because this hooker is on it. Between this, "The World Series of Pop Culture" with Pat Kiernan, "Rock of Love," and the upcoming "I Love New York 2," Vh1 is the official leader in trashy reality television that totally rules. I can't wait.
Not only does the addition of disgraced TV psychic really spice up the show, but it will drive J-Sexy crazy. Youree "Miss Cleo" Harris is an even bigger embarrassment to Jamaicans than the guys who starred in Cool Runnings, the book How Stella Got Her Groove Back, or Kingston's bronze medal for its world's-third-highest murder rate. I can almost guarantee that there's going to be a lot of "disgosting"'s and "ridicolos"-es flying around lab today when I advise her of Miss Cleo's latest career move. Even worse for J-Sexy is the fact that Miss Cleo, despite her patois renderings of the imperative "call me now!", is a POSER JAMAICAN! She was born in Los Angeles! Then she moved to the P-N-Dub, a place that I can attest suffers from a severe dearth of Jamaicans in general, although she faked bone cancer and fled a few years later to avoid her creditors. She based Miss Cleo's accent on a character she once portrayed in a one-woman play she put on in Seattle. What a faker.
I can't wait for her to be on "The Surreal Life," though, if only to see what she's like when cooped up with the likes of Dabney Coleman and Carrot Top. For one thing, she's a confidence artist of the highest and most shameless order, so you know she's going to start some shit. She's totally cool with being a has-been because she never was a real star in the first place, unless you define stardom as ignonimy. For another, reading between the lines of her Wikipedia page, I discovered that Miss Cleo is a big old lesbo! That's right...she produced a play with "her partner" called For Women Only: A Celebration of Love, Life, and Healing. If I can't immediately shout "LESBIAN!" after hearing that piece of information, I should just tear up my Smith diploma right now. Sure enough, as I scrolled down her Wikipedia, I learned that she actually came out in an interview with The Advocate. The fact that she came out is all the proof I need to know that this chick isn't Jamaican. J-Sexy has told me MANY times about the notorious homophobia rampant in Jamaica. Then again, being a lesbian is probably least of the reasons why Miss Cleo wouldn't dare show her face in Jamrock. Anyway, her dyke status is going to do nothing but add another dimension of awesomeness to interactions in the Surreal Life household.
I think now I can safely make, in the words of DJ Unk, some predictions like they Cleo's. I can make at least one, anyway: "Surreal Life 7" is going to be FUCKING AWESOME just because this hooker is on it. Between this, "The World Series of Pop Culture" with Pat Kiernan, "Rock of Love," and the upcoming "I Love New York 2," Vh1 is the official leader in trashy reality television that totally rules. I can't wait.
Labels: celebrities, crazies, hot chicks, I LOVE IT, J-Sexy, media whores, ridiculous absurdity, TV, Vh1
Daily Douchebag: Pagans in England
DOB: N/A
Occupation: being whining, pain-in-the-ass hippies; people against goodness and normalcy
Hometown: ?
Current Residence: Cerne Abbas, Dorset, England
Douchebaggery: I've always hated PAGANs since I saw Dragnet as a young child. People Against Goodness and Normalcy, who are secretly led by a neo-conservative incarnation of Captain Von Trapp? Sign me NOT UP. Plus, when I saw it, I was still a virgin, and did not want to be fed to any damn giant boa constrictor, no matter how fun their caprine dress-themed parties looked.
I also knew that "pagans" were what scholars called the mythological religions of the Greeks and Romans, and I was down with Edith Hamilton as a kid (and now). Also, I knew that some pagans (and some fickle, faithless Israelites) worshiped golden calves named Ba'al from the book of Exodus. I figured that paganism outside the context of late-'80s spoof movies was more or less a fun part of ancient and Biblical history to learn about. When I got to Smith College, however, it occurred to me that there are a lot of dumb bitches who still practice paganism, and they are UPTIGHT AS HELL when it comes to their religion being slighted.
I am not religiously intolerant. I tolerate other faiths just fine, as I'm not for jailing, torturing, and/or executing people for worshiping wherever, whenever, and whatever they wish. However, I reserve my right to make fun of them. I make fun of my own religion all the time, so I'm basically just treating people of other faiths the way I would treat myself. I've openly wished for the Pope's death and compared him to a child molester, for God's sake! At Smith, I just told the stupid pagans to ask the goddess for a fucking sense of humor the next time they gather round the pentagram for a chant. In reply, they probably went back to Lamont House or wherever and tried to send some bad curse-flavored energy my way. Dumb bitches.
Anyway, I think pagans now are funny, because they're basically a bunch of dumb hippies who like to make up their religion as they go along. So they borrow a little vague theology from the Druids, from the Celts, from the Greeks, and from the Romans, add a dash of Eastern mysticism, put on some blousey muslin tunic (sometimes goth-themed--aka black and/or blood red--if they lean more to the wicca side of things), and go do drugs outside. The only thing that makes these unwashed losers any different from hippies is that they adulate spirits and nature rather than Widespread Panic or Jerry Garcia. Like hippies, they never get high enough to laugh at themselves, though.
This week, to promote the upcoming Simpsons movie, what the BBC is calling a "doughnut-brandishing Homer Simpson" was emblazoned on a hill in Cerne Abbas near the chalk outline of the Cerne Abbas Giant. The Cerne Abbas Giant is a giant chalk outline of a naked dude with a raging hard-on holding a big phallic club. Its origins are unclear, but I can say for sure that a man drew it. Not surprisingly, this is regarded as a pagan fertility symbol:
To retaliate, the British pagans are going to do a fucking rain dance in hopes that the goddess will wash this blasphemy off the hillside. Publicizing beliefs that one can control the weather with dance is definitely going to bring them the credibility and respect that they are demanding. I suppose a rain dance is better than the alternative, though. Pagans get crazy sometimes (just ask the virgin Connie Swail). I wouldn't be surprised if, when the rain doesn't come, they resort to more drastic measures, like building a Wicker Man and trying to trick Matt Groening into climbing up into it. It's past the summer solstice, but I bet the goddess is down for human sacrifice on other days too, especially when the sanctity of a false idol is being impugned.
Just send Sergeants Friday and Streebek over there to put a boot in the back of some loser's goat leggings, already. They've infiltrated PAGAN circles before and successfully stamped out their bullshit plots to rid the world of cool shit. They've got the undercover thing down.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, Dear God, international intrigue, oh the horror, threats, TV
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Nick Nolte
DOB: February 8, 1941
Occupation: Actor, model (!-according to his Wikipedia page), wannabe homeless man
Hometown: Omaha, Nebraska
Current Residence: Malibu, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Okay, it's not really fair to say that I actually really want to hit Nick Nolte for his "hotness", although I did put that old picture of him above up to show that indeed he could clean up pretty well, at least if "cleaning up well" means looking like a 70s porn star swirling a glass of Franzia chablis (hey, it turns ME on). He also doesn't look too bad as an intense coach getting ready to yell at Shaq on the Blue Chips DVD cover, and appearing in that film shows he certainly has a sense of humor about himself, which is always an attractive quality. Nick Nolte looks busted as hell most of the time, but that's precisely why I want to do him. You know he doesn't give a fuck.
Nick Nolte is about as dedicated a drunk as I've ever seen, and he loves every minute of it. He's not acting like he should be ashamed. He was expelled from his first high school because he buried beer in the football field, then dug it up and drank it during practice (he played placekicker and thus had to find some way to pass the time). His love of the sauce became notorious once he hit Hollywood. Once Katherine Hepburn remarked that he had fallen into every gutter in town, causing him to retort, "I've got a few to go yet." He treats his alcoholism like a degree from Harvard: it's his pride and joy, and he is entirely unashamed.
Really, you have to have a complete lack of humility to go out drinking and GHB-ing rocking this style:
Just the other day, Nick was caught napping on the floor of the Kauai airport after his flight was delayed. You have to be REALLY fucked up to sleep on an airport floor. Those floors are uncomfortable even to sit on. They're so hard I wonder if they're made partly of diamond. But he just settled down to sleep off the mai tais he probably drank on the way to catch his flight, like any random bum I might see on an A train:
I can ignore the Mad Dog 20/20-soaked vagrant wrapping because deep inside, Nick Nolte's got it going on. He doesn't give a damn about anything, and I bet that it's because he's got a fucking Burmese python between his legs. He's probably one of the hottest lays in Hollywood. Give him a Viagra for his whiskey dick and a couple rails of meth and he probably fucks like a rabid tiger. I'm dead serious. In my experience, it's always the guys who you think are going to absolutely suck in bed (drunk, ugly, old, badly dressed, badly groomed) who wind up blowing your mind. They don't care, so they don't try too hard. Most guys--especially the pretty ones--all are trying to overcompensate for whatever (usually a slender and/or short penis), at the expense of my orgasm. It's the guys who don't need to care, and who extend that unabashed nonchalance to the rest of their personalities who are the hottest, most uninhibited lays on the planet. I'm definitely getting that vibe from Nolte. I don't care if he is thirty-seven years older than me and appears indigent...I'd put a bag over his head (or in the absence of a bag, do him doggystyle, reverse cowgirl, or wheelbarrow) so as to keep his appearance from turning me off and probably have the best sex of my life. For real.
Labels: alcoholism, celebrities, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, movies
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
TERRORIST ATTACK IN MIDTOWN MANHATTAN!!!!!!!!!!
Just kidding. It was totally an accidental steam pipe explosion. I just wanted to be an asshole and counteract the idiotic newscasters who are saying every five minutes, "It's NOT terror, I repeat, this is NOT terrorism," in between giving us reports about how firefighters might have been exposed to asbestos and how Blackberries all over Midtown aren't working. Obviously I understand why many New Yorkers immediately think "TERROR! TERROR!" whenever something like this goes down:
However, now that it's established that Al Qaeda's not behind this one, I'm more interested in the particulars of how this is going to make life for all of us here in Nieuw Amsterdam a royal pain in the ass. I'm lucky in the sense that I don't live on the 4, 5, or 6 trains and thus won't have to deal with what I suspect are going to be some righteous subway service disruptions. Also, I'm lucky in that I don't live on the East Side and I don't drive, because Old Faithful appears to be erupting in the middle of the intersection at 41st and Lex. I shudder to think of the tongue-lashing the car service driver is going to get for the inevitable traffic issues which will undoubtedly make LL Cool Jew's grandmother go ballistic the next time she's in the city and is trying to get from her apartment on the Upper East Side to Nobu in Tribeca. I would feel great sympathy for my friend Rack, who lives right around there, but she always walks everywhere, so I imagine she'll be able to avoid the Midtown East geyser. Unfortunately, I am suffering the pre-empting of "Jeopardy!" and "Access Hollywood" with breaking news reports that constantly reiterate (along with reminders that this was NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES an act of terrorism) that nobody knows jack shit about what is going on. Now they are giving us an annotated history of Consolidated Edison's installation and maintenance of the city's steam pipe infrastructure, and an ode to the destructive power of hot, pressurized water vapor.
I have a theory that this is not an accident or a terrorist attack. Anyone who saw Transformers and/or spends lots of time on trashy Hollywood gossip websites knows that J.J. Abrams, this huge fucking nerd who produces "Lost", is capitalizing on people's gullibility with a cryptic trailer for his as-yet-unnamed movie. Well, unnamed except for its CODE NAME, which is Cloverfield (and on a completely unrelated aside, isn't that the part of Houston where Lil' Flip lives? I swear to God that's where the concept for the T.I.-hating Clover Gs came from). The internets are predictably intrigued, and every dork online is opining about the trailer and how awesome it is: "OMG IT LOOKS SO AMAZING LOL!" and "HAND HELD CAMERAS?! WHAT AN AMAZING CONCEPT!"
I disagree with those assessments. First, two hours of that shaky, poorly-lit action is more likely to make me throw up instead of gasp in awe. Second, this is not an amazing concept. It looks to me like a remake of Godzilla vs. Mothra by way of "Britney and Kevin:Chaotic." Much like everything else J.J. Abrams has done, it will probably be slow, confusing, and convoluted to the point of inducing boredom. I gave up on "Lost" last season, as the only thing I lost with it was my patience. It was entirely too many mystery blacklight maps, death prophecies, bizarre magnetic phenomena, and improbable advanced spinal surgery/hostage situations, and not nearly enough adequate explanations or scenes featuring Sayid the Iraqi Torturer running around looking like the hottest, sweatiest, most swarthily fuckable Republican Guardsman of all time. I get the feeling that Cloverfield (or whatever the hell it's non-code name is, which I suspect will be revealed on January 18, 2008) is going to be equally meandering and pointless, which is EXACTLY why I suspect something is amiss with this completely not terror-related steam pipe explosion.
J.J. Abrams just took it upon himself to blow up Lexington Avenue to promote this Cloverfield bullshit. You know he has explosion people that can make this happen. So when you can't get a damn cab back uptown the next time one of your friends unfortunately decides to have a birthday party on the East Side because 41st Street looks like Yellowstone fucking national park, don't blame Con Ed or Osama. Blame J.J. Abrams, because this is the worst viral marketing stunt in history. And then throw his ass into solitary at Gitmo.
I have a theory that this is not an accident or a terrorist attack. Anyone who saw Transformers and/or spends lots of time on trashy Hollywood gossip websites knows that J.J. Abrams, this huge fucking nerd who produces "Lost", is capitalizing on people's gullibility with a cryptic trailer for his as-yet-unnamed movie. Well, unnamed except for its CODE NAME, which is Cloverfield (and on a completely unrelated aside, isn't that the part of Houston where Lil' Flip lives? I swear to God that's where the concept for the T.I.-hating Clover Gs came from). The internets are predictably intrigued, and every dork online is opining about the trailer and how awesome it is: "OMG IT LOOKS SO AMAZING LOL!" and "HAND HELD CAMERAS?! WHAT AN AMAZING CONCEPT!"
I disagree with those assessments. First, two hours of that shaky, poorly-lit action is more likely to make me throw up instead of gasp in awe. Second, this is not an amazing concept. It looks to me like a remake of Godzilla vs. Mothra by way of "Britney and Kevin:Chaotic." Much like everything else J.J. Abrams has done, it will probably be slow, confusing, and convoluted to the point of inducing boredom. I gave up on "Lost" last season, as the only thing I lost with it was my patience. It was entirely too many mystery blacklight maps, death prophecies, bizarre magnetic phenomena, and improbable advanced spinal surgery/hostage situations, and not nearly enough adequate explanations or scenes featuring Sayid the Iraqi Torturer running around looking like the hottest, sweatiest, most swarthily fuckable Republican Guardsman of all time. I get the feeling that Cloverfield (or whatever the hell it's non-code name is, which I suspect will be revealed on January 18, 2008) is going to be equally meandering and pointless, which is EXACTLY why I suspect something is amiss with this completely not terror-related steam pipe explosion.
J.J. Abrams just took it upon himself to blow up Lexington Avenue to promote this Cloverfield bullshit. You know he has explosion people that can make this happen. So when you can't get a damn cab back uptown the next time one of your friends unfortunately decides to have a birthday party on the East Side because 41st Street looks like Yellowstone fucking national park, don't blame Con Ed or Osama. Blame J.J. Abrams, because this is the worst viral marketing stunt in history. And then throw his ass into solitary at Gitmo.
Labels: assholes, movies, NYC, terror
Grandpa Ben would be proud
My Aunt Jesus once told me that my Grandpa Ben was rolling over in his grave in consternation about the content of my website. I have always doubted that, considering not even the cabalistic intrigue of the "Unsolved Mysteries" episode he was watching in his girlfriend's Puyallup double-wide on the night his soul journeyed up to Valhalla (or wherever the guys go who happen to die in a La-Z-Boy listening to the soothing gravelly sound of Robert Stack's voice rather than by being slain in glory on the battlefield) was sufficient to revive him. I think, though, that if he were to be resurrected and shown how to use the internet (which didn't exist when he died in 1991, and his ass did NOT use Prodigy) and waited for him to read my website through his one good eye, he'd at least be proud of my reminding the world of this unimpeachable fact:
NORWEGIANS HAVE BEEN KICKING DANISH ASS SINCE THE 11TH CENTURY AND CONTINUE TO DO SO TODAY!
As usual, something's rotten in the state of Denmark, or in this case, on a boat produced in the state of Denmark. Apparently the Sea Stallion, this replica Viking ship sailing from Denmark to Scotland to study "the seamanship of early Norsemen" got stalled in the North Sea due to calm weather conditions. Presumably the seamanship of early Norsemen was superior to the seamanship of extant Norsemen, especially Danish museum curators and history professors on summer break from the University of Copenhagen. They actually quit because of calm seas. I had no idea that Horse Latitudes existed up there, but apparently on either side of the equator isn't the only place you can experience a ship-stopping lack of wind. Since they were a bunch of unseaworthy wimps, the Danes running things decided to call for a tow to Scotland rather than just crack open a seal bladder full of gammeldansk and pass the time reading some Hans Christian Andersen or something while they waited for the breeze to pick up. I mean, jeez, it probably would have only taken a few days. It's not like they were subsisting on weevils and getting scorbutic.
In addition to their intolerance for pleasant, leisurely sailing conditions and their distaste for doing any actual rowing, Captain Carsten Fvid said that supposedly a couple sissy boys on the ship were also cold. Welcome to Scand-rock, bitches! Did you think you were going on a breadfruit mission to Tahiti or something and forget your Helly Hansen parkas? Some Vikings you are! Throw on a damn reindeer skin, nut up, and quit your bitching, you pussies! If the toughness of your modern sailors is any indication, it's no wonder Grendel busted into your Danish mead hall and went bowling with your ancestors' decapitated skulls without breaking a sweat. You all would have been wiped out if Beowulf didn't show up in the nick of time to save you with some clutch Goth barbarian asskickery.
This kind of quitting on a calm sea bullshit never would happen if Sig "The Hotness" Hansen was skippering the Sea Stallion instead of this Carsten Fvid jackass:
Unlike Carsten "The Boy Who Cried Hypothermia" Fvig, Sig wouldn't have allowed a little lack of wind or some nipply temperatures stop him from barking at the crew to man the oars and row that shit all the way to the North Pole. He'd just stoically zip up his Northwestern jacket and fire up a Marlboro with a contemptuous smirk on his face, holler at the crew to put their backs into it, and try to plot a course that would enable him to swing by the Bering Sea and fill the Sea Stallion's tanks with Red Gold. In fact, he probably wouldn't even have to get the crybaby Danish crew to row. Sig's presence probably generates such blistering heat that a hurricane would spontaneously form and provide the much-needed wind to blow him all the way to New York, much less Scotland. That's how Norwegian seamen do it. Leif Erikson (who was also Norwegian in spite of being born in Iceland...his father was Erik the Red, a Norwegian explorer, outlaw, and all around barbarian pimp who is singlehandedly credited with providing the genetic basis for the redheaded phenotype commonly observed in Ireland) did just that when he discovered North America and settled there with his hot wife Thorgunna around the time the original Sea Stallion was sinking to the bottom of the fjord at Roskilde in the mid 10-00's. Why did the Sea Stallion sink, you ask? Because the pussified Danes at the helm couldn't hold off a fierce fleet of bloodthirsty Norwegians, that's why! They didn't have cannons or gunpowder then, but I'm sure the turn-of-the-millenium Norwegian navy managed to find an effective way for bringing the hammer of Thor down upon those pathetic second-class Vikings. When will the History Channel make an hour-long "Viking Tech" show so that I can watch this sublime moment in my cultural history reenacted in low-budget CGI?
My grandfather might not be proud of my many drunken or depraved exploits (although he'd probably understand; when he died we took a stack of nudey mags as tall as the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree out of his house), but he'd be beaming with nationalistic pride at my Norwegian smack talking. Grandpa Ben had a clever bit of verse for belittling all of his Scandinavian rivals, such as "ten thousand Swedes ran through the weeds, chased by one Norwegian." I can't remember what he said about those fruitcakes from Denmark, but I know that he'd like ALL of what I just said. It would almost be enough to mitigate the sting of the Danes' electing a Prime Minister named Rasmussen (a move I'm pretty sure the Danish people conspired as a nation to make solely to besmirch my family name and piss me off). Here's to you, Grandpa Ben! If your surviving heirs hadn't thrown away your (completely rank from ten years of constant wear) Sons of Norway baseball cap after you passed on to the halls of Odin, I'd put it on and tip it to pay honor to our people's mighty history.
SKOAL! Stolt a bli Norsk!
NORWEGIANS HAVE BEEN KICKING DANISH ASS SINCE THE 11TH CENTURY AND CONTINUE TO DO SO TODAY!
As usual, something's rotten in the state of Denmark, or in this case, on a boat produced in the state of Denmark. Apparently the Sea Stallion, this replica Viking ship sailing from Denmark to Scotland to study "the seamanship of early Norsemen" got stalled in the North Sea due to calm weather conditions. Presumably the seamanship of early Norsemen was superior to the seamanship of extant Norsemen, especially Danish museum curators and history professors on summer break from the University of Copenhagen. They actually quit because of calm seas. I had no idea that Horse Latitudes existed up there, but apparently on either side of the equator isn't the only place you can experience a ship-stopping lack of wind. Since they were a bunch of unseaworthy wimps, the Danes running things decided to call for a tow to Scotland rather than just crack open a seal bladder full of gammeldansk and pass the time reading some Hans Christian Andersen or something while they waited for the breeze to pick up. I mean, jeez, it probably would have only taken a few days. It's not like they were subsisting on weevils and getting scorbutic.
In addition to their intolerance for pleasant, leisurely sailing conditions and their distaste for doing any actual rowing, Captain Carsten Fvid said that supposedly a couple sissy boys on the ship were also cold. Welcome to Scand-rock, bitches! Did you think you were going on a breadfruit mission to Tahiti or something and forget your Helly Hansen parkas? Some Vikings you are! Throw on a damn reindeer skin, nut up, and quit your bitching, you pussies! If the toughness of your modern sailors is any indication, it's no wonder Grendel busted into your Danish mead hall and went bowling with your ancestors' decapitated skulls without breaking a sweat. You all would have been wiped out if Beowulf didn't show up in the nick of time to save you with some clutch Goth barbarian asskickery.
This kind of quitting on a calm sea bullshit never would happen if Sig "The Hotness" Hansen was skippering the Sea Stallion instead of this Carsten Fvid jackass:
Unlike Carsten "The Boy Who Cried Hypothermia" Fvig, Sig wouldn't have allowed a little lack of wind or some nipply temperatures stop him from barking at the crew to man the oars and row that shit all the way to the North Pole. He'd just stoically zip up his Northwestern jacket and fire up a Marlboro with a contemptuous smirk on his face, holler at the crew to put their backs into it, and try to plot a course that would enable him to swing by the Bering Sea and fill the Sea Stallion's tanks with Red Gold. In fact, he probably wouldn't even have to get the crybaby Danish crew to row. Sig's presence probably generates such blistering heat that a hurricane would spontaneously form and provide the much-needed wind to blow him all the way to New York, much less Scotland. That's how Norwegian seamen do it. Leif Erikson (who was also Norwegian in spite of being born in Iceland...his father was Erik the Red, a Norwegian explorer, outlaw, and all around barbarian pimp who is singlehandedly credited with providing the genetic basis for the redheaded phenotype commonly observed in Ireland) did just that when he discovered North America and settled there with his hot wife Thorgunna around the time the original Sea Stallion was sinking to the bottom of the fjord at Roskilde in the mid 10-00's. Why did the Sea Stallion sink, you ask? Because the pussified Danes at the helm couldn't hold off a fierce fleet of bloodthirsty Norwegians, that's why! They didn't have cannons or gunpowder then, but I'm sure the turn-of-the-millenium Norwegian navy managed to find an effective way for bringing the hammer of Thor down upon those pathetic second-class Vikings. When will the History Channel make an hour-long "Viking Tech" show so that I can watch this sublime moment in my cultural history reenacted in low-budget CGI?
My grandfather might not be proud of my many drunken or depraved exploits (although he'd probably understand; when he died we took a stack of nudey mags as tall as the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree out of his house), but he'd be beaming with nationalistic pride at my Norwegian smack talking. Grandpa Ben had a clever bit of verse for belittling all of his Scandinavian rivals, such as "ten thousand Swedes ran through the weeds, chased by one Norwegian." I can't remember what he said about those fruitcakes from Denmark, but I know that he'd like ALL of what I just said. It would almost be enough to mitigate the sting of the Danes' electing a Prime Minister named Rasmussen (a move I'm pretty sure the Danish people conspired as a nation to make solely to besmirch my family name and piss me off). Here's to you, Grandpa Ben! If your surviving heirs hadn't thrown away your (completely rank from ten years of constant wear) Sons of Norway baseball cap after you passed on to the halls of Odin, I'd put it on and tip it to pay honor to our people's mighty history.
SKOAL! Stolt a bli Norsk!
Labels: Aunt Jesus, Deadliest Catch, epic geekery, family matters, History Channel, PWT, Razzification, seamen
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Dayle Hinman
DOB: September 21, 1952
Occupation: criminal profiler, resident Court TV sexpot
Hometown: North Palm Beach, Florida
Current Residence: wherever in Florida there's an unsolved murder going down, and when there's not, Melbourne Beach.
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: LL Cool Jew and I were discussing the sad demise of Court TV the other night, and reminiscing about our fond memories of it. At one point, LL Cool Jew was completely obsessed with "Forensic Files" (as was I to a lesser degree, because I like anything that makes actual science--and not that ridiculous instantaneous mass spectrometry and sequence analysis nonsense they do on "CSI"--look useful and cool). I think her Friendster page from that era actually included the line "No date? Saturday Night Solution" in the "TV Shows" section of her profile. My favorite part of the Saturday Night Solution was BY FAR this show called "Body of Evidence: From the Case Files of Dayle Hinman."
Dayle Hinman is a retired FBI criminal profiler who got a show because she's interesting (intrepid woman in male-dominated field kicking ass and looking hot) and because she's every serial killer/rapist's worst nightmare. Once the local cops in Gatortown, Florida or wherever are stumped by a string of vicious crimes, she breaks out her completely unnecessary magnifying glass for style points and gets on the case. She's awesome at her job, too. She'll look at crappy, small town forensics department-caliber crime scene Polaroids and pick out a random shoe in the background, then say, "Based on the casual placement of that shoe, you can tell that the perpetrator is an albino male, approximately 45-48 years of age, whose favorite pasttimes are attending monster truck shows and eating spaghetti." Then, just for the hell of it, she'll throw on some shorts and go for a jog or grab her Glock and hit the gun range for a little firearms training. Retirement from doing anything but televised consulting for podunk police departments doesn't mean she should slack on the straight-shooting, and the target practice also gives her an opportunity to show off her always impeccable French manicure. Then she'll finish up her leisure activities and check up on the cops, who managed to find the suspect. She'll show up, take one look at him, and tell the cops exactly where to find the damning evidence that secures his inevitable conviction. "Judging by his history of violence against women and his arrogant disregard for our ability to notice his discarded shoe at the crime scene, I think it's likely that you'll find the murder weapon hidden beneath the leopard-printed seat of his '81 Chevy LUV truck." Sure enough, the cops do, and Dayle heads to her warehouse of cabinets to file yet another closed case.
Dayle might be a little old and weathered, but I don't care. She's fierce, and you know she thinks she is incontrovertibly hot stuff. That's probably why she managed to excel as a ball-busting, triathlon-running, Ted Bundy-catching stud of a FBI agent back in the days when most of the women were probably there to make coffee and take dictation. She does her thing and she doesn't care, and that is why she rules her profession (and probably everything else in her life). Every girl could learn a thing or two about self-confidence and asskickery from Special Agent Hinman. She's about as special as they get.
A reason why I love her even more is that picture #2 on her CourtTV photo gallery is captioned, "After the shoot, Dayle enjoys natural light and sparkling water." Dayle drinks Natty Light?! I knew that bitch was trash like me. She rules.
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot chicks
Daily Douchebag: Michael Vick
DOB: June 26, 1980
Occupation: Atlanta Falcons quarterback, Fantasy scourge, EVIL DOG ABUSER
Hometown: Newport News, Virginia
Current residence: According to the grand jury indictment, somewhere in Surry County, Virginia
Douchebaggery: I didn't need to hear that Michael Vick was somehow involved in a "conspiracy to travel in interstate commerce in aid of unlawful activities and to sponsor a dog animal fighting venture" to think he was a fucktard. I could have pointed out his inconsistent and often pathetic passer ratings, his pointed lack of leadership skills, and the gross exaggeration of how "exciting" it is to watch Michael Vick. I will give it to him that he is very fast, and when he's having a good day, he can make for some good SportsCenter highlights. However, anyone who wants to go on and on about how consistently awesome it is to watch him must have been out shoe-shopping with his girlfriend on the Sundays the Vick spent the game fumbling the ball and getting sacked. I've also heard enough about how his arm is a cannon or rocket or ICBM or whatever type of impressive exploding projectile springs to mind; if his arm's so fucking great, he might directing its awesome power at one of his wide receivers occasionally. Even his damn Wikipedia page promulgates this misconception of Michael Vick as an invigorating burst of electrifying thrills: "Adding to Vick's exciting image, he stated after the 2004 season that he wouldn't cut his hair until he won a Super Bowl." Last time I checked that lying bitch's hair looked like this, and I'm confident that not only hasn't he abstained from trimming his braids for the last three years, but that he hasn't won a fucking Super Bowl, either.
If anyone ever wanted to dispute Michael's critics who have accused him of being a bad leader with a lack of integrity, they need look no further than the facts surrounding his indictment by a federal grand jury. When his dog farm got busted, Michael Vick played like he didn't know anything about why there was bloody carpet everywhere, a fighting pit, and 66 mutilated, understandably mean pit bulls on the property. He distanced himself from Tony Thomas, Quanis Phillips, and Purnell Price, saying they were just some unspecified long-lost relatives who took advantage of his generosity and blah blah-selling out his co-conspirators-blah. As it turns out, the feds have plenty of paperwork proving that not only were these gentlemen his business partners, they apparently shared various duties of acquiring dogs, providing them with no food and unlimited viciousness lessons, and executing them for not "testing well." Someone should stomp on him with lethal force next week when Falcons training camp starts and he throws the first of this season's many incomplete passes that are only barely in the vicinity of Alge Crumpler. See how he likes it. The prosecution also has a bunch of witnesses who will testify that they saw Vick placing $40,000 bets on the dog abuse. It must really help take out one's pussified sensitivity to criticism from a bunch of guffawing ex-NFL players and scrawny balding sports journalists by forcing a bunch of helpless puppies to bite each other to death via torture and starvation tactics.
It's highly appropriate that Michael's operation was called "Bad Newz Kennels," because I think "Bad Newz" basically sums up the press this asshole is going to be getting for at least the next year. On a more practical note, I'd say he just went from "ill-advised" to "damn near untouchable" on the Fantasy draft tip. Good riddance.
Labels: assholes, crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, doggity style, NFL football
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
The Leaky Internets
I saw Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix on Saturday, and it represents the only time that something so prominently involving children made me so deliriously, outrageously, ludicrously excited. I went to see it in IMAX 3-D with a cadre of geeky friends, and it was completely mind-blowing. Apart from the fact that I still have major issues with Helena Bonham Carter's cackling, I'll-get-you-my-pretty interpretation of Bellatrix Lestrange, I about pissed myself when Dumbledore smoked some Dark Lord ass in the Ministry of Magic lobby. I also noticed a strange watery sensation around my eyes when Bellatrix committed cousin-icide against Sirius, and realized I was dangerously close to actually crying. I was surprised because usually I reserve my spare tears for movies where tragedy befalls dogs. Anyway, the movie clearly shook me to my core, and filled me with an insatiable lust for MORE HARRY POTTER. As soon as the movie was over, FalloniusMonk, Rack, TheOldGuy, and myself made our way to the nearby Barnes and Noble to reserve our copies of book seven. We plan on staking that shit out--complete with covert liquor--to get our books Saturday at midnight (and I plan on staying up all night reading it). However, it seems that braving a crowded store full of children in Gryffindor colors might be unnecessary, because the book has LEAKED ON THE INTERNET!
I was initially alarmed, because I didn't want to download a leaked copy only to find out that it's just the end of the book. As tempted as I am to find out who dies (please, God, don't let it be hot-ass Hermione...she's too smart to die!), I don't want to read the end of the book until I've read the previous seven hundred odd pages. I've got to know how Harry manages to find and destroy all of Voldemort's other Horcruxes first! Besides, I've also made my predictions about what's going to happen in this book, and I have to see every last one validated. These predictions are as follows:
-Harry realizes that Kreacher is hoarding the locket Horcrux stolen by R.A.B.--aka Regulus Black--right under his nose in the damn Hogwarts kitchen, and then breaks his usual tradition of tolerating how fucking annoying house elves are by shoving his holly and phoenix feather wand straight up that godfather-betraying, mudblood-hating bigot's ass.
-Hermione finally gets it on with Ron Weasley, a scene which, given how long the sexual tension has been building between those two, will probably result in them having dirty, ass-smacking, furniture-toppling, owl-mediated ruckus-causing, back-scratching, hematoma-inducing, shrieking orgasm-producing sex on top of Ron's Chudley Cannons bedspread back at the Burrow while Harry, Ginny, and whichever other Weasleys are around are out helping Mrs. Weasley degnome the garden.
-Petunia Dursley finds out she also has magical powers, is nearly killed by Uncle Vernon who fears the neighbors will find out, escapes on the Knight Bus, and finds solace at Hogwarts, where she is appointed the most incompetent Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher in the school's millenium-long history.
-Voldemort storms the Ministry of Magic with a shitload of giants and dementors, and Percy Weasley dies fleeing like the pussy he is. Rufus Scrimgeour then conspires with Rita Skeeter to figure out a way to blame it all on Harry.
-Neville Longbottom gets offed by a well-placed Avada Kedavre curse performed by Narcissa Malfoy (because Draco was supposed to do it, but once again got cold feet), but not before he takes out Bellatrix Lestrange and avenges the permanent catatonic state she put his parents into by torturing them with the Cruciatus Curse. He manages to kill her by harnessing his adept skills at herbology and feeding her to the Venemous Tentacula in Hogwarts greenhouse three, Little Shop of Horrors style.
-Bill Weasley turns into a werewolf on his wedding night and bites the shit out of his irritating French bride Fleur. She survives, and thanks to her Veela heritage, is the most alluring werewolf ever.
-Hagrid dies. Homeboy can hold his own with dragons, acromantulas, hippogriffs, blast-ended skrewts, and giants, but his pink umbrella/covert broken wand is no match for the Imperius Curse placed on him by the former Ministry executioner MacNair that makes him stroll into the Forbidden Forest and stand still while talking mad shit to the angry Centaurs living in there.
-Harry, after spitting some seriously Schwarzenegger-esque vengeance-themed smack talk in Parseltongue to Voldemort's snake (and probable Horcrux) Nagini, kills her, turns her into an extremely pimped-out set of boots, and suddenly is the most popular piece of ass at Hogwarts in spite of the fact that practically everyone he knows ends up dead.
-Tonks discovers that werewolvery, like most blood-borne diseases, can be spread in other ways besides biting when she and Remus Lupin do the nasty in the coat closet at number twelve, Grimmauld Place after a particularly late, oak-matured mead-saturated Order of the Phoenix meeting. She and Fleur start a support group for women who have been infected with an incurable chronic disease by their male partners.
-Madam Rosmerta gets sent to Azkaban, not because she tried to deliver the cursed necklace or the poisoned mead to Dumbledore (she was Imperiused by Malfoy, so that's excusable), but because she's such a damn cocktease that finally the men of Hogsmeade had enough and successfully lobbied the Wizengamot to convict her on the basis of being too sexually distracting to be legal. She is, however, released after the men of Hogsmeade all realize they're now stuck hanging out at Madam Puddifoot's when the Hog's Head gets closed due to health code violations. Madam Rosmerta may be stacked and not putting out (I suspect it's because she likes the snatch, and you can't blame a hot bitch for that), but the closing of the Three Broomsticks is a far more terrible fate than coping with her unavailability for sex.
-Harry gets so sick of hearing about how he has his mother's eyes that he gets purple colored contacts. He goes back to the glasses once he realizes how fucking stupid and unnatural he looks.
-Snape reveals that he's not on anyone's side, and that he killed Dumbledore to get back at him for refusing to promote him out of the Potions dungeon for all those years. Then he moves to Capri and forces Draco Malfoy to swim around naked with him all the time like one of Tiberius's minnows. Consequent to his depraved instincts and the ensuing years of sexual abuse, Draco grows up to be the wizarding world's equivalent of Caligula.
These are just the main predictions I've made. I've got a lot more that I will spare you, because they are indicative of the depth to which my Harry Potter insane nerdiness goes. What it all comes down to is that I couldn't handle reading the leaked part of the book if it just skipped to the big finish without proving to me how right I am about what's going to happen. Besides, reading the end of a book without the rest is like an orgasm without the preceding sex. It's fine and enjoyable, but it would be better with a little context. So fuck the leaked Harry Potter...the wait will make the pleasure of the real thing all the more enjoyable.
I was initially alarmed, because I didn't want to download a leaked copy only to find out that it's just the end of the book. As tempted as I am to find out who dies (please, God, don't let it be hot-ass Hermione...she's too smart to die!), I don't want to read the end of the book until I've read the previous seven hundred odd pages. I've got to know how Harry manages to find and destroy all of Voldemort's other Horcruxes first! Besides, I've also made my predictions about what's going to happen in this book, and I have to see every last one validated. These predictions are as follows:
-Harry realizes that Kreacher is hoarding the locket Horcrux stolen by R.A.B.--aka Regulus Black--right under his nose in the damn Hogwarts kitchen, and then breaks his usual tradition of tolerating how fucking annoying house elves are by shoving his holly and phoenix feather wand straight up that godfather-betraying, mudblood-hating bigot's ass.
-Hermione finally gets it on with Ron Weasley, a scene which, given how long the sexual tension has been building between those two, will probably result in them having dirty, ass-smacking, furniture-toppling, owl-mediated ruckus-causing, back-scratching, hematoma-inducing, shrieking orgasm-producing sex on top of Ron's Chudley Cannons bedspread back at the Burrow while Harry, Ginny, and whichever other Weasleys are around are out helping Mrs. Weasley degnome the garden.
-Petunia Dursley finds out she also has magical powers, is nearly killed by Uncle Vernon who fears the neighbors will find out, escapes on the Knight Bus, and finds solace at Hogwarts, where she is appointed the most incompetent Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher in the school's millenium-long history.
-Voldemort storms the Ministry of Magic with a shitload of giants and dementors, and Percy Weasley dies fleeing like the pussy he is. Rufus Scrimgeour then conspires with Rita Skeeter to figure out a way to blame it all on Harry.
-Neville Longbottom gets offed by a well-placed Avada Kedavre curse performed by Narcissa Malfoy (because Draco was supposed to do it, but once again got cold feet), but not before he takes out Bellatrix Lestrange and avenges the permanent catatonic state she put his parents into by torturing them with the Cruciatus Curse. He manages to kill her by harnessing his adept skills at herbology and feeding her to the Venemous Tentacula in Hogwarts greenhouse three, Little Shop of Horrors style.
-Bill Weasley turns into a werewolf on his wedding night and bites the shit out of his irritating French bride Fleur. She survives, and thanks to her Veela heritage, is the most alluring werewolf ever.
-Hagrid dies. Homeboy can hold his own with dragons, acromantulas, hippogriffs, blast-ended skrewts, and giants, but his pink umbrella/covert broken wand is no match for the Imperius Curse placed on him by the former Ministry executioner MacNair that makes him stroll into the Forbidden Forest and stand still while talking mad shit to the angry Centaurs living in there.
-Harry, after spitting some seriously Schwarzenegger-esque vengeance-themed smack talk in Parseltongue to Voldemort's snake (and probable Horcrux) Nagini, kills her, turns her into an extremely pimped-out set of boots, and suddenly is the most popular piece of ass at Hogwarts in spite of the fact that practically everyone he knows ends up dead.
-Tonks discovers that werewolvery, like most blood-borne diseases, can be spread in other ways besides biting when she and Remus Lupin do the nasty in the coat closet at number twelve, Grimmauld Place after a particularly late, oak-matured mead-saturated Order of the Phoenix meeting. She and Fleur start a support group for women who have been infected with an incurable chronic disease by their male partners.
-Madam Rosmerta gets sent to Azkaban, not because she tried to deliver the cursed necklace or the poisoned mead to Dumbledore (she was Imperiused by Malfoy, so that's excusable), but because she's such a damn cocktease that finally the men of Hogsmeade had enough and successfully lobbied the Wizengamot to convict her on the basis of being too sexually distracting to be legal. She is, however, released after the men of Hogsmeade all realize they're now stuck hanging out at Madam Puddifoot's when the Hog's Head gets closed due to health code violations. Madam Rosmerta may be stacked and not putting out (I suspect it's because she likes the snatch, and you can't blame a hot bitch for that), but the closing of the Three Broomsticks is a far more terrible fate than coping with her unavailability for sex.
-Harry gets so sick of hearing about how he has his mother's eyes that he gets purple colored contacts. He goes back to the glasses once he realizes how fucking stupid and unnatural he looks.
-Snape reveals that he's not on anyone's side, and that he killed Dumbledore to get back at him for refusing to promote him out of the Potions dungeon for all those years. Then he moves to Capri and forces Draco Malfoy to swim around naked with him all the time like one of Tiberius's minnows. Consequent to his depraved instincts and the ensuing years of sexual abuse, Draco grows up to be the wizarding world's equivalent of Caligula.
These are just the main predictions I've made. I've got a lot more that I will spare you, because they are indicative of the depth to which my Harry Potter insane nerdiness goes. What it all comes down to is that I couldn't handle reading the leaked part of the book if it just skipped to the big finish without proving to me how right I am about what's going to happen. Besides, reading the end of a book without the rest is like an orgasm without the preceding sex. It's fine and enjoyable, but it would be better with a little context. So fuck the leaked Harry Potter...the wait will make the pleasure of the real thing all the more enjoyable.
Labels: Harry Potter, I LOVE IT, librophilia, Razzification
They fight with their dick and their nuts
Holy shit, I love Alexyss K. Tylor. I don't know why T.I. is Bankhead's most beloved native son when they've got Alexyss to brag about. I'm ready to move to Hotlanta just so I can see her show on public access. I could watch this hot bitch waving around her giant dildoes for extra emphasis as she discusses the internal "dick wars" that men apparently fight every day. Or something.
I have never before or since seen a woman who is so sagacious that I actually have no idea what she's talking about. All I know is that she's the kind of crazy that makes a hell of a lot of sense. I could listen to Alexyss spout wise gems like "The evil dick--the EVIL twin--is what turns the dick on and makes the nuts flare out...and tighten and EXPAND" and "dick stabs pussy in the back" all damn day long.
Seriously, if I ever need to go back to a therapist, fuck a shrink. I'm going to call up Alexyss for a dose of vagina power. It would be hard to feel depressed when your therapist is waving around those dicks like a pair of nunchakus while she helps you develop coping skills. Fuck Freud and Kinsey. Alexyss K. Tylor is probably the greatest scholar of sexual psychology to have ever lived. Y'all better recognize.
I have never before or since seen a woman who is so sagacious that I actually have no idea what she's talking about. All I know is that she's the kind of crazy that makes a hell of a lot of sense. I could listen to Alexyss spout wise gems like "The evil dick--the EVIL twin--is what turns the dick on and makes the nuts flare out...and tighten and EXPAND" and "dick stabs pussy in the back" all damn day long.
Seriously, if I ever need to go back to a therapist, fuck a shrink. I'm going to call up Alexyss for a dose of vagina power. It would be hard to feel depressed when your therapist is waving around those dicks like a pair of nunchakus while she helps you develop coping skills. Fuck Freud and Kinsey. Alexyss K. Tylor is probably the greatest scholar of sexual psychology to have ever lived. Y'all better recognize.
Labels: Alexyss K Tylor, hilarious shit, hot chicks, sex, TV
How to blow off some steam, Bennett
I have officially discovered the greatest website on all of the internets except mine. This website is so awesome it almost defies description. It's like when Hera tricked the guileless Selene into asking Zeus to show himself in his full glory, and ultimately ends up burned to a charred pile of cremains. Like Selene, I had no idea what I was getting into clicking on this link, but now I feel like I belong in an urn or an ashtray. This website is JUST THAT AWESOME. It is, of course, Commandofans.com, a fansite devoted exclusively to the hotness that is Commando.
I stumbled upon it accidentally while I was looking for pictures of Cooke to compare to Bobby Lashley, and ended up spending almost an hour reading up about it. I've seen Commando probably more than thirty times, and I own the DVD. It rules. In case you're not up on Arnold Schwarzenegger's cinematic efforts, let me just briefly explain the plot. Basically, Arnold Schwarzenegger, as Colonel John Matrix, is a retired special ops-type commando genius who lives in a remote mountain cabin with his daughter Jenny (Alyssa Milano). He and Jenny just chill, and do housework. Jenny makes sandwiches and Arnold rips stumps out of the earth with his bare hands and just gratuitously carries heavy shit like tree trunks and large pieces of steel. His idyllic lifestyle of heavy lifting and training his daughter to hate communists is shattered when some goons show up and kidnap Jenny. They spirit her away and insist that Arnold kill the president of Val Verde, a fictional South American country. It seems that the democratically-elected president of Val Verde installed caused some problems (ie: ousting, loss of power) for a drug kingpin/military dictator General Arius, played by the guy who was Carla's husband on "Cheers." He then hired Bennett, a former co-worker of Arnold's who faked his death and is now freelancing as a mercenary, who recommends they coerce Arnold to break out his expert political assassination skills. They tell Arnold he won't get Jenny back until he gets back from his mission in Val Verde. Arnold calls their bluff, kills his escort with a well-placed spine-severing elbow to the face, and leaps from the landing gear of the ascending plane to Val Verde. Then he hooks up with Rae Dawn Chong, a stewardess and pilot trainee, who becomes his reluctant assistant as he kicks some henchmen ass to save Jenny. This involves beating the living daylights out of many people, righting an overturned banana yellow Porsche with his bare hands, breaking out of a paddy wagon via rocket launcher, suiting up with enough ordnance to outfit a small army to bust some ass in one of the greatest getting-equipped-with-military-hardware montages of all time, and delivering a whole lot of priceless one-liners. He lays waste to General Arius's compound (staffed by the most incompetent soldiers of all time), and then confronts his chain-mail vest-wearing nemesis Bennett. When the military actually shows up to help, Arnold has killed everyone and tells his former boss, General Kirby, that he's left nothing behind but corpses. "Only bodies," he states, as he leads Jenny and Rae Dawn Chong off into the sunset. God, Commando is so awesome.
Anyway, Commandofans.com captures this perfectly. The site has amazing quotes from Arnold analyzing the film:
My favorite part of Commandofans.com, though, was the gallery of fake movie posters about Bennett. Bennett is truly one of the most amusing bad guys in motion picture history, between his silly facial hair, his questionable fashion choices, and (in spite of claiming to fear Matrix because he's smart) his cocksure arrogance which is his ultimate downfall. I would gladly go see any of the fake, I-wish-they-were-real movies in the "Bennettspotting" gallery.
Having sat through all of Alien vs. Predator, I can confidently state that the plot of that film couldn't get any MORE absurd if it were called Alien vs. Predator vs. Bennett. Really, Bennett would have really lent some much-needed semi-intentional humor to it. He assuredly would have smashed the fuck out of them with any random crates or pallets conveniently laying around.
And Bennett makes a more convincing crusader than Orlando Bloom could ever hope to in his wildest dreams:
This inspires me far more to commit to the environment than anything Al Gore has ever done.
Although I know that Bennett did actually die trying to get Matrix, I would for sure buy a Bennett Cent album without thinking twice. I'd probably pre-order it.
And Schindler's List was boring and depressing, but I guarantee Bennett's List would have my full rapt attention. The premise of Schindler's List could only improve by incorporating dialogue that makes liberal use of the word "pissant."
You go out on the town, you have a few Electric Iced Teas with your old Green Beret buddies, and you lose your medieval body armor. What self-respecting mercenary wouldn't ask, "Dude, Where's My Chain Mail?"
If there's ever an epidemic of convoluted plots by drug lords, tyrannical military dictators, and hired guns to extort assassination services from retired military commandos, then don't blame Goser the Goserian. Blame Captain Bennett. I don't need Ray Parker, Jr. to tell me who to call.
Man, excepting RAZZY.org, Commandofans.com is the best website ever.
Anyway, Commandofans.com captures this perfectly. The site has amazing quotes from Arnold analyzing the film:
"In the beginning of this film, I play a loving gentle and understanding father to my daughter Jenny. I educate her and protect her; it's 180 degrees from the life I used to lead. Then she's kidnapped and I have to immediately snap back into the personality many associate with The Terminator and the Conan films. I become a fighting machine that will not stop until my objective is completed. The relationship with Cindy works as comic relief, and it adds another dimension to the character of Matrix. I did a lot of my own stunts in Commando, which I don't mind. I owe it to my fans because it's me they're coming to see. Maybe now, with computers, they can just add me in. But I don't think they have a big enough computer yet. What is it, a gigabyte? With these muscles, you're going to need a lot of those."It also has a lot of fun trivia (such as a section trying foolishly to estimate the vast number of deaths Arnold causes in the film), a historical account of the various coups troubling the People's Republic of Val Verde (little did I realize that the political struggles afflicting that nation would not be truly resolved until John McLain blew up that plane at the end of Die Hard 2: Die Harder), and a hilarious ranking of all the characters in the movie. In spite of my status as a true Arnold and Commando fan, I never realized that this movie had so much going on as to warrant an entire website about it. If only someone would now make a website devoted to Total Recall (getyourasstomars.com), Predator (ifitbleedswecankillit.com), or The Running Man (hehadtosplit.com), the internets would be complete. Sadly, these websites are all hypothetical and have yet to achieve the almost unbelievable genius of Commandofans.com.
My favorite part of Commandofans.com, though, was the gallery of fake movie posters about Bennett. Bennett is truly one of the most amusing bad guys in motion picture history, between his silly facial hair, his questionable fashion choices, and (in spite of claiming to fear Matrix because he's smart) his cocksure arrogance which is his ultimate downfall. I would gladly go see any of the fake, I-wish-they-were-real movies in the "Bennettspotting" gallery.
Having sat through all of Alien vs. Predator, I can confidently state that the plot of that film couldn't get any MORE absurd if it were called Alien vs. Predator vs. Bennett. Really, Bennett would have really lent some much-needed semi-intentional humor to it. He assuredly would have smashed the fuck out of them with any random crates or pallets conveniently laying around.
And Bennett makes a more convincing crusader than Orlando Bloom could ever hope to in his wildest dreams:
This inspires me far more to commit to the environment than anything Al Gore has ever done.
Although I know that Bennett did actually die trying to get Matrix, I would for sure buy a Bennett Cent album without thinking twice. I'd probably pre-order it.
And Schindler's List was boring and depressing, but I guarantee Bennett's List would have my full rapt attention. The premise of Schindler's List could only improve by incorporating dialogue that makes liberal use of the word "pissant."
You go out on the town, you have a few Electric Iced Teas with your old Green Beret buddies, and you lose your medieval body armor. What self-respecting mercenary wouldn't ask, "Dude, Where's My Chain Mail?"
If there's ever an epidemic of convoluted plots by drug lords, tyrannical military dictators, and hired guns to extort assassination services from retired military commandos, then don't blame Goser the Goserian. Blame Captain Bennett. I don't need Ray Parker, Jr. to tell me who to call.
Labels: down with OPB (other people's blogs), hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, movies, Razzification
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Bobby Lashley
DOB: July 16, 1976
Occupation: Professional wrestler
Hometown: somewhere in Missouri
Current residence: Wherever John Cena's ass is available to be summarily kicked
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I was flipping channels the other night and happened upon WWE Raw. I haven't been keeping up with my wrestling lately, and thought I'd watch a few minutes to see what storylines are going on these days, and see how the WWE is rebounding from the whole Chris Benoit bad publicity shitshow. I was immediately treated to the sight of my favorite thing about professional sports entertainment: a verbal altercation and braggadocio sesh, usually in some sort of extraordinarily contrived situation, to promote an upcoming pay-per-view event.
Apparently while he was signing some nonsensical vengeance contract, WWE Champion John Cena was viciously "speared" by Bobby Lashley, who then took Cena's blinged out spinner belt and paraded it around. This weekend they are competing in some pay-per-view match for the WWE title, so Raw staged some sort of mock candidate's debate in which John Cena feigned tears as a clever ruse to relax Bobby Lashley's taciturn vigilance, then advised him that he would be getting his ass kicked. Bobby Lashley rebuts by refusing to answer any questions, kicking over his podium, and inciting Cena to get physical with him. Eventually, Bobby Lashley goes over to kick the moderator's ass, causing Cena to comment, "Your aggression will be your downfall, Bobby Lashley." He then instructs Lashley to get his priorities straight and taunts him with the championship belt. Then viewers were treated to some intense nose-to-nose staring-based intimidation tactics, and another reminder that the truly interested viewer can watch them suplex each other to a bloody pulp at the Great American Bash on pay-per-view this weekend.
Bobby Lashley is a lot like the character Cooke from Commando, a man who doesn't say a word except to calmly, coldly state how badly he will destroy you (of course Cooke did that at his peril with Corporal Arnold "John Matrix" Schwarzenegger, who beat his skull in with a window full of very '80s frosted glass bricks and neon lights, but that doesn't really count since it's a proven fact that nobody can beat Arnold in a mortal asswhupping competition). Even when facing his death by impaling, Cooke faces down Matrix with some spare but nonetheless tough macho posturing, saying, "You scared, motherfucker? Well, you should be, because this Green Beret's going to kick your big ass." Excepting encounters with the Governator, Cooke owned everyone whose path he came across. On one occasion, in need of a car, he wanders into a Cadillac dealership. After sitting behind the wheel he stares at the sweet ride contemplatively, then turns to the salesman and says, "You know what I like best about this car? The price." Then he guns the engine, runs over the salesman, and drives right out of the dealership through the plate glass window. That's grand theft auto with some serious style. Bobby Lashley is much like this. He doesn't say a lot, but what he does is terrifying and brilliant. He just wants to pound everyone to bits at the slightest provocation, but do so with a quiet sense of cold and hardened style. Bobby Lashley and Cooke also look alike, and even have a similar tendency to make vehemently angry faces while engaged in some deadly serious wrassling.
Who needs to say much besides "You scared, motherfucker" when you can make faces like that? You can completely dominate the hell out of your opponent before a blow is even thrown with such accomplished and effective mean-mugging. In fact, Bobby Lashley's other signature move (besides the Spear) is called "the Dominator," a running tackle-type thing reminiscent of Rhyno's classic Gore move. He favors shirts that say DOMINATE over his massive pectoral muscles to remind everyone of his gimmick. He does indeed do some dominating.
Lashley had the distinctive privilege of being managed by Donald Trump when he was making guest appearances on WWE, and joined him in shaving Vince McMahon's head after he kicked McMahon's representative Umaga in a "Hair vs. Hair" match at WrestleMania 23. He is engaged in a feud with Booker T, who recently proclaimed himself "King Booker." Lashley thought so little of this ascent to monarchist rule that he Speared King Booker off his throne. I too would question the sovereignty of anyone whose court was comprised of people named Queen Sharmell, Finlay, and William Regal.
Another thing I like about Bobby Lashley is that he MAY be an alcoholic. He was once forcibly benched by a physician because of elevated liver enzymes. I choose to interpret that as evidence that he's a fan of his booze. Of course, it's more likely this is due to steroids, but I am a wishful thinker and prefer to imagine him loving his ethanol as much as I do.
If I had a spare $60 lying around and if I weren't planning on spending all of this upcoming weekend devouring Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, I might just watch this "Great American Bash" to see Bobby Lashley work his angry magic. Since that's not going to happen, I'll instead opt for watching Raw next week to see what happened. With any luck, Bobby will be rocking the WWE spinner belt to the chagrin and dismay of John Cena. Go Bobby Lashley! He can dominate me any time.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, ridiculous absurdity, wrasslin
Daily Douchebag: Dina Lohan
"Hey, Linds, can your boyfriend fix me up with some of that blow he videotaped himself snorting off busted hooker ass? I had a rough sesh at Sunset Tan today and could really use a pick-me-up."
Name: Donata Sullivan LohanNickname: White/Orange Oprah
DOB: ?
Occupation: coked-up stage mom and extreme media whore
Hometown: Somewhere on Strong Island
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: I was appalled to hear that Dina Lohan is getting her own reality show (on--what else?--the E! channel, champions of making tightly scripted and staged "reality" shows for the likes of Paris Hilton and Posh Spice). This woman is not only extremely annoying, she is a despicable human being. Every time she opens her fat mouth, you can count on two things: something idiotic is going to come out of it, and she got paid to talk. Like right after Lindsay went to rehab the second time, Dina was all over "Entertainment Tonight," giving them exclusives from her seat on the ET private jet that was previously reserved for transporting Howard K. Stern to and from the Bahamas while he still had his paws on Dannilynn. This woman will tell you how Lindsay's shit smells after a rough night at Les Deux if you pay her enough...she's that much of a media whore.
Dina is clearly a case of a stage mom acting out on her unrealized dreams of stardom vicariously through her daughter. She's always had delusions of grandeur. At one point she lied about understanding the pressures of stardom because of a stint as a Radio City Music Hall Rockette. The closest that bitch ever got to can-canning in the Christmas Spectacular is probably the drunken dance she treats the assembled Lohan clan to after one too many glasses of Christmas cheer. Now that Lindsay is famous, Dina is clearly literally riding her coattails into one depraved celebrity function after another. Now this overbearing stage mom behavior has been perpetuated and validated with this reality show bullshit.
On one hand, I'd like to see Dina acting crazy, because she probably does. However, I know the E! Channel's "reality" programming only too well, and much like "The Simple Life," Dina's show is going to be a series of rehearsed and zany situations that showcase her playful, appealing side. Also like "The Simple Life," it's going to suck to the point of insulting the viewers' intelligence, which is a tall order considering this is the E! channel. The E! channels viewers are so dumb they actually like to watch a celebrity news show hosted by Debbie Matenopolous, a woman so abysmally stupid that she was fired from "The View" for her vapid ditziness. Ugh. I hope Dina's shit gets cancelled before it even gets filmed. This woman needs to go the fuck away.
Labels: celebrities, Daily Douchebag, drugs, media whores
Monday, July 16, 2007
Not a contract I would be signing
HotLawyer tipped me off to this interesting document on The Smoking Gun. It seems that after he was arrested for charges of pimping, law enforcement officials discovered that his ho had signed this ironclad legal document:
The contract goes on for ten pages, in which it outlines all the terms and stipulations of the master-slave relationship, and also demonstrates that Master Drew--AKA Andrew Kobak--is without a doubt a huge loser of gigantic proportions. His contract assumes a great deal of faux legalese to give it an air of legitimacy as it explicitly details everything from Master Drew's right to tattoo, pierce, and brand his slave per his whim, proper positions the slave should assume for punishment ("the slave lays across the Master's lap to give him ready access to her tender ass cheeks"), appropriate clothing ("pantyhose are generally speaking an abomination and will not be worn by the slave without permission from the Master or at his specific request"), and the terms by which the slave is allowed to have an orgasm. He need not worry about that last part, because I cannot imagine for the life of me how Master Drew could bring a woman to climax given that he looks like this:
His ginormous double chin probably hangs lower than his fucking nutsack. I could not fathom what, besides being held at gunpoint or viciously extorted, would inspire a woman to sign such a contract with this goateed toad. If this fat asshole came at me with this "Slavery Contract", I'd first point out that such contracts are prohibited by the 13th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution (I'm assuming that applies to BDSM-themed sex slavery as well as its intended subject of the planter aristocracy's agrarian slave labor-based economy). I'd also seriously question the legitimacy of any legally binding document written in Monotype Corsiva or some similarly unprofessional font choice.
Granted, I probably have much higher self-esteem, employment prospects, and general life skills than the teenage hooker who actually signed this document, and that's a good thing because I'd make a horrible slave. For example, I'd strike out with the three "Duties of Servitude":
If Master Drew's copyrighted slavery contract managed to accomplish anything, it's probably ensuring that the dumb slave who signed it is going to get off on the prostitution charges she's facing. Now she can argue that she wasn't servicing dudes at $60 a pop (that's it?! I'd ask at least $500 if any of them looked anything like Master Drew, which I suspect they did) because she was trying to be a hooker, but because she was compelled to do so by her owner. I bet Master Drew never imagined that his contract would be used to mount a chattel-based criminal defense. At least his contract accomplished something good, because you know he spent forever writing this.
One thing is certain, though. Given Master Drew's infirm physique and sex offender status, I bet now that he's in the clink, the master has become the servant. And nobody in jail respects "Pumpernickel." You shouldn't have pimped your slave, fatso.
The contract goes on for ten pages, in which it outlines all the terms and stipulations of the master-slave relationship, and also demonstrates that Master Drew--AKA Andrew Kobak--is without a doubt a huge loser of gigantic proportions. His contract assumes a great deal of faux legalese to give it an air of legitimacy as it explicitly details everything from Master Drew's right to tattoo, pierce, and brand his slave per his whim, proper positions the slave should assume for punishment ("the slave lays across the Master's lap to give him ready access to her tender ass cheeks"), appropriate clothing ("pantyhose are generally speaking an abomination and will not be worn by the slave without permission from the Master or at his specific request"), and the terms by which the slave is allowed to have an orgasm. He need not worry about that last part, because I cannot imagine for the life of me how Master Drew could bring a woman to climax given that he looks like this:
Granted, I probably have much higher self-esteem, employment prospects, and general life skills than the teenage hooker who actually signed this document, and that's a good thing because I'd make a horrible slave. For example, I'd strike out with the three "Duties of Servitude":
1. Above all, it is the duty of the servant to please.Probably the only things on this list I could provide are "amusement" and "sexual toy/plaything," and no way in hell would I be willing to provide either service to that fat fucking douchebag. Furthermore, I'd be constantly punished, as I don't think I could so much get out of bed without meeting the conditions for punishable offenses as outlined by Master Drew:
2. Personal duties: Physical/emotional needs of Owner, amusement, sexual toy/plaything, physical comfort, obedience, honesty, loyalty, waiting on Owner as desired and needed.
3. Household duties: Cleaning and keeping the home straightened, laundry, shopping, cooking, care for children when requested, run errands as needed. Any task assigned is considered permanent.
-Going anywhere without permission and/or threatening to do soSince I'd immediately attempt to go anywhere but near Master Double Chin without asking, would be cocky and rude in all my dealings with his flabby ass, would DEFINITELY need to drink copiously to suffer his appalling presence, and would disobey every last command he issued, I'd make the world's worst slave. Also, the second he tried to punish me, I'd be like "PUMPERNICKEL! PUMPERNICKEL!" Then I'd advise him that he picked the stupidest safe word in the history of sadomasochism and run my ass-fucking outfit-clad ass the hell out of The Android's Dungeon.
-Cockiness or rudeness
-Drinking without permission
-Disobedience
If Master Drew's copyrighted slavery contract managed to accomplish anything, it's probably ensuring that the dumb slave who signed it is going to get off on the prostitution charges she's facing. Now she can argue that she wasn't servicing dudes at $60 a pop (that's it?! I'd ask at least $500 if any of them looked anything like Master Drew, which I suspect they did) because she was trying to be a hooker, but because she was compelled to do so by her owner. I bet Master Drew never imagined that his contract would be used to mount a chattel-based criminal defense. At least his contract accomplished something good, because you know he spent forever writing this.
One thing is certain, though. Given Master Drew's infirm physique and sex offender status, I bet now that he's in the clink, the master has become the servant. And nobody in jail respects "Pumpernickel." You shouldn't have pimped your slave, fatso.
Labels: assholes, crime and punishment, fat fucks, HotLawyer, perversion, retard rage, sexual assault
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Brandi M.
DOB: ???
Occupation: Prospective girlfriend of Bret Michaels
Hometown: Buffalo, New York
Current residence: Probably LA
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Unfortunately, I missed most of the premiere of "Rock of Love" last night because I was returning from the beach, where for once I didn't get a stupid sunburn, but did get stinking, staggering, obscenely drunk. As I was in the cab returning from the bar outside Penn Station where I furthered my inebriation with Rack and TheOldGuy, LL Cool Jew texted me, "One of these Rock of Love girls reminds me of you just from the previews...the one who says, 'I'm gonna get me some rocker ass!' and 'I'm a Scorpio...I'm ruled by my genitals!' Her name is Brandi M." I cursed myself for forgetting that I should have raced home to catch "Rock of Love" instead of staying at the bar to argue vehemently with Rack about Isaiah Washington.
For those of you not pathetically addicted to Vh1 "Celebreality" shows, "Rock of Love" is like "Flavor of Love," except instead of trying to winnow a batch of whores with bad weaves down to find William "Flavor Flav" Drayton's true love, it's trying to winnow a batch of whores with bad perms down to find Bret Michaels's true love. According to Vh1's website:
Since 1986 when MTV introduced the world to the blue-eyed lead singer of Poison, women around the world have worshiped Bret Michael's as a veritable Rock God. Never out of the spotlight, Bret's career is still rocking with Poison and as a successful solo artist and the women are still lining up in hopes of a lying down with the sexy star. But the demands of life-on-the-road for the ultimate rocker have taken a toll...on his love life.I love this description of Bret Michaels and the pitfalls of being his girlfriend. What are these "red carpets and awards shows" that Bret is not always attending? Who are these "famous friends" that these bitches will need to keep their cool around? C.C. DeVille was on the damn "Surreal Life", so I wouldn't be pissing myself with awe if he were to make a tenuously sober appearance at Bret's Hollywood Hills mansion. And exactly how will these hookers "contribute to his music"? Last time I checked, "Unskinny Bop" had already been written, and you know that along with "Every Rose Has Its Thorn," "Something to Believe In," and "I Want Action," nobody wants to hear Bret Michaels singing anything but that, so any contribution from these skanks is unnecessary. However, I think that Brandi M. will have no problem getting down and dirty with him doing "extreme sports" and look smokin' hot while doing so.
Twenty lucky ladies will get their chance for an All-Access pass to Bret Michaels' heart and to share in all his superstar lifestyle. Bret will invite twenty handpicked beautiful women to move into his rock and roll palace in the Hollywood Hills and compete for his heart. They must win over his mind and his body by proving their love for Bret, their passion for rock and their potential to be the perfect "Rock Star Girlfriend."
Each week, Bret will design challenges to test the girls' ability to adapt to the true rock 'n roll life. Not always red carpets and award shows, who will best adapt to life in a cramped, grungy tour bus with Bret and his roadie buddies? Who can handle the competition from outrageous, and sometimes hotter groupies? Who can keep her cool around his famous friends? Who can best contribute to his music? Who's not afraid to get down and dirty with him in one of his extreme sports competitions. And perhaps most vital - who will always look smokin' hot doing it?
(Razzy aside to Vh1: hire some web copy editors...your dumbass writers can't spell or properly place an apostrophe worth shit).
Apparently, LL Cool Jew's preview-based estimation of Brandi M. as a Razzy-alike was borne out by her behavior on the show. I got several progressively more excited text messages along the lines of "YOU ARE BRANDI M.! AND BRET MICHAELS LOVES IT!" and "Bret on Brandi M.: This girl shows there's gotta be something there after the bump bump!" I got home and caught the last few minutes, but unfortunately didn't get to see Brandi M. in action. However, according to Vh1, she is notable for being "single because there is too much temptation" and can fit her fist in her mouth. Obviously she's totally my kind of girl.
Also, she is from Buffalo, and I have yet to meet anyone from Buffalo that I don't want to bang the hell out of. I don't know if it's something in the water or the local chicken wing-based diet that presumably the locals are raised on, but people from Buffalo are always sexy as hell. There's this dude in grad school who is rated by every chick I've ever surveyed as one of if not THE hottest guy there (granted, that's not much of a contest, but he'd stand out in a room full of regular hot guys too). Adding to his sexiness is the fact that he's Catholic and an excellent fantasy football league treasurer. His good looks and good attitude about cheerfully taking many a JP Losman-related verbal jab are even sufficient to make me ignore his talk about hockey, which is my most-hated sport. One of my brother Lil Tevie's friends married a chick from Buffalo, and in addition to her being cute, she also had some hot friends. My sources (aka my mom) tell me that Lil' Tevie had one too many jello shots at their wedding and was macking it to these fine Buffalo ladies on the dance floor, which is a sight I am deeply sorry to have missed. Brandi M. is further evidence that for some unknown reason, Buffalo is an unlikely cornucopia of insanely fuckable people.
If you want to see Brandi M. in action, you can check out this "Rock of Love" preview. She is the one who cusses like a damn sailor and introduces herself by announcing, "I want to fuck Bret Michaels." Later on, she describes her female housemates with such a stream of profanity-laden invective that I have no idea what she actually said because most of it was bleeped. What a hot piece of trash. I love her.
Thank God Vh1 will probably be showing "Rock of Love" ad nauseum all week and I'll get to watch a full hour of this skank in action. Long live Brandi M.!
Labels: buttrock, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot chicks, sluts, TV, Vh1
Daily Douchebag: Jessica Simpson
DOB: July 10, 1980
Occupation: Singer, actress, spokeswhore, dumbass
Hometown: Abilene, Texas
Current Residence: Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: When it comes to being annoying, Jessica Simpson is a triple threat. She sings annoying songs (most of which are piss-poor covers of songs that were stupid to begin with such as Robbie Williams's "Angels"), she plays annoying characters opposite other annoying actors (Johnny Knoxville, Dane Cook) in annoying movies, and she is an annoying personality ubiquitously stinking up my E! celebrity countdown shows whether she's hanging with her creepy dad, arguing with her fucktarded sister about breath mints, hawking Proactiv solution, or hanging on the emotional, caterwauling, curly-haired sack of fug known as John Mayer. I don't know why this bitch is even famous in the first place.
I thought Jessica Simpson was lame back in 1999 when she was trying to compete with the hotness that was Britney and Xtina in their prime by being as unsexy as possible. Then she became a household name for being monumentally stupid on "Newlyweds," and I suffered through endless gossip blog news stories about how she claimed to have a genius IQ in spite of her lack of epicurean knowledge concerning chicken and tuna fish. Not that I'm any kind of Nick Lachey fan (something about him--whether his unnecessary tats or the sleeveless muscle shirts he favored to show them off--just screams "pencil dick" to me), but I was absolutely astonished that Nick could put up with her disabling ditziness and its accordant marketing for as long as he did. I would have been out the door the second that bitch's dad told me that I should take my public humiliation to the next level by doing "The Nick and Jessica Variety Hour."
Since her show went off the air on account of Nick and Jessica's unfortunate (but not for Nick) divorce, Jessica has spread her contagion throughout the media like never before. Since I would rather be anally electrocuted like a chinchilla at a fur farm than sit through a screening of Employee of the Month, I cannot for the life of me understand why films starring Jessica Simpson continue to get greenlighted, but it seems that there is a slice of America that just can't get enough of her giggling vacantly like an institutionalized and heavily medicated schizophrenic. The dumb prostitute can't act, and as her video for "These Boots are Made For Walkin'" from The Dukes of Hazzard proved, she's not even capable of writhing around in a bikini while washing the General Lee or serving draft beer in a trashtastic slut costume convincingly. I've seen porn stars with far more dramatic range and theatrical ability. Her latest shitshow is some remake of Working Girl called Blonde Ambition, and surely Melanie Griffith isn't losing any sleep over the prospect that her performance as a boss-fucking corporate whore might be overshadowed by Jessica Simpson's interpretation of it. I'm sure that's going to be a blockbuster, and by "Blockbuster" I mean the store and its straight-to-video section.
In addition to fancying herself as a master thespian, she's also under the delusion that she's some sort of aesthetic expert and fashion maven. I don't know about you ladies, but I'd just be thrilled to take style tips from a woman who dresses like this:
Most of the time, she looks like she either belongs in the chorus line of a drag show, giving rub-and-tugs at a dilapidated "massage parlor," or picking up her ugly, squalling brood from soccer practice, none of which are looks I'd care to emulate. She's also all over QVC, selling a bunch of shit that nobody in their right mind should want to buy. First she had a line of beauty products called Dessert that was supposed to taste good, like cupcake-flavored face masks and shit like that. All the ads showed her sucking some whipped cream-esque moisturizing mousse off her finger seductively, as though using Dessert products would make you as devastatingly delicious as her. Tell me, Jess, is that facial expression "Blue Steel" or "Magnum"?
Jessica is also designing all sorts of clothes, the latest being a collection of swimwear. Somehow I don't anticipate seeing much of this at the beach, as wearing hideous patterns and cuts that make even anorexic models look fat aren't in style this season (or ever):
Donatella Versace can rest easy, as I don't think Jess is going to be stealing any fashion awards from her anytime soon. I mean, waist fringe? Come ON.
Seriously, why does this hooker have enough of a market share to warrant the launch of all these shiteous products? I am aware that the world is full of stupid people, and that is presumably her consumer base, but does she really do well enough to warrant such a diverse onslaught of products? Jessica Simpson needs to find a new boyfriend or go discuss her tits with her creepy dad or whatever she does to occupy her spare time and just duck the fuck out of the spotlight before even the morons patronizing her brand wise up and realize what a bimbotic tool she is. Just go away, Jess!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, John Mayer sucks, media whores, sluts, stank vaginas
Friday, July 13, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Ian Ziering Steve Sanders
DOB: March 30, 1964
Occupation: Actor, celebrity dancer, possible game show host, Corvette aficionado, the original adopted celebrity baby, president of the KEG house, managing editor of the Beverly Beat, class clown, sagacious wise man
Hometown: West Orange, New Jersey
Current Residence: He'll live forever in Beverly Hills, 90210!
Why I Want to Hit That Hotness: It's no secret that my favorite TV show of all time is the venerable and incomparable prime-time masterpiece of Aaron Spelling awesomeness known as "Beverly Hills, 90210", or as I call it, Bev Niner.
Of all the men on Bev Niner, Steve Sanders was always my favorite. Dylan was so tormented and spent entirely too much time alternately crying about his poor little rich boy situation and throwing bratty tantrums culminating in smashing potted plants outside the Bel Age Hotel. This juvenile bullshit couldn't even mitigate his occasional hotness, like when he'd go on a bender and hustle drug dealers at pool in the underground billiards club, or when he'd be(in the words of my friend JerseyGirl) "catchin' a badass wave." Brandon, meanwhile was such an insufferably self-righteous, hypocritical asshole that every time he'd make an appearance in his impeccably ironed Peach Pit uniform with heavily lacquered hair and a pencil tucked wholesomely behind his ear I'd want to turn off the TV. In addition to being the world's worst goody two shoes, he was hanging out with the heinously clothed and styled Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman, and together they were constantly annoying everyone in earshot with a neverending buffet of extraordinarily patronizing activism, obnoxious unsolicited moralizing, and completely not-funny jokes about whatever the hell heavy-handed story about racism, alcoholism, anti-semitism, classism, or Donna's graduation prospects they were writing for the West Beverly Blaze that week. And don't get me started on David Silver. He went from ridiculous puffy sleeved epileptic seizure-inducing shirt-wearing dweeb to an overcompensating proto-Justin Timberlake. No...Steve Sanders was THE MAN.
He was hilarious, and always had a witty quip ready in spite of his reputation as a dumbass. Even when bad shit happened (finding out he was adopted, dumped hard by Kelly Taylor, being used for his money by cheap whores he picked up at the Peach Pit, having his Vette stolen by two hot chicks he stupidly lent the keys to, almost getting kicked out of West Bev for a legacy key-related scandal, almost getting kicked out of California University for a graduation prank scandal, getting to second base with a tranny in Palm Springs, getting wrongfully accused of rape by a vengeful scorned ex-girlfriend, being cuckolded by the deliciously evil Valerie Malone, knocking up his secretary), he'd grin and laugh it off. Steve was also a wise fool. He'd always give people such good advice (Donna don't be stupid, Kelly get your mother to rehab, Brandon dump Emily Valentine, Dylan learn some coping skills, Andrea quit dressing like a soccer mom, David quit hanging out with dorks like that kid who shot himself, Brenda shut up), and he was a fiercely loyal friend. At the Halloween party where Kelly almost gets date raped by a cowboy frat boy (who never gets out of cowboy character even as he's forcing a screaming Kelly onto the bed...he's like "well, shucks,that dress don't look like you're sayin' no to me, lil' darlin'"), Steve drags the motherfucker outside and punches him in the face when he says Kelly was asking for it by dressing like a slut. He knocks his rapist ass out, too! He also takes the blame for academic fraud and political scandal on MORE than one occasion to save Brandon's precious reputation, and prevents the sleazy John Sears from statutory raping a thirteen-year-old runaway in spite of almost getting booted from the KEG house for it. Steve was a man of impeccable character and moral fortitude, and I don't care if Dylan was hotter or whatever. Steve Sanders is the kind of guy I could marry. Or at least fuck more than once.
I know Ian Ziering is actually not synonymous with Steve Sanders, but I'll always think of him that way. That's why yesterday I got super excited when my friend Rack e-mailed to advise me that he's on the short list of dudes to replace Bob Barker on "The Price is Right!" Seriously, if that happens, I'm totally going to California to sit in the audience, pray that I'm invited to "come on down," and have my acumen concerning the retail price of things like Uncle Ben's instant rice, Kia Sportages, and ugly bedroom sets challenged. I'll be all, "I'm going to bid $15,001 on that showcase, Steve! I mean Ian!" while flashing him my best bedroom eyes.
Labels: Bev Niner, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, JerseyGirl, Rack, television
Daily Douchebag: Robin Williams
Name: Robin McLaurim Williams
DOB: July 21, 1952
Occupation: Actor, comedian, irritant
Hometown: Chicago, Illinois
Current residence: San Francisco, California
Douchebaggery: Robin Williams is one of those guys who was way, WAY better off as a cokehead. I thought Good Morning, Vietnam was great, but it was mostly because he was high as an astronaut during the filming of the entire movie. He seemed like he was ready to literally explode and take off like a damn rocket at any second, and it was obvious that he was so zany and crazy because he was doing mountains of what Young Jeezy would call "that residue that's iPod white."
Unfortunately for his body of work, he got clean and stopped being funny at all. I don't think he's made a movie I liked since Good Morning, Vietnam. Awakenings: Booooooooorrrrrrrring. Hook: Too many kids in it for my taste, and since the point of all that Peter Pan crap is eternal childhood for the purpose of acting like brats forever...fuck that! Mrs. Doubtfire: Movies where dudes dress in drag to pull some sort of elaborate legal ruse are never a good thing. Jumanji: Unless it's about a boy wizard engaged in a struggle with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, movies where kids are the main protagonist heroes get a big FAILING grade from me. Bicentennial Man: an excellent reason why talking robots would be the most annoying invention ever. The Birdcage: Are you kidding? Good Will Hunting: snore and gag. Patch Adams: a resounding SHA RIGHT! RV, Man of the Year, Death to Smoochy: PLEASE, God, NO MORE! With every new release, I've been begging Robin Williams to get back on the blow and re-embrace the f-word. He is the rare creature who is actually much, much more palatable when he's a raging drug addict.
Sadly, he's managed to stay off the blow. In fact, without so much as doing anything remotely funny, he fell off the wagon with booze and went to rehab before he could redeem himself in any way. Now he's sober again, and continuing to bring appallingly bad (not even bad like ATL which is awesome and hilarious, but just plain overwhelmingly, don't-watch-this bad). This week, he's in License to Wed, a movie starring Mandy Moore and some dude from "The Office." The premise of this film is that Mandy Moore and her busted fiance want to get married, and Robin Williams is an unconventional minister who puts them through a variety of madcap trials to determine their fitness for marriage to one another, including sneaking into their shower, saddling them with a pair of those fake babies they use to discourage poor teenage girls from getting knocked up, and generally doing everything possible to intrude and interfere with their relationship.
If I were getting married (*scoff*), and my parish priest insisted on putting me through such pointless trials, I would tell him to fuck off and just fly to Vegas. I have no doubt I would not get the go-ahead to marry anyway. The minister would inquire, "So you plan to honor and cherish your husband?" and I would say, "Yeah, sure, I'll give him blowjobs every morning with his damn coffee and newspaper," or "Does that mean I can't hook up with girls anymore?" And if the minister had some wiseass quip questioning my fitness as a compliant little wifey, I'd probably tell him to shut the fuck up about matters in which he has no experience and call me when he actually has sex. And if he were Robin Williams, I'd tell him to shut the fuck up until he's back on the white girl. Asshole needs to retire and quit tormenting the world with his manic, pathetic attempts at entertaining everyone before he inspires someone to shoot up their local Blockbuster. He's like the herpes of PG-rated comedies: painful, irritating, chronic, recurrent, and horribly embarrassing. His retiring from the spotlight would be the big dose of Valtrex the world so desperately needs.
Labels: assholes, celebrities, Daily Douchebag, movies
Thursday, July 12, 2007
On-point lesbadar
I received an e-mail from El Cyd confirming what was established here on this very blog long ago:
From: El Cyd (elcyd@idontrememberwheresheworks.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: don't you think
you deserve a "you hear it first exclusive"?
http://news.aol.com/the-cooler-blog/2007/07/11/lindsay-lohan-and-samantha-ronson/
* GirlGoneLeBron: Lindsay Lohan's MySpace friends sold her out.
* GirlGoneGrady: Yeah, did they have anything good?
* GirlGoneLeBron: Only what looks to be love letters from Linds to Samantha Ronson, her DJ friend.
* GirlGoneGrady: Oh! What'd they say?
* GirlGoneLeBron: Lindsay allegedly wrote "Babe, if I don't have you in my life then I should just go die. ... I want to marry you and have children with you."
* GirlGoneGrady: Scandalous!
Well, yes, as a matter of fact I do. Actually, LL Cool Jew does, for being so astute as to spot Lindsay Lohan's Smith College hat and interpret that as evidence that Lohan was diving on Dawn of the Dead Ronson:
Man, Lindsay doesn't just like them butchy, she likes them UGLY as hell. Samantha Ronson looks like what would happen if you bred a George A. Romero zombie with that dude from A Clockwork Orange. No wonder Lohan was rocking the Smith hat...there's so much busted pussy running around there that it would probably be like her ugly dyke equivalent of the Playboy Mansion. Why anyone not under the influence of every mind-altering drug on the planet would want to procreate with that dark-circled sack of bones is a complete mystery to me. I am merely relieved that science has not yet figured out how to make two women (or in this case, one woman and one skeleton) breed.
I have to say that those sentiments Lohan expressed on her MySpace page are about as teen lesbionic as it gets, along with her signing them "Lindsay Ronson." I myself wrote shit like that when I was fifteen and fingerbanging the goalkeeper of our high school girls soccer team. Just for fun, I dug out a poem I wrote about her for comparative purposes. This bullshit was longer than the damn "Rime of the Ancient Mariner" and it was all about my Catholic guilt about being a teenage dyke. Here's a few stanzas from this masterpiece, which I titled "Forbidden":
Faded curtains
Swept back so we can gaze together
Out the bright picture window and
Watch the light play pretty shapes on
Flattened stomachs, bare golden backs,
Red-spotted breasts and long yellow hair.
God, she's so pretty.
VOMIT! I won't torture you (or embarrass myself further) by sharing the whole thing, because it's an appalling piece of hokey, flowery, adjective-happy sap, but I think I made my point. I was writing a bunch of lovesick nonsense about some stank chick who treated me like dirt, had no tits, and looked like a man. She was most certainly NOT "pretty" as I described in my poem. That's her on the far right (looking MUCH femmier than she usually does):
I was always writing her letters about how we were soul mates and without her life's not worth living and blah blah blah, just like Lindsay. Dumb bitches do not write melodramatic shit like that unless they are bumping uglies with the subject of it. The result of this was that she dumped me anyway, after an extended roller coaster of her implying that I was the most useless piece of trash on the planet because I was academically more gifted than her. Seriously, her entire reason for dating me was an attempt to overcompensate for the fact that she was a dumb jock in a family of intellectuals, and when she realized that my intelligence wasn't catching, she made fun of me for loving her, mocked my parents' jobs and taste in home decor, told everyone that I was crazy (which in fairness wasn't entirely untrue), and discarded my ass like a used condom. Over-the-top sentiments about one's asshole girlfriend never yield a happy ending.
Since I have some personal experience in these matters, I have to give Lindsay a piece of advice: do not just go die because of your overwrought emotions about that gaunt undead lesbo. Give up the "Lindsay Ronson" nonsense and find yourself a hotter snatch to lick, preferably one who won't leave her coke stash in your car for the cops to find and who won't tip off the paparazzi that you're drunk and puking in a gas station parking lot the day after your arrest. Take it from me, it will save you a world of hurt, humiliation, and longing, lovelorn MySpace message-writing.
From: El Cyd (elcyd@idontrememberwheresheworks.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: don't you think
you deserve a "you hear it first exclusive"?
http://news.aol.com/the-cooler-blog/2007/07/11/lindsay-lohan-and-samantha-ronson/
* GirlGoneLeBron: Lindsay Lohan's MySpace friends sold her out.
* GirlGoneGrady: Yeah, did they have anything good?
* GirlGoneLeBron: Only what looks to be love letters from Linds to Samantha Ronson, her DJ friend.
* GirlGoneGrady: Oh! What'd they say?
* GirlGoneLeBron: Lindsay allegedly wrote "Babe, if I don't have you in my life then I should just go die. ... I want to marry you and have children with you."
* GirlGoneGrady: Scandalous!
Well, yes, as a matter of fact I do. Actually, LL Cool Jew does, for being so astute as to spot Lindsay Lohan's Smith College hat and interpret that as evidence that Lohan was diving on Dawn of the Dead Ronson:
I have to say that those sentiments Lohan expressed on her MySpace page are about as teen lesbionic as it gets, along with her signing them "Lindsay Ronson." I myself wrote shit like that when I was fifteen and fingerbanging the goalkeeper of our high school girls soccer team. Just for fun, I dug out a poem I wrote about her for comparative purposes. This bullshit was longer than the damn "Rime of the Ancient Mariner" and it was all about my Catholic guilt about being a teenage dyke. Here's a few stanzas from this masterpiece, which I titled "Forbidden":
Faded curtains
Swept back so we can gaze together
Out the bright picture window and
Watch the light play pretty shapes on
Flattened stomachs, bare golden backs,
Red-spotted breasts and long yellow hair.
God, she's so pretty.
VOMIT! I won't torture you (or embarrass myself further) by sharing the whole thing, because it's an appalling piece of hokey, flowery, adjective-happy sap, but I think I made my point. I was writing a bunch of lovesick nonsense about some stank chick who treated me like dirt, had no tits, and looked like a man. She was most certainly NOT "pretty" as I described in my poem. That's her on the far right (looking MUCH femmier than she usually does):
Since I have some personal experience in these matters, I have to give Lindsay a piece of advice: do not just go die because of your overwrought emotions about that gaunt undead lesbo. Give up the "Lindsay Ronson" nonsense and find yourself a hotter snatch to lick, preferably one who won't leave her coke stash in your car for the cops to find and who won't tip off the paparazzi that you're drunk and puking in a gas station parking lot the day after your arrest. Take it from me, it will save you a world of hurt, humiliation, and longing, lovelorn MySpace message-writing.
Labels: celebrities, comeuppance, Dumb Smith bitches, lezbollah, sluts
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Ichiro Suzuki
DOB: October 22, 1973
Occupation: Right fielder, Seattle Mariners
Hometown: Toyoyama, Nishikasugai, Aichi Prefecture, Japan
Current residence: Seattle, Washington
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Apart from the fact that I'm insanely attracted to any man in a Mariners uniform, Ichiro is such a fucking badass it's not even funny. This season he's batting almost .400, and broke team and American League records for consecutive stolen bases. Currently the Seattle press is reporting that Ichiro just signed a five-year, $100 million contract extension with the M's, which is an obscene contract of almost Yankee-esque proportions, although well deserved.
The other night, I was working late when I got a picture mail message from LL Cool Jew, who is currently in San Francisco visiting her mother. It was a shot of AT&T Park and was accompanied by the message, "I'm at the All Star Game...Ichiro is up to bat!" She knows my deep love for the Mariners and my equally deep, eternal hatred of all things Yankee and so did not send me "A-Rod is up to bat!" or "Jeter is up to bat!" Well, I'm surprised she didn't send another picture of the crowd going absolutely fucking crazy, because right after that, Ichiro hit the first All Star Game inside-the-park home run in MLB history.
I've now realized that I'll pretty much bang any dude who plays right field, all the way from Reggie "I Must Kill. The Queen." Jackson to Vlad "The Impaler" Guerrero to Ichiro Suzuki. When I played softball, I often played right field when I wasn't playing my usual position at second base. This is because balls hardly ever get hit to right field due to the dearth of left-handed batters in slow pitch, and because I'm notoriously bad at fielding fly balls. I can take a grounder's bad hop to the face and be fine enough to still throw the ball to the first baseman for the out, but if a fly is hit to me, I'll run around squinting up at the sky, waving my mitt around in the air, only to have the ball plop to the ground a good five feet behind me. I think I love right fielders because I suck so monumentally at that position, and therefore admire anyone who kicks ass at it. Which Ichiro definitely does. Here's to five more awesome years of Ichiro in his sexy Mariners uniform!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, Mariners, sportsmen
Daily Douchebag: Senator David Vitter (R-LA)
DOB: May 3, 1961
Occupation: U.S. Senator from Louisiana, john
Hometown: New Orleans, Louisiana
Current Residence: New Orleans, Louisiana
Douchebaggery: Senator Vitter is a dashing Southern gentleman who, prior to a few days ago, was known for excellent leadership skills that included blatantly making stuff up about the situation in New Orleans immediately post-Katrina ("I don't want to alarm anybody that New Orleans is filling up like a bowl...that's just not happening") and vociferously opposing gay marriage on the grounds of supporting family values. However, thanks to the intrepid journalistic efforts of Larry Flynt, America now knows that "family values" also includes banging the hell out of high-priced hookers pimped by "DC Madam" Deborah Jeane Palfrey and "Canal Street Madam" Jeanette Maier.
I know that guys like Dave here are a bunch of two-faced liars (as politicians are wont to be), but there's nothing more satisfying than seeing some self-righteous prick get exposed as the hypocrite that he is. This is a man who has slung all sorts of rhetoric about how morally wrong gay marriage is, and went so far as to compare same-sex unions to hurricanes Katrina AND Rita in terms of destructive power. He's argued that the terrifying prospect of two people who happen to be the same gender making a lifelong commitment to one another undermines the venerable and perfect American family. Well, you know what else undermines the American family? HIRING HOOKERS TO FUCK YOU BEHIND YOUR WIFE'S BACK!
Of course, Vitter has already given a lame mea culpa via his PR flunky: "This was a very serious sin in my past for which I am, of course, completely responsible. Several years ago, I asked for and received forgiveness from God and my wife in confession and marriage counseling. Out of respect for my family, I will keep my discussion of the matter there - with God and them. But I certainly offer my deep and sincere apologies to all I have disappointed and let down in any way."
Whatever. This dickhead wouldn't have said a damn word about it if Hustler didn't dig his phone number out of the DC Madam's black book. It's wise of him to apologize ahead of time, though, because in 2000 his wife had the following to say about Bill Clinton and the world's most famous blowjob: "I'm a lot more like Lorena Bobbitt than Hillary. If he [Vitter] does something like that, I'm walking away with one thing, and it's not alimony, trust me."
With all the prayer and marriage counseling, his wife has probably reconsidered making good on her threat of claiming his pecker as a trophy. Or maybe she meant that was what she would resort to if he cheated with a fat intern and not some random escort. I wish she would, though, because nothing would be better comeuppance than her cutting off his dick and shoving it into his mouth to stop the stream of moralizing bullshit issuing forth from it. I hope his hypocritical ass resigns.
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, Daily Douchebag, politics, President William Jefferson Clinton, sluts
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
The subheadings for useless bullshit
According to Technorati, these are the topics my site is mostly about (based on the frequency at which I use tags):
The larger the font, the more commonly applied the label. I am totally not surprised that I discuss "assholes," "retard rage," and "ridiculous absurdity" more often than anything else, with "Razzification," "I LOVE IT," and "oh the horror" coming in a close second. "Scathing indictments," "sluts," "hilarious shit," "perversion," "ranting," and "celebrities" all get an honorable mention. Apparently LL Cool Jew is also my best friend (she is one of them), since she gets more mentions than anyone else. This gives credence to her argument that she should usurp Morrissey'sHair and HotLawyer as platinum elite Razzyphiles-in-charge.
In any event, this cracks me up. My blog is EXACTLY what I imagine it to be. Kick ass.
In any event, this cracks me up. My blog is EXACTLY what I imagine it to be. Kick ass.
Labels: I LOVE IT, internet domination, Razzification
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Hermione Granger
DOB: September 19, 1979
Occupation: Student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Hometown: Somewhere in England
Current Residence: Hogwarts, also somewhere in England
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: For obvious reasons, I love Hermione and feel her more deeply than any other character in Harry Potter. Look at her in that picture up there, mixing her Polyjuice Potion very seriously, just like I mix up buffers or mouse organ homogenates or PCR reactions in lab! She's such an unrepentant brainiac that I can't help but feel an abiding sense of camaraderie with her character. When I was watching Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone with MillerTime awhile back, and Hermione was raising her hand in class so emphatically that it looked like she might pass out in order to demonstrate her knowledge, Miller Time elbowed me and quipped, "There's you, Razzy." It's true. I too felt the driving need to show everyone how fucking smart I was all the time when I was in school and was always raising my hand (except in math class). My eighth grade teacher Mrs. Dixon actually discouraged me from raising my hand because I answered too many questions. "Can someone BESIDES Razzy explain this passage from The Pearl, please?" she would say. I still resent her to this day for trying to embarrass me for being smarter and/or bolder about being a know-it-all than my classmates. I was, however, vindicated when I found an essay I'd written for her class and noticed that she'd corrected me for using "they're" meaning "they are" by saying that "their" was more appropriate. WRONG, bitch! It looks like the student just became the teacher! I win again. Anyway, Hermione is constantly reading and will go to any length to prove how fucking right about everything she is, and those are priorities I admire.
In spite of using her intellectual bravado to compensate for her fear of failure and feelings of inadequacy (like me as well, but don't tell anyone) and her consequent tendency to unwittingly alienate people, Hermione has a good heart and is fierce in her convictions. In high school, I too would probably have been championing house elf rights despite a complete lack of interest in the matter from my peers. Now I'd just tell the elves to go make me a BLT and clean up my apartment, and I suspect that, if she doesn't die in book 7, Hermione will grow to accept the inherently servile nature of the house elf too. As a commendable rational thinker, she'll realize that there are bigger fish (ie: Voldemort) to fry than those who casually oppress house elves (who want to be oppressed in the first place). I started a club in high school called the Society for Women's Advancement (SWA), which was much like Hermione's Society for the Preservation of Elvish Welfare (SPEW): stupid name, uninspiring agenda, and with a very, very spare membership roster. As pointless as SPEW is, I love that Hermione doggedly sticks to it, if only because she always finishes what she starts and hates being wrong.
Like me, Hermione is also "plain but ambitious," but doesn't let that stand in the way of breaking hearts all over Hogwarts. So far she's already snogged the studly Seeker Viktor Krum of the Bulgarian Quidditch Team, and had a brief dalliance with obnoxious fucktard Cormac McLaggen in Gryffindor (although that was just to make Ron Weasley jealous). It's almost a certainty than in book 7 she's going to start getting it on with Ron in a major way. With six years of sexual tension preceding their hookup, I'm betting they at least make it to second best (it's probably too much to hope that in book 7, Ron does Hermione in a reverse piledriver in the prefects' bathroom, although that would be hot). Given all her reading, I bet Hermione's picked up some magical sex tips in the Restricted Section of the library and is therefore a tiger in the sack. Or at least she stumbled across an Anais Nin book or something during summer holiday while she was kicking it at the Muggle library. In any event, Hermione is getting her choice of ass in spite of her not being a renowned beauty like Fleur Delacoeur, and for that I relate to and commend her.
Another reason Hermione is like me is this:
Labels: alcoholism, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, epic geekery, Harry Potter, hot chicks, Razzification
Daily Douchebag: Chico "Wanker" Wang
*I couldn't find a picture of Chico Wang so one of his movie box covers will have to do. This Ashley Jensen chick looks KIND OF like my buddy HotLawyer's girlfriend.
Real Name: Inkyo Volt Hwang
DOB: January 14, 1969
Occupation: Porn director, domestic abuser
Hometown: Manhattan Beach, California
Current Residence: Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: A couple weeks ago, Wanker got into a fight with his girlfriend, Haley Paige, star of such renowned cinematic masterpieces as Ass Whores from Planet Squirt, The Da Vinci Load, and Phat Azz White Girls 7. To rebut whatever her argument was, he pistol-whipped her and kidnapped her, thus preventing her from showing up to work on the set of Anal Cream Pie 29 or whatever. He's currently out of jail on a one million dollar bond.
I can't fucking stand dudes who hit their girlfriends, but even more than that, I can't stand dudes who do it repeatedly because they're fat, short (Wang is 5'9", 180 lbs), overcompensating pussies. I just know in my heart that this SOB is packing an abbreviated pencil dick, too, given his slight but round physical stature and history of violence against women. In 1997, this asshole did the same exact thing to a Ph.D student at UCLA, except he also raped her. In his trial for that, he said that beating women was a normal part of traditional Korean culture. What a fucking copout. I've known plenty of Korean dudes and not one of them ever resorted to pistol-whipping and rape as an acceptable means of sorting out a domestic spat. Then he cried and begged for mercy, which he apparently got, since he only did two pathetic months for rape, kidnapping, and assault with a deadly weapon.
Whatever the circumstances of his trial for this most recent offense, I hope he goes away for longer, at least long enough to be on the receiving end of acts he does every day. In an interview, Chico once said that he wouldn't shoot a girl unless she does anal. I think it's time for Wanker to take his turn on the receiving end. See how you like an anal gangbang with a consort of burly, prison-tatted, shank-wielding skinheads, Chico.
Labels: assholes, crime and punishment, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, overcompensation, porn, sexual assault, small penises
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Jenna Jameson's transformation is almost complete
If she's trying to transform into an actual blow-up doll, anyway.
Okay, I'll give it to her that she looks better than what she looked like a few months ago (a thoroughly broken in and well-oiled baseball mitt with anorexia), but seriously...everything on her looks completely fake, from the ratty Barbie hair to the giant fish lips to the multiple facial implants to the spray-on tan to the totally fucked (no pun intended) vagina (not pictured), which supposedly looks like a cross between a collapsing tunnel in the Mines of Moria and that garbage compactor thing that Luke, Han Solo, Chewbacca, and Princess Leia get stuck in on the Death Star in the original Star Wars. I know she's going through a rough divorce and all, but sheesh...last I checked, nasty divorce battles didn't force you into a discount plastic surgeon's office asking for a full body hack job.
I guess I should shut up, because her boyfriend is one of those Ultimate Fighting Championship guys, and I don't want him dragging me into the Octagon for the pummeling of my life, but I am just so disappointed that Jenna continues her descent toward being an amphibious subhumanoid swamp-dweller instead of the enviably hot porn star she once was. Thank God she's now supposedly retired as a performer in the world of adult film, because these days girlfriend is more likely to give me nightmares than masturbatory orgasms. It would be like trying to rub one off to the creature from the black lagoon:
Anyway, my heart will always belong to Briana. At least the only horrifying part of her body are her monster tits, and if you watch enough porn, you can learn to overlook that. Even without all her stage makeup she's way hot.
I guess I should shut up, because her boyfriend is one of those Ultimate Fighting Championship guys, and I don't want him dragging me into the Octagon for the pummeling of my life, but I am just so disappointed that Jenna continues her descent toward being an amphibious subhumanoid swamp-dweller instead of the enviably hot porn star she once was. Thank God she's now supposedly retired as a performer in the world of adult film, because these days girlfriend is more likely to give me nightmares than masturbatory orgasms. It would be like trying to rub one off to the creature from the black lagoon:
Anyway, my heart will always belong to Briana. At least the only horrifying part of her body are her monster tits, and if you watch enough porn, you can learn to overlook that. Even without all her stage makeup she's way hot.
And Briana, I know you love Jenna, but please DO NOT follow her example with regard to aesthetics. You're doing just fine as you are!
Labels: oh the horror, plastic surgery, porn, you're ugly
Hearkening back to the good old days AKA the early Middle Ages
I guess Pope Benedict XVI was feeling a little bellicose against the Orthodox faiths (maybe he decided to get a little payback for the Great Schism a millenium after the fact?) because today he released a document asserting that while true faiths, they were "wounded" for not recognizing the primacy of the Pope. He then went on to say that Protestant churches are even more fucked. Actually, specifically what the document said was this little sound bite:
In other setting-the-Holy-Roman-Catholic-and-Apostolic-Church-back-by-centuries news, Benedixteen brought back the Latin mass. Not to REPLACE the mass in modern languages, but as an option for those who wish to hear the liturgy performed in the now-dead tongue of Christ's Imperialist oppressors. GREAT idea. Let's make church MORE boring and LESS accessible by ensuring that the faithful can't understand a DAMN WORD OF IT! What's next...moving the Vatican to Avignon to better facilitate graft and corruption among the high ranking clergy? I shouldn't even write that out loud...I don't want to give BeneDICKhead any ideas. Man, it's a good time to be a Catholic.
"Despite the fact that this teaching has created no little distress ... it is nevertheless difficult to see how the title of 'Church' could possibly be attributed to them."Yowza! Thanks a lot, Benedixteen, for providing my crazy Scandinavian Lutheran aunts yet another reason to harp endlessly about how Catholics are idolatrous Pope-worshippers. Okay, so Benedixteen himself didn't actually say this, but it was released in a document by the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, which Benedixteen used to be in charge of before he won the Cardinal popularity contest known as Conclave. However, the document released this week is basically a word-for-word reiteration of something Benedixteen wrote a few years back called "Dominus Iesus," so it's all his idea even if his name isn't on the byline.
In other setting-the-Holy-Roman-Catholic-and-Apostolic-Church-back-by-centuries news, Benedixteen brought back the Latin mass. Not to REPLACE the mass in modern languages, but as an option for those who wish to hear the liturgy performed in the now-dead tongue of Christ's Imperialist oppressors. GREAT idea. Let's make church MORE boring and LESS accessible by ensuring that the faithful can't understand a DAMN WORD OF IT! What's next...moving the Vatican to Avignon to better facilitate graft and corruption among the high ranking clergy? I shouldn't even write that out loud...I don't want to give BeneDICKhead any ideas. Man, it's a good time to be a Catholic.
Labels: assholes, Catholicism, oh the horror, Pope Benedixteen, retard rage, scathing indictments
The latest on the backdoor front
Yesterday while I was reading the Details article about Daniel "Dirty Harry Potter" Radcliffe, I couldn't help but notice this amusing photograph attached to an article about society's changing mores concerning anal sex.
Being that I have the maturity of a nine-year-old boy (as evidenced by my fucking ridiculous excitement about Transformers, which I still haven't seen because my friends are all too mature and adult to suffer through it, except Rack and she already saw it with her boyfriend and his teenage son), I immediately snickered out loud at this picture. Once I stopped giggling, I went ahead and read the article.
Basically, the article states that "late-twentysomething, Amstel Light-drinking America" is way more into anal than they used to be, and even quotes Dan Savage's decree that "anal is the new oral." Apparently, nowadays even educated, sophisticated men aren't above demanding anal on the first date, and think that if a girl's ass isn't open for business, then she's not relationship material.
This is news? Granted, I am not exactly what most people would call prudish, but I popped my anal cherry almost a full decade ago. I used to be all squeamish about it, but my college boyfriend Benzo pestered me about it for so long--in spite of all my many microbiology-based arguments that it was a bad idea--that I finally relented. During my junior year I finally gave him a backstage pass, and I have to say that it wasn't nearly as awful as I thought it would be. It was only marginally gross and not painful, as I had feared. I enjoyed pleasing my partner, and the whole experience was very erotic. I like men to dominate me, so I enjoyed the feeling of vulnerability discussed at length in the article. However, it didn't drive me wild either, and I established that anal is like eclairs...they're delicious on occasion, but don't expect them every day for breakfast.
Since Benzo, I've certainly not denied other dudes ass-access. I've even done so on a first date (and "date" is defined EXTREMELY loosely, and can mean "occasion where I allowed a dude to buy me a few dranks, escort me home to my crib, and tuck me in to bed with his penis"). One thing I have noticed about anal, though, is it's not something you can really do without a little preparation, and the same can't be said for a standard garden-variety BJ. This article totally missed this important point. On situations where I've been caught unprepared for this, it has resulted in what can most delicately be described as an embarrassing mess.
For all the guys who just read that and are wincing and saying, "Gross! Why are you ruining it for us, Razzy?!", let me just say that those are the fucking unpleasant facts of anal sex. The mechanics of the act are such that if a girl is not ready for it, you might just end up with a literal shitshow on your dick. I can thus understand why porn stars are probably the world's largest enema market next to old people with bowel problems. People need to understand this. If you can't deal with the possible repercussions, then you're probably not ready to be giving or taking it up the butt.
It's not that most women are afraid of anal hurting, or that they've never done it before. I'd be willing to bet that even more women have done it than the 35% of chicks admitting it to the CDC cited in the Details article. And if they haven't, many if not most are probably at least a little curious about it. However, I would say a MAJOR deterrent for most women is the prospect of their bodily waste making an appearance in the bedroom. Since most women take years to so much as fart quietly in front of their boyfriends, the possibility that actual shit could show up is a mortifying, appalling thought (even to shameless bitches like myself). The majority of chicks (and dudes) do not find shit on the sheets to be a big turn-on, and in fact, it can be an otherwise gastrointestinally disturbing horrorfest, as in this anecdotal tale from Tucker Max.
Another thing this article missed is that, most of the time, in order for a girl to get off (as in actually have an orgasm) during anal sex, guys need to give a bitch a reach-around. Ladies do not have prostates, so unless she has oddly-placed nerve ganglia, you'll do her a big favor by being gentlemanly enough to rub one off for her while you're pounding her back door. Never mind what you've seen in porn that might lead you to believe anal drives women physically wild. Porn would also lead you to believe that a chick getting her strap-on sucked is sufficient to induce a screaming climax, but that's not true either. If you want to make sure you can play her back nine again, then you'd be well-advised to not forget about her fucking clit while you're doing it.
It's not like I'm some expert on anal, and I realize that Details is a magazine for men and is more focused on the "yo bra, give me daps!"-aspects of buttfucking, but if it's indeed true that anal is the new oral, these key issues need to be addressed. So take heed, and don't forget the lube (and NOT the KY Warming kind...that stuff makes you itch and burn like you've caught some type of instantaneous clap, and leaves grease stains on sheets--I learned the hard way). But yeah, lube's important, too.
Basically, the article states that "late-twentysomething, Amstel Light-drinking America" is way more into anal than they used to be, and even quotes Dan Savage's decree that "anal is the new oral." Apparently, nowadays even educated, sophisticated men aren't above demanding anal on the first date, and think that if a girl's ass isn't open for business, then she's not relationship material.
This is news? Granted, I am not exactly what most people would call prudish, but I popped my anal cherry almost a full decade ago. I used to be all squeamish about it, but my college boyfriend Benzo pestered me about it for so long--in spite of all my many microbiology-based arguments that it was a bad idea--that I finally relented. During my junior year I finally gave him a backstage pass, and I have to say that it wasn't nearly as awful as I thought it would be. It was only marginally gross and not painful, as I had feared. I enjoyed pleasing my partner, and the whole experience was very erotic. I like men to dominate me, so I enjoyed the feeling of vulnerability discussed at length in the article. However, it didn't drive me wild either, and I established that anal is like eclairs...they're delicious on occasion, but don't expect them every day for breakfast.
Since Benzo, I've certainly not denied other dudes ass-access. I've even done so on a first date (and "date" is defined EXTREMELY loosely, and can mean "occasion where I allowed a dude to buy me a few dranks, escort me home to my crib, and tuck me in to bed with his penis"). One thing I have noticed about anal, though, is it's not something you can really do without a little preparation, and the same can't be said for a standard garden-variety BJ. This article totally missed this important point. On situations where I've been caught unprepared for this, it has resulted in what can most delicately be described as an embarrassing mess.
For all the guys who just read that and are wincing and saying, "Gross! Why are you ruining it for us, Razzy?!", let me just say that those are the fucking unpleasant facts of anal sex. The mechanics of the act are such that if a girl is not ready for it, you might just end up with a literal shitshow on your dick. I can thus understand why porn stars are probably the world's largest enema market next to old people with bowel problems. People need to understand this. If you can't deal with the possible repercussions, then you're probably not ready to be giving or taking it up the butt.
It's not that most women are afraid of anal hurting, or that they've never done it before. I'd be willing to bet that even more women have done it than the 35% of chicks admitting it to the CDC cited in the Details article. And if they haven't, many if not most are probably at least a little curious about it. However, I would say a MAJOR deterrent for most women is the prospect of their bodily waste making an appearance in the bedroom. Since most women take years to so much as fart quietly in front of their boyfriends, the possibility that actual shit could show up is a mortifying, appalling thought (even to shameless bitches like myself). The majority of chicks (and dudes) do not find shit on the sheets to be a big turn-on, and in fact, it can be an otherwise gastrointestinally disturbing horrorfest, as in this anecdotal tale from Tucker Max.
Another thing this article missed is that, most of the time, in order for a girl to get off (as in actually have an orgasm) during anal sex, guys need to give a bitch a reach-around. Ladies do not have prostates, so unless she has oddly-placed nerve ganglia, you'll do her a big favor by being gentlemanly enough to rub one off for her while you're pounding her back door. Never mind what you've seen in porn that might lead you to believe anal drives women physically wild. Porn would also lead you to believe that a chick getting her strap-on sucked is sufficient to induce a screaming climax, but that's not true either. If you want to make sure you can play her back nine again, then you'd be well-advised to not forget about her fucking clit while you're doing it.
It's not like I'm some expert on anal, and I realize that Details is a magazine for men and is more focused on the "yo bra, give me daps!"-aspects of buttfucking, but if it's indeed true that anal is the new oral, these key issues need to be addressed. So take heed, and don't forget the lube (and NOT the KY Warming kind...that stuff makes you itch and burn like you've caught some type of instantaneous clap, and leaves grease stains on sheets--I learned the hard way). But yeah, lube's important, too.
Labels: gross, oh the horror, perversion, sex
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Vladimir Guerrero
Nicknames: Vlad the Impaler, Miqueas
DOB: February 9, 1976
Occupation: Right fielder, Anaheim Angels
Hometown: Don Gregorio, Nizao, Dominican Republic
Current Residence: Anaheim Hills, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Vlad won last night's MLB home run derby with the longest shot of the night. I'm down for dudes who can swing the long ball and who are known for their aggressive approach to hitting. I'd help polish his bats any old time he requested it.
Also, his name is VLADIMIR GUERRERO, which may be the hottest baseball player name ever. It's certainly the most awesome. It reminds me of the time my buddy FalloniusMonk hired a personal trainer named Johann Gomez. There's something really catchy about juxtaposing a super Bavarian or eastern European name with a caliente Latin one. Also, it enables possibly the best baseball nickname ever: Vlad the Impaler. Even Rick "Wild Thing" Vaughn would be nervous about throwing his heater at a player with a nickname like that.
I've always had a thing for Angels right fielders. Remember that part in The Naked Gun where the Angels are playing the Mariners, and Reggie Jackson gets hypnotized by the evil Ricardo "Vincent Ludwig" Montalban to kill Queen Elizabeth II? "I must kill...the queen. I must kill...the queen." It's not like Reggie Jackson was so fine or anything, but every time I think of that I start chuckling, because that movie is my dad's all-time favorite (well, along with the original Longest Yard and Blame It on Rio). I've thus seen it a million times, and it's given me a lifelong affection for any man playing right field with that cherubic ball club.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, Mariners, movies, sportsmen
Daily Douchebag: Catherine Zeta-Jones
DOB: September 26, 1969
Occupation: Actress, spokeswhore, aesthetic glutton
Hometown: Swansea, West Glamorgan, South Wales
Current residence: Los Angeles, California and a palatial estate in the Bahamas
Douchebaggery: Normally, I wouldn't give two shits about CZJ, because I don't watch the types of movies that she's in (romantic comedies, musicals) and if celebrities want to be self-indulgent gluttons, so be it. However, much as I can relate to a chick who hearts 2 fuck, I get really annoyed with bitches who front like they're classier than the damn Queen of England, when they're really the Welsh equivalent of trailer trash.
CZJ is always going to upper crust golf tournaments and gets her hair washed with $400-a-pop Iranian caviar, and generally acting like some sort of asshole from the Second Estate. I wouldn't be surprised if her ass bought a title from some broke-ass ruined noble long parted with the lands in his duchy or whatever so that people can call her "Lady Zeta-Jones Douglas." One time, this humorless snob actually sicced her lawyers on some screenwriters because they were naming a dog after her in the film, and God forbid this haughty, pretentious twat should ever be associated with something so low and coarse as man's best friend. However, despite the trappings of superiority, she demonstrates all the time that you can take the girl out of the council flat but you can't take the council flat out of the girl. Nothing says class and sophistication like getting topless and puffing away on a Marb Light when you're 8 months pregs and bulging like that egg-laying queen thing from Aliens!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, musicals suck, PWT, sluts, smoking
Monday, July 09, 2007
Only a fortnight...
...until Daniel Radcliffe, AKA Harry Potter, stops being really kewl and starts being really legal! He turns 18 on July 23, just in time to do things he likes, like banging groupies and posing shirtless in front of his serial killer photo wall:
I don't care if that picture of his weiner from way back was a fake, and I don't care if he looks a little like if Elijah Wood were hanging out at that gay leather bar from the Police Academy movies that clever Cadet Mahoney would always trick his archnemeses Lieutenants Mauser, Harris, and Proctor into stumbling into (the Blue Oyster, I believe it was called).
He's a little scrawny, and I'm not loving the pube-goatee, but I don't care. I also don't care that he's been doing a bunch of girls his age and not old (and experienced) sluts like myself. Just because he's used to the kitten doesn't mean he's not curious about the cougar! Now, I've just got to figure out how to get to London.
Labels: Harry Potter, hot dudes, kewlness, perversion
Double the DVD hotness
I was dicking around on the internets and saw that this week, my checking account is going to be a little bit emptier because of not one but two DVD releases that I just got overwhelmingly excited about.
First is a show that I had completely forgotten about, which is an inexcusable lapse of judgment on my part. I used to jam on this crap when I was like nine, because who wouldn't love a show about a gutsy lady district attorney fighting crimes with and secretly pining for a subterranean lion creature named Vincent? Yes, folks, "Beauty and the Beast" has dropped on DVD! Apparently season 1's been out for awhile (surprisingly I have not seen this prominently displayed at my local Best Buy), but now season 2 is being released in its entirety.
In case you weren't the world's biggest loser like me and have forgotten the plot of this show, let me refresh. Linda Hamilton plays a New York City ADA who gets kidnapped by these dudes in some sort of East New York-ish looking neighborhood who offer to hail a cab for her. They cut up her face and are about to rape her when some thing that can best be described as an unholy combination of traveling minstrel, homeless guy, Phish devotee, and Thundercat jumps into their windowless cargo van and lays a world of hurt on some face-stabbing, would-be rapist loser ass. Then he takes the unconscious Linda Hamilton to his abandoned subway tunnel lair, where he lives along with an assortment of other mole people. The lair looks like a combination of a quaint Tuscan village and a 19th century Paris salon, and all the mole people are intellectuals, with Vincent being the smartest and most sensitive of them all. He writes poetry, paints, plays piano, and favors sweeping velvet cloaks, and also has a pretty good ability to perform slashed face repair with the precision and aesthetic sense of the world's finest plastic surgeon.
At first she is afraid, but then ADA Linda Hamilton grows to realize how special Vincent is and agrees to keep his identity secret once she returns to the world above and resumes her work as a prosecutor. Occasionally she calls for Vincent psychically to help her out with her more sticky cases, particularly if said cases involve voodoo, witchcraft, aliens, wizards, or some other supernatural phenomenon. Because he's smitten with her, Vincent can always tell when she's in trouble and rushes to her aid, depending on how the trains are running. His favorite method for traveling through NYC is by subway...ON TOP of the subway. Vincent would leap on the top of his local train and get to Catherine in like 2 seconds. I guess he lived by an express train and never had to get crosstown in order to save her.
Anyway, with all his showing up in the nick of time, Linda Hamilton starts to have strange feelings for Vincent, and most of the show involved her struggles with deciding whether or not to hook up with Vincent in spite of his feline appearance, penchant for tattered tunics, leather hauberks, and other choice feminine, faux-medieval selections from Rutger Hauer's old Ladyhawke wardrobe, and Air Supply hairstyle. There's a lot of hot woman-lion face-nuzzling and a LOT of emotional processing while she ponders whether or not to go for it:
Eventually I think there's some light making out between the two, and I don't know what happened then. I think the show got canceled. If I were Linda Hamilton's character, I would just be furious that after sucking face with his deviated septum, Vincent was not transmogrified into a hot prince or something. Apparently Vincent wasn't under some sort of spell; he always was and always will be an effeminate yet benevolent mythic creature squatting in an empty subway tunnel with a bunch of other freak outcasts. God, if I were Linda Hamilton, I would dump his ass. I mean, look at this guy! This is not look the king of the concrete jungle should be rocking.
Pardon the bad pun, but Vincent is a total pussy. Who would want to hook up with this asshole?! And where did he get these pictures done, the Glamour Shots booth at the Puyallup Fair? I bet he's all pillow talk and no fucking. BOOOORRRRRIIING. If I wanted that, I'd go find a girlfriend at Smith College. On second thought, Vincent's probably better looking than any hooker there, but still I'm not feeling his feline Fabio thing. I don't give a damn how good his poetry is, I'd pass on that furry fringe-loving mess. However, I probably won't pass on the DVD because "Beauty and the Beast" is just the type of nostalgic, ridiculous, late-80s trash that I love.
And speaking of ridiculous trash from the '80s, I saw that the special edition DVD I ordered months ago also drops tomorrow. Right after the 4th of July, while my patriotism is riding high...oh hell yes, it's RED DAWN!
WOLVERINES! If those images alone did not compel you to start shouting "USA! USA! USA!" and seeking some commie ass to put a cowboy boot in, then you are either a foreigner or a crappy American. I've already discussed the rocking asskickery that is Red Dawn at length, but to just give you a teaser, here's a quick summary of the plot. Since those ungrateful pussies in western Europe decided "to sit this one out" (according to a curmudgeonly old militia survivalist guy in the movie), all of us freedom-loving Americans get fucked by a surprise Russian-Cuban invasion, including lots of vodka-swilling and cigar-smoking soldiers performing mass executions and some light nuclear strikes where warranted. Patrick Swayze, C. Thomas Howell, Charlie Sheen, Lea Thompson, and Jennifer Grey don't take kindly to these Red sons-a-bitches suppressing basic human rights all over Colorado, and decide to orchestrate a guerilla terrorist insurgency. Scenes in this movie include C. Thomas Howell in full pseudo-Mujahadeen gear lobbing grenades at Soviet tanks, Patrick Swayze setting up ambushes looking like Puck (Shakespearean forest sprite, not the asshole from "Real World: San Francisco") with an automatic assault rifle, Lea Thompson planting fertilizer bombs at "Soviet-American Friendship Reeducation Centers", and everyone constantly shrieking "WOLVERINES!" It's the dopest.
Now I'll stop because undoubtedly everyone has to go DVD shopping and buy "Beauty and the Beast
" and Red Dawn. They are the hottest shit at Amazon this summer.
[RAZZY UPDATE: It's like AMC agrees with me! Red Dawn is on TV right NOW! AWESOME!]
First is a show that I had completely forgotten about, which is an inexcusable lapse of judgment on my part. I used to jam on this crap when I was like nine, because who wouldn't love a show about a gutsy lady district attorney fighting crimes with and secretly pining for a subterranean lion creature named Vincent? Yes, folks, "Beauty and the Beast" has dropped on DVD! Apparently season 1's been out for awhile (surprisingly I have not seen this prominently displayed at my local Best Buy), but now season 2 is being released in its entirety.
At first she is afraid, but then ADA Linda Hamilton grows to realize how special Vincent is and agrees to keep his identity secret once she returns to the world above and resumes her work as a prosecutor. Occasionally she calls for Vincent psychically to help her out with her more sticky cases, particularly if said cases involve voodoo, witchcraft, aliens, wizards, or some other supernatural phenomenon. Because he's smitten with her, Vincent can always tell when she's in trouble and rushes to her aid, depending on how the trains are running. His favorite method for traveling through NYC is by subway...ON TOP of the subway. Vincent would leap on the top of his local train and get to Catherine in like 2 seconds. I guess he lived by an express train and never had to get crosstown in order to save her.
Anyway, with all his showing up in the nick of time, Linda Hamilton starts to have strange feelings for Vincent, and most of the show involved her struggles with deciding whether or not to hook up with Vincent in spite of his feline appearance, penchant for tattered tunics, leather hauberks, and other choice feminine, faux-medieval selections from Rutger Hauer's old Ladyhawke wardrobe, and Air Supply hairstyle. There's a lot of hot woman-lion face-nuzzling and a LOT of emotional processing while she ponders whether or not to go for it:
And speaking of ridiculous trash from the '80s, I saw that the special edition DVD I ordered months ago also drops tomorrow. Right after the 4th of July, while my patriotism is riding high...oh hell yes, it's RED DAWN!
Now I'll stop because undoubtedly everyone has to go DVD shopping and buy "Beauty and the Beast
" and Red Dawn. They are the hottest shit at Amazon this summer.[RAZZY UPDATE: It's like AMC agrees with me! Red Dawn is on TV right NOW! AWESOME!]
Labels: I LOVE IT, movies, Razzification, TV, United States of Asskickery
Vintage Razzy: The Marine in the Airport Bathroom
People seem to like stories about my sex life, and frankly they should. Anytime I share a sex story it's because it's usually funny and/or ridiculous. Sure, I've hooked up with a lot of people for normal reasons, like I was attracted to them, or I wanted them to like me (back when I was younger and less in love with myself), or I was drunk. However, on a number of occasions, I've hooked up with some people for no reason other than I figured it would make too good a story to pass up. As far as those types of super Razzified bedroom hijinks go, this one is a classic, if not THE classic.
Smith College had a policy of closing down most of the dorms during holidays, even short holidays like Thanksgiving. If you wanted to stay on campus during this time, you had to either make arrangements to stay in one of the houses that stayed open, or you had to Anne Frank it. Anne Franking it means you need to sneak in or out of campus buildings without security or housing catching you, usually for an extended period of time like a school holiday. This means no smoking during the day, no lights unless you put a garbage bag over your window, and no noise. In spite of how difficult all these things were for me, I was a pro at covert living in Smith houses. Once I Anne Franked it for an entire spring break in the newspaper office. I made up for my quietness during the day by having kinky sex with my boyfriend all over the office by night. We did it on the editorial board table and he handcuffed me to the radiator in the computer room. I'm not bragging about my prowess at sneaking around behind Smith Public Safety's back or anything, but let's just say that if I were in the same situation as the real life Anne Frank, my ass would totally not have gotten caught and shipped to Treblinka, and I probably would have been breaking every last single hot Jewish guy's heart in the secret annex.
Anyway, my sophomore year, I had to Anne Frank it in my Jordan House dorm room for one day, because I was negligent about buying my plane ticket back to Seattle for Thanksgiving. The only ticket I could get left at 6 a.m. Thanksgiving morning, which meant I had to get my ass to Windsor Locks, Connecticut by 5 a.m. Unfortunately, everyone was leaving Tuesday or Wednesday, so I was kind of screwed. However, this crazy girl who lived down the hall from me heard about my predicament and stepped in to help. Her sister was picking her up Wednesday night, and she planned on hiding in her room until she came to get her. She said they could drive me by the airport Wednesday night, and I could just suck it up and crash at the airport for the night. I saw no other alternative, since the Valley Transporter (or "Valley T"), the local airport shuttle, didn't start running until 7 a.m. and my flight was due to depart an hour before that. I agreed.
This girl, Deirdre, and myself tried to hang out to pass the time, but we were both too noisy while animatedly chatting and almost got caught by the housing guy who was closing up the house. We decided to go to our respective rooms and take naps until later in the evening, thus preventing our discovery and ejection for an afternoon onto the rough (actually, cold) streets of Northampton. At around ten, Deirdre's sister picked us up, and they dropped me off at the airport without incident.
I'd been having fun chain-smoking and talking shit with Deirdre and her sister, so I was most unhappy to arrive at Bradley International Airport, a two-terminal shitshow outside Hartford, knowing that I'd be spending the night there and not comfortably Anne Franking it in my dorm room. I was even more unhappy to realize that I was possibly alone in the airport excepting the janitorial staff and a wandering drunk man who was singing Pink Floyd at the top of his lungs. However, most distressing was the fact that I was out of cigarettes, and all the airport stores were closed. I disgruntledly settled into a chair with my book and my suitcases, waiting for the TWAss customer service counter to open at 4 a.m. so I could check my luggage for my flight.
I was jarred shortly from my book by someone talking to me. I glared up, being my typically anti-social-to-strangers-while-traveling self. "What?"
"I said, would you like a cup of coffee? You don't look like you're going anywhere, so the least I can do is get you a cup of coffee." It was some type of military seaman in full uniform. I told everyone he was a Marine, but I think he was actually in the Navy. There's a naval base not far from the airport. He was probably about my age (19) and while not handsome, he wasn't ugly.
"Okay, sure. I take it with cream, no sugar. You want some money?" I asked.
"For what?" he seemed puzzled.
"Uhhh...for the coffee."
"Oh, no, it's courtesy of the United States government!" he said proudly, and sauntered off. He returned shortly after with two cups of coffee. "Here you go, cream, no sugar." I'm not sure if he expensed it to the military or what, but it was pretty good for late night airport coffee. He was still standing there, so I motioned him to sit down if he was so inclined.
"Well, I always love to sit with a pretty girl, but first I'm going outside to smoke a cigarette. Can I ask you to wait for a few minutes?"
"Can I ask you for one of your cigarettes?" I replied.
Luckily, he had a full pack of Marlboro Light 100s (what kind of dude smokes 100s?!), so he gladly provided smokes for the rest of the evening. Since it was brutally cold out, he also provided me with his insulated leather gloves, a wool scarf, and his coat--which he put over the coat I was already wearing. We got to chatting since we were both stuck there.
He was from Florida (I think) and was going back there for the holiday. He asked me about college life. I told him several humorous and ridiculous Smith anecdotes. I asked him about military life. He told me a bunch of straight-up lies about how all the enlisted dudes get a BMW as a signing bonus. I called him on it, and he changed the subject. Then we talked about books (he was shocked that I read for pleasure, since he'd always found the experience challenging and humiliating) and movies, where we found our only common ground (mutual love for the Die Hard trilogy). Then we started talking about parties and drinking, and somewhere around quarter to four, the conversation turned to sex.
Within ten minutes, his hand was in my pants and I was seriously contemplating fucking this dude. My thought process went as follows:
Cons:
1. He's in the military, and I generally steer clear of military dudes. Nothing personal, but I've just met enough fucktards in our armed forces in my time growing up surrounded by military bases (Fort Lewis, McChord AFB, Bangor Naval Station and Trident Submarine parking lot) to know that the military tends to attract a specific type of angry, marginally literate fucktard.
2. His statements about books being painful and unpleasant led me to think he might indeed be a marginally literate fucktard.
3. He lied about his salary, not disguising his lie because he apparently thought I was a ditzy blonde without critical thinking skills.
4. He's not very hot.
Pros:
1. He's not very ugly, either
2. He did get my coffee order right, and he paid for it.
3. He was generous with cigarettes and outerwear.
4. This would make for an AWESOME story.
I thought the pros outweighed the cons, and made him carry all my luggage to the baggage claim area of the airport. In baggage claim #4, we found a unisex bathroom obviously designed for the handicapped. It was a single room, very spacious, and had a metal table (which I later realized was intended for diaper-changing) that would be perfect for him to bend me over. I gave him a short BJ, then he bent me over the diaper-changing table, smacked my ass a few times, and gave me a not spectacular but nonetheless serviceable doggystyle pounding.
When we were done, there was just enough time before I had to check in and board my flight to smoke another one of his cigarettes. "Hey, maybe I'll come to one of these parties at your school of yours," he said. "Can I get your number?"
"Uhhh, sure," I said. "You have a pen?"
"I don't," he said. "But I bet we can find one."
"Probably, but I'm going to have to go straight to check in. Why don't you just look me up on Smith's web site?"
"Smith's web site? Uhhhh..." This was 1997, and the internet wasn't as prevalent then as it is now.
"Yeah, just type in 'Angela', my name, number, and e-mail will totally pop up if you search the directory. Then you can pile half the barracks in the Beamer and come party in Northampton." I was being flip and insincere, and he could see that.
"Uh, okay, whatever. Happy Thanksgiving."
"You too!" I grabbed my shit, returned his gloves, scarf, and coat, and went off to catch my plane. As I got on the plane, it occurred to me that I didn't know his name. He told me at one point--I think it was Greg--but to this day he is the only dude I've had sex with whose first and last names I don't know. He'll always be "The Marine in the Airport Bathroom."
When I got back to Smith, it was, as I predicted, an awesome story which quickly became legend. A year later, the newspaper staff had done a mock "Question of the Week" section for the April Fool's issue. Normally we'd ask a few Smith hos with nothing better to do than loiter around the student center some question, then post their pithy answers with their pictures. For the April Fool's issue, the question was something like, "Where's the craziest place you've had sex?" or something like that, and we pulled this gnarly, mummified-looking old bitch's photo out of our stock photo folder next to the caption, "I boned a Marine in an airport bathroom." Unfortunately, it turned out that stock photo was of some rich old trustee, and the school administration did not appreciate sticking her endowment-padding, withered rich bitch class of '25 ass next to such a bawdy statement. Oops.
Smith College had a policy of closing down most of the dorms during holidays, even short holidays like Thanksgiving. If you wanted to stay on campus during this time, you had to either make arrangements to stay in one of the houses that stayed open, or you had to Anne Frank it. Anne Franking it means you need to sneak in or out of campus buildings without security or housing catching you, usually for an extended period of time like a school holiday. This means no smoking during the day, no lights unless you put a garbage bag over your window, and no noise. In spite of how difficult all these things were for me, I was a pro at covert living in Smith houses. Once I Anne Franked it for an entire spring break in the newspaper office. I made up for my quietness during the day by having kinky sex with my boyfriend all over the office by night. We did it on the editorial board table and he handcuffed me to the radiator in the computer room. I'm not bragging about my prowess at sneaking around behind Smith Public Safety's back or anything, but let's just say that if I were in the same situation as the real life Anne Frank, my ass would totally not have gotten caught and shipped to Treblinka, and I probably would have been breaking every last single hot Jewish guy's heart in the secret annex.
Anyway, my sophomore year, I had to Anne Frank it in my Jordan House dorm room for one day, because I was negligent about buying my plane ticket back to Seattle for Thanksgiving. The only ticket I could get left at 6 a.m. Thanksgiving morning, which meant I had to get my ass to Windsor Locks, Connecticut by 5 a.m. Unfortunately, everyone was leaving Tuesday or Wednesday, so I was kind of screwed. However, this crazy girl who lived down the hall from me heard about my predicament and stepped in to help. Her sister was picking her up Wednesday night, and she planned on hiding in her room until she came to get her. She said they could drive me by the airport Wednesday night, and I could just suck it up and crash at the airport for the night. I saw no other alternative, since the Valley Transporter (or "Valley T"), the local airport shuttle, didn't start running until 7 a.m. and my flight was due to depart an hour before that. I agreed.
This girl, Deirdre, and myself tried to hang out to pass the time, but we were both too noisy while animatedly chatting and almost got caught by the housing guy who was closing up the house. We decided to go to our respective rooms and take naps until later in the evening, thus preventing our discovery and ejection for an afternoon onto the rough (actually, cold) streets of Northampton. At around ten, Deirdre's sister picked us up, and they dropped me off at the airport without incident.
I'd been having fun chain-smoking and talking shit with Deirdre and her sister, so I was most unhappy to arrive at Bradley International Airport, a two-terminal shitshow outside Hartford, knowing that I'd be spending the night there and not comfortably Anne Franking it in my dorm room. I was even more unhappy to realize that I was possibly alone in the airport excepting the janitorial staff and a wandering drunk man who was singing Pink Floyd at the top of his lungs. However, most distressing was the fact that I was out of cigarettes, and all the airport stores were closed. I disgruntledly settled into a chair with my book and my suitcases, waiting for the TWAss customer service counter to open at 4 a.m. so I could check my luggage for my flight.
I was jarred shortly from my book by someone talking to me. I glared up, being my typically anti-social-to-strangers-while-traveling self. "What?"
"I said, would you like a cup of coffee? You don't look like you're going anywhere, so the least I can do is get you a cup of coffee." It was some type of military seaman in full uniform. I told everyone he was a Marine, but I think he was actually in the Navy. There's a naval base not far from the airport. He was probably about my age (19) and while not handsome, he wasn't ugly.
"Okay, sure. I take it with cream, no sugar. You want some money?" I asked.
"For what?" he seemed puzzled.
"Uhhh...for the coffee."
"Oh, no, it's courtesy of the United States government!" he said proudly, and sauntered off. He returned shortly after with two cups of coffee. "Here you go, cream, no sugar." I'm not sure if he expensed it to the military or what, but it was pretty good for late night airport coffee. He was still standing there, so I motioned him to sit down if he was so inclined.
"Well, I always love to sit with a pretty girl, but first I'm going outside to smoke a cigarette. Can I ask you to wait for a few minutes?"
"Can I ask you for one of your cigarettes?" I replied.
Luckily, he had a full pack of Marlboro Light 100s (what kind of dude smokes 100s?!), so he gladly provided smokes for the rest of the evening. Since it was brutally cold out, he also provided me with his insulated leather gloves, a wool scarf, and his coat--which he put over the coat I was already wearing. We got to chatting since we were both stuck there.
He was from Florida (I think) and was going back there for the holiday. He asked me about college life. I told him several humorous and ridiculous Smith anecdotes. I asked him about military life. He told me a bunch of straight-up lies about how all the enlisted dudes get a BMW as a signing bonus. I called him on it, and he changed the subject. Then we talked about books (he was shocked that I read for pleasure, since he'd always found the experience challenging and humiliating) and movies, where we found our only common ground (mutual love for the Die Hard trilogy). Then we started talking about parties and drinking, and somewhere around quarter to four, the conversation turned to sex.
Within ten minutes, his hand was in my pants and I was seriously contemplating fucking this dude. My thought process went as follows:
Cons:
1. He's in the military, and I generally steer clear of military dudes. Nothing personal, but I've just met enough fucktards in our armed forces in my time growing up surrounded by military bases (Fort Lewis, McChord AFB, Bangor Naval Station and Trident Submarine parking lot) to know that the military tends to attract a specific type of angry, marginally literate fucktard.
2. His statements about books being painful and unpleasant led me to think he might indeed be a marginally literate fucktard.
3. He lied about his salary, not disguising his lie because he apparently thought I was a ditzy blonde without critical thinking skills.
4. He's not very hot.
Pros:
1. He's not very ugly, either
2. He did get my coffee order right, and he paid for it.
3. He was generous with cigarettes and outerwear.
4. This would make for an AWESOME story.
I thought the pros outweighed the cons, and made him carry all my luggage to the baggage claim area of the airport. In baggage claim #4, we found a unisex bathroom obviously designed for the handicapped. It was a single room, very spacious, and had a metal table (which I later realized was intended for diaper-changing) that would be perfect for him to bend me over. I gave him a short BJ, then he bent me over the diaper-changing table, smacked my ass a few times, and gave me a not spectacular but nonetheless serviceable doggystyle pounding.
When we were done, there was just enough time before I had to check in and board my flight to smoke another one of his cigarettes. "Hey, maybe I'll come to one of these parties at your school of yours," he said. "Can I get your number?"
"Uhhh, sure," I said. "You have a pen?"
"I don't," he said. "But I bet we can find one."
"Probably, but I'm going to have to go straight to check in. Why don't you just look me up on Smith's web site?"
"Smith's web site? Uhhhh..." This was 1997, and the internet wasn't as prevalent then as it is now.
"Yeah, just type in 'Angela', my name, number, and e-mail will totally pop up if you search the directory. Then you can pile half the barracks in the Beamer and come party in Northampton." I was being flip and insincere, and he could see that.
"Uh, okay, whatever. Happy Thanksgiving."
"You too!" I grabbed my shit, returned his gloves, scarf, and coat, and went off to catch my plane. As I got on the plane, it occurred to me that I didn't know his name. He told me at one point--I think it was Greg--but to this day he is the only dude I've had sex with whose first and last names I don't know. He'll always be "The Marine in the Airport Bathroom."
When I got back to Smith, it was, as I predicted, an awesome story which quickly became legend. A year later, the newspaper staff had done a mock "Question of the Week" section for the April Fool's issue. Normally we'd ask a few Smith hos with nothing better to do than loiter around the student center some question, then post their pithy answers with their pictures. For the April Fool's issue, the question was something like, "Where's the craziest place you've had sex?" or something like that, and we pulled this gnarly, mummified-looking old bitch's photo out of our stock photo folder next to the caption, "I boned a Marine in an airport bathroom." Unfortunately, it turned out that stock photo was of some rich old trustee, and the school administration did not appreciate sticking her endowment-padding, withered rich bitch class of '25 ass next to such a bawdy statement. Oops.
Labels: Dumb Smith bitches, intentional buffoonery, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity, sex, sluts
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Boeing 787 Dreamliner
Nickname: Dreamliner
DOB: 2006?
Hometown: Everett, Washington
Current Residence: soon to be the friendly skies
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I fly enough to find the entire experience annoying, expensive, time-consuming, and uncomfortable. Supposedly this plane is going to fix all that, since it's lighter, faster, and ALLEGEDLY more comfortable than all the other planes currently in use, and that to me is very hot. That way, when I'm stuck next to some old woman who wants to tell me about every destination to which she's ever flown and her reasons for doing so, I'll at least have to endure it for less time and less money, and will feel more physically at ease. That last part is important, because on several occasions when I've gotten so annoyed with the person in my neighboring seat I have to actively remind myself that I don't want to get taken down by an air marshal and prolong a miserable flight experience in order to keep from popping the irritatingly talkative neighbor right in the kisser.
However, I also have to give props to the 787 because Boeing used to be the only thing Seattle was famous for. Before Microsoft or Starbucks or even the Space Needle, Seattle had Boeing. When I was growing up, my uncle was a Boeing machinist (his CB handle was "Toolmaker") and our family was very pro-Boeing, because the economy of our little slice of the P-N-Dub was so dependent upon it. Whenever Boeing had hard times, everybody had hard times. Even though Boeing moved its corporate headquarters to Chicago a few years back, Boeing is still a major employer in the P-N-Dub, and they had the decency to acknowledge their roots and roll out the old Dreamliner in Everett. Everett is like the Tacoma of the north, full of drunks, whores, military personnel, and assorted other scruffy ne'er-do-wells, so I approve of this as a launching ground wholeheartedly.
Labels: capitalism, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, P-N-Dub
Daily Douchebag: Cindy Sheehan
DOB: July 10, 1957
Occupation: Peace mom, media whore
Hometown: Somewhere in California
Current Residence: Somewhere in California--she won't tell exactly for "safety reasons"
Douchebaggery:
While it's a shame that Cindy Sheehan's son Casey was killed in Iraq, and I generally agree with most of what she has to say concerning President Bush's failure to account for his mistakes in the war and her disapproval of the same, she is so irritatingly obnoxious that every time I see her, I just want to bitch-slap her in her fat, sagging face. She is a more shameless media whore than Paris Hilton, and also like Paris, it's quite clear that she doesn't spend a whole hell of a lot of time thinking about the bullshit that comes out of her flappy-ass piehole 99% of the time.
For example, she was bitching that CNN stopped covering her extended campout in front of President Bush's to cover Hurricane Rita instead, saying on her Xanga blog or whatever, "Even though it is a little wind and a little rain...there are other things going on in this country today...and in the world!" So, the media should be covering Cindy's attention-seeking press sluttery instead of covering the first major hurricane after Katrina? As in, "Well, who cares about southeastern Texas? I haven't bathed in a month and it's day whatever of my fucking campout in Crawford...let's not interrupt that breaking news with a weather report, even though less than a month ago another spat of bad weather caused one of the worst domestic disasters in recent memory."
She spent the better part of two years running her mouth to any media outlet who would listen, making stuff up to suit her needs (such as saying that Canadians all hate their prime minister, who at the time was shown in every poll to have a very high national approval rating), and actually supporting all the crackpot 9/11 conspiracy theory suggesting that the World Trade Center was brought down by controlled demolition. The quickest way for me to think that anyone is a total crackpot and/or moron is to buy into this 9/11 conspiracy crap. Just because some dipshit started a MySpace blog juxtaposing some scientastic nonsense about the melting temperature of steel with some out-of-context Nostradamus quotes does not mean that the Bush administration, after less than a year in power, managed to keep a conspiracy of that magnitude (involving everything and everybody from our ENTIRE military to OPEC to the British government) under wraps when the supposed motives for this conspiracy (crazy Trading Places-esque scheme to corner the petroleum market, government got sick of waiting for Al Qaeda to mobilize support for their nefarious plot to militarily dominate the Middle East by wreaking terror havoc and just did it themselves, Israel made us do it, etc.) are dubiously plausible at best. When she got kicked out of the State of the Union speech in 2006 for wearing a shirt that said "2245 Dead. How many more?" because congressional policy doesn't allow shirts with text on them, she blamed first amendment suppression rather than the dress code, because God forbid that hooker couldn't glare mournfully at the President during his annual oratory of bullshit, aw-shucks, I-ain't-tellin'-you-squat rhetoric from the ill-fitting depths of a sack of ugly tie-dye. If ONLY they'd suppress her first amendment rights! I'm sick of hearing her sound off to whatever media outlet will listen.
Even when she supposedly quit, she pissed me off. Nothing compares to the wallowing, snivelling, pathetic tone of her official withdrawal from public life:
I am going to take whatever I have left and go home. I am going to go home and be a mother to my surviving children and try to regain some of what I have lost. I will try to maintain and nurture some very positive relationships that I have found in the journey that I was forced into when Casey died and try to repair some of the ones that have fallen apart since I began this single-minded crusade to try and change a paradigm that is now, I am afraid, carved in immovable, unbendable and rigidly mendacious marble.Reading between the lines this actually says five things: 1. My husband left me and is taking me to the cleaners for all my assets, which pretty much consist exclusively of Camp Casey, and my lawyer has advised me to drop everything and act like a concerned family woman. 2. My inability to effectively manage funds and account for donations has gotten me into a financial pickle and I need some liquid capital STAT. 3. Nobody's listening to me anymore because I'm an obnoxious whore who will say anything to get a little press, and you should all feel sorry for me. 4. I love my Roget's thesaurus. 5. You are all a bunch of assholes for not agreeing with me. Maybe one day you too can find the enlightenment I could have brought you too, and realize that I'm the only real expert on what America should be like, and that I'm right and you're wrong.
Camp Casey has served its purpose. It’s for sale. Anyone want to buy five beautiful acres in Crawford, Texas ? I will consider any reasonable offer. I hear George Bush will be moving out soon, too... which makes the property even more valuable.
This is my resignation letter as the "face" of the American anti-war movement. This is not my "Checkers" moment, because I will never give up trying to help people in the world who are harmed by the empire of the good old US of A, but I am finished working in, or outside of this system. This system forcefully resists being helped and eats up the people who try to help it. I am getting out before it totally consumes me or anymore people that I love and the rest of my resources.
Good-bye America... you are not the country that I love and I finally realized no matter how much I sacrifice, I can’t make you be that country unless you want it.
I was like, "Thank God. Go home!" I thought that she had gone for good, but I should have known that nobody who writes a condescending, self-pitying three paragraph letter of resignation from a self-appointed position stays resigned for long. She only took two months before hauling her fat, patronizing ass back into the spotlight. Just this weekend, the hooker announced that she's planning on challenging Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi (D-CA) for her seat in congress if Pelosi doesn't draft some articles of impeachment in the next two weeks. Well, that's a fucking threat if I ever heard one. I guess fighting Bush didn't work so well, so now she's going after the Democrats. Peace Mom 2: Friendly Fire is going to be one hell of a political showdown, pitting these two one-time philosophical allies against each other. Catfight!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, media whores, overcompensation, politics, you're ugly
Sunday, July 08, 2007
I need to watch more Fox News Channel
Today JerseyGirl sent me this link to what may be the best cable news anchor bitch-fight in history. Basically, the gist of it is that Geraldo Rivera made his usual Thursday night appearance in the "no spin zone" to promote whatever kind of bullshit he'd be talking about on that weekend's episodes of "Geraldo At Large." O'Reilly decides to harp on about deporting some illegal immigrant who hit someone while he was DUI, and Geraldo goes ballistic.
If you don't have time to watch it, this is how it goes down:
0-1:14-Geraldo suggests O'Reilly wouldn't even be talking about it if it weren't for the fact that the drunk driver was an illegal alien, and accuses him of missing the point that this is a drunk driving story and not an immigration story. He holds O'Reilly at bay until he gets into a rant about the Minutemen patrolling the border being armed, when O'Reilly takes the opportunity to jump in with his bullshit opinion.
1:14-1:40-O'Reilly ticks off all the reasons he hates illegal immigrants and wants all foreigners deported for minor infractions like speeding tickets. "They have NO RIGHT to be here, no right at all!" he shouts.
1:40-1:50-Geraldo tells O'Reilly that this is bullshit.
1:50-2:00-O'Reilly brings up Geraldo's teenaged daughters, hoping he'll chime in about kicking out all the damn border hoppers once his childrens' safety is in question.
2:00-2:15-Geraldo informs O'Reilly saltily that he doesn't care who is driving drunk, but that his fear is of them being hit by a drunk driver. "It could be a Jewish drunk, it could be a Polish drunk, it could be an Irish drunk, it could be an Italian drunk! It DOESN'T MATTER!" The big G is starting to really lose patience with O'Reilly.
2:15-4:48-All hell breaks lose. O'Reilly and Geraldo are literally screaming at each other. Geraldo shouts "COOL YOUR JETS! It has nothing to do with illegal aliens, it has to do with DRUNK DRIVING! Don't obscure TRAGEDY to make a cheap political point!" while O'Reilly responds, "You're an ANARCHIST! You want OPEN BORDER ANARCHY!" There's a lot of yelling, emphatic finger-jabbing, and ultimately Geraldo implies that O'Reilly hates Latinos and declares his opinion a fucking sin! This is spectacular even for Fox News.
I can't really do it justice in writing, so you should just watch it. It's five minutes of highly entertaining grown men screaming at each other until veins pop out of their heads, and O'Reilly ultimately getting owned by Geraldo. In other words, it rules:
If you don't have time to watch it, this is how it goes down:
0-1:14-Geraldo suggests O'Reilly wouldn't even be talking about it if it weren't for the fact that the drunk driver was an illegal alien, and accuses him of missing the point that this is a drunk driving story and not an immigration story. He holds O'Reilly at bay until he gets into a rant about the Minutemen patrolling the border being armed, when O'Reilly takes the opportunity to jump in with his bullshit opinion.
1:14-1:40-O'Reilly ticks off all the reasons he hates illegal immigrants and wants all foreigners deported for minor infractions like speeding tickets. "They have NO RIGHT to be here, no right at all!" he shouts.
1:40-1:50-Geraldo tells O'Reilly that this is bullshit.
1:50-2:00-O'Reilly brings up Geraldo's teenaged daughters, hoping he'll chime in about kicking out all the damn border hoppers once his childrens' safety is in question.
2:00-2:15-Geraldo informs O'Reilly saltily that he doesn't care who is driving drunk, but that his fear is of them being hit by a drunk driver. "It could be a Jewish drunk, it could be a Polish drunk, it could be an Irish drunk, it could be an Italian drunk! It DOESN'T MATTER!" The big G is starting to really lose patience with O'Reilly.
2:15-4:48-All hell breaks lose. O'Reilly and Geraldo are literally screaming at each other. Geraldo shouts "COOL YOUR JETS! It has nothing to do with illegal aliens, it has to do with DRUNK DRIVING! Don't obscure TRAGEDY to make a cheap political point!" while O'Reilly responds, "You're an ANARCHIST! You want OPEN BORDER ANARCHY!" There's a lot of yelling, emphatic finger-jabbing, and ultimately Geraldo implies that O'Reilly hates Latinos and declares his opinion a fucking sin! This is spectacular even for Fox News.
I can't really do it justice in writing, so you should just watch it. It's five minutes of highly entertaining grown men screaming at each other until veins pop out of their heads, and O'Reilly ultimately getting owned by Geraldo. In other words, it rules:
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, crime and punishment, JerseyGirl, media whores, overcompensation, politics, scathing indictments, TV
Razzy's weekly melanoma risk factor increase: Coney Island
I have been making an effort to go to the beach every single weekend, because there's nothing more fun than lounging around in the sun with friends, covertly drinking many beers, and swimming around with the energy and enthusiasm of a Chinook salmon returning to its spawning grounds. I was planning on going with J-Sexy and a group of people to Cherry Grove, AKA the gay Hamptons, on Fire Island, but then the group bailed and J-Sexy decided to work. Unfortunately, I thus do not have any good stories about cruising the nudey beach for hot lesbos, but hopefully that will happen in the next couple of weekends.
Instead, JerseyGirl's boyfriend had some sort of mini-triathlon to compete in at Coney Island, so she suggested I head down there. I was supposed to go to Coney with them a couple weeks ago for the annual mermaid parade, but the night before I drank an estimated twenty beers, and that's not exaggerating. I wound up taking home this Irish postdoc who spent most of the time processing about his duplicitous ex-girlfriend. I tried to get things moving in a naked-and-fucking direction by saying something along the lines of, "Cut the chit-chat, I'm ready to be flat on my bizack, dude." He then informed me that he couldn't fuck me because it's his policy to take women on a date first. I was like, "So let me get this straight: even though your clit-tease ass agreed to come home with me, and I'm currently sitting on your lap topless making out with you, you can't go the distance until you pony up for dinner and a fucking movie?" He responded that then we would go at it like rabbits. I snorted at him contemptuously and told him that his non-putting-out ass better go home and plan this fabulous date. He texted me later and I ignored it. Anyway, because of the heavy drinking occurring in concert with this aborted attempt to get laid, I was a wreck the next day and couldn't stop dry-heaving long enough to haul my sorry self to the D train and thus flaked on the mermaid parade. If that's not the epitome of sexy then I don't know what is.
So to make up for my failure to appear the last time JerseyGirl and Rack and their male companions went to Coney, I agreed to go this time. I was a little suspicious of what the beach would be like, because Brooklyn and Queens beaches are notorious for being stank and dirty. Rack and FalloniusMonk went to Far Rockaway in Queens a few years ago and there were syringes and diapers floating in the water. However, JerseyGirl assured me that Coney Island was fabulous and sparklingly clean. That just goes to show you should never trust beach and water quality assessments from a girl who grew up on the Jersey shore.
I was trying to figure out how to get there, when I remembered something I see every day but never paid much heed to:
The D train goes right to Coney Island, and it's an express train! The Dizzle is also one of the trains I can get at my neighborhood subway station. Score! I bikini-d up, grabbed my books, towels, sunscreen, and cooler, and hit the train. I thought it would be really nice to take the subway, and I thought it would be quick since the D runs express.
Stupidly, I forgot about how miserably huge Brooklyn is. An hour later, when the conductor decided that, for whatever reason, the train I was on wasn't going all the way to Coney after all and I would have to transfer at some station way the hell out in buttfuck Brooklyn. Along with all the rest of the disgruntled passengers, I traipsed off to wait for the next train, which seemed to crawl along at a snail's pace until we finally pulled into the Stillwell Avenue station at Coney. I bought beer and ice for the cooler, then traipsed down the boardwalk looking for JerseyGirl.
I first noticed as I walked across the beach to join them that Coney Island is nothing like the other beaches I've been to on Long Island. The sand is so dirty that I swear it actually hurt my feet to walk over it. It reminded me of a gigantic version of one of those sand-filled ashtrays they used to have in malls and hotels back in the day where you could smoke there. However, after consuming a sixer of Modelo Especial, I was enjoying myself. Kodiak went on a run to Nathan's for hot dogs, and we were having a grand time in spite of the beach's nastiness, laughing at JerseyGirl's attempts to get me to go see a Bon Jovi concert in Newark with her, our shared hatred of people with atrocious spelling and grammar, and my extremely dim prospects of getting laid with any of the fellow beachgoers. Then JerseyGirl informed me that Rack and TheOldGuy were on their way.
"Can you ladies stop calling him 'the old guy' and 'the Brit' for a second? What's his actual name? I've hung out with him like ten times and I realized I don't even know his name," said Kodiak.
"Well, his last name is Bates," I said. "So you can call him 'Master Bates' like I do, and that is his real name. I expect they call people 'Master' instead of 'Mister' in England anyway."
TheOldGuy has a very good sense of humor about all the fun we have at his expense, and to demonstrate that, he showed up with another half-rack of beers to replenish the cooler. We were having a good time, except for the decided lack of hot dudes and/or hot girls available for me to pick up. Most of the people enjoying the sun and surf of Coney looked like this:
Normally I'd apologize for the poor picture quality resulting from my subpar skills as a photographer and my piece of shit camera, but in this case, consider the internets fortunate that I didn't get this heifer's cellulite in all its dimpled glory. We spent the afternoon playing "spot the grotesquely fat person" and getting ever more drunk. We even did some swimming, until late in the afternoon Rack spotted a tampon applicator floating in the water. "Where there's an applicator, there's a dirty tampon. I'm not going back in," I declared. Rack agreed that sighting biohazardous medical waste was indeed the cue that our swimming fun had come to an end, and we should head back to Mannahattas for some whiskey-sodas and fried bar food. By the end of the day, we all had separate takes on Coney:
JerseyGirl: "Okay, seriously, you guys, this place is so romantic! It's just like the Jersey shore! I totally wish we could break out a Slippery When Wet CD...that would make it perfect!"
Rack: "What do y'all think that fuckin' giant red thing is for? This place is a fuckin' dump, y'all."
Razzy: "One finger is for the stank nastiness of this beach and the other is for making me come all the way out to Brooklyn for it! And if I had a third finger to flip off the camera with, it would be for the fact that the only weiner I've gotten here is two Nathan's famouses! But I'm drunk so I'm having fun anyway."
Ahh, Coney Island.
It wouldn't be a regular trip to the beach for me, though, if I didn't get a stupid, bizarre-looking sunburn. I've been trying to go with the marshmallow-roasting strategy of tanning this year. Much like a marshmallow, you can either slow-cook me to a nice golden brown over low heat, or just stick my ass into the flames and burn my ass to a blackened crisp. I've been applying lots of SPF 45 and trying to take the slow-cooking path. However, as is typical, I missed a couple of spots. So far, my ass and face have both suffered really stupid-looking sunburns, and this time, my back bore the brunt of uneven sunscreen application:
It looks like one of those dumb angel wing tattoos that stupid bitches like to get. I expect that every unwashed, dreadlock-sporting lesbo folk singer on the Lilith Fair second stage had this type of faux-religious dumb bitch body art inked on their backs, often made exponentially more stupid with some type of Buddhinduyoga (generic goddesses, random Sanskrit) or girlie-girl (butterflies, flowers, metaphorical vagina) imagery.
Since I don't have any tattoos, nor do I plan on getting any, I am most unhappy with the placement of this sunburn. I don't want to look like one of these dumb bitches. If anyone asks me where my bongo drums are because of this, that unfortunate individual is getting smacked the fuck up. Every beach I've visited so far has left its mark on me in the form of UV irradiation. At Fire Island's sunken forest, it was my face. At Long Beach, it was my ass. And now thanks to Coney, my back looks like it should belong to some ugly hairy-armpitted hooker with a backless baby-doll dress and an acoustic guitar. Which body part will my next beach visit claim?
Instead, JerseyGirl's boyfriend had some sort of mini-triathlon to compete in at Coney Island, so she suggested I head down there. I was supposed to go to Coney with them a couple weeks ago for the annual mermaid parade, but the night before I drank an estimated twenty beers, and that's not exaggerating. I wound up taking home this Irish postdoc who spent most of the time processing about his duplicitous ex-girlfriend. I tried to get things moving in a naked-and-fucking direction by saying something along the lines of, "Cut the chit-chat, I'm ready to be flat on my bizack, dude." He then informed me that he couldn't fuck me because it's his policy to take women on a date first. I was like, "So let me get this straight: even though your clit-tease ass agreed to come home with me, and I'm currently sitting on your lap topless making out with you, you can't go the distance until you pony up for dinner and a fucking movie?" He responded that then we would go at it like rabbits. I snorted at him contemptuously and told him that his non-putting-out ass better go home and plan this fabulous date. He texted me later and I ignored it. Anyway, because of the heavy drinking occurring in concert with this aborted attempt to get laid, I was a wreck the next day and couldn't stop dry-heaving long enough to haul my sorry self to the D train and thus flaked on the mermaid parade. If that's not the epitome of sexy then I don't know what is.
So to make up for my failure to appear the last time JerseyGirl and Rack and their male companions went to Coney, I agreed to go this time. I was a little suspicious of what the beach would be like, because Brooklyn and Queens beaches are notorious for being stank and dirty. Rack and FalloniusMonk went to Far Rockaway in Queens a few years ago and there were syringes and diapers floating in the water. However, JerseyGirl assured me that Coney Island was fabulous and sparklingly clean. That just goes to show you should never trust beach and water quality assessments from a girl who grew up on the Jersey shore.
I was trying to figure out how to get there, when I remembered something I see every day but never paid much heed to:
Stupidly, I forgot about how miserably huge Brooklyn is. An hour later, when the conductor decided that, for whatever reason, the train I was on wasn't going all the way to Coney after all and I would have to transfer at some station way the hell out in buttfuck Brooklyn. Along with all the rest of the disgruntled passengers, I traipsed off to wait for the next train, which seemed to crawl along at a snail's pace until we finally pulled into the Stillwell Avenue station at Coney. I bought beer and ice for the cooler, then traipsed down the boardwalk looking for JerseyGirl.
I first noticed as I walked across the beach to join them that Coney Island is nothing like the other beaches I've been to on Long Island. The sand is so dirty that I swear it actually hurt my feet to walk over it. It reminded me of a gigantic version of one of those sand-filled ashtrays they used to have in malls and hotels back in the day where you could smoke there. However, after consuming a sixer of Modelo Especial, I was enjoying myself. Kodiak went on a run to Nathan's for hot dogs, and we were having a grand time in spite of the beach's nastiness, laughing at JerseyGirl's attempts to get me to go see a Bon Jovi concert in Newark with her, our shared hatred of people with atrocious spelling and grammar, and my extremely dim prospects of getting laid with any of the fellow beachgoers. Then JerseyGirl informed me that Rack and TheOldGuy were on their way.
"Can you ladies stop calling him 'the old guy' and 'the Brit' for a second? What's his actual name? I've hung out with him like ten times and I realized I don't even know his name," said Kodiak.
"Well, his last name is Bates," I said. "So you can call him 'Master Bates' like I do, and that is his real name. I expect they call people 'Master' instead of 'Mister' in England anyway."
TheOldGuy has a very good sense of humor about all the fun we have at his expense, and to demonstrate that, he showed up with another half-rack of beers to replenish the cooler. We were having a good time, except for the decided lack of hot dudes and/or hot girls available for me to pick up. Most of the people enjoying the sun and surf of Coney looked like this:
JerseyGirl: "Okay, seriously, you guys, this place is so romantic! It's just like the Jersey shore! I totally wish we could break out a Slippery When Wet CD...that would make it perfect!"
Rack: "What do y'all think that fuckin' giant red thing is for? This place is a fuckin' dump, y'all."
Razzy: "One finger is for the stank nastiness of this beach and the other is for making me come all the way out to Brooklyn for it! And if I had a third finger to flip off the camera with, it would be for the fact that the only weiner I've gotten here is two Nathan's famouses! But I'm drunk so I'm having fun anyway."
Ahh, Coney Island.
It wouldn't be a regular trip to the beach for me, though, if I didn't get a stupid, bizarre-looking sunburn. I've been trying to go with the marshmallow-roasting strategy of tanning this year. Much like a marshmallow, you can either slow-cook me to a nice golden brown over low heat, or just stick my ass into the flames and burn my ass to a blackened crisp. I've been applying lots of SPF 45 and trying to take the slow-cooking path. However, as is typical, I missed a couple of spots. So far, my ass and face have both suffered really stupid-looking sunburns, and this time, my back bore the brunt of uneven sunscreen application:
Since I don't have any tattoos, nor do I plan on getting any, I am most unhappy with the placement of this sunburn. I don't want to look like one of these dumb bitches. If anyone asks me where my bongo drums are because of this, that unfortunate individual is getting smacked the fuck up. Every beach I've visited so far has left its mark on me in the form of UV irradiation. At Fire Island's sunken forest, it was my face. At Long Beach, it was my ass. And now thanks to Coney, my back looks like it should belong to some ugly hairy-armpitted hooker with a backless baby-doll dress and an acoustic guitar. Which body part will my next beach visit claim?
Labels: JerseyGirl, NYC, oh the horror, Rack, Razzification
Friday, July 06, 2007
A Process, A Gift, and a Journey
I just saw this on The Superficial and felt it was worth sharing. Someone with WAAAAYYYY too much time on their hands (even more time, apparently, than myself) took the excerpt of her deep thoughts diary entry that Paris Hilton read aloud during her interview with Larry King last week and made it into a power ballad of sorts. The singer sounds like if Ronny James Dio had a baby with the lead singer of Rush, and that baby turned out be a cat dying in agony.
Seriously, this should go on Paris's next album. Lyric for lyric, it's much more powerful than "Stars are Blind." I smell a Grammy!
Seriously, this should go on Paris's next album. Lyric for lyric, it's much more powerful than "Stars are Blind." I smell a Grammy!
Labels: buttrock, down with OPB (other people's blogs), hilarious shit, sluts
Anyone need a recommendation?
I'm extremely good at writing letters of recommendation. I've done it for a variety of people for a number of different reasons. I once wrote a recommendation for a dude who wanted to be a cop! I find it infinitely amusing that a drunken degenerate is the go-to recommendation writer for people, but I guess I look good on paper and I can write in a persuasive and compelling manner. So long as the people reading the letter don't frequent bars where I might be exposing my breasts, shouting about blow jobs, or humping some random dude in the bathroom, my credibility is just fine.
My most recent request for a letter was from my buddy JerseyGirl, who is purchasing an apartment in the building she currently lives in. Buying real estate in Manhattan is like nowhere else; you actually have to go through an arduous process where they do background checks similar to what the FBI does for its agents. She asked me to send a letter of recommendation on Columbia letterhead extolling her virtues as a potential apartment owner in her classy Upper West Side building, and insisting that she would NEVER have drunken 90210 parties there or be in any way associated with debauchery or illicit activities. I gladly obliged and I have to say, this is the first time I've ever been able to use the phrase "it's no surprise she was working with notable, established journalists like Geraldo Rivera."
Dear Board Members:
My name is Razzy, and I am writing this letter to personally recommend JerseyGirl as an excellent buyer for an apartment in your building.
I have known JerseyGirl since we were undergraduates at Smith College and worked on the editorial board of the college newspaper together. At the time, I was associate editor and JerseyGirl was the news editor. I was first impressed by her intelligence, savvy, wit, and most importantly, her ability to meet deadlines. She maintained an excellent grade point average while going above and beyond to fulfill her responsibilities at the newspaper, which were not insignificant. After I graduated, JerseyGirl became the editor-in-chief of the paper. Given her leadership skills, vivacious personality, editorial talents, and the consistent quality of work she produced, she was the natural choice for this position.
Since her talents in journalism were evident during college, I was not surprised to see her establish herself in that industry for her career. JerseyGirl is very ambitious and it’s also no surprise that within a few years of graduating college, she was working for notable, established journalists like Geraldo Rivera. I expect to see her continue to excel in her current position at MSNBC. When I’ve met her colleagues at social functions, it’s clear to me that they regard her as an esteemed and accomplished professional.
Although I am a graduate student in microbiology and she works in the cable news industry and we do not have much in common as far as our careers are concerned, her company is always enjoyable and I am glad we have remained friends. She is an engaging conversationalist and a loyal friend. I know that when I spend time with her, I can count on laughing heartily and having engaging conversations. I also know that I can trust her with my confidences and greatly value her advice. I consider myself extraordinarily fortunate to count JerseyGirl as a close friend.
I think that JerseyGirl would be an excellent addition to your building. I have no doubt that she will be a good neighbor and a responsible tenant. Please consider JerseyGirl as a strong candidate for purchasing a unit in your building.
Thank you very much for your time and consideration.
Best wishes,
Razzy
I can really lay it on thick. She's totally getting this apartment. I rule.
My most recent request for a letter was from my buddy JerseyGirl, who is purchasing an apartment in the building she currently lives in. Buying real estate in Manhattan is like nowhere else; you actually have to go through an arduous process where they do background checks similar to what the FBI does for its agents. She asked me to send a letter of recommendation on Columbia letterhead extolling her virtues as a potential apartment owner in her classy Upper West Side building, and insisting that she would NEVER have drunken 90210 parties there or be in any way associated with debauchery or illicit activities. I gladly obliged and I have to say, this is the first time I've ever been able to use the phrase "it's no surprise she was working with notable, established journalists like Geraldo Rivera."
Dear Board Members:
My name is Razzy, and I am writing this letter to personally recommend JerseyGirl as an excellent buyer for an apartment in your building.
I have known JerseyGirl since we were undergraduates at Smith College and worked on the editorial board of the college newspaper together. At the time, I was associate editor and JerseyGirl was the news editor. I was first impressed by her intelligence, savvy, wit, and most importantly, her ability to meet deadlines. She maintained an excellent grade point average while going above and beyond to fulfill her responsibilities at the newspaper, which were not insignificant. After I graduated, JerseyGirl became the editor-in-chief of the paper. Given her leadership skills, vivacious personality, editorial talents, and the consistent quality of work she produced, she was the natural choice for this position.
Since her talents in journalism were evident during college, I was not surprised to see her establish herself in that industry for her career. JerseyGirl is very ambitious and it’s also no surprise that within a few years of graduating college, she was working for notable, established journalists like Geraldo Rivera. I expect to see her continue to excel in her current position at MSNBC. When I’ve met her colleagues at social functions, it’s clear to me that they regard her as an esteemed and accomplished professional.
Although I am a graduate student in microbiology and she works in the cable news industry and we do not have much in common as far as our careers are concerned, her company is always enjoyable and I am glad we have remained friends. She is an engaging conversationalist and a loyal friend. I know that when I spend time with her, I can count on laughing heartily and having engaging conversations. I also know that I can trust her with my confidences and greatly value her advice. I consider myself extraordinarily fortunate to count JerseyGirl as a close friend.
I think that JerseyGirl would be an excellent addition to your building. I have no doubt that she will be a good neighbor and a responsible tenant. Please consider JerseyGirl as a strong candidate for purchasing a unit in your building.
Thank you very much for your time and consideration.
Best wishes,
Razzy
I can really lay it on thick. She's totally getting this apartment. I rule.
Labels: correspondence, intentional buffoonery, JerseyGirl, Razzification
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Artur Rubinstein
DOB: January 28, 1887
DOD: December 20, 1982
Occupation: Piano virtuoso
Hometown: Lodz, Poland
Current residence: A cemetery in Israel
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: One thing about me that often surprises people is that I've played piano for over twenty years. I've been playing since I was six. Actually, since I was two, but I started taking lessons at six. By eight I'd gotten bored playing facile arrangements of "She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain" and "Camptown Races" out of the Bastien books and decided to secretly learn the Moonlight Sonata behind my teacher's back. When she discovered my clandestine affair with Beethoven, she suggested I get another teacher. I suspect this was partly due to my subterfuge, but was also because she was a terrible pianist. She said the Moonlight Sonata was too advanced for a person my age (the Moonlight Sonata is technically pretty easy), which I interpreted as being too advanced for her. My parents agreed with that interpretation, since next to myself, they were the biggest proponents of the whole "Razzy's a child prodigy" idea that scored me a sweet spot in the gifted program (where we played with Legos and had mock city council all day) and some vicious grade school Spelling Bee battles.
So I got a new teacher, who had not one but two beautiful Steinway grands at her house and was a very accomplished pianist and an excellent teacher. She threw out my Bastien books, forced me to practice scales and arpeggios for hours, and introduced me to the musical love of my life: Frederic Chopin. She indulged my desires to constantly play Chopin nocturnes and preludes, and fostered my deep and abiding love for other romantic composers by working in some Brahms, Liszt, and Schubert. Whenever she suggested a new piece for me to play, I'd listen to her play it first, then we'd consult Rubinstein, which usually made me fall in love with it.
Artur Rubinstein was the greatest pianist of the 20th century. Nobody besides probably Chopin himself can compare to his masterful renditions of that man's great work. He was also a notorious horndog. He fathered bastards all over South America while he was out performing, had hoes in every area code (and country code) and ultimately left his wife of almost fifty years for a hotter piece of ass when he was NINETY. Concerning his memoirs, he said, "I cannot write it. My life is too naughty." He was like a rock star in the 1940s, making over $500 grand a year in 1940s dollars selling recordings of his concerts, and in his down time, he "preferred writers to musicians" and liked to go get beers with my boyfriend Ernest Hemingway.
He also was insanely smart, which I consider to be one of if not THE most attractive quality in a man. He fluently spoke eight languages, had a photographic memory, and once learned the entirety of Franck's Symphonic Variations on a train en route to performing it without the benefit of A FUCKING PIANO, which blows my mind. He also shared Dr. Henry "Indiana" Jones's sentiments about the Third Reich: "Ugh, Nazis...I hate these guys." He refused to play in Germany after World War II to protest the Holocaust deaths of some of his family members, and because the Nazis jacked his entire collection of manuscripts (which were finally returned to his kids in 2004). Fuck you, relative-killing, sheet music stealing Nazis!
Every time I listen to Artur Rubinstein playing Chopin or Brahms, I get chills because he is so amazingly, outstandingly great. I also desperately wish I had a piano. I've been waiting for a day when nothing too timely was going on to give him a place of honor among other Daily Dudes I Want to Hit, an elite corps of such luminaries as porn star Briana Banks, NY1 morning anchor Pat Kiernan, and New Orleans Saints Running Back Reggie (Get in My) Bush. It's a shame he died when I was four, because I would have gladly been that old man's mistress. I bet he could teach me some dope fingering moves. On the piano AND in the bedroom.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, nerd alert, Razzification
Daily Douchebag: Mike Rowe
Real Name: Michael Gregory Rowe
DOB: March 18, 1962
Occupation: Scourge of the Discovery Channel
Hometown: Baltimore, Maryland
Current residence: San Francisco, California
Douchebaggery: Mike Rowe has irrevocably bound himself to the Discovery Channel, undoubtedly through some type of voodhoo, hoodoo, santeria, soul-selling, or other nefarious dark magic. He hosts "Dirty Jobs" and narrates a host of other shows. Since I think both "American Chopper" and "Ghost Hunters" are impossibly lame, he can narrate those until his voice gives out. However, he also narrates "Deadliest Catch", the undisputed best show in the history of the Discovery Channel. His narrating itself isn't that bad; his voice as a disembodied, God-like commentary on Bering Sea weather conditions, the many dangers of crabbing, and Captain Sig the Hotness Hansen's irascible style of crab boat captaining actually works pretty well. However, sometimes he's not limited to voice-over and actually shows up to ruin everything. On these occasions, like "After the Catch", a special sit-down with the "Deadliest Catch" captains at a bar in Seattle, I experience a great deal of stress and frustration. On one hand, I observe that Sig Hansen is there in a bulky Northwestern jacket sucking on a Marlboro Light, slamming pints of Alaskan Amber, and generally making the interior of the Lockspot Bar in Seattle sizzlingly hot enough to necessitate turning on the A/C (which they probably have just for when Sig drops by) and I want to lick the television. On the other hand, Mike is sitting there looking like a dweeb in his brand-new Dutch Harbor shirt asking dumb questions like, "So have you guys ever worried about death?" or "Why are you all Norwegian?" (same reason as me...they were born to be AWESOME), and I want to throw my television out the window. God, SHUT UP! And quit pestering Sig and Captain Phil of the Cornelia Marie to quit smoking.
He's even worse on "Dirty Jobs", which is his show and basically showcases his decided lack of comedic talent for a full hour. On one episode I caught, he was visiting a pig farm, and the farmer decided to make a quip about the pigs. Mike shushed his ass and said, "Leave the jokes to me." Are you kidding? Like Mike's guffawing about clipping pig tails is comic gold compared to the farmer making trade jokes, especially when most of his jokes revolve around what he calls "poo." Who the fuck says "poo"? That's a euphemism favored by fat housewives who decorate with God's eyes and watercolors of Jesus, along with "darn it", "shoot", and "fudge." I went on a cruise in the seventh grade with this girl I knew from the gifted program, and her mom was like that. She forced me to drink milk, refused me coffee on the grounds of age, and then, when her stupid lactose intolerant husband went overboard at the Monarch of the Seas ice cream sundae bar and got sick, wouldn't take us on the Mayan ruin touring/snorkeling tour we planned to do. She tried to make me go to a Protestant church service (sha RIGHT) and made me go to bed every night at nine so she and the old man could spend the evening in the casino. She also liked being on the ship better than the excursions to the various stops on the cruise because there were no annoying foreigners trying to sell her things. I was like, "Are you joking? You like the ship better than Grand Cayman because you don't have to deal with the NATIVE FUCKING PEOPLE there?" Bitch. Anyway, this woman always said "poo" and even at the age of eleven I thought that was stupid. My parents use "shit" and, if not feeling that full profanity is warranted, "crap." The word "poo" sucks, and every time Mike Rowe uses it I scoff viciously. There was a lot of scoffing going on when I watched the "Dirty Jobs" episode where he follows around a "pigeon control" technician whose main job was cleaning bird shit and setting up various pigeon-shooing apparati around building roofs since the entire thing was comprised of poorly executed "poo" jokes.
If you ask my dad, Mike Rowe's greatest transgression is taking his smarmy, know-it-all schtick to sell F-150 trucks for Ford. For reasons that are unclear to me, my father would rather be drawn and quartered than drive a Ford truck. He's very particular about trucks. One time we were driving around Puyallup and I saw a "rig" (his preferred word for "truck") similar to his and pointed it out. He scoffed, "My rig's bigger'n that. That's only a half-ton. Besides, it's a Ford." His voice had more venom than Heather Locklear's in a classic episode of "Melrose Place" while noting that it was a Ford. I don't personally have an issue with the Ford Motor Company, but since my dad hates it and he's an eminently sensible man, I may as well loathe Ford too. Now that Mike Rowe is their spokesperson, I have a good reason. Especially since he replaced Toby Keith, who sold Ford trucks b