Friday, August 31, 2007
Further proof of the links between Pugs and pinnipeds
I saw this picture on Dlisted today, and could instantly relate, and not just because the zookeeper or whatever in it is rocking a hair color that obviously comes out of a bottle:
Seriously, this is the situation I find myself in every time I try to chill out on my couch and wtch a little reality trash on the idiot box. I'll be relaxing with a Heineken and a rerun of "Top Chef" or "Rock of Love," and the next thing I know, there's a fatass walrus-like creature sitting on me and shedding barbed fawn-colored hairs all over me.
Chingy! has got to be very close to walruses from a phylogenetic perspective. Based on my observations (and I may not be a naturalist, but I AM a biologist, and that's got to count for something) at the Museum of Natural History and this photograph, I am almost convinced that walruses and Pugs are more closely related than humans and chimps. Seriously, the only phenotypic difference I can see between these two are that the walrus has flippers, although if Chingy! continues his trend of meteoric weight gain, I wouldn't be surprised if his paws are flattened or crushed into flipper-like appendages from trying to support his mammoth size.
CHONGAY CHONG, evolution!
Chingy! has got to be very close to walruses from a phylogenetic perspective. Based on my observations (and I may not be a naturalist, but I AM a biologist, and that's got to count for something) at the Museum of Natural History and this photograph, I am almost convinced that walruses and Pugs are more closely related than humans and chimps. Seriously, the only phenotypic difference I can see between these two are that the walrus has flippers, although if Chingy! continues his trend of meteoric weight gain, I wouldn't be surprised if his paws are flattened or crushed into flipper-like appendages from trying to support his mammoth size.
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, fat fucks, science
And the Least Manly Outfit Award goes to...
Ashton Kutcher really has a lot of chutzpah to dole out fashion advice like he's some sort of style expert. No self-respecting man should ever take tips on how to sack up from any jerkoff who wears this outfit:
This ensemble belongs in the shopping bag of some Avril Lavigne-listening teenager leaving the Juniors section at the JC Penney's back to school sale, not on some dude who fancies himself a leading man. There's a HUMMINGBIRD on his shirt, for God's sake! And let's not overlook the most obviously effeminate piece of this entire ill-advised fashion statement: CAPRI PANTS! Did he raid one of his stepdaughters' closets? Because I can't imagine that any clothing manufacturer short of Levy Pants during Ignatius J. Reilly's brief stint there would conceive of something as irrational as man-pris. I never thought I would say this, but trucker hats look like the ultimate in chic compared to this bullshit. Busted!
Labels: assholes, celebrities, oh the horror, you're ugly
Daily Douchebag: Nick Bollea
DOB: July 27, 1990
Occupation: drift racer, unsafe driver, reality whore, little dicked LOSER
Hometown: WWE tour bus?
Current residence: Miami Beach, Florida
Douchebaggery: Every time I see one of these dudes who is into tricked-out, garish, Fast and the Furious-type cars, I immediately think "small penis." On each occasion that I've been unfortunate enough to catch an episode of "Hogan Knows Best," that is immediately what has jumped into my head every time I see Nick, Hulk Hogan's teenage son. Nick clearly fancies himself a ladies' man, even though his primary seduction tactic relies on leaning up against the spoiler of whatever tacky rice burner he happens to be driving and looking like he just raided Kevin Federline's closet. Confirming that his not-too-tight game is primarily automotive, Nick gave an interview to Rides magazine, assuring all of that publication's equally poorly-equipped male readers that nothing gets undiscriminating teenaged bitches wet like a souped-up Toyota:
The yellow Supra and yellow Viper are pussy magnets, for sure. I mean, the green and the silver appeal more to men, ’cause a guy knows what he’s looking at and will drool over it. But girls see the yellow, and panties start dropping off.Oh really? Well, my panties (assuming I'm actually wearing any) would stay firmly on when taking one look at that arrogant tool, especially considering that last week his "pussy magnet" ended up wrapped around a goddamn telephone pole and is currently being salvaged for scrap metal.
In my silver Viper, I was driving from Miami to Tampa. I got pulled over going 107 [mph] and the guy let me off. He’s like, “Hey, I know who you are, just keep going, ya know.” Dude, I got back on the road and two minutes later I get pulled over going 113 [mph]. Another highway patrol from the same county said, “I just heard on the radio that my buddy pulled you over and let you go. I’ma let you go this time. It’s your second warning. You get pulled over again, you’re probably going to go to jail.” Three minutes later, [I was] doing 123 [mph] in a 50 [mph zone]. The guy is like, “Hey, I just heard you got pulled over twice in the last 10 minutes. I got to write you a ticket.”That interview--which also includes Nick boasting about how his testosterone mobiles "dusted" a Ferrari Enzo and "stomped out" a Lamborghini--will come in handy when the passenger riding in Nick's pussy magnet decides to file a lawsuit alleging that Nick's disregard for posted speed limits and the police enforcing them and history of drag racing makes him liable to the tune of mad cash. Since witnesses at the scene of his accident last week are reporting that he was racing someone driving the aforementioned silver Viper, Nick will be lucky if he doesn't face criminal charges. I doubt those panties will be dropping once Nick is an alumnus of the Florida prison system, because unlike stupid fucking cars that advertise one's inadequacy in the manhood department, having been on the receiving end of burly, possibly HIV-infected prison dick definitely doesn't turn on even the least discerning of Miami Beach's vapid, gold-digging whores. Okay, so he may be a minor and I don't know if they can charge someone as an adult for crimes other than murder, but at least I hope he gets stripped of his fucking driver's license and faces civil damages so severe that he has to sell every last one of his family's collection of tiny weiner-compensating whips. Fucking loser.
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, Daily Douchebag, overcompensation, small penises, TV, Vh1
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: James Blake
DOB: December 28, 1979
Occupation: #6 ranked male tennis player in the world
Hometown: Yonkers, New York
Current residence: Tampa, Florida
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I'm not really that into tennis. I took tennis lessons when I was younger and, like many sports I sucked royally at, elected to stop playing it in favor of pursuits I was more successful at (reading, writing, general bookish nerdiness). I also don't like sports where you have to be quiet when you're watching them, as generally when I am in the audience at a sporting event, I'm quaffing large volumes of beer and hollering about my allegiances.
However, last night, I happened to arrive home and while flipping channels, came across this hot black dude demolishing a short, snotty-looking little Frenchman in the US Open. There was nothing else on, so I thought, what the hell...I guess I'll watch this sexy fucker play tennis for a minute. Besides, the match was almost over.
Apart from the fact that James needs to trim his beard, which looks like a damn briar patch covering his face, I was definitely impressed by his overall hotness. Usually I expect male tennis players to look like they ooze douche from every pore. Roger Federer looks like he hires a personal stylist to match designer sweatbands with his tennis whites, Lleyton Hewitt looks either like he should be hanging out with Brody Jenner on "The Hills" or like he's sorely in need of a bath, and Andy Roddick looks like the type of dude who slips GHB into bitches' Cosmos when they aren't looking. Roddick in particular also exudes some MAJOR pencil-dick vibes. However, James Blake defies the trend set by his contemporaries and gives me the impression that he's the type of guy who, in the words of Pretty Ricky, could make me ride it like a Porsche.
Lucky for me, James Blake has a thing for banging blondes. These are his last two girlfriends:
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Puyallup brought down by bonging
Sccs, a Razzyphile who apparently keeps up on his P-N-Dub news, just tipped me off about this recent article concerning a suspicious package aboard the ferry Puyallup, which hauls rich assholes from Bainbridge Island and obese Navy whores (aka Bremelos) from Bremerton to Seattle:
I'm kind of shocked that it would even be surprising to find drug paraphernalia on a boat aptly named for my meth-addled hometown. If there's anything that Puyallup has a lot of, it's people smoking the reefer, preferably out of some sort of unwieldy water-containing instrument that they treasure more than their own bastard children. I went to a party in Puyallup over New Year's where some dudes were smoking pot, and sure enough, rather than use some sort of disposable, party-practical delivery method like a joint, they were employing some sort of gigantic, colorful tube contraption that they talked about in hushed, reverent tones like it was a piece from the Chihuly collection at the Tacoma Museum of Glass. Potheads in Seattle are even worse regarding their trust fund Phish-head pipe snobbery. Walk into any alley next to some organic juice-slanging Fremont coffee shop and you'll hear some white asshole with dreadlocks proclaiming, "hey, man, it's all blown glass, man...so killer. Man, nothing really hits like a glass piece, man. I won't smoke out of anything unless it's glass, man." So why did it take an hour of elite FBI anti-terror agents to determine that yes, the suspicious package is indeed a garden variety bong rather than an explosive threat meant to take out the Puyallup?
It must be all those fucking terrorists' fault, because I would think that under normal circumstances, nobody in the P-N-Dub would bat an eye over a misplaced "water pipe typically used for smoking marijuana," except maybe to say, "Oh dude, score! Check out the bong I found in the men's room!" I would think that some lazy, unbathed dude cruising over to Seattle from Bainbridge taking sufficient bong rips to merit forgetting his paraphernalia in the bathroom because he got too stoned and thus overwhelmed by his venti chai soy latte and the jamming of Widespread Panic or whatever on his iPod is probably a common occurrence. Hey terrorists, quit killing the P-N-Dub's buzz, man!
Discovery of bong delays WA ferry serviceSo let me get this straight...the Puyallup was docked because there are terrorists running around the Washington state ferry system so adored by Dr. McDreamy on "Gay's Shitnatomy," and these terrorists are running around planting "non-hazardous, non-explosive devices" in the onboard men's room? Or maybe the terrorists--I mean, the suspicious Middle Eastern dudes who aren't suspects and haven't been charged with a crime--were too busy doing implied pre-terror attack reconnaissance to notice the dirty hippie who decided to break out the Graffix three-footer from his patchouli soaked Irie-colored knit man-satchel in the marine head to chill out on his morning commute and attract unwanted scrutiny.
August 22, 2007
By ANNIE FLANZRAICH
The Associated Press
SEATTLE (AP) — This bong threat was legitimate.
The FBI has confirmed that a suspicious package that idled one of the largest ferries in the Washington state fleet for about an hour Wednesday morning was actually a water-pipe typically used for smoking marijuana.
"Someone found a bong," said David Gomez, FBI assistant special agent in charge.
The device was found in a men's restroom of the 460-foot ferry Puyallup at the height of the morning commute.
The ferry had just been emptied of cars and passengers after arriving at Colman Dock from Bainbridge Island about 8 a.m. when the package was found, said Marta Coursey, a spokeswoman for the ferry system.
State Patrol Sgt. Craig H. Johnson would only say the device was a "nonhazardous, nonexplosive item," adding investigators carried it off the ferry for further examination.
No arrests were made and no identified individuals were being sought, but "we'd like to find the person who left it there," Johnson said.
Following a search and examination by State Patrol troopers, the 2,500-passenger, 202-vehicle ferry was cleared to resume service about 9 a.m., Coursey said.
During the shutdown, service on the Seattle-Bainbridge and Seattle-Bremerton runs was maintained on the terminal's other main slip.
Coursey said two Seattle-Bainbridge runs were canceled during the package scare.
The scare came amid heightened security in the ferry system following reports of "suspicious behavior" in recent weeks. On Monday the FBI released photographs of two men who were described as showing unusual interest in the vessels, Agent Roberta A. Burroughs said.
The FBI would not release further details of the men's behavior, Burroughs said.
"It appeared to the people that reported it to us that the men seemed to have an undue interest in the workings of the ferry and the ferry terminal," she said.
Several ferry employees and passengers reported the men to the FBI about a month ago, but agents have been unable to identify them and released the photos hoping members of the public would know who they are.
Neither man is considered a suspect or has been charged with a crime.
"We admit right up front that the behavior could be completely innocuous," Burroughs said.
I'm kind of shocked that it would even be surprising to find drug paraphernalia on a boat aptly named for my meth-addled hometown. If there's anything that Puyallup has a lot of, it's people smoking the reefer, preferably out of some sort of unwieldy water-containing instrument that they treasure more than their own bastard children. I went to a party in Puyallup over New Year's where some dudes were smoking pot, and sure enough, rather than use some sort of disposable, party-practical delivery method like a joint, they were employing some sort of gigantic, colorful tube contraption that they talked about in hushed, reverent tones like it was a piece from the Chihuly collection at the Tacoma Museum of Glass. Potheads in Seattle are even worse regarding their trust fund Phish-head pipe snobbery. Walk into any alley next to some organic juice-slanging Fremont coffee shop and you'll hear some white asshole with dreadlocks proclaiming, "hey, man, it's all blown glass, man...so killer. Man, nothing really hits like a glass piece, man. I won't smoke out of anything unless it's glass, man." So why did it take an hour of elite FBI anti-terror agents to determine that yes, the suspicious package is indeed a garden variety bong rather than an explosive threat meant to take out the Puyallup?
It must be all those fucking terrorists' fault, because I would think that under normal circumstances, nobody in the P-N-Dub would bat an eye over a misplaced "water pipe typically used for smoking marijuana," except maybe to say, "Oh dude, score! Check out the bong I found in the men's room!" I would think that some lazy, unbathed dude cruising over to Seattle from Bainbridge taking sufficient bong rips to merit forgetting his paraphernalia in the bathroom because he got too stoned and thus overwhelmed by his venti chai soy latte and the jamming of Widespread Panic or whatever on his iPod is probably a common occurrence. Hey terrorists, quit killing the P-N-Dub's buzz, man!
Labels: crime and punishment, drugs, Grey's Anatomy, P-N-Dub, Razzyphiles, terror
My last will and testament
Yesterday, this was on the cover of the finest news publication in the history of print journalism:
Yes, Leona Helmsley left $12 million to her beloved Maltese, Trouble. Trouble helped Leona sell rooms at the Helmsley Hotel by appearing with her in ads extolling Leona's hospitality and dedication to customer service (and that must mean Trouble is damn near as old as Leona when she bit the big one), as well as living up to his name and his mistress's reputation by biting members of the Helmsley housekeeping staff.
In response to this story, Razzyphile El Cyd wanted to know what exactly what I would leave to my treasured mutts. I was just thinking about this because the other night, I had a dream that Chingy! went on tour with Lil' Boosie, and then when I tried to rescue him from the "tour bus" (in the dream it was a cinder block-worthy RV), he got run over and died. I was holding his squashed little Hutt body, looking into those freshly lifeless turbid little eyes, and woke up in tears. Luckily, it was just a dream and Chingy! was snoring away contentedly in his usual spot on my extra pillows, but it did remind me that in spite of all the bitching I do about him, I would be devastated if Chingy! passed on. Obviously if I were to croak, I'd want to ensure that my dogs could, like Trouble, continue living their lavish lives of luxury, so I figured I'd respond to El Cyd's request. Besides, it seems very responsible to have my affairs in order should I meet my untimely demise (you never know...between my haters, stalkers, drug-dealing neighbors, embittered former sex partners, alcoholism, smoking, and dangerous New Yorker habit of jaywalking whenever possible, it could happen).
Unfortunately, unlike Leona, I don't have a lot of spare millions laying around to bequeath to my pets. However, I do have a number of priceless items which my dogs would likely treasure. And by "treasure," I mean "find deliciously chewable." So, without further ado, allow me to order the affairs of my estate:
I, Razzy, a resident of New York, New York, being of sound and disposing mind and memory and over the age of eighteen (18) years or a member of the armed forces of the United States or a member of an auxiliary of the armed forces of the United States or a member of the maritime service of the United States, and not being actuated by any duress, menace, fraud, mistake, or undue influence, do make, publish, and declare this to be my last Will, hereby expressly revoking all Wills and Codicils previously made by me.
I. MARRIAGE AND CHILDREN
I am not married (thank God). I am a single parent and have the following children:
Name: Caesar Gaius Octavian Augustus Rasmussen
Date of Birth: October 8, 2001
Name: Chingy! Chin-Chin Chongay Chong Rasmussen
Date of Birth: June 3, 2003
II. EXECUTOR: Owing to her exceptional bond with my d-o-double g's, I appoint LL Cool Jew as Executor of this my Last Will and Testament and provide if this Executor is unable or unwilling to serve then I appoint MillerTime as alternate Executor, as she'll know what to do with all my old sex toys. My Executor shall be authorized to carry out all provisions of this Will and pay my just debts, obligations and funeral expenses.
III. GUARDIAN: In the event I shall die as the sole parent of minor children, then I appoint LL Cool Jew as Guardian of said minor children. If this named Guardian is unable or unwilling to serve, then I appoint Miss Corbutt as alternate Guardian for Caesar, and KatieScarlett as alternate Guardian for Chingy!
IV. SIMULTANEOUS DEATH OF BENEFICIARY: If any beneficiary of this Will, including any beneficiary of any trust established by this Will, shall die within 30 days of my death or prior to the distribution of my estate, I hereby declare that I shall be deemed to have survived such person.
V. BEQUESTS:
I will, give, and bequeath unto the dogs named below, if he or she survives me, the Property described below:
Name: Caesar Gaius Octavian Augustus Rasmussen
Relationship: biological dog
Property: all old Heineken bottle caps littering my desk and floor for the purposes of mastication and amusement, any and all Kongs which may be found under my bed, my comforter for frustrated or enthusiastic humping purposes, any and all partially consumed bones, rawhides, pig ears, or other animal skin-based dog treats which may surface in the course of the Augean stables-caliber cleanup of my apartment, all leftover Beneful, all the cheese and/or pepperoni and/or in my refrigerator, and all the flies that migrate in through my unscreened windows, which provide Caesar great joy as snapping-at targets.
Name: Chingy! Chin-Chin Chongay Chong Rasmussen
Relationship: adopted dog
Property: any and all dirty socks and/or underwear for licking and chewing, any and all remote controls, vibrators, houseplants, household electronics and appliances, CDs, DVDs (including both mainstream and pornographic films), cosmetics, computer and accessories (including flash drive, external DVR, and shitty-ass non-functional HP printer/copier/scanner) asthma inhalers, lighters, feminine hygiene products, Palmer's Cocoa Butter dispensers, stiletto heeled shoes, treasured heirloom crucifixes, wicker baskets shaped like Washington state, Glade plug-ins, digital cameras, or other priceless material for purposes of methodical destruction by snaggle-teeth or grotesquely abbreviated paws, the contents of my kitchen and bathroom garbage cans, and all the knick-knacks on my tchotchky shelf, particularly my Harry Potter replica wand, my Catholic priest Homie doll, and my statue of Kali, Hindu Goddess of Destruction.
Name: Dulcinea Cool Jew-Bagel
Address: New Orleans, Louisiana
Relationship: honorary god-Chihuahua
Property: my great-grandmother's hand-tied rag rug, her preferred indoor shitting spot.
Name: Kylee Razzy
Address: Puyallup, Washington
Relationship: niece
Property: all clean socks, for carrying around the house as suits her
Name: Stretch Fitz-MillerTime
Address: Puyallup, Washington
Relationship: step-dog
Property: my book of IQ tests, in the hopes that he may overcome his developmental disabilities and reach an acceptable level of cognition; my Seahawks 2005 NFC Championship blanket, in hopes that he will have a soft place to recover from head injuries sustained by running into walls
Name: Ilse Fitz-Neo
Address: New York, New York
Relationship: dogsittee
Property: nothing, for reasons that are known to her...okay, fine, it's because she's spoiled enough already and she already has acquired one of Caesar's rope chew toys
VI. ALL REMAINING PROPERTY; RESIDUARY CLAUSE: I give, devise, and bequeath all of the rest, residue, and remainder of my estate, of whatever kind and character, and wherever located, to my parents Raz-Ma-Taz and Chicken, provided that my parents survives me. If my parents do not survive me, then I give, devise, and bequeath all of the rest, residue, and remainder of my estate, of whatever kind and character, and wherever located, to my children per share, but if any child predeceases me, then his or her share will pass, per share, to his or her lineal descendants, natural or adopted, if any, who survive me; but if there are none, and there won't be, because they are neutered, then his or her share will lapse and pass equally as part of the shares of my other named children; but if none of my named children survives me or leaves a lineal descendant who survives me, then according to the order of intestate succession in the State of New York.
VII. ADDITIONAL POWERS OF THE EXECUTOR: My Executor shall have the following additional powers with respect to my estate, to be exercised from time to time at my Executor's discretion without further license or order of any court:
To take over my blog. No offense to my other contributors, but LL Cool Jew, you're the closest thing to me and I know you'll make sure the useless bullshit stays fresh and as free of grammatical and spelling errors as possible.
VIII. WAIVER OF BOND, INVENTORY, ACCOUNTING, REPORTING AND APPROVAL: My Executor and alternate Executor shall serve without any bond, and I hereby waive the necessity of preparing or filing any inventory, accounting, appraisal, reporting, approvals or final appraisement of my estate. I direct that no expert appraisal be made of my estate unless required by law.
IX. OPTIONAL PROVISIONS: I have placed my initials next to the provisions below that I adopt as part of this Will. Any unmarked provision is not adopted by me and is not a part of this Will.
If any beneficiary to this Will is indebted to me at the time of my death, and the beneficiary evidences this debt by a valid Promissory Note payable to me, then such person's portion of my estate shall be diminished by the amount of such debt. ALR
Any and all debts of my estate shall first be paid from my residuary estate. Any debts on any real property bequeathed in this Will shall be assumed by the person to receive such real property and not paid by my Executor. ALR
I direct that my remains be cremated and that the ashes be manufactured into a fly-ass Lifegem to be mounted in a hot platinum setting according to the wishes of my Executor, who shall proceed to show-stop in the rocks on her wrist like pink lemonade made from my residual carbon. ALR
X. CONSTRUCTION: The term "testator" as used in this Will is deemed to include me as Testator or Testatrix. The pronouns used in this Will shall include, where appropriate, either gender or both, singular and plural.
XI. SEVERABILITY AND SURVIVAL: If any part of this Will is declared invalid, illegal, or inoperative for any reason, it is my intent that the remaining parts shall be effective and fully operative, and that any Court so interpreting this Will and any provision in it construe in favor of survival.
IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I, Razzy, hereby set my hand to this last Will, on each page of which I have placed my initials, on this 30th day of August, 2007 at my apartment in Sugar Hill, New York, State of New York.
That ought to do it. I'm glad I've now got that grown-up chore out of the way. Suze Orman, bless her lesbish, financially responsible heart, would be so proud of me. Now, if I can only figure out how to manage my investment portfolio (read: the Almond Roca can of change on my dresser), I'll have all my shit together.
In response to this story, Razzyphile El Cyd wanted to know what exactly what I would leave to my treasured mutts. I was just thinking about this because the other night, I had a dream that Chingy! went on tour with Lil' Boosie, and then when I tried to rescue him from the "tour bus" (in the dream it was a cinder block-worthy RV), he got run over and died. I was holding his squashed little Hutt body, looking into those freshly lifeless turbid little eyes, and woke up in tears. Luckily, it was just a dream and Chingy! was snoring away contentedly in his usual spot on my extra pillows, but it did remind me that in spite of all the bitching I do about him, I would be devastated if Chingy! passed on. Obviously if I were to croak, I'd want to ensure that my dogs could, like Trouble, continue living their lavish lives of luxury, so I figured I'd respond to El Cyd's request. Besides, it seems very responsible to have my affairs in order should I meet my untimely demise (you never know...between my haters, stalkers, drug-dealing neighbors, embittered former sex partners, alcoholism, smoking, and dangerous New Yorker habit of jaywalking whenever possible, it could happen).
Unfortunately, unlike Leona, I don't have a lot of spare millions laying around to bequeath to my pets. However, I do have a number of priceless items which my dogs would likely treasure. And by "treasure," I mean "find deliciously chewable." So, without further ado, allow me to order the affairs of my estate:
LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF
RAZZY
RAZZY
I, Razzy, a resident of New York, New York, being of sound and disposing mind and memory and over the age of eighteen (18) years or a member of the armed forces of the United States or a member of an auxiliary of the armed forces of the United States or a member of the maritime service of the United States, and not being actuated by any duress, menace, fraud, mistake, or undue influence, do make, publish, and declare this to be my last Will, hereby expressly revoking all Wills and Codicils previously made by me.
I. MARRIAGE AND CHILDREN
I am not married (thank God). I am a single parent and have the following children:
Name: Caesar Gaius Octavian Augustus Rasmussen
Date of Birth: October 8, 2001
Name: Chingy! Chin-Chin Chongay Chong Rasmussen
Date of Birth: June 3, 2003
II. EXECUTOR: Owing to her exceptional bond with my d-o-double g's, I appoint LL Cool Jew as Executor of this my Last Will and Testament and provide if this Executor is unable or unwilling to serve then I appoint MillerTime as alternate Executor, as she'll know what to do with all my old sex toys. My Executor shall be authorized to carry out all provisions of this Will and pay my just debts, obligations and funeral expenses.
III. GUARDIAN: In the event I shall die as the sole parent of minor children, then I appoint LL Cool Jew as Guardian of said minor children. If this named Guardian is unable or unwilling to serve, then I appoint Miss Corbutt as alternate Guardian for Caesar, and KatieScarlett as alternate Guardian for Chingy!
IV. SIMULTANEOUS DEATH OF BENEFICIARY: If any beneficiary of this Will, including any beneficiary of any trust established by this Will, shall die within 30 days of my death or prior to the distribution of my estate, I hereby declare that I shall be deemed to have survived such person.
V. BEQUESTS:
I will, give, and bequeath unto the dogs named below, if he or she survives me, the Property described below:
Name: Caesar Gaius Octavian Augustus Rasmussen
Relationship: biological dog
Property: all old Heineken bottle caps littering my desk and floor for the purposes of mastication and amusement, any and all Kongs which may be found under my bed, my comforter for frustrated or enthusiastic humping purposes, any and all partially consumed bones, rawhides, pig ears, or other animal skin-based dog treats which may surface in the course of the Augean stables-caliber cleanup of my apartment, all leftover Beneful, all the cheese and/or pepperoni and/or in my refrigerator, and all the flies that migrate in through my unscreened windows, which provide Caesar great joy as snapping-at targets.
Name: Chingy! Chin-Chin Chongay Chong Rasmussen
Relationship: adopted dog
Property: any and all dirty socks and/or underwear for licking and chewing, any and all remote controls, vibrators, houseplants, household electronics and appliances, CDs, DVDs (including both mainstream and pornographic films), cosmetics, computer and accessories (including flash drive, external DVR, and shitty-ass non-functional HP printer/copier/scanner) asthma inhalers, lighters, feminine hygiene products, Palmer's Cocoa Butter dispensers, stiletto heeled shoes, treasured heirloom crucifixes, wicker baskets shaped like Washington state, Glade plug-ins, digital cameras, or other priceless material for purposes of methodical destruction by snaggle-teeth or grotesquely abbreviated paws, the contents of my kitchen and bathroom garbage cans, and all the knick-knacks on my tchotchky shelf, particularly my Harry Potter replica wand, my Catholic priest Homie doll, and my statue of Kali, Hindu Goddess of Destruction.
Name: Dulcinea Cool Jew-Bagel
Address: New Orleans, Louisiana
Relationship: honorary god-Chihuahua
Property: my great-grandmother's hand-tied rag rug, her preferred indoor shitting spot.
Name: Kylee Razzy
Address: Puyallup, Washington
Relationship: niece
Property: all clean socks, for carrying around the house as suits her
Name: Stretch Fitz-MillerTime
Address: Puyallup, Washington
Relationship: step-dog
Property: my book of IQ tests, in the hopes that he may overcome his developmental disabilities and reach an acceptable level of cognition; my Seahawks 2005 NFC Championship blanket, in hopes that he will have a soft place to recover from head injuries sustained by running into walls
Name: Ilse Fitz-Neo
Address: New York, New York
Relationship: dogsittee
Property: nothing, for reasons that are known to her...okay, fine, it's because she's spoiled enough already and she already has acquired one of Caesar's rope chew toys
VI. ALL REMAINING PROPERTY; RESIDUARY CLAUSE: I give, devise, and bequeath all of the rest, residue, and remainder of my estate, of whatever kind and character, and wherever located, to my parents Raz-Ma-Taz and Chicken, provided that my parents survives me. If my parents do not survive me, then I give, devise, and bequeath all of the rest, residue, and remainder of my estate, of whatever kind and character, and wherever located, to my children per share, but if any child predeceases me, then his or her share will pass, per share, to his or her lineal descendants, natural or adopted, if any, who survive me; but if there are none, and there won't be, because they are neutered, then his or her share will lapse and pass equally as part of the shares of my other named children; but if none of my named children survives me or leaves a lineal descendant who survives me, then according to the order of intestate succession in the State of New York.
VII. ADDITIONAL POWERS OF THE EXECUTOR: My Executor shall have the following additional powers with respect to my estate, to be exercised from time to time at my Executor's discretion without further license or order of any court:
To take over my blog. No offense to my other contributors, but LL Cool Jew, you're the closest thing to me and I know you'll make sure the useless bullshit stays fresh and as free of grammatical and spelling errors as possible.
VIII. WAIVER OF BOND, INVENTORY, ACCOUNTING, REPORTING AND APPROVAL: My Executor and alternate Executor shall serve without any bond, and I hereby waive the necessity of preparing or filing any inventory, accounting, appraisal, reporting, approvals or final appraisement of my estate. I direct that no expert appraisal be made of my estate unless required by law.
IX. OPTIONAL PROVISIONS: I have placed my initials next to the provisions below that I adopt as part of this Will. Any unmarked provision is not adopted by me and is not a part of this Will.
If any beneficiary to this Will is indebted to me at the time of my death, and the beneficiary evidences this debt by a valid Promissory Note payable to me, then such person's portion of my estate shall be diminished by the amount of such debt. ALR
Any and all debts of my estate shall first be paid from my residuary estate. Any debts on any real property bequeathed in this Will shall be assumed by the person to receive such real property and not paid by my Executor. ALR
I direct that my remains be cremated and that the ashes be manufactured into a fly-ass Lifegem to be mounted in a hot platinum setting according to the wishes of my Executor, who shall proceed to show-stop in the rocks on her wrist like pink lemonade made from my residual carbon. ALR
X. CONSTRUCTION: The term "testator" as used in this Will is deemed to include me as Testator or Testatrix. The pronouns used in this Will shall include, where appropriate, either gender or both, singular and plural.
XI. SEVERABILITY AND SURVIVAL: If any part of this Will is declared invalid, illegal, or inoperative for any reason, it is my intent that the remaining parts shall be effective and fully operative, and that any Court so interpreting this Will and any provision in it construe in favor of survival.
IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I, Razzy, hereby set my hand to this last Will, on each page of which I have placed my initials, on this 30th day of August, 2007 at my apartment in Sugar Hill, New York, State of New York.
That ought to do it. I'm glad I've now got that grown-up chore out of the way. Suze Orman, bless her lesbish, financially responsible heart, would be so proud of me. Now, if I can only figure out how to manage my investment portfolio (read: the Almond Roca can of change on my dresser), I'll have all my shit together.
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, family matters, intentional buffoonery, KatieScarlett, large exclamatory font, LL Cool Jew, MillerTime, Miss Corbutt, Razzification, the D
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: White House prankstas
DOB: ???
Occupation: dicking around, pimping GOP rides
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: While Karl Rove was kickin' it over a jug of sweet tea with Dubya and the good ol' boys on the porch back in Crawford, some jokesters with nothing better to do decided to have some fun with the Jaguar he left parked at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. They stuck a bumper sticker reading "I (heart) Obama" on the windshield, plastered the windows with Post-Its reading "King Karl," shrink-wrapped it, and mounted two stuffed eagles on the trunk and a stuffed elephant on the hood. Let nobody say those kooks in the Bush White House lack a sense of humor. Apparently this was done as a gesture by staffers who are already deeply sad about the upcoming absence of Rove's puckish manner in strategy meetings.
Apparently, Karl Rove was amused by the modifications to his Jag, but that didn't stop him from immediately tearing them all off. He was assisted by some of the Children of the Corn, who act as his entourage of Satanic bodyguards, his own personal Fedayin, if you will:
Labels: assholes, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hilarious shit, politics, ridiculous absurdity, tyrannical rulers
Daily Douchebag: Ray Nagin
RAZZY note: This was written by BigBagel. I tried to convince him to become an official contributor, but he was concerned that doing so might reveal his "secret identity," as he has blogs elsewhere or something (where?). So instead he constructively used the "senioritis" he is suffering at the last days of his job as a newspaper reporter to go off on Ray Nagin, the hungry, sleepy mayor of New Orleans below.
Name: Clarence Ray Nagin
DOB: June 11, 1956
Occupation: 68th Mayor of the City of New Orleans, Louisiana
Hometown: New Orleans, Louisiana
Current residence: New Orleans, Louisiana
Douchebaggery: Endless.
In all fairness, Nagin has a hard job, probably harder than any American mayor in modern history, except maybe Ed Koch when he was first elected. To all the Nagin apologists, and there are sadly many, allow me to make a case for why I am obligated to point a spotlight on his douchebaggery, using Nagin’s own words from his 2005 State of the City address. He chose that platform, of all places, to gripe at the local media for being critical of him and not holding him on a pedestal like the national media. (Which was a douchebag move.) "You see, a wise man once told me a story – I believe it was my father. There was a young colt who looked and acted different than most other colts. One day this colt fell in a ditch. Everyone who passed by threw a rock at the colt in the ditch. They threw so many rocks that they filled up the ditch and the colt eventually walked out. The moral of this parable is: every knock is a boost. Thank you for the knocks: they are boosting me out of the ditch."
Well, Monsieur Nagin, allow me to throw a handful of rocks at you in the hope that you and the Big Easy get out of that deep-ass ditch a little more quickly. In the interest of brevity, I’m going to do it in his own words, which are pretty much the source of his profound douchebaggery with one exception, the famous WWL radio interview after Katrina in which he said, "Now get off your asses and let's do something…"
‘Twas a shining moment, from what I hear. I missed it, busy with my own mountains of debris to climb over. However that was like a fleck of gold in a river of bear shit. According to countless accounts, Nagin was beset with paranoia before and after Katrina, bumbling every important moment with misplaced hysteria and hyperactivity. Even pre-Katrina the dangerous foolishness was planting roots. Nagin swept into office in 2002 promising to reform New Orleans government's notorious corruption. The councilman, Oliver Thomas, whom he proclaimed "had his back" recently pled guilty to corruption charges. But I digress.
Again in the interest of brevity, I’ll just skip right over all the other dumb stuff he said and stuff he didn’t accomplish pre-Katrina, and just put in the highlights of his post-Katrina foot-in-mouth dance. Man, they cannot pay his communications director enough. From MLK Day last year: "Surely God is mad at America. He sent us hurricane after hurricane after hurricane, and it's destroyed and put stress on this country. Surely he doesn't approve of us being in Iraq under false pretenses. But surely he is upset at black America also. We're not taking care of ourselves." (i.e. yes, I am a messianic messenger.)
Same day: New Orleans will rebuild as a "chocolate New Orleans"…."You can't have New
Orleans no other way. I don't care what people are saying Uptown or wherever they are. This city will be chocolate at the end of the day." (ie. fuck the white people.) Nagin later tried to say he was sorry by saying, "How do you make chocolate? You take dark chocolate, you mix it with white milk and it becomes a delicious drink. That's the chocolate I'm talking about." (ie. watch me attempt to surgically remove my foot from my mouth. Oh, wait. No! Now I just sound like a fucking nutjob.) At a town hall meeting in October 2005, Nagin said: "I can see in your eyes, you want to know, 'How do I take advantage of this incredible opportunity? How do I make sure New Orleans is not overrun with Mexican workers." (ie. yeah, who needs cheap, hard working, and immediately available labor when your city is in ruins?)
And now we get to the real reason Nagin deserves the title of daily, if not immortal, douchebag. Violent crime, i.e. people shooting other people in the head, is out of fucking control in New Orleans right now. It is an orgy of violence in what might as well be the ashes of Gomorrah that is rightly scaring away tourists, industry and lord knows what else. Nagin on that subject in a TV interview: "Do I worry about it? Somewhat. It's not good for us, but it also keeps the New Orleans brand out there, and it keeps people thinking about our needs and what we need to bring this community back. So it is kind of a two-edged sword. "
As if that weren’t enough, Nagin also reacted to the murders of New Orleans brothers Demond Phillips, 29, and Michael Phillips, 27, who were suspects in 14 recent murders, this way: "It is symptomatic of the things we've been struggling with since Katrina and really before Katrina. Some of these guys are so violent that it is hard for witnesses to come forward, and they get involved in repeat criminal activities. So it is unfortunate that they had to die, but it did kind of end the cycle that we were struggling with." (Because obviously they couldn’t have had any other brothers, friends, homies, cousins , etc., who would seek retribution.)
I feel that commenting any further on the merits of those statements, anything else moronic he said, the moronic stuff his press secretary has said to excuse it all, or the mountain of dumb things he did would be like drowning or electrocuting a pitbull that didn’t perform well in the fighting ring. Since I am no Michael Vick, I’ll just re-run the highlight of the second to last statement, and let Nagin’s douchebaggery hang out there like the lingering stale smell from a port-a-potty that was just violated by a stressed-out, portly Katrina survivor after weeks of constipation because of eating nothing but Spam and PB&Js. Enjoy.
"It's not good for us, but it also keeps the New Orleans brand out there."
DOB: June 11, 1956
Occupation: 68th Mayor of the City of New Orleans, Louisiana
Hometown: New Orleans, Louisiana
Current residence: New Orleans, Louisiana
Douchebaggery: Endless.
In all fairness, Nagin has a hard job, probably harder than any American mayor in modern history, except maybe Ed Koch when he was first elected. To all the Nagin apologists, and there are sadly many, allow me to make a case for why I am obligated to point a spotlight on his douchebaggery, using Nagin’s own words from his 2005 State of the City address. He chose that platform, of all places, to gripe at the local media for being critical of him and not holding him on a pedestal like the national media. (Which was a douchebag move.) "You see, a wise man once told me a story – I believe it was my father. There was a young colt who looked and acted different than most other colts. One day this colt fell in a ditch. Everyone who passed by threw a rock at the colt in the ditch. They threw so many rocks that they filled up the ditch and the colt eventually walked out. The moral of this parable is: every knock is a boost. Thank you for the knocks: they are boosting me out of the ditch."
Well, Monsieur Nagin, allow me to throw a handful of rocks at you in the hope that you and the Big Easy get out of that deep-ass ditch a little more quickly. In the interest of brevity, I’m going to do it in his own words, which are pretty much the source of his profound douchebaggery with one exception, the famous WWL radio interview after Katrina in which he said, "Now get off your asses and let's do something…"
‘Twas a shining moment, from what I hear. I missed it, busy with my own mountains of debris to climb over. However that was like a fleck of gold in a river of bear shit. According to countless accounts, Nagin was beset with paranoia before and after Katrina, bumbling every important moment with misplaced hysteria and hyperactivity. Even pre-Katrina the dangerous foolishness was planting roots. Nagin swept into office in 2002 promising to reform New Orleans government's notorious corruption. The councilman, Oliver Thomas, whom he proclaimed "had his back" recently pled guilty to corruption charges. But I digress.
Again in the interest of brevity, I’ll just skip right over all the other dumb stuff he said and stuff he didn’t accomplish pre-Katrina, and just put in the highlights of his post-Katrina foot-in-mouth dance. Man, they cannot pay his communications director enough. From MLK Day last year: "Surely God is mad at America. He sent us hurricane after hurricane after hurricane, and it's destroyed and put stress on this country. Surely he doesn't approve of us being in Iraq under false pretenses. But surely he is upset at black America also. We're not taking care of ourselves." (i.e. yes, I am a messianic messenger.)
Same day: New Orleans will rebuild as a "chocolate New Orleans"…."You can't have New
Orleans no other way. I don't care what people are saying Uptown or wherever they are. This city will be chocolate at the end of the day." (ie. fuck the white people.) Nagin later tried to say he was sorry by saying, "How do you make chocolate? You take dark chocolate, you mix it with white milk and it becomes a delicious drink. That's the chocolate I'm talking about." (ie. watch me attempt to surgically remove my foot from my mouth. Oh, wait. No! Now I just sound like a fucking nutjob.) At a town hall meeting in October 2005, Nagin said: "I can see in your eyes, you want to know, 'How do I take advantage of this incredible opportunity? How do I make sure New Orleans is not overrun with Mexican workers." (ie. yeah, who needs cheap, hard working, and immediately available labor when your city is in ruins?)
And now we get to the real reason Nagin deserves the title of daily, if not immortal, douchebag. Violent crime, i.e. people shooting other people in the head, is out of fucking control in New Orleans right now. It is an orgy of violence in what might as well be the ashes of Gomorrah that is rightly scaring away tourists, industry and lord knows what else. Nagin on that subject in a TV interview: "Do I worry about it? Somewhat. It's not good for us, but it also keeps the New Orleans brand out there, and it keeps people thinking about our needs and what we need to bring this community back. So it is kind of a two-edged sword. "
As if that weren’t enough, Nagin also reacted to the murders of New Orleans brothers Demond Phillips, 29, and Michael Phillips, 27, who were suspects in 14 recent murders, this way: "It is symptomatic of the things we've been struggling with since Katrina and really before Katrina. Some of these guys are so violent that it is hard for witnesses to come forward, and they get involved in repeat criminal activities. So it is unfortunate that they had to die, but it did kind of end the cycle that we were struggling with." (Because obviously they couldn’t have had any other brothers, friends, homies, cousins , etc., who would seek retribution.)
I feel that commenting any further on the merits of those statements, anything else moronic he said, the moronic stuff his press secretary has said to excuse it all, or the mountain of dumb things he did would be like drowning or electrocuting a pitbull that didn’t perform well in the fighting ring. Since I am no Michael Vick, I’ll just re-run the highlight of the second to last statement, and let Nagin’s douchebaggery hang out there like the lingering stale smell from a port-a-potty that was just violated by a stressed-out, portly Katrina survivor after weeks of constipation because of eating nothing but Spam and PB&Js. Enjoy.
"It's not good for us, but it also keeps the New Orleans brand out there."
Labels: assholes, BigBagel, Daily Douchebag, Dirrty Dirrty, intentional buffoonery, natural disaster, politics
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Captain Lisa Nowak
DOB: May 10, 1963
Occupation: Captain (United States Navy), ex-astronaut, craziest adulterous mistress in the history of the shuttle program
Hometown: Rockville, Maryland
Current residence: Corpus Christi, Texas
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: When I was a little girl, in spite of my all-consuming ambition, I never wanted to be an astronaut. I thought stars and space travel and other planets and whatnot were cool, but even at a young age I had that job pegged as requiring entirely too much math for my tastes. What I did not recognize back then is that lady astronauts also seem to necessitate a healthy dose of psycho obsession with extramarital office flings. While I could handle the hot sex with married naval officers part of the job, the whole violent obsession part probably would have been out of my realm of expertise. I got the stalker thing out of my system after my whole messy lesbian debacle in high school, and even then the worst thing I did was egg my ex-girlfriend's truck and write her new girlfriend a mean letter. After that, I decided that I'd rather just dump the asshole not properly recognizing me for the awesomeness that I am and find a new set of genitals to sit on rather than ratchet up the situation to include felony attempted kidnapping charges. Clearly I am not astronaut material.
Lisa Nowak, on the other hand, is the nuttiest bitch over at NASA, and thus she was exceptionally qualified to operate the robotic arms at the International Space Station. She also started a torrid affair with one of her shuttlemates, Captain William Oefelein. Later he got sick of her ass, but because he was too much of a pussy to effectively establish her ex-mistress status, he just took up with some other skank in the Air Force and hoped Lisa would get the message. She did not. Desperate for information on where she stood, she decided to go the Fatal Attraction route. Since Oefelein or his new beard apparently didn't own pet rabbits, she had to improvise. So she slapped on a pair of Depends, went shopping for latex gloves, wig-and-trenchcoat disguise-type clothes, pepper spray, a BB gun, garbage bags, and a knife. Basically, all the things a girl would need to
Normally, I think stalkers really suck. I've just recently dealt with problems from one of my more malevolent stalkers at work, and it was stressful as hell. I'd tell you all about that, but I don't want the stalker going to elaborate lengths to track me down and take me on a forcible date that ends up with me floating lifelessly in the Hudson River just because I repeatedly refused his demands for sex, blogged about him a year ago when I finally got sick of his pathetic advances, he freaked out and began a campaign of terror against me, and I stood up to him for it, so I won't elaborate. The point is that stalkers usually are nothing to joke about or admire. However, Lisa has managed to impress me enough with her dedication (I know she denies it, but I'm inclined to believe the cops that the bitch was wearing adult diapers when she was arrested!) that I can almost forgive her insane stalker tendencies. Besides, Lisa's story is entertaining as hell. If I open up the news and see more bullshit about terrorism, or global warming, or Bush, or the shitshow in Iraq, I can always count on having my spirits buoyed somewhat if there's also a headline about Lisa Nowak's crazy ass. I love hearing about her and her consistently ludicrous explanations for how her love triangle became so seriously fucked up. She says she's misunderstood, and the state's attorney says that she was trying to do some first-degree taking out of the competition, and I absolutely cannot wait until the court proceedings start up which will resolve once and for all what the fuck was actually going on.
Also, I was so pleased to learn that Lisa is planning to plead temporary insanity to the charges against her. That means she'll have to take the stand in her trial, which I am certain will be some amusing testimony. That means I get to look forward to the prosecution briskly cross-examining her about the Depends she may or may not have worn during her drive to
Labels: crazies, crime and punishment, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, oh the horror, overcompensation, sluts
Daily Douchebag: Ashton Kutcher
DOB: February 7, 1978
Occupation: actor, producer, prankster, perennial irritant
Hometown: Cedar Rapids, Iowa
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: As much as I liked Dude, Where's My Car?, Ashton Kutcher found himself on my shit list thanks to spreading the trucker hat trend like Paris Hilton's herpes among Young Hot Hollywood circa 2002. Even worse, then he started banging Demi Moore and got into all that retarded Kabbalah bullshit. I heard a rumor that for his movies, the post-production film editing staff has to spend countless hours Photoshopping out that damn red string he wears to signify his cult membership. What a fucking pain in the ass.
Anyway, Ashton didn't really deserve a mention here until he decided to start telling bitches how to "flatter their men" in September's issue of Harper's Bazaar. For some reason, this essay merited mentions on all the major cable news networks, because fuck the war in Iraq, the disintegration of the Bush cabinet, and the Taliban militants freeing those South Korean hostages...Ashton Kutcher is doling out some unsolicited advice to the ladies on how to please their men! Stop the fucking press.
After quickly skimming CNN.com's coverage of this breaking news story, I concluded that Ashton Kutcher doesn't give very good advice. For one thing, nowhere does he recommend daily blowjobs to keep a girl in her man's good graces, and in my experience, that has a hell of a lot more of an effect than saying, "Wow, that suit makes you look like that hot football player!" Ashton also suggests that telling a guy that a suit makes him look like James Bond or Tony Montana. Also, there is no way in hell--even if I were dating young Al Pacino--that I would ever tell a dude that he looked like Tony Montana, unless for some reason he was brandishing a M16 and shrieking in a horrendously butchered faux Cuban accent. In that situation, I'd be less likely to compliment his personal style than to make a mental note to dump that head case and run for my fucking life.
Apparently, such compliments work so well that Ashton claims "before you know it, he'll be wearing an Armani tux to league night at the bowling alley." In other words, it will give the fashion-challenged boyfriend an even more confused perception of appropriate clothing choices than he already had. Adding to his perplexing how-to tips, Ashton then suggests using your man as an accessory.
"Make sure the look isn't too matchy-matchy," he advises. "Your best bet is to match the man gear to that great new Balenciaga bag that you're planning to carry. If the bag matches the outfit, so will he."
Noted. Next time I'm planning to accessorize with a $1500 purse, I'll make sure my date wears "man gear" that won't clash with it. Of course, usually on "dates" I tend to adorn myself with two key go-to items (prominently displayed tits and scotch), and these typically result in a situation not meriting any type of clothing whatsoever. And since after that I'm generally trying to get my "date" to put on his man gear and get the fuck out of my apartment, this advice doesn't really apply. If I want to flatter the dude, I'll tell him his dick is the bomb shit and admire the virile, masculine chest hair he hopefully has, not compare him to fictional gangsters and/or spies or try to coordinate him with my overpriced motorcycle satchel. What I won't do under any circumstances is take tips from a dude famous for his stupid millinery choices who is married to the MILF version of the Crypt Keeper and who actually uses the term "matchy-matchy" in all seriousness.
Ashton Kutcher needs to shut up and go produce more episodes of "Beauty and the Geek," because that is his greatest contribution to date. When your magnum opus is bankrolling a reality show hosted by Brian McFayden that pairs up cocktail waitresses, strippers, and beer spokesmodels with comic book collectors, computer programmers, and Rubik's cube masters, you have no business penning essays about how to cajole your boyfriend into a suit. Ashton's fashion icon days ended with the decline and fall of Von Dutch hats, and the time when he had any credibility for making style recommendations is long past. It's now time for him to go gracefully into that good night, and stop with the asinine tips.
Labels: celebrities, Daily Douchebag, oh the horror, retard rage
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
The Hottest Houses
FalloniusMonk was kind enough to forward on this dipshit Newsweek ranking of "the hottest colleges" in America, because FINALLY Smith takes a lead spot in rankings. Okay, so we're stagnating at the bottom of the top 20 in U.S. News and World Report's liberal arts college rankings (number 19 two years running...WOO HOO!), and this Newsweek ranking also included categories like "Hottest Liberal Arts College You've Never Heard Of" (Centenary College of Louisiana) and "Hottest for No SAT or ACT Needed" (Bates College), but SO WHAT? Finally Smith is tops at something and not just ugly LUGs (lesbians until graduation).
According to the article, Smith is the "Hottest Woman's College" (and HELLO, people, it's woMEN's--as in plural--not woMAN'S). My alma mater earned this distinction, not because of the precious few hot women actually matriculating there, but because "students who prefer a coed college change their minds when they see the cottage-style houses Smith students reside in." The Smith admissions department propaganda could not have said it any better.
When I went to Smith, it was actually because I didn't get into Harvard and I had been super lesbish in high school, but that didn't stop Smith from endlessly crowing about their awesome housing system. Basically, Smith houses were like sororities without the pledging. They were "self-governed" (ie: electing a powerless cabinet, including officials with lofty titles like "Energy Czarina"--that was the bitch who turned off lights left on), and looked more like fancy manor houses than dorms. All the houses also got their own reputations for attracting different types of people. Since they're so fucking "hot," I might as well explain a little about these charming "cottage-style" abodes which dissuade bitches from their preferred coed experience.
Albright House
In my experience, Albright was one of the lamest houses on campus. LL Cool Jew was once brought up on bogus sexual harassment charges from some dumb, crazy bitch who lived there, and when I was back for my two-year reunion, that's where the alumnae association placed me. In the course of our group of friends' revelry, we managed to piss off every Smith bitch still living there. They complained to us about how our smoking was bad for their asthma, and once we established hostile relations (ie: Motherbucker blew a heavy drag off an American Spirit in the face of Asthma Girl), they started bitching to everyone who would listen. The night before these hos graduated from college, instead of partying and celebrating like they should have been, they were holed up having a meeting about what a bunch of assholes they thought we were. I happened to pass by on my way back from buying more mixers and cigarettes and overheard their heated debate. "That one woman blew smoke in my face!" one indignantly said. "And another one had sex all night long yesterday...with a MALE!" Being that I was the alumna having the offending heterosexual sex (yes, I managed to get laid with a random dude at my women's college reunion...I'm a player...all I gotta do is flirt with him and I get them drawers), and I was eavesdropping with the dude who I was boning, we high-fived and elected to make our passions even louder that night. I think we actually broke the bed. Anyway, those bitches actually had Smith Public Safety throw us out for "bolsterous" behavior, and they permanently cemented my assertion that Albright is LAME. In Albright's defense, however, I did pop my anal cherry there when I was staying in some bitch's room during spring break my junior year. That's probably the coolest thing that has ever gone down within that den of uptight virgins.
Baldwin House
Ah, Baldwin. Albright's neighbor and sister in lameness. That's basically all I know about Baldwin. I never went to a party there, or knew any bitches that lived there. It may as well not exist, but I guess they have to put the hookers with no personalities (even by Smith standards) somewhere.
Capen House
All I know about Capen was that the newspaper editor my sophomore year lived there, and there was some kind of insanely dramatic incestuous lesbian drama going on up in that "example of classical revivalist architecture." Apparently it wasn't all the paper snowflake making and organizing apple-picking trips that the Smith website says Capenites get up to.
Chapin House
I went to a party at Chapin House one time, for no good reason except that there was nothing going on all night. I left almost immediately because the dumb bitch behind the bar wouldn't serve me (I was underage but SO? It's college!) and I responded with some typical Razzy profanity-laden sass. Then I think I tried to get my boyfriend Benzo to get me a drink, and dumb bitch behind the bar wasn't having that. When we left to go use my fake ID at a bar, dumb bitch was in tears crying to her friend about how I was a great big bitch. A rockin' party, if I do say so myself.
Chase House
Chase is the seniors-only house, where hookers move if they don't like whatever house they're in and don't luck out with a Friedman apartment. LL Cool Jew lived there her senior year, and even though she's cool and promptly sought out all the other cool people around, she still managed to have problems with some bitch who said she was too noisy. LL Cool Jew spent most of her senior year writing a thesis about the literary achievements of Graham Greene, which I'm sure was more raucous noise than the even nerdier twat down the hall could possibly manage. I mean, how is she supposed to finish her Fulbright application with LL Cool Jew noisily underlining passages out of The Quiet American right down the hall?
Comstock House
And finally we get to a Quad house. The Quadrangle is 10 houses arranged in accordance with their name, around a central courtyard. The Quad is what passes for the "party houses" at Smith, and "Quad Bunnies" are the booze-swilling, frat boy-banging hotties that live there and garner disdain from snotty bitches elsewhere on campus. Comstock's claim to fame is an annual party called the "Get Lei'd" party, in which everyone gets a lei, which you lose if you say "no" for any reason. The party was a lot less exciting than its name implied, but at least they weren't stingy with the keg beer.
Cushing House
Also a Quad house, Cushing faced the house I lived in (see Awesomest Smith House Ever AKA Jordan House, below). Cushing housed the least attractive women in the Quad, and alongside Gardiner and Morrow houses, the least remarkable.
Cutter House
An architectural blight on the ivy-covered brick New Englandyness that is Smith's general theme, Cutter is a post-modern monstrosity that looks like it belongs in an industrial park in 1974. The rooms inside have linoleum floors, fluorescent lighting, and cinder block walls reminiscent of a state-funded mental ward. The first week of my first year, some fugly lezbot invited me over to her room at Cutter for what I hoped would be beer drinking fun, but my hopes were quickly dashed when she handed me a cup of chamomile tea, cranked the Melissa Ferrick, and asked if I played chess. Needless to say, no fingerbanging went down that night. I never went back to visit anyone living in Cutter ever again.
Dawes House
Dawes is super cute, has a full kitchen for student use, and everyone there has a single room, but there is one little catch: it also goes by "La Maison Francaise." As much as I'd have liked the accommodations, there's no way I could have tolerated French flag decorations everywhere. Furthermore, there's the added problem that I don't speak any French apart from "hors d'oeuvres" and "merde," and fluency in French is a requisite for living there.
Duckett House
Duckett is connected to Chase House, but the only thing I know about it is that it has an elevator, and for some reason, there were always panel discussions happening there in the dining room. For example, the Bitches Who Hate the WTO would have "anti-globalization" lunches and shit there. Obviously, I never managed to make it to one of those shindigs.
Emerson House
Emerson was right next to the house where I lived, and we were connected to them. There were some cool girls in Emerson who used to come party on the Jordan second floor with me and my crew (I actually made an amateur porn with two of them, and NO I'm not posting that here), and there were also some seriously uptight snatches. To seek vengeance, I stole a couch out of their hall sitting room for my dorm, and the night before I graduated, gave the illicit couch to some townies drinking from our illicit keg to throw off the roof. They almost hit a Public Safety cruiser with it. Another time, this girl in my house pulled their fire alarm at 3 a.m. to get back at them for making noise complaints about our house. They were so pissed. It was awesome.
Friedman Apartments
The Friedmans were the only campus apartments, and they were in high demand. Girls would flip out over whether or not they could secure a Friedman. I had a few friends who lived in Friedmans, and there were some kickass parties there for sure. One time I walked into a friend's birthday party at Friedman B-2, and she greeted me at the door in a pair of devil horns and on so much Ecstasy that she looked like one of those people from the "Black Hole Sun" video. She proceeded to greet me with one of the sloppiest, most tongue-filled kisses I've ever received, and then put a drink in my hand. Good times. Friedman residence, however, didn't guarantee that you weren't going to be an impossibly lame typical Smith hag. At my two-year-reunion, we got kicked out of some fat, mustachioed, Fuzzy Navel-drinking bitch's Friedman because my ex-boyfriend Benzo's stepbrother Nate Dogg was harassing her...AKA talking shit about Smith girls because he went to VASSAR. Only at Smith does that get you ejected from a party.
Gardiner House
Gardiner was a real pearls-and-penny loafers type of Smith house, and even though they were in the Quad, they were notorious for their elitist, buttoned-up, WASPy residents. They actually even tried to start a sorority and hung up their letters on their second floor bay window. In response, I started a fraternity my junior year and hung up our letters in the Jordan House window facing Gardiner. I chose the Pi Kappa Epsilon frat, because the Pikes were notorious for date rape and vicious hazing and other egregious fratty violations. For an entire year, I had my PKE letters fixed firmly upon my door, and I think I even drew them on my arm one time for a Gardiner House party. Whether the bitches at Gardiner got it or not is unclear, but they were nonetheless displeased that I'd chosen to make light of what they thought was a brilliant idea. Because a Smith sorority is a great idea...if there's one thing Smith needs more of, it's cadres of stupid bitches reveling in their exclusivity.
Gillett House
I actually know nothing about Gillett House. It's yet another unremarkable bitch trap.
Haven/Wesley House
It's where would-be internet-mediated rape facilitator TEJ BINDRA lived, and I think that says it all. An interesting piece of trivia about the room where Tej lived is that my friend Wmania once vomited Kahlua and Bailey's all over it. Oh, and Sylvia Plath lived there too.
Hopkins House
I know absolutely nothing about Hopkins House, either. Dumb, boring bitch repository!
Hubbard House
Again, dumb, boring bitch repository! The best thing they've got going for them is that Julia Child lived there at the turn of the century, or whenever the hell in antiquity it was that she went to Smith.
Jordan House (AKA AWESOMEST SMITH HOUSE EVER)
Guess where I lived all four years at Smith? Only the most notorious party house at Smith in the history of the college. When I would tell people, "I live in Jordan," I'd get this knowing look, that was full of "oh, you must be a drunk" judgment, concern that I might become unhinged at any moment, and hushed awe. When I first got to Smith, Jordan was on social probation because the year before, the house president's boyfriend (a member of the Holyoke, MA chapter of the Latin Kings) orchestrated an epic Sharks v. Jets battle in the second floor hallway with a group of white trash Masshole townies. My ex-boyfriend was there, and he had taken refuge in this girl's room (where I think she gave him a blowjob), and he said you could feel the walls shake as bodies slammed up against it in the hall. On that legendary night, crack was smoked in the bathroom and somebody had a gun. By Smith standards, that is INSANITY. Nothing of that caliber happened during my time, but we still had ridiculous parties, used the entire second floor as our personal smoking lounge, employed a drug dealer as our kitchen guy, hired strippers for senior banquet parties, and drew the ire of feminist students and faculty alike for hosting a degrading "Pimps and Hos"-themed party. Jordan House rocked the tits off Smith College back in my day, and hopefully it's still doing so without apology.
King House
King was one of those Quad houses that tried (and failed) to give Jordan a run for its money in the party department. I think FalloniusMonk lived there, too, so props to King House.
Lamont House
Lamont is about as exciting as the department store in Puyallup that shares its name (or used to...I think Lamont's is Gottschalks now, but either way, it's still a clearinghouse for the world's ugliest Liz Claiborne rayon blouses). Even by Smith's abysmally low standards, Lamont was known as a dweeb colony.
Lawrence House
I don't even remember where this veritable pit of fug was on campus. That's how insignificant the prostitutes were that lived there.
Morris House
See what I just said about Lawrence House.
Morrow House
Morrow was the most despicable house in the Quad. The bitches there were super uptight, and no fun at all. They didn't have parties because nobody came to them, on account of their policy toward serving minors, their horrible DJs, and their bad attitudes. They also refused to participate in Quad Riot several years running (Quad Riot was an annual drunken food fight), and I became their number one enemy when I declared them "Worst of the Quad" in my newspaper column and called them pussies. Stupid bitches. That's what you get for living in a house named after the trust fund wife of a famous aviator and mother of a famous kidnapped baby...your legacy is about as storied and admirable as Anne Morrow Lindbergh's career of marriage and babymaking.
Northrop House
Northrop House? There was a Northrop House?
Park House
I knew a couple girls in Park House, but my most significant memory of a Park slut was that of this chick who lived down the hall from me's girlfriend emerging one night at 11 o'clock precisely to tell us all that it was quiet hours and time for us to go to bed, because she had crew practice the next morning at five. I got all up in her face with my friend Martindale, who was an intimidating bruiser from Long Island, and we told her that if her beauty sleep was so fucking important, then "take your ass back to Park House. We know it's quiet there." I'm not sure that horse-faced bitch ever slept over again.
Parsons House
I also don't remember where Parsons House was. I think it was somewhere behind the Friedmans, but I can't be sure.
Scales House
My friend JerseyGirl and her crew brought Scales House to a level of party prominence almost on par with Jordan's. They had this platform where it was all 90210 and bong hits, all the time. Scales House was the dope shit in JerseyGirl's era.
Sessions House
Lesbian orgy, anyone? Sessions was ground zero for all BDOCs (big dykes on campus), and I'll never forget that during my first year, this girl from my floor said that she regularly attended these lesbo sex parties there. That sounds kind of fun...except when you account for what the average Smith BDOC looks like and acts like. I can imagine that they somehow managed to take a normally fun orgy and turn it into an exhibition of overcompensatory macho posturing on par with a swordfight in a frat house.
Talbot House
Talbot used to have this party called "Immorality" that was immoral in name only. The one time I went, they ran out of alcohol, wouldn't let anyone in because of concerns regarding the fire code, and seemed determined to prevent anyone from having any fun at all. It's immoral, in my book, to have a party dedicated to immorality in which all depravity is squashed before it can even begin. LL Cool Jew once wrote a joke column in the paper called "The Gay Agenda," in which she detailed the daily schedule of your average Smith dyke. An item on this was "7:30 p.m.-Insert tattered copy of Bound into Talbot House VCR. Masturbate gloomily." That says it all for Talbot House.
Tenney House
I think Tenney was where all the vegans lived. They had a vegetarian-only kitchen or something. Obviously I never hung out there.
Tyler House
A lot of jocks live in Tyler because it was close to the athletic fields and gym. KatieScarlett lived there her first year, and she and I initially bonded over laughing about her housemate and my biology 101 classmate, this girl named Annie Prickett. She was from Delaware, was obsessed with horses, looked like a strapping young farm boy, and always introduced herself as "Annie...PrickETT!" Her dream was to become a horse breeder and KatieScarlett and I had a lot of fun laughing about her life's ambition to spend her working years with her arm stuck in a horse's ass up to the elbow. KatieScarlett's rugby girlfriend once had snowballs thrown at her by Annie Prickett on the way to Senior Ball (because Annie would have much rather built a snow fort than attend a semi-formal) and apparently went after Annie screaming, "You threw a snowball at my fucking dress, you stank whore!" Annie skedaddled into Tyler House legend.
Washburn House
I smoked pot with some hippie chick from one of my humanities classes there once. Oh, and they had a computer lab in the house, I think.
Wilder House
I went to a rugby party in the basement of Wilder once, and after watching a bunch of burly rugger dykes tear apart 15 large pizzas and drink Killian's Red out of their dirty cleats, I left stepping over various lesbian couples going to second base on my way out. Wilder's aight in my book.
Wilson House
One of my weed dealers lived in Wilson House. When she graduated, she filled her bathtub with forties and rolled 100 joints, and I only vaguely remember being at that party. In fact, I can't think of a single time I was in Wilson House that I wasn't more stoned than a white chick with dreadlocks and a backless shirt at a Phish show. I'm sure it was fun, but Wilson House is a blur to me.
Ziskind House
See "Cutter House" above for commentary on Ziskind's hideous asylum-style architectural features and equally crazy residents.
And there they are...the hottest houses. With domiciles like these, it's hardly a surprise Smith rocketed to the top of Newsweek's Hottest Colleges rankings. Watch out, Wellesley...we're coming for your cushy spot on the U.S. News and World Report next!
According to the article, Smith is the "Hottest Woman's College" (and HELLO, people, it's woMEN's--as in plural--not woMAN'S). My alma mater earned this distinction, not because of the precious few hot women actually matriculating there, but because "students who prefer a coed college change their minds when they see the cottage-style houses Smith students reside in." The Smith admissions department propaganda could not have said it any better.
When I went to Smith, it was actually because I didn't get into Harvard and I had been super lesbish in high school, but that didn't stop Smith from endlessly crowing about their awesome housing system. Basically, Smith houses were like sororities without the pledging. They were "self-governed" (ie: electing a powerless cabinet, including officials with lofty titles like "Energy Czarina"--that was the bitch who turned off lights left on), and looked more like fancy manor houses than dorms. All the houses also got their own reputations for attracting different types of people. Since they're so fucking "hot," I might as well explain a little about these charming "cottage-style" abodes which dissuade bitches from their preferred coed experience.
Albright House
In my experience, Albright was one of the lamest houses on campus. LL Cool Jew was once brought up on bogus sexual harassment charges from some dumb, crazy bitch who lived there, and when I was back for my two-year reunion, that's where the alumnae association placed me. In the course of our group of friends' revelry, we managed to piss off every Smith bitch still living there. They complained to us about how our smoking was bad for their asthma, and once we established hostile relations (ie: Motherbucker blew a heavy drag off an American Spirit in the face of Asthma Girl), they started bitching to everyone who would listen. The night before these hos graduated from college, instead of partying and celebrating like they should have been, they were holed up having a meeting about what a bunch of assholes they thought we were. I happened to pass by on my way back from buying more mixers and cigarettes and overheard their heated debate. "That one woman blew smoke in my face!" one indignantly said. "And another one had sex all night long yesterday...with a MALE!" Being that I was the alumna having the offending heterosexual sex (yes, I managed to get laid with a random dude at my women's college reunion...I'm a player...all I gotta do is flirt with him and I get them drawers), and I was eavesdropping with the dude who I was boning, we high-fived and elected to make our passions even louder that night. I think we actually broke the bed. Anyway, those bitches actually had Smith Public Safety throw us out for "bolsterous" behavior, and they permanently cemented my assertion that Albright is LAME. In Albright's defense, however, I did pop my anal cherry there when I was staying in some bitch's room during spring break my junior year. That's probably the coolest thing that has ever gone down within that den of uptight virgins.
Baldwin House
Ah, Baldwin. Albright's neighbor and sister in lameness. That's basically all I know about Baldwin. I never went to a party there, or knew any bitches that lived there. It may as well not exist, but I guess they have to put the hookers with no personalities (even by Smith standards) somewhere.
Capen House
All I know about Capen was that the newspaper editor my sophomore year lived there, and there was some kind of insanely dramatic incestuous lesbian drama going on up in that "example of classical revivalist architecture." Apparently it wasn't all the paper snowflake making and organizing apple-picking trips that the Smith website says Capenites get up to.
Chapin House
I went to a party at Chapin House one time, for no good reason except that there was nothing going on all night. I left almost immediately because the dumb bitch behind the bar wouldn't serve me (I was underage but SO? It's college!) and I responded with some typical Razzy profanity-laden sass. Then I think I tried to get my boyfriend Benzo to get me a drink, and dumb bitch behind the bar wasn't having that. When we left to go use my fake ID at a bar, dumb bitch was in tears crying to her friend about how I was a great big bitch. A rockin' party, if I do say so myself.
Chase House
Chase is the seniors-only house, where hookers move if they don't like whatever house they're in and don't luck out with a Friedman apartment. LL Cool Jew lived there her senior year, and even though she's cool and promptly sought out all the other cool people around, she still managed to have problems with some bitch who said she was too noisy. LL Cool Jew spent most of her senior year writing a thesis about the literary achievements of Graham Greene, which I'm sure was more raucous noise than the even nerdier twat down the hall could possibly manage. I mean, how is she supposed to finish her Fulbright application with LL Cool Jew noisily underlining passages out of The Quiet American right down the hall?
Comstock House
And finally we get to a Quad house. The Quadrangle is 10 houses arranged in accordance with their name, around a central courtyard. The Quad is what passes for the "party houses" at Smith, and "Quad Bunnies" are the booze-swilling, frat boy-banging hotties that live there and garner disdain from snotty bitches elsewhere on campus. Comstock's claim to fame is an annual party called the "Get Lei'd" party, in which everyone gets a lei, which you lose if you say "no" for any reason. The party was a lot less exciting than its name implied, but at least they weren't stingy with the keg beer.
Cushing House
Also a Quad house, Cushing faced the house I lived in (see Awesomest Smith House Ever AKA Jordan House, below). Cushing housed the least attractive women in the Quad, and alongside Gardiner and Morrow houses, the least remarkable.
Cutter House
An architectural blight on the ivy-covered brick New Englandyness that is Smith's general theme, Cutter is a post-modern monstrosity that looks like it belongs in an industrial park in 1974. The rooms inside have linoleum floors, fluorescent lighting, and cinder block walls reminiscent of a state-funded mental ward. The first week of my first year, some fugly lezbot invited me over to her room at Cutter for what I hoped would be beer drinking fun, but my hopes were quickly dashed when she handed me a cup of chamomile tea, cranked the Melissa Ferrick, and asked if I played chess. Needless to say, no fingerbanging went down that night. I never went back to visit anyone living in Cutter ever again.
Dawes House
Dawes is super cute, has a full kitchen for student use, and everyone there has a single room, but there is one little catch: it also goes by "La Maison Francaise." As much as I'd have liked the accommodations, there's no way I could have tolerated French flag decorations everywhere. Furthermore, there's the added problem that I don't speak any French apart from "hors d'oeuvres" and "merde," and fluency in French is a requisite for living there.
Duckett House
Duckett is connected to Chase House, but the only thing I know about it is that it has an elevator, and for some reason, there were always panel discussions happening there in the dining room. For example, the Bitches Who Hate the WTO would have "anti-globalization" lunches and shit there. Obviously, I never managed to make it to one of those shindigs.
Emerson House
Emerson was right next to the house where I lived, and we were connected to them. There were some cool girls in Emerson who used to come party on the Jordan second floor with me and my crew (I actually made an amateur porn with two of them, and NO I'm not posting that here), and there were also some seriously uptight snatches. To seek vengeance, I stole a couch out of their hall sitting room for my dorm, and the night before I graduated, gave the illicit couch to some townies drinking from our illicit keg to throw off the roof. They almost hit a Public Safety cruiser with it. Another time, this girl in my house pulled their fire alarm at 3 a.m. to get back at them for making noise complaints about our house. They were so pissed. It was awesome.
Friedman Apartments
The Friedmans were the only campus apartments, and they were in high demand. Girls would flip out over whether or not they could secure a Friedman. I had a few friends who lived in Friedmans, and there were some kickass parties there for sure. One time I walked into a friend's birthday party at Friedman B-2, and she greeted me at the door in a pair of devil horns and on so much Ecstasy that she looked like one of those people from the "Black Hole Sun" video. She proceeded to greet me with one of the sloppiest, most tongue-filled kisses I've ever received, and then put a drink in my hand. Good times. Friedman residence, however, didn't guarantee that you weren't going to be an impossibly lame typical Smith hag. At my two-year-reunion, we got kicked out of some fat, mustachioed, Fuzzy Navel-drinking bitch's Friedman because my ex-boyfriend Benzo's stepbrother Nate Dogg was harassing her...AKA talking shit about Smith girls because he went to VASSAR. Only at Smith does that get you ejected from a party.
Gardiner House
Gardiner was a real pearls-and-penny loafers type of Smith house, and even though they were in the Quad, they were notorious for their elitist, buttoned-up, WASPy residents. They actually even tried to start a sorority and hung up their letters on their second floor bay window. In response, I started a fraternity my junior year and hung up our letters in the Jordan House window facing Gardiner. I chose the Pi Kappa Epsilon frat, because the Pikes were notorious for date rape and vicious hazing and other egregious fratty violations. For an entire year, I had my PKE letters fixed firmly upon my door, and I think I even drew them on my arm one time for a Gardiner House party. Whether the bitches at Gardiner got it or not is unclear, but they were nonetheless displeased that I'd chosen to make light of what they thought was a brilliant idea. Because a Smith sorority is a great idea...if there's one thing Smith needs more of, it's cadres of stupid bitches reveling in their exclusivity.
Gillett House
I actually know nothing about Gillett House. It's yet another unremarkable bitch trap.
Haven/Wesley House
It's where would-be internet-mediated rape facilitator TEJ BINDRA lived, and I think that says it all. An interesting piece of trivia about the room where Tej lived is that my friend Wmania once vomited Kahlua and Bailey's all over it. Oh, and Sylvia Plath lived there too.
Hopkins House
I know absolutely nothing about Hopkins House, either. Dumb, boring bitch repository!
Hubbard House
Again, dumb, boring bitch repository! The best thing they've got going for them is that Julia Child lived there at the turn of the century, or whenever the hell in antiquity it was that she went to Smith.
Jordan House (AKA AWESOMEST SMITH HOUSE EVER)
Guess where I lived all four years at Smith? Only the most notorious party house at Smith in the history of the college. When I would tell people, "I live in Jordan," I'd get this knowing look, that was full of "oh, you must be a drunk" judgment, concern that I might become unhinged at any moment, and hushed awe. When I first got to Smith, Jordan was on social probation because the year before, the house president's boyfriend (a member of the Holyoke, MA chapter of the Latin Kings) orchestrated an epic Sharks v. Jets battle in the second floor hallway with a group of white trash Masshole townies. My ex-boyfriend was there, and he had taken refuge in this girl's room (where I think she gave him a blowjob), and he said you could feel the walls shake as bodies slammed up against it in the hall. On that legendary night, crack was smoked in the bathroom and somebody had a gun. By Smith standards, that is INSANITY. Nothing of that caliber happened during my time, but we still had ridiculous parties, used the entire second floor as our personal smoking lounge, employed a drug dealer as our kitchen guy, hired strippers for senior banquet parties, and drew the ire of feminist students and faculty alike for hosting a degrading "Pimps and Hos"-themed party. Jordan House rocked the tits off Smith College back in my day, and hopefully it's still doing so without apology.
King House
King was one of those Quad houses that tried (and failed) to give Jordan a run for its money in the party department. I think FalloniusMonk lived there, too, so props to King House.
Lamont House
Lamont is about as exciting as the department store in Puyallup that shares its name (or used to...I think Lamont's is Gottschalks now, but either way, it's still a clearinghouse for the world's ugliest Liz Claiborne rayon blouses). Even by Smith's abysmally low standards, Lamont was known as a dweeb colony.
Lawrence House
I don't even remember where this veritable pit of fug was on campus. That's how insignificant the prostitutes were that lived there.
Morris House
See what I just said about Lawrence House.
Morrow House
Morrow was the most despicable house in the Quad. The bitches there were super uptight, and no fun at all. They didn't have parties because nobody came to them, on account of their policy toward serving minors, their horrible DJs, and their bad attitudes. They also refused to participate in Quad Riot several years running (Quad Riot was an annual drunken food fight), and I became their number one enemy when I declared them "Worst of the Quad" in my newspaper column and called them pussies. Stupid bitches. That's what you get for living in a house named after the trust fund wife of a famous aviator and mother of a famous kidnapped baby...your legacy is about as storied and admirable as Anne Morrow Lindbergh's career of marriage and babymaking.
Northrop House
Northrop House? There was a Northrop House?
Park House
I knew a couple girls in Park House, but my most significant memory of a Park slut was that of this chick who lived down the hall from me's girlfriend emerging one night at 11 o'clock precisely to tell us all that it was quiet hours and time for us to go to bed, because she had crew practice the next morning at five. I got all up in her face with my friend Martindale, who was an intimidating bruiser from Long Island, and we told her that if her beauty sleep was so fucking important, then "take your ass back to Park House. We know it's quiet there." I'm not sure that horse-faced bitch ever slept over again.
Parsons House
I also don't remember where Parsons House was. I think it was somewhere behind the Friedmans, but I can't be sure.
Scales House
My friend JerseyGirl and her crew brought Scales House to a level of party prominence almost on par with Jordan's. They had this platform where it was all 90210 and bong hits, all the time. Scales House was the dope shit in JerseyGirl's era.
Sessions House
Lesbian orgy, anyone? Sessions was ground zero for all BDOCs (big dykes on campus), and I'll never forget that during my first year, this girl from my floor said that she regularly attended these lesbo sex parties there. That sounds kind of fun...except when you account for what the average Smith BDOC looks like and acts like. I can imagine that they somehow managed to take a normally fun orgy and turn it into an exhibition of overcompensatory macho posturing on par with a swordfight in a frat house.
Talbot House
Talbot used to have this party called "Immorality" that was immoral in name only. The one time I went, they ran out of alcohol, wouldn't let anyone in because of concerns regarding the fire code, and seemed determined to prevent anyone from having any fun at all. It's immoral, in my book, to have a party dedicated to immorality in which all depravity is squashed before it can even begin. LL Cool Jew once wrote a joke column in the paper called "The Gay Agenda," in which she detailed the daily schedule of your average Smith dyke. An item on this was "7:30 p.m.-Insert tattered copy of Bound into Talbot House VCR. Masturbate gloomily." That says it all for Talbot House.
Tenney House
I think Tenney was where all the vegans lived. They had a vegetarian-only kitchen or something. Obviously I never hung out there.
Tyler House
A lot of jocks live in Tyler because it was close to the athletic fields and gym. KatieScarlett lived there her first year, and she and I initially bonded over laughing about her housemate and my biology 101 classmate, this girl named Annie Prickett. She was from Delaware, was obsessed with horses, looked like a strapping young farm boy, and always introduced herself as "Annie...PrickETT!" Her dream was to become a horse breeder and KatieScarlett and I had a lot of fun laughing about her life's ambition to spend her working years with her arm stuck in a horse's ass up to the elbow. KatieScarlett's rugby girlfriend once had snowballs thrown at her by Annie Prickett on the way to Senior Ball (because Annie would have much rather built a snow fort than attend a semi-formal) and apparently went after Annie screaming, "You threw a snowball at my fucking dress, you stank whore!" Annie skedaddled into Tyler House legend.
Washburn House
I smoked pot with some hippie chick from one of my humanities classes there once. Oh, and they had a computer lab in the house, I think.
Wilder House
I went to a rugby party in the basement of Wilder once, and after watching a bunch of burly rugger dykes tear apart 15 large pizzas and drink Killian's Red out of their dirty cleats, I left stepping over various lesbian couples going to second base on my way out. Wilder's aight in my book.
Wilson House
One of my weed dealers lived in Wilson House. When she graduated, she filled her bathtub with forties and rolled 100 joints, and I only vaguely remember being at that party. In fact, I can't think of a single time I was in Wilson House that I wasn't more stoned than a white chick with dreadlocks and a backless shirt at a Phish show. I'm sure it was fun, but Wilson House is a blur to me.
Ziskind House
See "Cutter House" above for commentary on Ziskind's hideous asylum-style architectural features and equally crazy residents.
And there they are...the hottest houses. With domiciles like these, it's hardly a surprise Smith rocketed to the top of Newsweek's Hottest Colleges rankings. Watch out, Wellesley...we're coming for your cushy spot on the U.S. News and World Report next!
Labels: Assachusetts, Dumb Smith bitches, FalloniusMonk, hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, JerseyGirl, LL Cool Jew, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Owen Wilson
DOB: November 18, 1968
Occupation: extremely irritating actor
Hometown: Dallas, Texas
Current residence: Santa Monica, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I actually hate Owen Wilson. I thought that Zoolander was funny, but when he's not being the So-Hot-Right-Now Hansel, I have zero interest in Owen Wilson. Most of his movies are either asinine romantic comedies or asinine slapstick comedies, and I have no time or patience for either one. I think his nose looks like Mad Eye Moody meets a genital wart, and I hate dudes who specialize in lovable doofus roles. So why is he my Daily Dude I Want to Hit, you ask?
Because over the weekend, Owen Wilson did the greatest, most honorable, most selfless act of his entire vapid, irksome life: he tried to kill himself. Although the official story is that he's either dehydrated or suffering from an "undisclosed medical condition," my trusty gossip internets have informed me that he was removed from his house by an ambulance after being found with bleeding wrists and an empty bottle of Percocet. I can just imagine how this went down.
Owen actually watched one of his own movies, and the shame and horror of what he hath wrought upon the world overcame him. Much as Oedipus, shocked by the realization that he'd boned his freshly suicided mom and consequently cursed Thebes with the disfavor of the gods, put out his eyes, Owen seemingly decided that his crimes against the moviegoing public were the disgrace of his life and moved to make things right. He didn't succeed, but this has all the makings of a great Greek tragedy. I don't think Sophocles or Aeschylus could have scripted anything better about the grave price one pays for hubris.
Anyway, hats off to Owen for trying to make amends with the world by removing himself from it. Next time, dude, remember that cutting your wrists horizontally is just an amateurish cry for help. If you want to get this done, go vertical and make sure you really open up those veins! Just a suggestion. I really want Owen's efforts to pay off (and by "pay off," I mean "non-extant and thus no longer able to pollute the media with shitshows like You, Me, and Dupree or Shanghai Knights").
Labels: crazies, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, intentional buffoonery, tragedy
Daily Douchebag: Senator Larry Craig (R-ID)
DOB: July 20, 1945
Occupation: (Singing) Senator, retired rancher, self-loathing down low homo
Hometown: Midvale, Idaho
Current residence: Infamy
Douchebaggery: Larry Craig is one of these guys who hates the homos. He is an outspoken proponent of the Defense of (Hetero) Marriage Act and the Federal Marriage Act, is endorsed by the American Family Association and the Family Research Council, and voted to prevent extending the federal definition of hate crimes to include the gays. There's just one little problem with Larry Craig's vehement position on ensuring that those of us who like to get down with folks of the same gender are denied as many rights and protections as possible: he's a big old FAG!
Yesterday, some political blog outed Larry Craig for trying to pick up an undercover cop George Michael-style in a bathroom at the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport. Apparently, the bathroom in question was a well-known spot for dudes cruising for a little between-flights hot guy-on-guy action, and Larry Craig decided to go there and proposition an undercover cop. He was arrested for disorderly conduct, plead guilty, and put the incident behind him like a hot anonymous guy in an airport bathroom stall. Too bad for Larry he didn't count on the blogosphere digging this up and ensuring it would be splashed all over the news. Also, too bad for Larry, it seems this isn't the first time his sexuality has been questioned. In 1982, there were allegations that he was doing truckloads of blow and having sex with male congressional pages, which he denied. Last year, he had to answer again to the "completely ridiculous" charges some blogger made that Larry was doing a little more than playing cards on poker night with the boys.
I love how these dudes who seem to go on and on about "family values" and "Christian morals" are always secretly more depraved than any of the people they are constantly condemning. Remember the former head of the National Association for Evangelicals, Rev. Ted Haggard? Well he was busted for buying meth and kicking it with a middle-aged gay hooker, in spite of his outspoken support of anti-gay marriage legislation. Of course, then he came up with the lame excuse that he bought the meth because he was "curious," but that he threw it away without taking any, and that the only thing he did with the hooker was receive a "massage." News flash, Reverend: we all know you were tweeking hard and we all know that "massage" means "hand job from a dude," and much as meth-slinging prostitutes can't fully be trusted, I believe your boyfriend who said that he was buttfucking you for a solid three years. The same is true with Larry Craig. The ferocity and vehemence he dedicates to denouncing the queers is directly proportional to his own urges to get some hot anonymous airport bathroom BJ from the dude in the stall next to him.
Now Larry Craig is giving some lame statement about how police misconstrued his statements and he pled guilty just to make the whole thing go away. Sha right. His ass pled guilty in hopes that this would never see the light of day, because he knew that a public examination of the events would indeed demonstrate that homeboy was in the mood for some incognito layover dick between flights, and for a prominent member of the homo-hating Legislative elite already dogged by gay rumors, such exposure would be more than a little embarrassing.
This is pretty similar to an anecdote the stunning hotness known as Alexyss K. Tylor shared on her public access show a while back, about a Spelman professor who was similarly picked up in an airport men's room for propositioning another fellow there. As she brilliantly summarized that situation, "I don't know if he wants the nuts in his butts or the balls in the jaws, but he's beggin' the man, PLEASE give him some dick and nuts." If Larry Craig and all these other hypocritical gay-bashing gays would just accept that they like some "nuts in their butts" from time to time, then maybe there wouldn't be getting so fired up about making sure that the gays can never, ever, ever, ever, ever in a million years get married because they're perverts and sinners. For one thing, they'd be a lot less cranky, not having to spend all their time joining (wink, wink) "barbershop quartets" as a front what they really get up to--or up ON--with their buddies James, John, and Trent. It's got to be a lot of work, both orchestrating clandestine gay trysts and learning four-part acapella harmonies about freedom or whatever. For another, I am not sure at this point that we'd even have any rabidly anti-gay lawmakers or activists anymore if they all came out. I'm pretty sure that the only reason these people get so uptight about the gays is to keep their secret penchant for prostate-tickling under wraps, so if they came out...well, nobody would be left to give the homos a hard time under the guise of moral superiority.
Larry Craig is the latest in a series of insufferably pedantic purveyors of judgment preaching about how to "reclaim America" by "protecting traditional marriage," and he needs to cut that noise and just admit that he's bi already. The word's already out, and the only reason people care is because he's a huge hypocrite. As far as his man-loving predilections, well, he's here, he's queer, and we're all having NO difficulty getting over that.
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, Daily Douchebag, overcompensation, politics, vulgar display of faggotry
Monday, August 27, 2007
Well at least you're not.... Mike Shinoda
"Good idea Mike. Hand the mic over to someone with skills."
I know. I know. You've been wondering why you haven't seen an installment of "Well at least you're not..." lately. Well I've been busy with classes and other random stuff. And plus, greatness need only shine once in a while for you to appreciate it even more. So here I go... Well at least you're not Mike Shinoda from Linkin Park.
For those of you not familiar with the nu-metal genre, Linkin Park is a mainstream rock band from California. Of course no one should be familiar with the nu-metal genre but for purposes of ammo, I looked up most of this stuff on Wikipedia. Anyway, Mike Shinoda is a singer/rapper in the band. I can't call him the lead singer because most of the tracks are sung by Chester Bennington. He was referred to Linkin Park by Jeff Blue (Vp for Zomba Music, now VP for Warner Bros.) Clearly that indicates label influence but Shinoda likes to think otherwise. Warner Bros signed Linkin Park to a record deal shortly afterwards. But the bullshit starts to smell when Mike Shinoda claims his band, Linkin Park, had no label influence by saying on a track called "Get me Gone" (from his side rap project group called Fort Minor):
But my band had my back
So we did the tracks
Put out the album and the talk went flat
It was funny at first but then the humor faded
When some magazines printed that our label made us
We were to be good to be true
Too good to be true Mike? Really? With lyrics so poor, it is no surprise that Shinoda raps less and less as each new Linkin Park album drops. I wouldn't be surprised if Gaynoda (my new name for him) composed most of his beats off of a Rhyming Dictionary. When I entered the word Mike into the rhymer, these words came back (I picked out the best ones that describe Shinoda):
apelike, childlike, doglike, dyke, snaillike, tyke, psych, ruglike, gnomelike
Gaynoda's Fort Minor released "The Rising Tide" before Linkin Park's "Minutes to Midnight." Songs like "Feel like home" contain such genius lyrics like:
Blowing in my hands like it's really gonna stop the chill
I buy a cup of coffee with a five dollar bill
thinking
Laying in that box people look so still
Now I'll admit that I used to like Linkin Park. They have catchy beats that even I enjoy tapping my feet to but I'm tired of Shinoda's lies and poor MC skills. Linkin Park won't be on my download list in the near future. Mike Shinoda needs to move out of California and not rap about the state's semi-mild breeze. Anyone should be lucky to not have such poor rhyming skills. Accompanying the poor rhyming skills is the delusion that Mike thinks he is great at what he does. Now Mike may have a lot of money but you should also be lucky not to be him because he started a band in which he isn't even close to the lead singer. I would say he gets laid but he is married. Shinoda got married in 2003. He essentially traded all sorts of random ass from 18 year old girls across the globe to marry a children's book author. Although she is cute, I can only imagine the dogs get more ass:
So while you may not have a recording contract, record company, millions of dollars, and fans across the globe, you can at least take solace in the fact you're not spewing shit like this:
I'm not trying to bum anyone out
Not trying to be dramatic
just thinking out loud
I'm just trying to make some sense in my mind
Some defense from the cold that I'm feeling outside and for a minute
Escape with some rhythm and rhyme and
Get away from the grey
Just a bit at a time
Delusion can do wonders.
Visit my stomping ground: OverAdulthood
Labels: assholes, crazies, Ryle, small penises, vulgar display of faggotry, you're ugly
Daily Douchebag: Whoever came up with the term "birth control"
Douchebaggery: Last night I had a dream that Brandi M. got booted off "Rock of Love" and I was all ready to make Bret Michaels my douchebag of the day for it (especially considering the hateful Lacey is still in the mix). Fortunately, I remembered when I woke up that he actually gave boring-ass Mia her walking papers, and my girl the amateur facial queen is still in the running to "get some rocker ass." Whew.
Anyway, that left me without a Douchebag, and since I am HUNG OVER from drowning my personal drama in about 10 Heinekens, two Hurricanes, and a Bloody Mary at a barbecue BloodyTosser (AKA #1 female novice welterweight kickboxer in the US of A!) threw on her rooftop in Brooklyn yesterday, I was having a hard time thinking of one. Then I started randomly thinking about this dude I slept with the other weekend, and how, as we were naked and getting ready to commence the throes of passion or whatever, he said, "Do you have any birth control?", and this bugged me. Not because he was being responsible, but because it just sounded dumb.
I don't like the term "birth control." It doesn't really describe what contraceptives do. It should be called "pregs control," because it seems awfully presumptuous to assume that birth is going to result from getting knocked up. Birth happens NINE MONTHS after you fail to put on a raincoat or take your Ortho-Tri in a timely manner, and as we in the biology biz like to say, it's super fucking downstream of the actual sex where contraceptives come into play. "Birth control" makes it sound like you're trying to avoid a Species 2-type scenario (ie: immediately popping out tentacled alien progeny after having unprotected groupie sex with a possessed astronaut). Whoever came up with this idiotic term for contraceptives obviously didn't have a very good grasp of the timing between conception and birth. Stupid!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, retard rage, sex
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: New York
Reality stage name: New York
DOB: January 6, 1982
Occupation: the biggest crackpot ho in the history of Vh1 "Celebreality"
Hometown: Utica, New York
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I think the above picture says it all. Silicone bulging from her deeply cut top, freshly topped off vodka-cran in her glass, pack of Newports squeezed between those notorious, Flavor Flav-wrapping thighs...only one adjective can truly be employed to describe New York, and I think we all know and agree that adjective is CLASSY!
New York is a delicate flower of feminine grace and sophistication that all us girls could take a lesson from. Oh, and there are some rumors going around the internets that New York's real name isn't Tiffany Pollard (supposedly it's Kenya Simmons, and she actually is an ex-stripper from Newark, New Jersey), and her "mom"--the crazy hooker known to "I Love New York" viewers as "Sister Patterson"--is actually a non-related actress named Leslie Bibbs who New York met in a casting line for some BET reality show they were both rejected from. I'm responding to these rumors, however, with a resounding "SHA RIGHT." This type of disparaging trash must be patently false, because I just can't believe that a lady of such refined breeding and tastes as New York was ever wrapped around a cootie-covered stripper pole somewhere just off exit 15W on the Jersey turnpike. LIES! Obviously some hater jealous of New York's obvious elegance and style is making shit up!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, I Love New York, sluts, TV, Vh1
Friday, August 24, 2007
This just in: Jamie Foxx is a complete and total fuckwit
For no reason other than to hear himself talk, Jamie Foxx decided that during an "Access Hollywood" interview about his weekly radio show on Sirius "The Foxxhole" (he really gets a show to be a pompous asshole once a week??? WHERE'S MY RADIO SHOW?!), he was going to go ahead and join Stephon Marbury and Clinton Portis in the Michael Vick Apologist club:
Besides, Jamie, isn't it just a little insulting to "most brothers" to suggest that this happened because Michael Vick is an ignorant dumbass from the hood? Michael Vick isn't some illiterate high school dropout. He went to fucking Virginia Tech! Granted, he didn't graduate, but one could still argue that it was a smart move for him to quit college after his sophomore year and enter the NFL draft, since it resulted in a $180 million football contract, and that's not even counting endorsements. Michael Vick is not a moron, so it's idiotic for Jamie Foxx to suggest that he wasn't aware of the depraved illegality of his actions because "it's a cultural thing."
If anything, Michael Vick has more legal knowledge than the average joe attending a pit fight. For one thing, he's a prominent player of the National Felons League, and he does that nickname justice. He's owned a truck being used by two dudes who were arrested for selling weed, his dogfighting co-conspirator Quanis Phillips used Vick as cover to steal a fake Rolex from a TSA screener at the airport and Vick's handlers impeded the investigation for a week, he was busted at the airport with a water bottle that appeared to be a drug stash box (it wasn't, but Vick still enjoyed yet another tete-a-tete with law enforcement because of it), and he was sued by a chick who claims he knowingly infected her with herpes using the alias Ron Mexico. Michael Vick is no stranger to the courthouse, so one would think that he has a team of lawyers on retainer, any of whom could have advised him on his dog-related business venture. Saying that he didn't know because of cultural influences or not having Jamie Foxx around to give him tips on how to be a black star of high repute is a pathetic, unacceptable excuse, especially since there should be a chapter in this "handbook" he mentions about being a smug, uninformed tool sharing unwelcome and asinine rationalizing opinions like Jamie Foxx.
I suppose that I can grudgingly admit that Jamie's speaking from a position of knowledge regarding dogs, since he perennially seems to have one hanging on his arm with teeth bared:
I'm assuming that the neighborhood dog fights that Jamie didn't know is "Fed time" involves having a veneer-flashing contest with urine-soaked crack whore trannies on a red carpet. That's not the kind of dogfighting Michael Vick was doing. According to testimony from his co-defendants, Michael Vick exclusively bankrolled Bad Newz Kennels, posed for pictures with some poor bitch named Jane before throwing her to her brutal death in the dog pit, and brutally killed a whole bunch of innocent, helpless doggies for their inability to be sufficiently vicious. Michael Vick's actions are reprehensible and inexcusable, and Jamie Foxx needs to shut the hell up with the "giving him the benefit of the doubt" because some people manage to dodge jail time for other criminal offenses. From what I can see, Michael Vick HAS dodged jail time. Federal prosecutors were going to charge him under the RICO act, which would have carried penalties of up to 20 years for each racketeering count. Considering a federal grand jury indicted him on multiple counts of interstate dogfighting, cruelty to animals, and gambling, he would have been doing hard time. As it is, he got off pleading guilty to one pathetic charge of conspiracy to commit interstate animal trafficking or something like that. He didn't admit to gambling, cruelty to animals, or staging dogfights, and for the solitary charge he plead to, he'll do less than two years. That asshole should be spreading anal simplex in the Leavenworth laundry room for at least a decade, and you can bet that if he weren't a celebrity like Michael Vick (as in the case of his co-defendants who are shouldering the bulk of the culpability), that's what he'd be doing. Come fall 2009, I guarantee all the Fantasy Football blogs will be abuzz with speculation about how prison will affect his passer rating and rushing production in the upcoming season, and where Fantasy owners should take him in the draft.
Jamie Foxx needs to quit trying to relieve Michael Vick of the responsibility he should be taking. He's not taking enough, and Jamie Foxx needs to quit pretending that his behavior was some sort of innocent faux pas precipitated by a cultural misunderstanding and take solace in the fact that Ron Mexico is getting off easy. Jamie Foxx needs to stop the punditry and media whoring and stick to doing what he does best: singing crappy R&B songs FAR INFERIOR to Robert Sylvester Kelly's genius repertoire with Kanye West, flaring his lips to make that arrogant, self-satisfied expression he always wears on his ugly mug, polishing his Oscar, and starring in shitflicks that I would rather enter Chingy! or Caesar into a backyard dogfight than plunk down $11 to see.
It’s a cultural thing, I think. Most brothers didn’t know that, you know. I used to see dogs fighting in the neighborhood all the time. I didn’t know that was Fed time. So, Mike probably just didn’t read his handbook on what not to do as a black star. I know that cruelty to animals is bad, but sometimes people shoot people and kill people and don’t get time. I think in this situation, he really didn’t know the extent of it, so I always give him the benefit of the doubt.Oh, I see...so Jamie Foxx got a chance to look over the federal indictment paperwork and has made his judgment about how much Michael Vick did or didn't know. Granted, Vick's plea deal doesn't include any admissions of dogfighting or cruelty to animals, but COME ON. Those other dudes who got busted with him have said that Vick bankrolled the whole Bad Newz Kennels operation and did his fair share of stomping, shooting, hanging, and electrocuting poor little puppers who didn't "test well." Even Michael Vick's father is saying that Vick the Dick has been an enthusiastic proponent of dogfighting since 2001. Maybe since he didn't get a copy of this "What Not to Do as a Black Star" Handbook that Jackass Foxx mentions, Michael Vick didn't realize this was a FEDERAL crime, but surely he knew it was illegal regardless of the jurisdiction. There's a reason why dogfighting is behind closed doors, and that's because it's a fucking crime! It's also an indicator of people with the most despicable, morally depraved, unreasonably cruel characters. You have to be a real fucking asshole to enjoy the competitive spirit of torturing helpless animals by forcing them to rip each other to pieces and then hemorrhage to death in a dirty cage, and it doesn't take a genius to figure that out.
Besides, Jamie, isn't it just a little insulting to "most brothers" to suggest that this happened because Michael Vick is an ignorant dumbass from the hood? Michael Vick isn't some illiterate high school dropout. He went to fucking Virginia Tech! Granted, he didn't graduate, but one could still argue that it was a smart move for him to quit college after his sophomore year and enter the NFL draft, since it resulted in a $180 million football contract, and that's not even counting endorsements. Michael Vick is not a moron, so it's idiotic for Jamie Foxx to suggest that he wasn't aware of the depraved illegality of his actions because "it's a cultural thing."
If anything, Michael Vick has more legal knowledge than the average joe attending a pit fight. For one thing, he's a prominent player of the National Felons League, and he does that nickname justice. He's owned a truck being used by two dudes who were arrested for selling weed, his dogfighting co-conspirator Quanis Phillips used Vick as cover to steal a fake Rolex from a TSA screener at the airport and Vick's handlers impeded the investigation for a week, he was busted at the airport with a water bottle that appeared to be a drug stash box (it wasn't, but Vick still enjoyed yet another tete-a-tete with law enforcement because of it), and he was sued by a chick who claims he knowingly infected her with herpes using the alias Ron Mexico. Michael Vick is no stranger to the courthouse, so one would think that he has a team of lawyers on retainer, any of whom could have advised him on his dog-related business venture. Saying that he didn't know because of cultural influences or not having Jamie Foxx around to give him tips on how to be a black star of high repute is a pathetic, unacceptable excuse, especially since there should be a chapter in this "handbook" he mentions about being a smug, uninformed tool sharing unwelcome and asinine rationalizing opinions like Jamie Foxx.
I suppose that I can grudgingly admit that Jamie's speaking from a position of knowledge regarding dogs, since he perennially seems to have one hanging on his arm with teeth bared:
Jamie Foxx needs to quit trying to relieve Michael Vick of the responsibility he should be taking. He's not taking enough, and Jamie Foxx needs to quit pretending that his behavior was some sort of innocent faux pas precipitated by a cultural misunderstanding and take solace in the fact that Ron Mexico is getting off easy. Jamie Foxx needs to stop the punditry and media whoring and stick to doing what he does best: singing crappy R&B songs FAR INFERIOR to Robert Sylvester Kelly's genius repertoire with Kanye West, flaring his lips to make that arrogant, self-satisfied expression he always wears on his ugly mug, polishing his Oscar, and starring in shitflicks that I would rather enter Chingy! or Caesar into a backyard dogfight than plunk down $11 to see.
Labels: assholes, celebrities, crime and punishment, doggity style, NFL football, ranting, retard rage
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: MillerTime
DOB: August 24, 1978
Occupation: diabetes educator, hottest bitch in Pierce County
Hometown: Tacoma, Washington
Current residence: DO THE PUYALLUP! (Washington)
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Well, for starters, it's my sweet MillerTime's birthday today, and my, how that bitch has grown since I first met her at the tender age of 10. She and I met at Camp Don Bosco (Catholic horse camp), and proceeded to face off in CYO sports for the next few years. Fast forward almost twenty years, and we're still facing off, albeit in a most affectionate manner now that the whole All Saints versus St. Pat's second base benchwarmers rivalry has been squashed.
There's a lot I'd like to say here about MillerTime, but she'd kill me if I wrote down 90% of it, so I'll just say that she is a hot chick and she is now recently single. So handsome fellas of Puyallup, beware. MillerTime is, much like Robert Sylvester Kelly, a flirt. She texts me this every so often when she's had a few. Seriously, she sends me texts that say "I'm a flirt." She's a dog on the prowl when she's walkin' through the mall, and if she could, trust that she probably would fuck with all y'all. She's not black, handsome, she doesn't sing (except the occasional extremely drunken rendition of the Dixie Chicks' "Sin Wagon" on karaoke night at the West End), and she's not rich, but BELIEVE ME, she's a flirt. So as it's her birthday, and it's a Friday, and she is no longer fettered by the old ball and chain who is moving out of her condo shortly, I expect her to go out and tear up the P-N-Dub bar scene with a slutty shirt showcasing that hot rack of hers. IT'S MILLERTIME!!!!
Happy birthday, you sexy bitch!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot chicks, MillerTime, P-N-Dub
Daily Douchebag: Amber Lee Ettinger
YouTube/Internets name: Obama Girl
DOB: October 2, 1981
Occupation: viral video actress, soon-to-be Playboy model
Hometown: Hazleton, Pennsylvania
Current residence: New York, New York
Douchebaggery: The "I've Got a Crush on Obama" video annoyed me when all of a sudden, it was all over the internets, particularly MySpace. Anything that's featured on MySpace garners my instant suspicion that it's going to be utterly retarded, based on what I assume is the general dearth of intellect enjoyed by the average MySpacer. Anyway, the "Obama Girl" video features this hooker dressed in skanky clothes running around the fair isle of Mannahattas singing about how hot she thinks Old Angle-Jaws Obama is. If for some reason you missed this trash, check it out:
Much like many others who have become "famous" via MySpace and YouTube before her (ie: Tila Tequila, Lonelygirl15), Obama Girl is taking her fifteen minutes of newsworthiness and turning it into the American dream: NUDE MODELING! Normally I say "good show" to hot chicks who want to take their clothes off, but this bitch is a low-rent Jennifer Love Hewitt and as she's not a porn star, I can't forgive her fake tits. Plus, she has a serious case of drag queen mandibular prominence going on.
One might think that Obama Girl is a clever political satirist, but that is not the reality. She's just an overtanned sack of tits who looks okay moving her mouth. After past work doing such esteemed events as Bikini Jam and being some random bitch in Maxim, Obama Girl was hired to lip sync the words to "I've Got a Crush on Obama." She didn't write the song, sing the song, or come up with the concept, although she's media whoring herself out hard and fronting like she did. Recently, she's caused some unremarkable controversy by publicly stating her support for Hillary Clinton. Who cares? I'd be amazed if this slut actually bothered to take a break from bikini modeling to go vote come fall 2008. She probably doesn't even know which states Obama and Hillary represent in the Senate. She reminds me of Paris Hilton in that "Vote or Die" ad back in 2004, where Paris seemingly chose death, as she didn't register to vote. Sadly, we're all still waiting for her to die; apparently when you elect mortality over your civic duty, it doesn't happen instantly.
And I really can't tell if "I've Got a Crush on Obama" is a bigger ripoff of Mariah Carey's "Hero" or T-Pain's "N Luv Wit a Stripper." If it's possible for the song to be a politically-influenced hybrid of those two numbers, then that's what it is, and if it doesn't have Mimi acting like a crazy fool or T-Pain saying "damn, ma, you thick as hell," offering to buy U a drank, or discussing the various "snappin" aspects of that shawty in his signature vocorder-distorted tenor, I'm not interested.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, intentional buffoonery, internet domination, media whores, politics, sluts
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Best. Defense Title. Ever.
Tomorrow some person I don't know is defending their dissertation, and there are signs all over advertising the defense seminar for it. This is the greatest defense seminar title in the history of science Ph.D.s:
Okay, so the project isn't actually all that exciting unless you're into worm genitalia. This student is from a lab that works on Caenorhabditis elegans, a microscopic worm which is a model organism for developmental genetics. Presumably coming up with extraordinary new takes on "thinking outside the box" where "box" means "twat" is actually code for "I developed some mutants in genes not having anything to do with pussy, but there you go...these worms have fucked-up pussies anyway." I've always found developmental genetics in model organisms, and particularly in Drosophila melanogaster (flies) or C. elegans to be appallingly tedious. I remember I interviewed at NYU for grad school and they wouldn't stop gushing about their new fly lab, which made me immediately think "scratch NYU off my list." However, maybe I would have given it more thought if I had anticipated that my dissertation would have such an amazing title. "Thinking Outside the Vulva" is a hell of a lot catchier than "Development and Characterization of a Mouse Model of Rhinovirus Pathogenesis."
Thinking Outside the Vulva:
A Non-Vulval Perspective on Vulval Development
A Non-Vulval Perspective on Vulval Development
Okay, so the project isn't actually all that exciting unless you're into worm genitalia. This student is from a lab that works on Caenorhabditis elegans, a microscopic worm which is a model organism for developmental genetics. Presumably coming up with extraordinary new takes on "thinking outside the box" where "box" means "twat" is actually code for "I developed some mutants in genes not having anything to do with pussy, but there you go...these worms have fucked-up pussies anyway." I've always found developmental genetics in model organisms, and particularly in Drosophila melanogaster (flies) or C. elegans to be appallingly tedious. I remember I interviewed at NYU for grad school and they wouldn't stop gushing about their new fly lab, which made me immediately think "scratch NYU off my list." However, maybe I would have given it more thought if I had anticipated that my dissertation would have such an amazing title. "Thinking Outside the Vulva" is a hell of a lot catchier than "Development and Characterization of a Mouse Model of Rhinovirus Pathogenesis."
Labels: grad school bullshit, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, nerd alert, science, stank vaginas
Chingy! can't chase the Cat(skills)
Last weekend I went camping in the Catskills with a bunch of other grad students. Nothing remarkable happened besides getting drunk, eating smores, and freezing my ass off because I only brought one pathetic, velvet, not-warm hoodie procured for $7 at some cheap ho-clothes store on 125th St. with me and it was like 40 degrees at night. Apart from nearly getting evicted from the state park we were staying in due to "rowdiness after quiet hours," the only other thing we did was go for a hike.
Since I had the dogs with me, I figured Caesar would love it and Chingy! could definitely use the exercise. I went with the group going on the "easy" hike (7 miles), because I figured that Chingy! would be stretched to his physical limits by a trip that long, and the "challenging" hike was 14 miles and involved free-climbing. As it turned out, "easy" meant we made it through two miles of scrambling up and down steep, rocky hillsides before J-Sexy wanted to turn back to resume beer drinking. After one look at Chingy!, I knew that we had to go back too. He was exhausted, with his sides heaving in and out like some sort of corpulent, hyperspasmotic accordion bellows, his tongue lolling out of his squashy little snaggletoothed mouth, and his breath coming in sickening, phlegmy gusts of foulness. We moved to climb back up the rock wall we had just descended, and I thought Chingy! was going to die. These "stairs" were so precipitous that I felt like Frodo scaling the mountainous walls of Mordor to reach the dread pass of Cirith Ungol. I tried to motivate Chingy! with some LOTR dialogue ("up, up, up the stairs we go, Precious...until we reach...the tunnel"), but he paid me no heed. He simply stared at me insolently and resentfully, and I could almost hear him thinking withering "CHONGAY CHONG!" thoughts about my forcing him to endure such an arduous journey. When we got to the top of the neverending rock stairs and started venturing back downhill, one of the girls with us felt so sorry for Chingy! that she volunteered to CARRY HIS FAT ASS back down. I told her, "I wouldn't. He's so fucking heavy, I swear mercury flows through his veins."
"He's so tired, I just have to," she insisted. She picked him up, and I defy you to contradict that he may be the most revoltingly pathetic creature on God's green earth:
Besides stinking, weight problems, astronomical vet bills, shitting, consuming shit, destroying stuff, regarding their owners haughtily, and shedding copiously, what the hell are Pugs good for? Because I know a lot of things they're useless at, and backpacking is one of them. Chingy!'s good samaritan only lasted about 100 feet before she had to put his burdensome ass back down, and he proceeded to be a pain in the ass the rest of the way. He stopped to sniff everything, tried to go on sit-down strike TWICE, attempted to take a nap, shook off his leash, and generally tried to impede my efforts to walk him down the trail in every way possible. Then again, I'm not much of a hiker either, as I'm always stopping to smoke and drink beer, and I spent most of my time on this trip trashing what qualifies as a mountain on the East Coast and sneering at the lack of evergreen trees rather than soaking in the magnificence of the Appalachian wilderness.
Even though I was disappointed that Chingy! didn't experience rapid weight loss from his hiking ordeal, I was pleased to get back to the campsite and get down to business with J-Sexy doing what we do best (drink some brew dogs and eat some meat). I contribute a big"fuck that" to traipsing soberly up rockslides waiting to happen as a means of enjoying the great outdoors. As soon as I got home, I ordered a pizza and watched some porn. Heineken consumption, showers, electricity, and not having to hoist my Hutt of a dog up steep rocky inclines are most definitely my jam. Life in the city is far less shitty.
CHONGAY CHONG, camping!
Since I had the dogs with me, I figured Caesar would love it and Chingy! could definitely use the exercise. I went with the group going on the "easy" hike (7 miles), because I figured that Chingy! would be stretched to his physical limits by a trip that long, and the "challenging" hike was 14 miles and involved free-climbing. As it turned out, "easy" meant we made it through two miles of scrambling up and down steep, rocky hillsides before J-Sexy wanted to turn back to resume beer drinking. After one look at Chingy!, I knew that we had to go back too. He was exhausted, with his sides heaving in and out like some sort of corpulent, hyperspasmotic accordion bellows, his tongue lolling out of his squashy little snaggletoothed mouth, and his breath coming in sickening, phlegmy gusts of foulness. We moved to climb back up the rock wall we had just descended, and I thought Chingy! was going to die. These "stairs" were so precipitous that I felt like Frodo scaling the mountainous walls of Mordor to reach the dread pass of Cirith Ungol. I tried to motivate Chingy! with some LOTR dialogue ("up, up, up the stairs we go, Precious...until we reach...the tunnel"), but he paid me no heed. He simply stared at me insolently and resentfully, and I could almost hear him thinking withering "CHONGAY CHONG!" thoughts about my forcing him to endure such an arduous journey. When we got to the top of the neverending rock stairs and started venturing back downhill, one of the girls with us felt so sorry for Chingy! that she volunteered to CARRY HIS FAT ASS back down. I told her, "I wouldn't. He's so fucking heavy, I swear mercury flows through his veins."
"He's so tired, I just have to," she insisted. She picked him up, and I defy you to contradict that he may be the most revoltingly pathetic creature on God's green earth:
Even though I was disappointed that Chingy! didn't experience rapid weight loss from his hiking ordeal, I was pleased to get back to the campsite and get down to business with J-Sexy doing what we do best (drink some brew dogs and eat some meat). I contribute a big"fuck that" to traipsing soberly up rockslides waiting to happen as a means of enjoying the great outdoors. As soon as I got home, I ordered a pizza and watched some porn. Heineken consumption, showers, electricity, and not having to hoist my Hutt of a dog up steep rocky inclines are most definitely my jam. Life in the city is far less shitty.
CHONGAY CHONG, camping!
Labels: alcoholism, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, exercise drama, fat fucks, intentional buffoonery, J-Sexy
Daily Douchebag: Kriston Capps and Catherine Andrews
DOB: Who cares...probs sometime in the late-70s; these tools look like they're around my age
Occupation: media wonks, bloggity hipsters, losers
Hometown: Who cares? Probably somewhere in the Midwest, from which all urban rivers of messenger bag-toting hipsters spring forth
Current residence: Washington, DC
Douchebaggery: BigBagel tipped me off yet again to some worthy douchebags. I was relieved, because I've got some serious DRAMA going on in my personal life, and it's been tough finding the time or concentration to achieve much Razzified awesomeness here. Needless to say, I'm glad that BigBagel and his lovely wife LL Cool Jew have been taking it upon themselves to do the brainstorming and sometimes the writing for me.
From: BigBagel (bigbagel@pulitzerprizewinningdirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: too...many...douchebags...head...exploding
http://machinist.salon.com/feature/2007/08/22/fishbowl_bots/
i don't know where to begin, nor can i even find a focal point for my disgust, or is it rage, or....
i think there is no part of this - the contest itself, the contestants, the results, the cheating, the self-promotion - that does not make me simultaneously disgusted, amused, horrified.
it's like accidentally starting some kind of snuff video on youtube and not
knowing it when it starts but being utterly unable to turn it off once it's running.
seriously, this put's the hill's hot 50 list to fucking shame...total, inglorious shame.
(Although I must admit that the hottest female PR winner is kinda sexy.)
This was in reference to an article on Salon.com's tech blog Machinist, about the tech savvy used by two roommates to rig an online election held by Fishbowl DC, which is some media blog for fucktard reporters on the Hill. Meet the unscrupulous victors of the prizes for hottest off air male and female, Kriston Capps and Catherine Andrews:
Apparently, some "friends" of theirs built software bots distributed on some other blog for fucktard wonks that voted for Kriston and Catherine thousands of times, or as Salon says, "tallying up votes...faster than a Diebold rigged for George W. Bush." Kriston and Catherine both claim that they had no part in this, although I wonder. Salon describes them as "relentlessly bloggy," and after reading their insufferable blogs, which are grossly bloated celebrations of their own self-perceived wit, I find it hard to believe that these two pompous jackasses didn't encourage all their little Washington Post-reading blogger buddies to download those tricksy vote-padding bots. Kriston's entire blog is devoted to his condescending, blowhard opinions about art, tech bullshit, and feminism, as well as his pathetic attempts at clever sportswriting in the form of his analysis of Titans quarterback Vince Young. I'd generally give him points for paying blog heed to the Flaming Thumbtacks, who are my second favorite NFL team next to the Seahawks, but the overriding air of know-it-all is so pervasive and stank that I can't stomach saying that I agree with him on some of his points. Meanwhile, Catherine's blog is a boring, tedious account of her unremarkable life, a neverending ode to Neko Case, Kristen "Veronica Mars" Bell, her schedule, personnel changes at her job, "Lost" (nothing about hot-ass Sayid the Iraqi torturer, so...zzzzz) and whatever soporific social activities she participates in with her geeky blogger roommates, like drinking a paltry three bourbon-and-lemonade iced teas before some lame introspective vadgetastic indie singer/songwriter's acoustic set. Bitch, please...call me when you're a real alcoholic and when you get a real fucking life outside of fretting over whether or not you'll get tickets to the upcoming New Pornographers show. Neither one of them mention Robert Sylvester Kelly, "Deadliest Catch" and/or Sig Hansen, Curtis Jackson, fat people, viruses, world domination, or dirty sex once, so as far as I'm concerned, they are a waste of bytes. It seems they could have reaped substantial benefit from being declared the hottest online shitfactories in DC. At the very least, someone besides their housemates might actually read their banal internet clutter.
Before the haters jump out here and say that I'm jealous or something equally unlikely, let me just say that if there were an online poll about the hottest grad students studying virology or microbiology or even any biomedical science, I wouldn't even have to cheat to be a contender. For one thing, most people in my field look like a cross between a product of the Tri-Lambda or Omega Mu Greek system and a fighting Uruk-Hai. Comparatively, the Aileen Wuornos-meets-Ann Coulter-meets Tonya Harding thing I've got going on is actually kind of hot, and I have faith that my tits (and willingness to display them in all their blazing glory) would propel me to success in such a contest. Furthermore, nobody would even want to cheat at that competition, because being the least ugly amidst a crowd of trolls is hardly an honor. To me, the fact that Kriston and Catherine cheated to achieve that illustrious honor within the DC journalism community is the most pitiful, loathsome, despicable douchebag qualification of all. How sad and miserably ordinary does a person have to be for their desperate desire for originality to manifest as a geeky way of cheating in an online poll about your "hotness" compared to the other heifers who write for The Washingtonian? Thanks to Kriston and Catherine, we now have living, relentlessly bloggy answers to that mystifying question.
Labels: assholes, BigBagel, Daily Douchebag, intentional buffoonery, internet domination, nerd alert, overcompensation, ranting, retard rage, you're ugly
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: The North Pole
DOB: 6 bajillion patrillion years ago
Occupation: Housing elves, polar bears and vast mineral wealth; melting
Seriously - have you ever heard this much breaking news about the North Pole in your life? The North Pole's stock is rising as polar ice recedes - and now everybody wants to tap that! Once written off as a useless wasteland, the North Pole is hot again thanks to global warming, and world leaders are suddenly spitting tons of talk about undiscovered oil and mineral riches in addition to vast, delicious fresh water deposits. And how they should all be OURS!
This week, Russian President Vladimir Putin caused an international case of heartburn when he made a straight-up North Pole land grab, sending divers to peep the continental ridge and prove that Arctic penguins speak Russian. He is so obsessed with the North Pole that he actually sent submersibles to plant a Russian flag on the bed of the Arctic Sea!
Meanwhile, during this week's vaguely monickered "security and prosperity summit" of North American premiers in Montebello, Quebec, Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper had the notably un-Canadian balls to assert Canada's ownership of the fabled Northwest Passage. George Bush was like, "Canada, why the hell did you think we annexed Alaska so brilliantly sixty years ago?" Actually, the president replied coolly America's belief that in fact, the passage lies in "international waters" (meaning, we will conquering it cunningly through commerce, public grants and ice road trucking).
This is so exciting - it's the closest thing we've had to an unrefereed global land grab since the Age of Exploration! Seems like it's time to invest in a timeshare at latitude 90 degrees north!
Cool Jew Prediction: Maybe when fresh water is the world's most important resource, we'll finally have an excuse to invade Canada...
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, international intrigue, LL Cool Jew
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Superhead
Nickname: Superhead
DOB: August 24, 1978
Occupation: serial ho
Hometown: St. Thomas, US Virgin Islands
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: People often ask me if my website has ever impeded my efforts to get laid, because it drives away the honeys with their fear of being written about afterwards. The truth is, I hardly ever write about about the people I sleep with, and when I do it's usually because they either did something egregiously awful to piss me off or because something funny happened during the sex. Either way, I usually go out of my way to protect the identity of the person I'm writing about, because I would like to continue getting laid, and I don't want to be cockblocked by my own blog. However, as much fucking-and-telling as I do, I've got nothing--and I mean NOTHING--on Karrine "Superhead" Steffans.
A former rap video vixen, Superhead became far more famous for her extreme promiscuity than for her video dancing skills. Why famous people are still fucking this bitch is a mystery to me, because now that she's gone to pasture in terms of being solid video hoochie material (she's 28), she's ventured into the realm of writing tell-all books about her various conquests. In her first book, Confessions of a Video Vixen, she had the following things to say:
Shaquille O'Neal "was nothing to complain about." She says that Shaq was so impressed with Steffans that, the day after meeting her, he deposited $10,000 into her bank account. At least she's not shy about being a huge ho. That said, I figure that Shaq's dick is roughly the size of an old-growth Douglas fir, so she probably deserved every penny for actually fitting that into any of her various orifices and not complaining.
After hearing so much about Fred Durst's stature, she gushed, "to actually hold him … felt like a privilege." EWWW!!! Fred Durst's dick is a privilege? That was obviously written circa 1999.
Vin Diesel "was a beautiful man … blessed with an enviable eight-pack and an even more enviable cock." And an enviable ability to drive his career straight into the dirt with some seriously bad movie choices.
After inviting her to his home at 4 a.m., Sean (P. Diddy) Combs kicked his manservant Fonzworth Bentley out of a guest bedroom so he and Steffans could spend 15 minutes making love. "You're one of the best," she says P. Diddy told her. Steffans writes: "I said the same to him, when, in actuality, he was average." No surprise there. I wish she would have told me what I REALLY want to know about Diddy, which is whether or not he goes, "Uh, take that, take that, take that, Bad Boy" during sex. Maybe she omitted that detail because it's a given.
After her book dropped in 2005, Steffans supposedly said she promised God that her days of writing about her hyperactive sex life were over, and she'd be walking a moral path henceforth. However, Confessions of a Video Vixen was such a success that Steffans has signed with Warner Books to write two more tell-alls, except in keeping with her spiritual convictions, she's offering a slightly more subtle discussion of her famous sex partners' dick sizes. She's also sold the rights to a movie about her ho-liness for a cool $7.3 mil. In her upcoming book The Vixen Diaries, she continues her trend of rating various celebrities' abilities in bed.
Usher was originally lauded for his prowess in the sack in her first book, but in the second one, Karrine changes her tune and says she boned him out of pity. Because it was after a concert when we “fucked” and it was smelling like straight up FISH up in backstage in his dressing room. It was NOT me either. So I'm like babes? What's that smell. He tried to make it seem like it already smelled like that when they got to the arena. I'm like whatever, can we get this over with. It was fucking horrible and on top of that it was smelling back there. This man is not packing, his dick is way small and he was having a hard time trying to find my hole. Then ol' boy did something out of this world, he yelled out something Haitian. I was sick to my stomach. I got dressed and ran out of there. The fact that Usher's dick is small or that his nether regions stink is no shock to me. I've had Usher pegged (no pun intended) as a down-low butt boy for a long time now. That woman he just married even looks like a damn man, so consider me unsurprised that Usher doesn't know his way around a vadge.
50 cent and I have had our share of sexual encounters. We kick it every time he comes to L.A.. His dick is not as big as I assumed it would be. It was probably about 7 1/2 inches. But it's not a big disappointment because he can eat pussy like no other. 50 loves tities and ass. I happen to have them both so I guess that's why he immediately came on to me. You have to be sleeping with some serious heavy hitters to think that 7 1/2 inches is disappointing. I've had dicks bigger than that, but most dudes would rejoice in having a 7 1/2 inch dick. Not that I didn't already know about my boyfriend Curtis Jackson's penis size or his cunnilingus abilities. He loves my T&A too.
Young Buck was the best I ever had. His dick was like the Energizer Bunny. It kept going and going. The sex lasted for hours at a time. It was the best I ever had and it got better each time. Don't tell that to 50! That's how motherfuckers get kicked out of the G-Unit...by somehow one-upping "tha don." Just ask The Game. If it gets out that Young Buck is a hotter lay, he's probably going straight back to Ca$hville.
Juelz Santana's really wild in bed, and don’t let the ‘No homo’ stuff fool you, because he is definitely not a homo in bed. His dick is like a baseball bat, but it’s thick too, like an overgrown German sausage. He likes to pull hair a lot, and he actually likes it better when a girl rides. Have you ever seen Juelz Santana? He's kind of skinny and short. I wouldn't have thought he's packing some bizarre hybrid of a Louisville Slugger and a Johnsonville brat between his legs, that's for sure.
Rather than continue elaborating, Karrine just breaks out a long-ass list with some quick ratings of virtually every well-known rapper from the past decade:
Mystikal - long Mystikal?! Is he even still alive?
Trick Daddy - long and full of energy Duh. How else could he keep up with Trina?
Twista - medium So I guess Twista's claim in R. Kelly's "Hit It Til the Mornin" that he is capable of "slid(ing) this dick off in yo womb" is false. Unless, of course, Superhead's standards of "medium" means 12 inches. It's also possible that Twista's dick looks smaller than it really is when contrasted with his corpulent physique.
Will Smith - long UGH! WILL SMITH?! I thought he was gay. Note that Superhead says he's "long" but not "thick." The Fresh Prince is a pencil-dick, for sure.
Xzibit - long but comes too quick Don't they all. But don't hate...he was probably on his way to film a deodorant commercial or pimp someone's ride. Unlike Young Buck, a busy man like X to tha Z doesn't have all day to just lounge around fucking groupies.
Kool G Rap - Long but can't fuck Well, he fucked her enough to be her baby daddy. She had to be nasty since he's charging that she's a lousy mom to their bastard son Naim.
Talib Kweli - medium No surprise there. Talib wouldn't be bitching about social problems nearly as much if he had decent wood.
Redman - hung like a banana Is that good or bad? I'm thinking that's good, but Karrine's standards are so impossibly high that this could well be a diss from her.
Black Thought - medium Again, no surprise there. Black Thought doesn't spend nearly enough time talking about his hoochies and his rims.
Russell Simmons - small NO SHIT! He's a vegan who married a tranny (I'm convinced that Kimora Lee has a Y chromosome), so consider me unsurprised that he's lacking the equipment to please a real woman.
Khujo from Goodie Mob - very long Yuck.
Ja Rule - Long and full of energy DOUBLE yuck. I wonder what 50 thought of that assessment.
Jay-Z - Real thick and juicy but you cant stand looking at him when he’s on top Jay-Z--who I'm also convinced is gay--is definitely a double bagger, meaning you put a bag on his head AND yours for extra protection from his hideous visage.
OutKast - Both big but Big Boi is bigger and fatter Dre’s is long and slim. No surprise there.
Pete Rock - big Who the hell is Pete Rock? Is he somehow related to Kid Rock?
Puff Daddy - medium Or, as she stated before, "just average"
Rakim - Long Quit saying "long"! I want some measurements!
Mobb Deep - Havoc is big but Prodigy is small I guess that's what sickle cell anemia will do to a guy. Also, as long as she's fucking half the G-Unit, why didn't Lloyd Banks and Tony Yayo get a piece?
M.O.P. - Long pipes but Danze has a smelly body odor Be sure to put on deodorant (hence the semi-favorable ratings for Redman and Xzibit) before fucking Superhead, because that bitch has the sense of smell of a bloodhound.
Nas - small I knew it. You can tell from the constant self-aggrandization. Dudes with pharoah complexes are always packing toothpicks.
Nelly - medium But did he take off the Band-Aid before getting down?
Scarface - medium Average and unremarkable, just like his career
Snoop Dogg - too long Snoop is a cervix-slammer, huh? Ewww....
Ol’ Dirty Bastard - may his big dick rest in peace Where thankfully it can't knock any more bitches up.
Clipse - They’re both long but they cant fuck and Pusha T’s breath stinks Again, it's advisable to make sure your personal hygiene is in order before fucking a gossipy ho with a keen sense of smell
Common - Long but too skinny Figures. Common is such a sensitive little crybaby, it's no shocker that he's sporting a Sharpie fine point.
Da Brat - can eat a pussy. One would hope. She IS a big old dyke, after all.
Mos Def - long but his breath stinks You know Mos Def's fugly ass thinks he's too good for a toothbrush.
Timbaland - long and fat but can't fuck and comes too quick And probably says "Uh, uh, baby girl" incessantly, as well. But don't hate. That's just the way he are.
Too $hort - long and thick but talks to much shit in bed He talks a lot of shit everywhere else, too. Why would his pillow talk be any different? She should consider herself lucky that she didn't wind up working the streets of Oaktown or choking on sperm in her windpipe.
Q Tip - long but skinny. He has an asshole personality His name says it all.
Mase - Long but he has an asshole personality too Well, DUH! He's a born-again Christian. They all have asshole personalities.
Master P - nice and long and can fuck Except for the fact that his nasty-ass gold grill is probably always twinkling at you with every "UHHHHH!"-punctuated thrust.
Method Man - Long but comes too quick His methods need some perfecting.
Missy Elliott - pussy has a bad odor Missy, Missy, Missy. As a full-on lesbo, you should know better.
50 Cent - medium/long I already knew that.
Big Punisher - The same size of a can of air freshener Big Pun better be hung like one of those hospital-sized cans of disinfectant, because I can't see any other way you'd be able to extract his dick from all those fat rolls, God rest his soul.
Busta Rhymes - Big and long bit cant fuck. Just because you are left sore he thinks he did something. Man, I HATE guys like that. I feel you, Superhead.
Canibus - real long Canibus? Are you kidding?
Noreaga - Long but he cant fuck What would you expect with those dumb glasses he always wears?
Lil Wayne - nice and long Or not. He probably just shared some of his killer weed with Superhead and thus gave her a far rosier, higher impression of what it's like to bone Tha Carter.
Kanye West - Big but he cant fuck No, but he probably thinks he's God's gift to women's vaginas.
KRS-One - small Obviously. KRS One complains too much about everything. I know where it comes from.
LL Cool J - Nice and fat And gay.
The LOX - All of them are big except for styles. styles is very tiny. And J Hood is abnormally fat. Sounds like Superhead was causing some intrigue behind the scenes of the "Jenny From the Block" video. South, south Bronx!
Ludacris - Just perfect. Long and fat Big things come in little packages, I guess.
DMX - Long and can fuck forever Because he's on PCP!
Fabolous - big dick but comes to fast So it was less than fabolous?
Fat Joe - small at first but when erect he’s impressive. Because his cock emerges from his massive dimpled pelvis like a phoenix from the ashes.
Wyclef - Long but his breath stinks Probably from the lengthy vocal exercises needed to assume other Caribbean accents besides Haitian. For example, on R. Kelly's latest album, Wyclef is pretending to be Jamaican. Previously, he was fronting like he was Cuban with all that "Guantanamera" business. You can't blame him for accessing his tidal breath because he has to fake an accent to lend some Caribbean street cred to some song he's guest performing on.
Ghostface Killah - Long but he comes too quick God, has she fucked the entire Wu-Tang clan???
Anyway, I applaud Karrine's efforts to make money out of her extremely popular vagina without resorting strictly to prostitution and porn, both of which she has dabbled in. Because I'm a sucker for salacious gossip, I also applaud her fuck-and-tell-all policy. I plan to buy her new book as soon as it finds its way to the Barnes and Noble sale rack. What a hot-ass slut.
Labels: 50 cent, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, librophilia, Lil' Wayne, media whores, rap, sex, sluts
Daily Douchebag: Interfaith Rainbow Coalition Against Homosexuality
DOB: N/A
Occupation: gay bashers
Hometown: Kampala, Uganda
Current residence: Kampala, Uganda; Jinja, Uganda
Douchebaggery: BigBagel, who probably is the only person I know that spends all day reading BBC Africa, sent me the following e-mail yesterday:
From: BigBagel (bigbagel@pulitzerprizewinningdirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: daily douchebag nominee
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/6957336.stm
Africa, like almost all of the Arab world and many parts of Asia and South America, is rampantly homophobic to the point where they deny homosexuality's existence. Their arguments often remind me of White Southerners circa 1955: "We ain' had no problums wit ower negras till theym nawthuhnuhs cayme dowun harr sturrin up truba."
From the BBC story: Pastor Sempa told the BBC's Focus on Africa that homosexuals were using the (Commonwealth) summit to try and "shame, force, coerce, intimidate Uganda into changing our laws". (Which jail homosexuals for life for being gay.) "We are telling them that Africans find homosexuality reprehensible. Leave us alone."
They put American Baptists to shame with their hateful anti-gay rhetoric. However, they can also be spectacularly moronic, and this was apparently on full display when a Ugandan anti-gay group chose to name themselves the "Interfaith Rainbow Coalition Against Homosexuality." Dude, does that name sound gay or what? It almost sounds like a Log Cabin Republican subsect. Obviously they are dutifully ignorant of the international symbol for homosexual shops and stores. Perhaps IRCAH should stand for "I Really Can't Admit (to my) Homosexuality."
In Togo, (in know, LL Cool Jew, another frickin' Togo story) some high school boys would take themselves out to the fields during recess and butt-fuck each other so they could "learn" the libidinous arts. Teachers didn't think twice when they caught them doing it. Village men held hands, caressed each other, even offered occasional playful pecks, which was far more affection than they ever showed women. I'll never forget the first time I gained some trust, and this burly farmer grabbed me by the hand and softly stroked my arm with his calloused hands while leading me through the market one day. It totally freaked me out until I realized it made me "down" with other burly farmers. Yet the one time I ever heard of a Togolese admitting to gay-ness, he was beaten to death by an angry mob. Or, at least, that was the rumor.
I did think it was absolutely hilarious that a rabid anti-gay group decided to name itself anything involving "Rainbow," although it would have been really amusing if they'd called themselves the "Interfaith Rainbow Pride Coalition" or something even more homoriffic. As an added irony bonus, this Pastor Sempa character who runs IRCAH is a well-known AIDS activist. Here in the States, I usually assume that AIDS activists are generally cool with the queers, but that just goes to show that, along with typically pro-gay symbols like rainbows, it's Opposite Day in Uganda. Pastor Sempa's solution to the AIDS epidemic devastating Africa is abstinence and monogamy. He has fought hard against distribution of condoms, stating "We don't need more condoms from Bill and Melinda, but more hope and fidelity in marriage." I've never understood this "we don't want your condoms" attitude. Benedixteen and Bush promote this all the time. It might be a fine and noble idea to encourage people to find one partner and not fool around on them, but that's not the reality of the situation for many people. In Africa, many poor women have no other option for feeding themselves or their families except through prostitution, and you bet your ass that those ladies aren't being promiscuous because it's fun. Seemingly, the narrow-minded, irrational attitude about condoms Pastor Sempa promotes extends to the entire gay community. Demanding that the police in Uganda enforce their laws by holding a gay witchhunt and imprisoning the homos for life (per the current Ugandan penal code) is yet another appalling solution that Pastor Sempa--while embracing Christ as his compassionate savior, no doubt--has cooked up to stem the tide of AIDS in Uganda.
Then again, Pastor Sempa obviously has an audience who is receptive to his message. Last year, the Red Pepper, Uganda's answer to the New York Post, ran the following pieces:
However, gay Ugandans everywhere should rejoice that IRCAH has such a faggotronic name. At their next pro-gay rally (at which they all wear masks, for fear of being recognized and jailed), they should all wear rainbow colors and pride ring necklaces to really hammer home the point that Pastor Martin Sempa is a total fucking dumbass.
Labels: BigBagel, Daily Douchebag, epidemic geekery, lezbollah, media whores, oh the horror, vulgar display of faggotry
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
The battle of the bulge becomes my responsibility
I'm exceptionally harsh towards fat people, and it's not because I don't understand that they're people too, or that there are circumstances that led to them being fat, or whatever else. It's because MOST fat people could fix their situation by switching to Crystal Light and getting their fat asses off their couches on occasion, and I have no respect for people who seek pity and sympathy for being passive and weak. I'm a lazy, pizza-eating, slovenly couch potato, too, but I walk everywhere and I run to ensure that I can maintain that life and still be a reasonable weight. This isn't that hard to do; make a few simple changes in your diet and exercise habits, and get thin, because nobody wants to fuck a fat person (with the notable exception of BBW fetishists, but they are a minority).
I remember the one time I had sex with a fat person vividly. I had just graduated from high school, and my parents were out of town, so I had some people over. Among them was this one fat guy, who was sort-of friends with another guy I had known since first grade and who I was trying to bone (he and I did close the deal later, and wound up dating for the rest of the summer until the long-distance thing became too difficult once we went off to college on opposite coasts that fall). At this particular mini-party, the guy I wanted to hit was off in Oregon on vacation with his parents. His fat friend was there instead. Fat Friend had procured a large quantity of Rainier Ice to consume that night, and we all immediately proceeded to begin the drunkenness. Approximately two hours later, I was pleasantly sauced, and watching TV with Fat Friend while everyone else was doing who knows what in my backyard. Fat Friend put his hand in my crotch and the next thing I knew, we were making out. He seemed a lot thinner in my drunken haze, or at least he seemed more stocky than fat. Anyhow, somehow we wound up in my bedroom fucking. I remember that it was dusk outside, and the light coming in through the blinds was hard and gray, causing the room to be lit, but in a very dim, shadowy way. And I remember, as I sat astride him and rode his dick, watching his fat rolls jiggle in that light. Horror-struck, I thought to myself, "Oh my GOD. I'm fucking a fat guy!"
As soon as I had that monstrous epiphany, I jumped off his cock and made some lame excuse about how it wasn't right to fuck him because I'd gone to third base with his absent friend and wanted to get into a relationship with him (I told the absent friend later, when we were having the "relationship discussion" about whether we wanted to be a BF/GF couple unit, about boning Fat Friend, and he was okay with it.) Fat Friend was whining and cajoling me to continue, but I would have none of it. I dressed quickly, and escaped to join the rest of the party in the backyard. Fat Friend was distinctively unhappy with that turn of events, and wouldn't speak to me for the rest of the night. In fact, I'm not sure I ever spoke to him again after that incident. I don't know if he knew the real reason I just could not bring myself to continue straddling him was due to my disgust at his quivering like a damn Jello mold rather than my desire to have a serious relationship with his friend. I figure that since Fat Friend never made any effort to diet or engage in any type of exercise activity other than frosh football in the time that I knew him, he was probably willfully ignorant of his repugnant body shape, and just wrote me off as a bitch who left him with blue balls. However, in light of some recent scientific findings, I'm feeling strangely--even, I daresay, sympathetic--about my policy towards people like Fat Friend. It turns out that sloth may not be the only factor in the biomorphogenesis of fat fucks: a virus could be involved.
WHAT?! A virus makes you fat?! Viruses do everything these days (not like I'm complaining, as clearly I'll always have some work to fall back on). Therefore, some post-doc in a lab at LSU decided to link a virus to fat cell growth. She took Adenovirus-36 (Ad36), a virus that usually causes the common cold (although not nearly as well as the hateful awesomeness known as rhinovirus, which is the undisputed badass of cold-causing), and exposed adult stem cells culled from discarded liposuction waste to it. The stem cells with virus differentiated into adipocytes (fat cells), while mock-treated control cells did not. I don't think this is a slam-dunk experiment, as I'd like to see her data that shows that she actually achieved a productive infection with Ad36. I'd also like to know whether in a natural infection, Ad36 could ever get anywhere near the proximity of subcutaneous adipose stem cells from its usual residence in the upper respiratory tract. Furthermore, since she got her cells originally from fat tissue, I wonder whether those stem cells would differentiate into adipocytes when given any inflammatory stimulus. Inflammation has been linked to obesity for a long time, to the point where some diet book my mom was reading described NF-kappa-B (an important transcription factor for inducing inflammatory and immune responses in many cell types) as "a rowdy frat boy" in the biological process of porking up. When retarded analogies about complex inflammatory gene expression programs are being made in mass-market self-help books, it's definitely indicative of scientists knowing about it for a long fucking time.
In spite of my questions concerning her experimental system and methods, I still think this study is fairly compelling, as it's fundamentally easy to understand and interpret the results (hence, the reason why most of the non-science media outlets are crowing about it) and it opens up a new, active area of investigation for understanding the influence of viruses on stem cell differentiation. It also makes me thankful that Fat Friend wore a condom. Adenoviruses don't cause any sort of sexually transmitted disease as far as I know, but that doesn't mean they can't be sexually transmitted nonetheless. I would be furious if Fat Friend had given me his infectious obesity along with a few minutes of unremarkable vaginal penetration.
Anyway, since I have crusaded so long and hard against the obesity epidemic that is sweeping the nation and depriving me of men who probably have handsome faces and appealing personalities who I would otherwise screw the bejesus out of, maybe I should consider a post-doc in the field of virus-induced obesity. I could fight viruses and fatness all at the same time. If I could only figure out a way to fight Beyonce with science, I'd have the perfect post-doc. I need to hurry up and give a mouse rhinovirus so that I can get to work on fighting the fat fucks.
I remember the one time I had sex with a fat person vividly. I had just graduated from high school, and my parents were out of town, so I had some people over. Among them was this one fat guy, who was sort-of friends with another guy I had known since first grade and who I was trying to bone (he and I did close the deal later, and wound up dating for the rest of the summer until the long-distance thing became too difficult once we went off to college on opposite coasts that fall). At this particular mini-party, the guy I wanted to hit was off in Oregon on vacation with his parents. His fat friend was there instead. Fat Friend had procured a large quantity of Rainier Ice to consume that night, and we all immediately proceeded to begin the drunkenness. Approximately two hours later, I was pleasantly sauced, and watching TV with Fat Friend while everyone else was doing who knows what in my backyard. Fat Friend put his hand in my crotch and the next thing I knew, we were making out. He seemed a lot thinner in my drunken haze, or at least he seemed more stocky than fat. Anyhow, somehow we wound up in my bedroom fucking. I remember that it was dusk outside, and the light coming in through the blinds was hard and gray, causing the room to be lit, but in a very dim, shadowy way. And I remember, as I sat astride him and rode his dick, watching his fat rolls jiggle in that light. Horror-struck, I thought to myself, "Oh my GOD. I'm fucking a fat guy!"
As soon as I had that monstrous epiphany, I jumped off his cock and made some lame excuse about how it wasn't right to fuck him because I'd gone to third base with his absent friend and wanted to get into a relationship with him (I told the absent friend later, when we were having the "relationship discussion" about whether we wanted to be a BF/GF couple unit, about boning Fat Friend, and he was okay with it.) Fat Friend was whining and cajoling me to continue, but I would have none of it. I dressed quickly, and escaped to join the rest of the party in the backyard. Fat Friend was distinctively unhappy with that turn of events, and wouldn't speak to me for the rest of the night. In fact, I'm not sure I ever spoke to him again after that incident. I don't know if he knew the real reason I just could not bring myself to continue straddling him was due to my disgust at his quivering like a damn Jello mold rather than my desire to have a serious relationship with his friend. I figure that since Fat Friend never made any effort to diet or engage in any type of exercise activity other than frosh football in the time that I knew him, he was probably willfully ignorant of his repugnant body shape, and just wrote me off as a bitch who left him with blue balls. However, in light of some recent scientific findings, I'm feeling strangely--even, I daresay, sympathetic--about my policy towards people like Fat Friend. It turns out that sloth may not be the only factor in the biomorphogenesis of fat fucks: a virus could be involved.
WHAT?! A virus makes you fat?! Viruses do everything these days (not like I'm complaining, as clearly I'll always have some work to fall back on). Therefore, some post-doc in a lab at LSU decided to link a virus to fat cell growth. She took Adenovirus-36 (Ad36), a virus that usually causes the common cold (although not nearly as well as the hateful awesomeness known as rhinovirus, which is the undisputed badass of cold-causing), and exposed adult stem cells culled from discarded liposuction waste to it. The stem cells with virus differentiated into adipocytes (fat cells), while mock-treated control cells did not. I don't think this is a slam-dunk experiment, as I'd like to see her data that shows that she actually achieved a productive infection with Ad36. I'd also like to know whether in a natural infection, Ad36 could ever get anywhere near the proximity of subcutaneous adipose stem cells from its usual residence in the upper respiratory tract. Furthermore, since she got her cells originally from fat tissue, I wonder whether those stem cells would differentiate into adipocytes when given any inflammatory stimulus. Inflammation has been linked to obesity for a long time, to the point where some diet book my mom was reading described NF-kappa-B (an important transcription factor for inducing inflammatory and immune responses in many cell types) as "a rowdy frat boy" in the biological process of porking up. When retarded analogies about complex inflammatory gene expression programs are being made in mass-market self-help books, it's definitely indicative of scientists knowing about it for a long fucking time.
In spite of my questions concerning her experimental system and methods, I still think this study is fairly compelling, as it's fundamentally easy to understand and interpret the results (hence, the reason why most of the non-science media outlets are crowing about it) and it opens up a new, active area of investigation for understanding the influence of viruses on stem cell differentiation. It also makes me thankful that Fat Friend wore a condom. Adenoviruses don't cause any sort of sexually transmitted disease as far as I know, but that doesn't mean they can't be sexually transmitted nonetheless. I would be furious if Fat Friend had given me his infectious obesity along with a few minutes of unremarkable vaginal penetration.
Anyway, since I have crusaded so long and hard against the obesity epidemic that is sweeping the nation and depriving me of men who probably have handsome faces and appealing personalities who I would otherwise screw the bejesus out of, maybe I should consider a post-doc in the field of virus-induced obesity. I could fight viruses and fatness all at the same time. If I could only figure out a way to fight Beyonce with science, I'd have the perfect post-doc. I need to hurry up and give a mouse rhinovirus so that I can get to work on fighting the fat fucks.
Labels: epidemic geekery, fat fucks, Razzification, science, sex, viruses rule
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: EADA Jack McCoy
DOB: ???
Occupation: Executive Assistant District Attorney in New York City, "the district attorney who prosecutes the offenders," scotch drinker, notorious womanizer
Hometown: Chicago, Illinois
Current residence: New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Jack McCoy is the hottest barrister in the illustrious 18-year history of "Law and Order." He rides a motorcycle, listens to The Clash, unwinds from a rough day at the courthouse by pounding scotch at his desk, and bones as many of his hot female assistants as he possibly can. And damn...homeboy can litigate his nuts off. His tactics are unconventional, his style is ruthless, and his rhetoric is galvanizing. Every time Jack McCoy gives one of his fiery closing arguments, I'm like "Guilty! GUILTY!!!! Off to Dannemora with you, you murdering fucktard!" He's not afraid to give his all in the pursuit of justice, and that includes doing time for contempt of court if necessary. I can think of three separate occasions where his explosive passion and unorthodox strategies have landed him either in a jail cell or in front of an ethics or disciplinary committee. Every time, he is unapologetic and defiant, and always comes out the winner. He is so damn hot.
I haven't been watching too much "Law and Order" since Jerry Orbach took Detective Lenny Briscoe up to make cynical wisecracks to the big guy upstairs, but apparently Jack McCoy is replacing Arthur Branch (so Fred Thompson can go run for president) this season as the NYC District Attorney. That's odd, because I can't really see Jack being the type to run for election; his genius and skill lies in litigation, not shuffling papers back at the courthouse. However, I have no doubt that he's still going to be serving justice exactly how I like it: hot, hot!, HOT!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, Law and Order, TV
Daily Douchebag: Mike Nifong
DOB: September 14, 1950
Occupation: former Durham County District Attorney
Hometown: Wilmington, North Carolina
Current residence: Durham, North Carolina
Douchebaggery: Mike Nifong is the prosecutor who was slavering and licking his chops at the prospect of throwing the book at the Duke lacrosse players charged with raping a stripper. Unfortunately, there was just one little problem: the players didn't do it. In fact, according to the stripper's last version of events, she's not even sure she was raped at all. Nifong was so determined to take down the lacrosse players, however, that he was going to let things like facts and evidence get in the way. He leaked false accusations to the press, conspired with the director of the forensics lab to get exculpatory DNA evidence buried, exacerbated racial tensions, unduly influenced the police investigation, manipulated witnesses, and never once interviewed the alleged victim. Why would he do such a thing? Because he was up for re-election, and figured that taking down the privileged white college boys for raping a black stripper would score him some points with the black population in Durham. Never mind that those same voters would probably not respond well to being pandered to at the expense of justice; Nifong figured that so long as he was the HBIC of the Durham County DA's office, all would be well.
Unfortunately for him, most people are smarter than he gives them credit for, and they called his ass on it. Nifong was forced to resign his position, and was disbarred by unanimous vote in June. He was compelled to surrender his law license and bar card. He claims he never had a bar card, but his law license is looking shabby because it spelled his middle name wrong and "damage subsequently inflicted by a puppy in her chewing stage." Yes, the moron complained that the dog actually ate his fucking law license. I can relate, because I have actually had a dog eat, step on, or otherwise doggily deface personal property and homework. However, Nifong should have made like me and kept his advanced degrees safely stowed away in his sex toy drawer. I know that I'm unlikely to lose anything in there, so that's the sanctuary where my passport, Smith degree, and both Columbia masters degrees happily reside, beneath a safe tangle of vibrators, strap-ons, and lube. Then again, if Nifong actually had some sex toys, he probably would have a healthier outlet for venting his extra energy than by conspiring to railroad innocent men on felony rape charges for political gain. Now that he's unemployed and unemployable as anything but a register jockey at Mickey D's or a greeter at Wal-Mart, he's got lots of time to sit around masturbating. In fact, he's got all the time in the world.
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, sexual assault
Monday, August 20, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Leona Helmsley
DOB: July 4, 1920
DOD: August 20, 2007
Occupation: hotelier, real estate investor, Queen of Mean
Hometown: Brooklyn, New York
Current residence: a mortuary in Connecticut
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I don't think I'd actually like to hit Leona Helmsley's hotness as much as I would like to salute it. Leona Helmsley was the biggest bitch in the history of bitches, and her petulant tyranny left this mortal coil today at the age of 87 at her estate in Greenwich, Connecticut. Leona was a real estate agent who married a tycoon named Harry Helmsley. Harry quickly descended into senility as Leona took over his hotel empire and ruled with an iron fist. She would berate, harangue, and otherwise verbally abuse her employees for the slightest infraction, and would often extort money, products, and services from her suppliers. Employees were observed physically trembling with fear and anxiety in her grand and terrible presence. She was declared the all-time "Queen of Mean."
Leona was so fucking frightening that her reputation extended into popular culture. Hunter Hearst Helmsley (aka "the Game", aka "Triple H", aka "the Cerebral Assassin") actually appropriated her name to butch up his gimmick. Also, Donald Trump wouldn't be trashing Rosie O'Donnell and anyone else who stumbles into his crosshairs now if it weren't for his feud with Leona. Escalating from a real estate battle for control of the Empire State Building, Donald noted that Leona "is a horrible, horrible human being," while Leona responded with a simple, "I hate Donald Trump." An old Forbes article notes that "no two billionaires loathe each other on a personal level more than The Donald and The Queen of Mean." They've been trashing each other in the Post for years, and we can thank Leona for inspiring The Donald to combine his media whore tendencies with crybaby shit-talking whenever he gets a chance.
Unfortunately for Leona, her karma caught up with her, and she was convicted in the 80s on a clusterfuck of tax-related corporate scams, including multiple counts of tax evasion and mail fraud. That's what you get when you make statements like "we don't pay taxes...only the little people pay taxes" to your housekeeper. Leona reaped what she had sown, and did time in federal prison for it. She did not, however, lose her real estate fortune, and inherited an estimated $5 billion upon her husband Harry's death.
Overall, Leona was an absolutely depraved, selfish, evil, criminal human being. However, I have to thank her for one very important thing: elevating bitchiness to an almost unsurpassable level. Leona was so good at being a monster bitch that she inspired nightmares in her employees, as well as tears, nervous breakdowns, and tremors. Achieving that level of unrepentant nastiness, especially while succeeding in a cutthroat environment like the Manhattan realty market, takes an uncommon drive and ability. By setting the bar so astronomically high for the kind of bitchniness others can expect from a successful businesswoman, all the rest of us can feel safe breaking out a little bit of occasional bitchery where useful in the workplace. I try to get everything done at work by being competent, professional, and friendly. However, sometimes in order to get the job done, a girl has to cease with the pleasantries and break out her inner aggressive mega-bitch.
After watching "Leona Helmsley: Queen of Mean" on the Lifetime Movie Network one slow Sunday afternoon and observing the blistering hotness of Suzanne Pleshette viciously dressing down her employees while masterfully manipulating her increasingly senile husband, I decided that Leona Helmsley--or at least Suzanne's portrayal of the same--made Joan Collins on "Dynasty" look like a cuddly, reasonable, compromising sweetheart.
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, people who died, tyrannical rulers
Daily Douchebag: Lacey Conner
Name: Lacey Conner
DOB: ???
Occupation: musician, PETA slag, reality TV whore
Hometown: Dallas, Texas
Current residence: Silver Lake, Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: Lacey Conner is one of the trashy hookers vying for Bret Michaels's affections on Vh1's "Rock of Love." While my girl Brandi "BeBe/Pamela the Amateur Facial Queen" M. continues to kick ass (as usual, she was the first one selected by Bret last night after a particularly satisfying date to a hockey game which BeBe enjoyed thanks to the plethora of "beers and men with sticks"), Lacey spent last night's episode being even more annoying than usual. I've hated Lacey since I first laid eyes on her, because she has that really horrible fake red/magenta hair color that I absolutely detest. She looks like she should play bass for the Holograms (as in, Jem and the...as in, truly truly truly outrageous), and while that might seem kind of cool, bitches reminiscent of punk-flavored Barbie knockoffs don't get me all wet. She also has a lip ring, and I can't stand most facial piercings because they are distracting and impractical, and usually favored by people who love to tell everyone how goddamn edgy they think they are. I bet food gets caught in Lacey's lip ring, and I can't imagine it does anything besides annoy the hell out of the person kissing or receiving oral from her. Furthermore, she's got a calculating, evil-bitch look to her, and when she cleans up, she takes on the appearance of some gonorrheic faux goth whore who just got fired from her job ringing up Ramones shirts and studded belts at the local Hot Topic store.
Lacey rocketed up my "to-hate-on" list when she confronted her fellow Bret Michaels suitor Dallas about her love of meat and clothing fashioned from animal products. OF COURSE Lacey is an obnoxious animal rights activist. It explains her ability to combine sanctimonious moral positions with behavior toward her that is anything but ethical. Lacey is always plotting and scheming ways to "take down" other bitches competing for the heart of the haggard yet wearily appealing Mr. Michaels, and that usually involves orchestrating some elaborate scheme to trick them into behaving badly. This was clearly demonstrated the time that Lacey decided to throw on her "I heart PETA" shirt and get in Dallas's face about what a cruel and horrible person she is in order to provoke a fight.
Then they set up a rematch, where Lacey and Dallas ended up getting physical, and Lacey had to be dragged off Dallas. To Dallas's credit, she showed up for round two wearing every single animal-based article of clothing in the house and put up a damned fine effort in her attempt to "put a foot up (Lacey's) ass." Well, not really, because crazy-ass Rodeo intervened before the altercation could escalate beyond the finger-pointing and pushing stage, but Dallas rose admirably to Lacey's shrill, accusatory invective. Unfortunately, Bret ended up booting Dallas (who flipped him off and refused to hug and wish him well on her way out, causing Bret to comment on her "lack of class") because Lacey was doing an excellent job presenting herself to him as this sweet, accommodating confidant and party buddy as opposed to the conniving, duplicitous cunt that she normally is. Plus, she had a drunken foursome with Bret and fellow "Varsity Squad" members Heather and Brandi C., and the blowjob she allegedly gave Bret there probably gave her a competitive edge, since Dallas wasn't putting out.Lacey talks herself up like she's the rocker groupie incarnation of New York, combining the maturity level of a five-year-old with a volatile temper and an overwhelming feeling of superiority. Unlike New York, however, Lacey never does anything remotely amusing. She is usually just a straight-up bitch, and her attempts at being disparaging lack New York's inherent hilarity and charisma. For example, Lacey could never come up with anything as poetic as New York's rant about Deelishis's mother's plastic hair in "Flavor of Love 2" or as charmingly juvenile as New York's tendency to rebut arguments by mooning her challenger. Lacey is inferior as a cagey, deceitful, unscrupulous reality show villain, because she is about as entertaining as a mosquito bite, and her attempts at character assassination, psychological warfare, and Machiavellian treachery, despite being unnecessarily convoluted, are laughably inadequate and uninspired. Unless Lacey can step up her game to achieve the "Melrose Place" caliber of bitchery necessary for success as a memorable reality show contestant, she's not going to do anything but make me hate her and wish vehemently for Bret to cut her predictably nasty ass and spare the viewers further from her mean-spirited, unlikable mediocrity.
When she's not co-conspiring the downfall of the other contestants with her ally Heather, a suspiciously trannish-looking Scores stripper, Lacey is usually annoying everyone by discussing her prowess at music. Lacey was in some godawful industrial band called Nocturne, that is described in a soon-to-be-removed Wikipedia profile as "a piece of poop that was formed in 1999 in Dallas, Texas. The poop was formed of two core members, Lacey Conner and Chris Telkes, and several touring musicians." Their MySpace page validates this claim, as a mere fifteen seconds into "Whore remixed by DOPE," I wanted to start kicking my speakers. Lacey's sound is exactly like her personality: grating, overbearing, and borderline seizure-inducing. Appropriately, Lacey also does guest vocals for a band called Pigface.
Last night, Lacey was described by the other girls as "two-faced" and "insincere," and Bret seemed to finally take heed. He stated that he's going to be more suspicious of Lacey from now on. Hopefully he'll catch her doing something shady and boot her ass right back to where it belongs: wallowing in obscurity.
Labels: buttrock, Daily Douchebag, media whores, overcompensation, sluts, Vh1, you're ugly
Sunday, August 19, 2007
My Beloved's Garden party
I just got back from a camping trip, and instead of taking the nap I definitely could benefit from after two days of sleeping on cold, extremely hard, bear-infested campground dirt in the Catskills, I decided to dick around on the internets. Maybe it's because it's a Sunday, and I'm filled with subconscious guilt for missing church (as per usual), and maybe because for whatever reason I've been recently fascinated with the sexual habits of extreme Christians, but I somehow found myself investigating the online presence of Christian sex toy shopping.
As it turns out, some Christians are all for using "marital aids," and there is even a website devoted to peddling these items:
I was curious about what types of sex toys My Beloved's Garden was selling without subjecting horny Christian spouses to pornographic images. The whole concept sounds crazy to me. Isn't a dildo something that someone with decidedly fundamentalist leanings would consider pornographic in and of itself? I mean, it LOOKS like a damn penis. Maybe that means they only sell the kind that look like animals (rabbits, dolphins, etc.) and not the "realistic" variety (ie: no cock-and-ball strap-ons, none of those excessively veiny dildoes--even though I have yet to encounter a real penis that looks like it's covered in varicose veins, I suppose this has the trappings of "realistic"). Then again, maybe Christian "sex toys" are actually items that I would consider boring and not worth the money, like intimacy board games and books about incorporating more Jesus into your fucking. Besides, I think sex toys and porn go together like chocolate and peanut butter. My favorite online sex toy purveyor actually sends me a free porn DVD with every order, which is why I patronize them. I get something to watch while I'm trying out my new vibrator or strap-on or whatever, and that makes for one satisfied customer. Needless to say, this whole "shop for sex toys without the sinful influence of porn" marketing scheme is quite foreign to me, and it piqued my interest.
I went immediately to the "marital aids" section of the site and checked out their "Romance and Christian Sex Games" selection. As I suspected, there were a lot less sex games and starter bondage kits than romantic crap.
Nothing sets the mood like a good, old-fashioned, Jesus-approved game of strip darts. Snore. And actually, I could make an argument that the first person to get naked wins.
Leviticus may insist on all sorts of archaic bullshit like leaving town when you're on the rag so that nobody can look upon you, instructions about how to properly wash cum stains out of your clothes, and forbidding worship when you've got the clap, but there's nothing in there at all prohibiting a fun and energetic game of sex Twister!
There's also a whole bunch of games that looked like a total drag (Bed of Roses Deluxe, 52 Weeks of Romance, Twelve Romantic Dates, etc.), so I decided to say fuck the "games" section and get right down to the actual sex toys. I was hoping they'd have some crucifix-shaped vibrators or some authentic scourging equipment for Christian BDSM that might be interesting, but I wasn't too optimistic. I figured that Christian sex was supposed to be lame and boring, so I imagined "sex toys" meant primarily some lube and some ugly lingerie. Well, I got the ugly lingerie part right:
NOW I see why this isn't pornographic. They blurred out any hint of buttcrack that might show on the model sporting this titillating outfit, which can best be described as one part Tawny Kitaen rolling around on David Coverdale's Jaguars, one part Victorian-era lampshade, and one part Puyallup, WA Lovers Package store clearance rack. Because God forbid you see anyone else's asscrack but your devoted wife's when ogling a hideous set of historically influenced fuck-me rags like these. Also, they blurred out the model's face, presumably so that you can't begin adulterously fantasizing about whatever busted 80s hooker is rocking this ensemble. On an unrelated aside, I bet you ANYTHING that Britney Spears wears something like this in her next video. But if you thought that anti-porn use of the Photoshop "Blur" tool was good, you'll love it on these next products:
Well, it seems that it's okay for Christians to use actual sex toys. However, Jesus frowns upon one looking at the topless model on the box when shopping for a hands-free, remote controlled clit stimulator, so this offensive image is blurred out. What I wonder, though, is what a dutiful Christian is supposed to do with their "orgasmic good luck charm" when it arrives in the mail. Presumably the Four Leaf Clover and Butterfly of Love don't have alternative porn-free packaging, so are you supposed to shut your eyes when you are trying to extract your new purchase from its box with the masturbating naked chick on it?
Also, it seems that while images of asscracks and titties are offensive and taboo, a little backdoor action with your spouse is totally conducive to walking the path of righteousness, so long as you use the right terminology:
Jesus likes nothing more than a good, old-fashioned butt plug, especially one with a practical feature like a sturdy retrieval cord.
And nothing says "devout Christian" like a string of vibrating anal beads. Also, to prepare for one's Biblically sound buttsex, they sell accessory products as well:
I guess "anal douche" sounds much more Christ-like than "enema." This product certainly sounds necessary for acceptable anal action, since Leviticus does harp incessantly about cleanliness. If you're going to lay pipe on the dirt road, old I Am Who Am would obviously prefer to minimize the unpleasant poop aspect of this act among his righteous, lovingly married followers. Unless, of course, those lovingly married followers are a gay couple, in which case they should be summarily stoned.
I'm still confused about why these sex toys are okay when pornography is not. Why is seeing some other chick's tits on a vibrator box so horribly offensive when you're shopping for fucking butt plugs? It seems very confusing to say, "Porn is destructive and sinful" while offering graphic descriptions of how to give a pre-anal enema using the products you're selling. Pornography and erotica isn't always visual, and I think that it's some serious semantic hair-splitting to describe exactly how to use a G-spot stimulator and say that it's okay because it's for your wife, but that images of a woman's breasts are a sinful, craven taboo. Thank God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit that these fuckers also have a blog to explain away what I consider some major philosophical discrepancies! I naturally gravitated to a post about the most important topic: proper use of sex toys.
Masturbation is probably one of the areas that causes the most negative related issues when it come to Sex Toys. It is of our belief that sex toys should not be used alone and without ones spouse as this breeds sexual problems of many kinds including sexual addictions, and even pornography dependencies.
Oh, I see...masturbation is only okay if your spouse gets to watch. So masturbation isn't shameful if you are in a loving marriage with someone you fuck on the regular. Well, that clears a lot up. I guess this is another issue Leviticus wasn't completely straightforward on. Unfortunately, being that I'm minus a good Christian hubby, it appears that all of my sex toys are still tools of sin. Also, the blog offers some tips as to how--in addition to proper glass phallus use--a wife can please her Bible-thumping husband:
Leave a passionate note under his pillow Because there is nothing--and I mean NOTHING--that gets guys hotter than long, cloying, overly emotional notes.
When he goes out of town, pack his favourite cookies in his suitcase (carefully) So he can share them with the stripper reminding him what a decent BJ is like while he's off on his "business trips."
Let him continue to dominate the TV remote control (without complaining) Yes, letting him always have his way is definitely a surefire way to marital bliss...you also shouldn't complain when he hits you for giving him some sassy lip.
When he’s kinda down offer to sop what you’re dong and pray together Because the family that sops dongs together and prays together stays together.
Develop a common hobby Like being super Christian and praying constantly isn't a hobby?
Never, NEVER, interrupt him when he’s watching TV and it’s a tie game with fourth-down-and-goal –to –go. In my home, this is a two-way street. Interrupting or changing the channel in a fourth-and-goal situation is a break-up-able offense.
Work together to elect a government official Ever wonder how Bush got elected twice (well, one and a half times)? It wasn't Karl Rove's Machiavellian political strategies, it was Christians trying to spice up their marriage.
Sew missing buttons on his shirt before he mentions it Because what kind of wife are you if you can take a couple ben-wa balls in the ass, but aren't an accomplished seamstress? This is probably why I don't have a husband.
If feasible, go on one of his business trips and offer to help him where you can There are very few things sexier than babysitting some dumb motherfucker without a clue in a professional situation. I know I get incredibly turned on when I have to fix the well-intentioned but nonetheless deal-breaking or experiment-ruining mistakes of some incompetent dipshit. I can only imagine how much more powerfully erotic this is when the incompetent dipshit is your spouse. Good idea--I bet this tip is a winning complement to foreplay darts and strap-ons.
While I applaud the super Bible-loving Christians for trying to spice up their sex lives in conjunction with their faith, this whole Jesus-approved sex toy thing seems more confusing than sexually liberating. If I were concerned about using sex toys in a manner that Jesus smiled upon, then I would be in a state of constant stress rather than pleasure, trying to keep straight when I can use them. It seems there's a fine line between being a Christian getting their Song of Solomon on and a depraved porn-addicted fornicator destined for the fiery pits of Hell, and I still don't have a clear idea of where that line actually is. What I do know is that I can no longer accuse the super sanctimonious Christians of being sexually repressed. They're probably just sticking so hard to their Jesus talking points because they are all ready to have some wild sex with their God-fearing spouses, but don't know how exactly they can break out the butt plugs and still remain on Heaven's guest list. How frustrating.
As it turns out, some Christians are all for using "marital aids," and there is even a website devoted to peddling these items:
I was curious about what types of sex toys My Beloved's Garden was selling without subjecting horny Christian spouses to pornographic images. The whole concept sounds crazy to me. Isn't a dildo something that someone with decidedly fundamentalist leanings would consider pornographic in and of itself? I mean, it LOOKS like a damn penis. Maybe that means they only sell the kind that look like animals (rabbits, dolphins, etc.) and not the "realistic" variety (ie: no cock-and-ball strap-ons, none of those excessively veiny dildoes--even though I have yet to encounter a real penis that looks like it's covered in varicose veins, I suppose this has the trappings of "realistic"). Then again, maybe Christian "sex toys" are actually items that I would consider boring and not worth the money, like intimacy board games and books about incorporating more Jesus into your fucking. Besides, I think sex toys and porn go together like chocolate and peanut butter. My favorite online sex toy purveyor actually sends me a free porn DVD with every order, which is why I patronize them. I get something to watch while I'm trying out my new vibrator or strap-on or whatever, and that makes for one satisfied customer. Needless to say, this whole "shop for sex toys without the sinful influence of porn" marketing scheme is quite foreign to me, and it piqued my interest.
I went immediately to the "marital aids" section of the site and checked out their "Romance and Christian Sex Games" selection. As I suspected, there were a lot less sex games and starter bondage kits than romantic crap.
Nothing sets the mood like a good, old-fashioned, Jesus-approved game of strip darts. Snore. And actually, I could make an argument that the first person to get naked wins.
Leviticus may insist on all sorts of archaic bullshit like leaving town when you're on the rag so that nobody can look upon you, instructions about how to properly wash cum stains out of your clothes, and forbidding worship when you've got the clap, but there's nothing in there at all prohibiting a fun and energetic game of sex Twister!
There's also a whole bunch of games that looked like a total drag (Bed of Roses Deluxe, 52 Weeks of Romance, Twelve Romantic Dates, etc.), so I decided to say fuck the "games" section and get right down to the actual sex toys. I was hoping they'd have some crucifix-shaped vibrators or some authentic scourging equipment for Christian BDSM that might be interesting, but I wasn't too optimistic. I figured that Christian sex was supposed to be lame and boring, so I imagined "sex toys" meant primarily some lube and some ugly lingerie. Well, I got the ugly lingerie part right:
NOW I see why this isn't pornographic. They blurred out any hint of buttcrack that might show on the model sporting this titillating outfit, which can best be described as one part Tawny Kitaen rolling around on David Coverdale's Jaguars, one part Victorian-era lampshade, and one part Puyallup, WA Lovers Package store clearance rack. Because God forbid you see anyone else's asscrack but your devoted wife's when ogling a hideous set of historically influenced fuck-me rags like these. Also, they blurred out the model's face, presumably so that you can't begin adulterously fantasizing about whatever busted 80s hooker is rocking this ensemble. On an unrelated aside, I bet you ANYTHING that Britney Spears wears something like this in her next video. But if you thought that anti-porn use of the Photoshop "Blur" tool was good, you'll love it on these next products:
Well, it seems that it's okay for Christians to use actual sex toys. However, Jesus frowns upon one looking at the topless model on the box when shopping for a hands-free, remote controlled clit stimulator, so this offensive image is blurred out. What I wonder, though, is what a dutiful Christian is supposed to do with their "orgasmic good luck charm" when it arrives in the mail. Presumably the Four Leaf Clover and Butterfly of Love don't have alternative porn-free packaging, so are you supposed to shut your eyes when you are trying to extract your new purchase from its box with the masturbating naked chick on it?
Also, it seems that while images of asscracks and titties are offensive and taboo, a little backdoor action with your spouse is totally conducive to walking the path of righteousness, so long as you use the right terminology:
Jesus likes nothing more than a good, old-fashioned butt plug, especially one with a practical feature like a sturdy retrieval cord. 
And nothing says "devout Christian" like a string of vibrating anal beads. Also, to prepare for one's Biblically sound buttsex, they sell accessory products as well:
I guess "anal douche" sounds much more Christ-like than "enema." This product certainly sounds necessary for acceptable anal action, since Leviticus does harp incessantly about cleanliness. If you're going to lay pipe on the dirt road, old I Am Who Am would obviously prefer to minimize the unpleasant poop aspect of this act among his righteous, lovingly married followers. Unless, of course, those lovingly married followers are a gay couple, in which case they should be summarily stoned.I'm still confused about why these sex toys are okay when pornography is not. Why is seeing some other chick's tits on a vibrator box so horribly offensive when you're shopping for fucking butt plugs? It seems very confusing to say, "Porn is destructive and sinful" while offering graphic descriptions of how to give a pre-anal enema using the products you're selling. Pornography and erotica isn't always visual, and I think that it's some serious semantic hair-splitting to describe exactly how to use a G-spot stimulator and say that it's okay because it's for your wife, but that images of a woman's breasts are a sinful, craven taboo. Thank God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit that these fuckers also have a blog to explain away what I consider some major philosophical discrepancies! I naturally gravitated to a post about the most important topic: proper use of sex toys.
Masturbation is probably one of the areas that causes the most negative related issues when it come to Sex Toys. It is of our belief that sex toys should not be used alone and without ones spouse as this breeds sexual problems of many kinds including sexual addictions, and even pornography dependencies.
Oh, I see...masturbation is only okay if your spouse gets to watch. So masturbation isn't shameful if you are in a loving marriage with someone you fuck on the regular. Well, that clears a lot up. I guess this is another issue Leviticus wasn't completely straightforward on. Unfortunately, being that I'm minus a good Christian hubby, it appears that all of my sex toys are still tools of sin. Also, the blog offers some tips as to how--in addition to proper glass phallus use--a wife can please her Bible-thumping husband:
Leave a passionate note under his pillow Because there is nothing--and I mean NOTHING--that gets guys hotter than long, cloying, overly emotional notes.
When he goes out of town, pack his favourite cookies in his suitcase (carefully) So he can share them with the stripper reminding him what a decent BJ is like while he's off on his "business trips."
Let him continue to dominate the TV remote control (without complaining) Yes, letting him always have his way is definitely a surefire way to marital bliss...you also shouldn't complain when he hits you for giving him some sassy lip.
When he’s kinda down offer to sop what you’re dong and pray together Because the family that sops dongs together and prays together stays together.
Develop a common hobby Like being super Christian and praying constantly isn't a hobby?
Never, NEVER, interrupt him when he’s watching TV and it’s a tie game with fourth-down-and-goal –to –go. In my home, this is a two-way street. Interrupting or changing the channel in a fourth-and-goal situation is a break-up-able offense.
Work together to elect a government official Ever wonder how Bush got elected twice (well, one and a half times)? It wasn't Karl Rove's Machiavellian political strategies, it was Christians trying to spice up their marriage.
Sew missing buttons on his shirt before he mentions it Because what kind of wife are you if you can take a couple ben-wa balls in the ass, but aren't an accomplished seamstress? This is probably why I don't have a husband.
If feasible, go on one of his business trips and offer to help him where you can There are very few things sexier than babysitting some dumb motherfucker without a clue in a professional situation. I know I get incredibly turned on when I have to fix the well-intentioned but nonetheless deal-breaking or experiment-ruining mistakes of some incompetent dipshit. I can only imagine how much more powerfully erotic this is when the incompetent dipshit is your spouse. Good idea--I bet this tip is a winning complement to foreplay darts and strap-ons.
While I applaud the super Bible-loving Christians for trying to spice up their sex lives in conjunction with their faith, this whole Jesus-approved sex toy thing seems more confusing than sexually liberating. If I were concerned about using sex toys in a manner that Jesus smiled upon, then I would be in a state of constant stress rather than pleasure, trying to keep straight when I can use them. It seems there's a fine line between being a Christian getting their Song of Solomon on and a depraved porn-addicted fornicator destined for the fiery pits of Hell, and I still don't have a clear idea of where that line actually is. What I do know is that I can no longer accuse the super sanctimonious Christians of being sexually repressed. They're probably just sticking so hard to their Jesus talking points because they are all ready to have some wild sex with their God-fearing spouses, but don't know how exactly they can break out the butt plugs and still remain on Heaven's guest list. How frustrating.
Labels: Dear God, holy fucking matrimony, perversion, porn, sex
Friday, August 17, 2007
Jonathan Lee Riches Greatest Briefs: Riches v. Bonds, Selig, and Hank Aaron's bat
YES! The Smoking Gun dug up more of Jonathan Lee Riches's handwritten court filings, as well as a mugshot! Feast your eyes on Mr. Riches, Esquire, who, judging by those ears of his, is likely related to Smeagol or some other Hobbit-like creature shriveled and deformed from years of dwelling in dark goblin-filled caverns with nothing but the One Ring's sinister company. Seriously, precious:
Since he obviously isn't going anywhere in terms of winning the title of Miss Federal Prison with those looks, he has instead focused on more intellectual pursuits. Specifically, his burgeoning career as what TSG describes as a "habitual litigant." The esteemed counselor's cases, much like an episode of "Law and Order," are ripped from the headlines. Shortly after Barry Bacne Bonds hit that asterisked 756th homer, he filed this scathing indictment in federal court. Again, he claims this is a Bivens case, although now that I know what that is thanks to Morrissey'sHair's astute explanation, I don't see how undercover federal agents were involved. Anyway, it's a thrilling tale which I desperately wish was coming to a federal courthouse near me sometime soon, but will probably be tossed for frivolity. What a shame.
I ALSO REQUEST A JURY TRIAL! This would be the most entertaining trial in the history of jurisprudence. I want to see "The White Suge Knight," in his finest inmate regalia, cross-examining Hank Aaron's bat (which I suppose would be de facto pleading the Fifth, as being an inanimate object, cannot incriminate itself for committing assault, treason, illegal moonshine, skimming the books, or terrorism. I would be absolutely riveted watching Riches making his absolutely UNBELIEVABLE case against them. If you thought the only skeletons in Barry Bonds's closet were the cream and the clear, you were dreadfully mistaken. Steroids are just the tip of the iceberg of a vast conspiracy to boost television ratings, frame Riches and send him to jail, conspire with Colombian guerilla pinko revolutionaries, and violate our national treasures.
A restraining order against televising America's national pastime? I guess it's not all peanuts and Cracker Jacks these days, not when it's a nefarious front for violating Riches's "underground constitutional rights." Here I thought Barry Bonds was just making trips to BALCO and Bud Selig was trying to save face about the whole league-wide steroids to-do, but who would have thought that booth #11 of the I-70 Steak and Shake was the site of such despicable criminal activity as an "under the table cream exchange." Thank God Riches is here to bring these dirty deeds to light, as due to his incarcerated status, he's an expert at large burly dudes and skinny white guys exchanging cream. I have to say to him, though, good luck getting either Robert Novak or Judith Miller to testify. Miller would rather be your cell mate than talk, and Novak has friends in high places. That whole Valerie Plame debacle looks like a traffic ticket compared to this, so if they were going to stay mum on that, it's pretty unlikely they'll heed a subpoena from Riches.
Ah, yes. There is nothing more evil than someone bench-pressing another man against his will after securing his unjust federal indictment. That's practically like being raped. Barry Bonds must have learned such terrorist tactics from his Colombian terrorist friends in FARC. Incidentally, this conspiracy just provided some fascinating new information on the global drug trade. I thought FARC was strictly involved in the production and export of certain alkaloid derivatives of the coca plant, but I was unaware they'd entered the synthetic human growth hormone market, much less that they were peddling their illicit products to nuns. It makes sense to me, having gone to Catholic school for twelve years and having met many nuns, most of whom were bitchy and all of whom could have furthered their reign of terror by beefing up their typically slight, elderly physiques. I shudder to think what would have happened if Sister Georgia, my high school's librarian, had caught me talking loudly and chewing gum in the library if she were heavily muscled and exploding with roid rage. I might not be here today. And I thought that, as HotLawyer pointed out yesterday, Hank Aaron's bat was safely in Cooperstown! Little did I know that Mr. Riches purchased it from Sotheby's, only to be deprived of it and various foodstuffs. We hates nasty, thieving Bondses...wicked, tricksy, false!
Even worse, the once-loyal, honorable bat got Stockholm syndrome (from being stuffed with Barry Bonds's HGH, no doubt), made like Patty Hearst, and opened a can of bronze-cracking fury on the fucking Liberty Bell! This implies that he also stole a flux capacitor, a Delorean, and illegal Libyan plutonium from Doc Brown in order to travel back in time to the 1846 celebration of George Washington's birthday, which is when the crack appeared. I can't believe Riches omitted this from the charges, but I am certain that when this goes to trial, the jury will hear about it.
Man, this just keeps getting worse and worse. Barry Bonds is not only in cahoots with drug-slinging terrorists to abuse skinny white men, transform the female Catholic clergy into killing machines, orchestrate assassination attempts, and steal food, baseball memorabilia, and identities from innocent amateur barristers for the purpose of selling illegal drugs, committing insurance fraud, and defacing protected national monuments, but he's also assisting the Gambino family in shamelessly violating the RICO act! If he does have an outstanding debt with them, Bonds has bigger problems than defending himself against these charges. I've seen Goodfellas and "The Sopranos." It's never good to owe money to the mob. Also, the sheer scope of this conspiracy is staggering. I now know why we're fighting in Iraq...Bush knew about the WMDs there, but couldn't say how because Saddam got them from an American baseball hero deeply entrenched in the Oil For Food scandal. I mean, how embarrassing would THAT be to explain before the United Nations security council? Obviously we just had to go ahead and invade Iraq without adequately explaining why, and pray to Jesus that those mustard gas cans showed up without a Barry Bonds luggage tag on them. Since they still haven't been found, I'm wondering if Barry Bonds isn't involved in covering up his many egregious international crimes against humanity. I have absolute faith that Jonathan Lee Riches will be rocking the face off the justice system when he gets to the bottom of this colossal global shitshow and avenges his forcible bench-pressing. Thank God for Jonathan Lee Gollum Riches. He will gets the precious back from the nasty Bondses. Believe it.
Even worse, the once-loyal, honorable bat got Stockholm syndrome (from being stuffed with Barry Bonds's HGH, no doubt), made like Patty Hearst, and opened a can of bronze-cracking fury on the fucking Liberty Bell! This implies that he also stole a flux capacitor, a Delorean, and illegal Libyan plutonium from Doc Brown in order to travel back in time to the 1846 celebration of George Washington's birthday, which is when the crack appeared. I can't believe Riches omitted this from the charges, but I am certain that when this goes to trial, the jury will hear about it.
Labels: crime and punishment, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, international intrigue, ridiculous absurdity, terror
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Keith Olbermann
DOB: January 27, 1959
Occupation: cable news anchor and commentator, archnemesis of Bill O'Reilly
Hometown: New York, New York
Current residence: New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I don't know why this is, but liberal moms just can't get enough of Keith Olbermann. LL Cool Jew and I were discussing this the other day after the Democratic presidential candidate's debate when Olbermann was happily chatting with Chris Matthews about Hillary's "magnificent" presence and whatnot (although there was not nearly enough talk about Dennis Kucinich's puckish, hyperactive craziness, if you ask me), and I made some remark about how my mom loves Olbermann.
"Oh my God, my mother does too!" said LL Cool Jew. "Whenever we talk about cable news or politics, it's 'Keith Olbermann said this' or 'that guy was Keith Olbermann's Worst Person in the World yesterday.' Moms just think he is the shit and a half."
This was validated when, later that evening, I called my own mother to discuss the debate. She hadn't yet seen it, as the west coast replay hadn't aired yet and she was at Costco following my dad around trying to ensure he didn't go overboard buying too many racks of babyback ribs, and she wanted to know how it went.
"Well, afterwards, Chris Matthews and Keith Olbermann were saying--"
"Oh, I love that Keith Olbermann! He's SO funny and smart. He just cracks me up!" Mom continued extolling the many hilarious and witty virtues of Olbermann for another minute or so. I thought to myself, what IS it about this guy that moms think is so great?
I've seen "Countdown with Keith Olbermann" many times, and he certainly has his amusing moments, but the way my mom talks about him, he's like the Richard Pryor of political commentary or something. She thinks he is the funniest man alive. I suppose he does lead the pack in terms of being an amusing cable news guy, and I agree with his overriding hatred of the Bush administration, but what is it exactly about him that is so intoxicatingly delightful to educated, liberal women between 40-60 years of age? I can't quite figure it out.
What I do know and like about Keith Olbermann are two things. First, I cannot get enough of him trashing Bill O'Reilly. Olbermann is really hilarious in that respect. In the below clip, Olbermann just annihilates O'Reilly, calling him "the Sideshow Bob of commentators, forever stepping on the same rake, forever muttering the same grunting, inarticulate surrender, forever resuming the circle that will take him back to the same rake...the Sisyphus of morons, if you will."
So fucking awesome. That's what Bill O'Reilly gets for "pinning the crimes of Nazi war criminals on American servicemen" without brushing up on the details of the Malmedy massacre. It's just another example of why sanctimonious windbags like O'Reilly should read more about history before using it out of context to make a point, or as Olbermann puts it, without "stopping the relentless tide of bull even briefly enough to check one fact." Anyway, whenever Keith Olbermann goes on the "falafel fatwa," he definitely gets my attention for his blistering, unabashed, eloquently phrased trash-talking skills. If he were to have an entire show about Bill O'Reilly every day, I would watch it on the daily just to see his highly accomplished skewering in action.
The other thing I really like about Keith Olbermann is not obvious to TV viewers. Having the insider knowledge of the goings-on at MSNBC that I do (my buddy JerseyGirl works there), I am aware of something that most people are not. Keith Olbermann's ass looks like this:
Anyway, I've decided that while I don't have a mom-caliber figurative hard-on for Olbermann, I'd definitely hit that. According to JerseyGirl, he has a girlfriend around my age, so there's hope that if I ever do make it to a MSNBC party, I can saunter up to him with a fresh cocktail, drop a few choice withering insults about the self-proclaimed culture warrior he detests most, compliment his butt, and make him forget all about his girlfriend...at least for a night. It could happen.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, intentional buffoonery, JerseyGirl, scathing indictments, TV
Daily Douchebag: Women who can't explain why they hate Hillary Clinton
DOB: Usually pre-1960
Douchebaggery: “She’s cold and ambitious,” says my grandmother, a former model and self-described trophy wife who idolizes Jackie Kennedy. “I hate her,” flatly states my mother-in-law, an attractive college professor, published author and doting mother of two. But I always come up frustrated when I press them for details. They cannot, despite their intelligence and sensitivity, justify or explain why they hate so hard on Hillary.
I’m always suspicious of deeply held beliefs people cannot defend. It’s one thing if people disagree with Hillary’s position on the war, her relationships to questionable interest groups or a host of other areas that cause people of good conscience to disagree. But it’s tough to understand why women who represent such a broad swath of the female experience see fit to hate so passionately on Hillary based on what seems to be simple gut instinct. Here are some hypotheses as to why so many women are choking on such healthy doses of Hillary Haterade.
• The “She did it all, but better than I did” syndrome. I’ve been hearing how hard it is to simultaneously raise a family and develop a professional career since I was weaned. In fact, Razzy's Smith College graduation speaker Judy Chicago - the artist best known for creating a collection of vagina-shaped ashtrays she called "The Dinner Party" - essentially told 700 freshly minted Smith grads ready to take on the world that they better get to choosing family or work with a quickness or condemn themselves to lives of bitter, malignant disappointment. (Nice message for a women's college commencement, don't you think? They only booked her because Jodie Foster cancelled at the 11th hour. But I digress.) The intimidating depth of that balancing act is only just beginning to reveal itself to me and I don’t even have kids yet. But even a ball-busting professional woman at the top of her game in business, law, science or academia who manages still to find time to whip up dinners a couple times a week for her ungrateful spouse and bratty brood ain’t got nothing on Hillary. After all, she’s played the real-life game of Life with such finesse that she very well may move on to a real-life game of Risk come 2009. So she did it and odds are very good the rest of us won’t—so what? Odds are very good we won’t win the PowerBall, get to time machine ourselves back to watch a gladiator fight in ancient Rome, or have an underwater threesome with Kerry Washington and Daniel Craig, either.
• The “Oh, I have to work to be respected now?” syndrome. Used to be, a chick could just graduate from a finishing school, marry a WASP, look good in linen Capri pants and redecorate the White House a couple times to be considered a great first lady. As Rake Morgan recently put it, being a well-heeled underachiever used to be a respectable pastime for a smart woman. For better or worse in the estimation of lazy people with an exaggerated sense of self-entitlement (like myself, I confess), types like Hillary changed the game significantly on that one. Even that automaton Laura Bush talks up her productive wage-earning days as a librarian. Being hot and silent for a living just doesn’t garner the respect it used to.
• The “Who the hell does that homely heifer think she is?” syndrome. Despite the rise of allegedly attractive Democrats like John Edwards and Barack Obama, seven years after he left office Bill Clinton still runs away with top honors in political sexiness polls. Rated an average 8.6 out of 10 in a recent survey of straight women, Bill’s hotness eclipses that of all other competitors by a Hope, Arkansas mile. So how dare he marry a pear-shaped plain Jane like Hillary? Sure, he bangs a heinous redneck here and there, but the way Bill’s put his back into campaigning for Hill since she ran for the Senate must drive jealous women whose husbands don’t even notice them insane.
Hillary may well be a thick, shrill enabler of blatant philandering, but does that really disqualify her from the presidency? Point is, unless you’ve got a real reason for hating her that you can back up with logic instead of vitriol, chances are excellent that you’re just a hater. Don’t make it so obvious how jealous you are that you didn’t graduate from Yale Law, marry a rising political star who oozes charisma, rear a brilliant child, litigate for good causes, get elected to the Senate, and proceed to start kicking Democratic presidential candidate ass right and left seven years later. Don’t hate, congratulate!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, LL Cool Jew, politics, President William Jefferson Clinton
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Oh hells yes, Kells!
J-Sexy's birthday was Monday August 13th, and to mark her 26th year, my boyfriend Robert Sylvester Kelly gave her the best present ever in hopes that she would stop calling him "ridicolos." He dropped the new installments of Trapped in the Closet on Monday!
Because I was so busy celebrating her birthday, I somehow made the egregious mistake of forgetting about this until today. I haven't had a chance to watch them all yet because my piece of shit computer keeps shutting down, but what I have seen is AMAZING. R. Kelly is a fucking genius.
So far only episodes 13-16 are out (they're releasing a new one each day), but they're promising we're going to learn a lot more about Twan, the fresh-out-the-state-pen brother-in-law of R. Kelly's character Sylvester, along with sordid details about the sex life of Rosie the spatula-wielding nosy neighbor and her husband Randolph (portrayed by R. Kelly in the greatest white afro wig EVER), plot twists related to his adulterous tryst with straight vodka-swilling Kathy (she of the down-low gay preacher husband), Twan's violent impulses and knocking-up of his archnemesis Tina on an aborted drug run to Atlanta, and Sylvester's eminent skills at mediating debates between estranged lovers.
Oh, hell, just go watch it at IFC.com. It's "crazier than a fish with titties," much like Twan's desire to smoke some chronic whilst driving. I can't wait for the rest of this to drop, because I'm getting impatient. To quote Twan: "Do I look like En Vogue? Because the way you've got me holding on..."
So far only episodes 13-16 are out (they're releasing a new one each day), but they're promising we're going to learn a lot more about Twan, the fresh-out-the-state-pen brother-in-law of R. Kelly's character Sylvester, along with sordid details about the sex life of Rosie the spatula-wielding nosy neighbor and her husband Randolph (portrayed by R. Kelly in the greatest white afro wig EVER), plot twists related to his adulterous tryst with straight vodka-swilling Kathy (she of the down-low gay preacher husband), Twan's violent impulses and knocking-up of his archnemesis Tina on an aborted drug run to Atlanta, and Sylvester's eminent skills at mediating debates between estranged lovers.
Oh, hell, just go watch it at IFC.com. It's "crazier than a fish with titties," much like Twan's desire to smoke some chronic whilst driving. I can't wait for the rest of this to drop, because I'm getting impatient. To quote Twan: "Do I look like En Vogue? Because the way you've got me holding on..."
Labels: boyfriends, hilarious shit, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Daily Douchebag: Manhattan Mini Storage
Name: Manhattan Mini Storage
DOB: N/A
Occupation: providing storage solutions to New Yorkers living in tiny shoebox apartments, producing shocking print ads
Hometown: Manhattan
Current residence: Manhattan, specifically the West Side Highway around 42nd Street
Douchebaggery: Manhattan Mini Storage has produced several amusing ads in the past that offended or bothered some people, including this one, which earned a nasty letter from Paris Hilton's attorneys:
Filled with hubris after their Paris Hilton and Bush-bashing ads, no doubt, the Manhattan Mini Storage marketing department decided to up the ante and think that everyone would all appreciate a political commentary about the abortion debate which has raged on and divided America for decades. It succeeded in the sense that it got everyone driving down the West Side Highway's attention, but failed miserably in the sense that I doubt it will inspire anyone except possibly the most strident feminazi to store their winter coats there. I'm obviously pro-choice, but I don't need a fucking mini storage company validating my opinions with their fucking billboards, nor remind me of the delightful back-alley medical experiences enjoyed by ladies looking to de-preg themselves prior to Roe v. Wade as part of a shameless attempt to sell long-term storage lockers. Do they actually expect people to be like, "Yeah! Keep abortion safe and legal!" as they shove their old college textbooks into a storage unit? Because most people don't run down the political checklist of the company before choosing a $99 per month storage unit, and thinking they do so is just plain idiotic.
There is such a thing as bad publicity when you're trying to sell a product or service. Bad publicity may help celebretards like Paris Hilton and Britney Spears stay famous on gossip rags and the internets, but it definitely doesn't help one's image as a reputable mini storage company. Manhattan Mini Storage just took a position that 50% of America VEHEMENTLY disagrees with, and they just halved their potential market. With business decisions that stupid, I wouldn't trust them to keep a sackful of empty Heineken bottles safely stored away at their warehouse on 107 and Columbus.
Sometimes, bad publicity doesn't really hurt a company, even if it compels a few people to say, "No thanks, I'm not buying your agenda" with regard to a product. When I was at Smith, there were always one or two dumb girls who would refuse to eat Domino's Pizza because the CEO was pro-life or something. "That pizza is eroding your rights!" these hookers would say. I would say, "So what? It's two a.m. and they're the only place open, and I want cheesy bread." Besides, it's not like my Cinnamon Stix order is going to change the CEO's views, and it's not like the CEO's views are going to seriously impact Supreme Court decisions about abortion. There are probably ten million other products these moronic snatches used run by companies with conservative or pro-life people in executive positions or on the board, and is your overprivileged, Connecticut-born-and-bred, I-took-one-women's-studies-class-and-now-I-know-everything-about-right-and-wrong ass going to boycott every single one of them? I think not. One of my friends, who is a hugely paranoid conspiracy nut, always refuses to go to Dunkin Donuts because they are owned by the Carlyle Group, her conglomerate of choice for associating with all the evil acts in history, and that to me is the same thing. Again, I like D'n D's iced coffee, and I don't give a damn if they are owned by Satan himself. My choosing to buy iced coffee elsewhere isn't going to change shady deals the Carlyle Group makes with OPEC and the Saudis, or whatever. However, these are isolated cases of someone hearing something somewhere about some company and deciding to arbitrarily boycott it to be a pain in the ass for people who want pizza when they are drunk or iced coffee when they are thirsty or tired. This is not like putting a damn billboard advertising your services using what is meant to be a cute commentary on the abortion debate on the fucking West Side Highway for all of Manhattan and New Jersey to see. That is like saying, "Hey, 50% of you...we DON'T WANT YOUR BUSINESS! Don't rent our storage units!" It also guarantees that I'll see naught but a bunch of sanctimonious Smithies storing their old Ani DiFranco CDs and yammering incessantly about their happiness concerning the feminist consciousness of their storage company at their facility.
Successful businesses are concerned about their images because they want to SELL THEIR PRODUCTS, which is what advertising is supposed to do. When Kate Moss got busted blowing lines by some British tabloid, half of the companies hiring her for their campaigns dropped her ass like the busted, used-looking cokewhore she is. When Kobe Bryant was accused of rape, McDonald's told him to fuck right off and pulled their Kobe ads off TV. When Michael Vick was indicted for dogfighting, Nike immediately suspended sales of all his endorsed products. When Bill O'Reilly called for a boycott of Pepsi because of their hiring Ludacris as a spokesperson, and all the stupid Factorphiles who agree with O'Reilly that lyrics like "we can do it in the Georgia Dome on the 50-yard-line, while the Dirrty Birds kick for three" are harmful and damaging to children obliged with said boycott, Pepsi fired Ludacris. Companies do not want to advertise their products with marketing imagery and themes that seriously turn off a substantial part of their consumer base. While I'd normally applaud Manhattan Mini Storage for not shying away from controversy, I can't get over the fact that they are so arrogant and foolish as to think that they will see an increase in business by employing an advertising strategy featuring imagery favored by aggressive pro-choice activists. The abortion issue is complex and deeply polarizing, and whatever marketing executive came up with that idea should be summarily fired.
Needless to say, if they ever go public, I'm not buying that stock. That shit's going to tank worse than the ill-advised investment I made in Krispy Kreme five years ago. I applaud risk-taking in business, but only if it's calculated, and I can't imagine what sort of strategically retarded dumbass greenlighted this. They'll be calling up Morrissey'sHair's New York counterparts for a bankruptcy filing within two years. For real.
Labels: capitalism, Daily Douchebag, Dumb Smith bitches, feminazism, oh the horror, retard rage, Title 11 United States Code
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Jonathan Lee Riches
DOB: ???
Occupation: federal inmate, amateur lawyer
Hometown: ???
Current residence: Williamsburg Federal Correctional Facility, Salters, South Carolina
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Although I'm not one of those women with a thing for guys doing time in a federal penitentiary, I could almost make an exception on my general I-don't-fuck-convicted-felons rule for Jonathan Lee Riches. This guy has not squandered his time while paying his debt to society. Instead, he's clearly been taking a paralegal correspondence course and brushing up on his federal torts, because he has filed some of the greatest legal claims of all time.
In 2006, he filed suit in Philadelphia's U.S. District Court against a 57-page list of defendants, including President Bush, WWE Chairman Vince McMahon, Christina Applegate, Elizabeth Smart, Plato, Nordic gods, The DaVinci Code, Fruit of the Loom, www.askjeeves.com, the Ming Dynasty, Lambeau Field, the Philadelphia Eagles 2005 roster, and the Waffle House, to name a few. I'm not clear what the charges were, but it had something to do with prisoner civil rights. How exactly the Waffle House was conspiring with Plato, Thor and Odin, and Kelly Bundy to infringe upon his civil rights is unclear to me, but it's a pity that the case will probably be thrown out long before it ever actually makes it to trial. I would love to hear the counsel for the plaintiff (you KNOW he's representing himself) argue this one.
Over the past years, he's filed a variety of other awesome federal lawsuits regarding prisoner civil rights violations, including Riches v. Barry Bonds, Allan "Bud" Selig, and Hank Aaron's bat, Riches v. Guantanamo Bay, Abu Ghraib Prison, Soviet Gulag Archipelago, and others, Riches v. Cindy Sheehan and Nancy Pelosi, Riches v. Jewish Mossad, the CIA, and Larry King Live, Riches v. the entire U.S. military, Riches v. the Federal Reserve, CreditSuisse FirstBoston, and Export Import Bank, Riches v. Defcon and 2600.com, and Riches v. the Uniform Commercial Code. He also filed Riches v. Identity Theft Inc., Computer Hackers LLC, and Telephone Phreakers, charging these companies (there are actually companies called "Identity Theft Inc." and "Computer Hackers LLC"?) with violations of the federal Bivens Act. I have no idea what the Bivens Act is, but I'm sure Mr. Riches has some compelling evidence to present to the court, given that he's doing time on wire fraud and identity theft charges related to some type of credit card-mediated con he was running in 2004.
However, his greatest legal filing may be his most recent, in which he demands $63 billion "backed by gold and silver" from Michael Vick for again violating his prisoner civil rights and the Bivens Act. Crap, what is this Bivens Act thing? There's no damn Wikipedia on it that I could find, and everything else on the internet just says some vague shit about remedies for constitutional violations. Clearly, Jonathan Lee Riches is a brighter legal mind than myself. Obviously he knows a thing or two about legal formatting, since his filing is on a legal pad HANDWRITTEN in the style of an actual court document:
I doubt this guy needs this "tro temporary restraining order" to keep Michael Vick away from him, unless Vick winds up in the same cell block. I'd also like to see his evidence that Vick committed "tax fraud" and "copyright infringement." Fortunately, Mr. Riches spells that out for me:
Michael Vick stole his dogs, abused them, sold them on eBay, and used the profits to fund his purchases of missiles from the Iranians? I think I know why Michael Vick is getting into the internation illegal arms dealing business...DUH, he's selling the missiles to the Contras! I think if we know anything about Michael Vick, it's that he's down to go kick some Sandinista ass.
To add insult to injury, Michael Vick stole his identity from his coat and used this to procure fradulent PetSmart cards to facilitate his illegal dogfighting operation? That's pretty cold after stealing his pitbulls for dogfighting and missile-acquiring purposes. And then there's the copyright infringement issue. Does Jonathan Lee Riches also answer to "Ron Mexico"?
I think Michael Vick better settle this one now, because it's not going to help his criminal case if it's brought into evidence that he swore allegiance to Al-Qaeda on February 10, 2007, subjected Mr. Riches to "microwave tosting", used drugs in school zones, and is in the illegal steroid business. It's pretty clear that this evidence is most damning, and undoubtedly a jury will find Vick guilty for what Riches calls "physically hurting my feelings and destroying my hopes."
Man, Michael Vick's legal problems just do not end. I knew he was a craven, vicious asshole based on the whole Bad Newz Kennels affair, but now that I know he's engaging in the black market arms trade and terrorism, I hope they ship his ass off to Gitmo. ENEMY COMBATANT!
When I was in college, there was this local personal injury attorney, Mark E. Salomone, who had ads on TV ad nauseum. In the ads, a couple insurance adjusters were sitting around over lunch guffawing at how they were going to screw over accident victims who filed claims. "Pain and suffering...? HAHAHAHA. DENIED!" One of the adjusters then picks up a file and goes, "Oh, look...THIS ONE'S got a LAWYER." The other laughs derisively and then goes, "A lawyer! HAHAHAHA!" Then the adjuster holding the file looks stricken and says, "It's Mark E. Salomone." The other adjuster chokes on his sandwich and instantly loses his mirth. "Salomone?" he says in an awestruck, terrified voice. "Let's settle this one." I am almost positive that's what would happen if I ever get into a Bivens Act-related legal jam and retain Jonathan Lee Riches as counsel. No offense to HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair, but I have a new go-to legal guy. So what if he's a typewriter-restricted federal prisoner? He may be the greatest legal mind in the history of the bar. And a comic genius. So long as he didn't get the HIV in his ass in prison (I think not, since he'd FOR SURE be suing about that), I'd let Jonathan Lee "King of Torts" Riches argue on my behalf any day and pay him in sex. What a hot piece.
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, ridiculous absurdity
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
I'm now officially NC-17
I found this website that gives ratings comparable to those bestowed upon movies by the MPAA to blogs. It should come as a shock to no one that I earned the much-dreaded NC-17 rating.
All I have to say about this is...YES!!!!!! No children under 17 allowed to read it! My neverending quest to repel children continues to succeed. I knew that using "fucking" 46 times (make that 47!) in the current entries was going to pay off. On the other hand, I find it hard to believe that I've only used "shitty" once (make that twice). All I can do now is hope that these ratings catch on and become a standard feature of the internets. That should keep dumb, meddling kids off my blog for good. My only question is why are "dead," "hurt," "abortion," and "gun" terms that merit an NC-17 rating? If that's the case, then every presidential debate in recent memory isn't fit for children. Granted, I think children should be taken away like Spartans and refused contact with the rest of the world until they grow up and can participate normally in adult life so this doesn't bother me, but I bet old Mitt Masshole Romney or Sam Brownback would be mighty pissed to find out that a heavily righteous platform espousing ideas like "I will put a minivan in every driveway, a bullet in every terrorist, a prayer in every public school, a brood of fine Christian children around every dinner table, and a non-trigger locked gun in every parents' readily accessible bedside table drawer. Also, I will end abortion because all those dead babies hurt Jesus" earns a NC-17 rating. How are they supposed to run around kissing babies and impressing their heavily procreating fundamentalist voter base when their entire list of talking points is not fit for children?
I also checked out my MySpace page and found out that it's only rated R. WHAT THE FUCK...?! Obviously I need to amend my profile so that it makes more frequent use of "fucking", "ass", "bitch," "bitches," and "porn."
I also checked out my MySpace page and found out that it's only rated R. WHAT THE FUCK...?! Obviously I need to amend my profile so that it makes more frequent use of "fucking", "ass", "bitch," "bitches," and "porn."
Labels: destroy all children, internet domination, politics, Razzification
Daily Douchebag: Mystery
Real name: Erik von Markovik
DOB: Sept. 24, 1971
Occupation: Self-appointed seduction guru and founder of the "Venusian Arts" pick-up method, walking 1990s-rave-era accessories rack, misogynist, misleader of men, itty-bitty-pee-pee syndrome sufferer, star of the VH1 reality series "The Pick-up Artist"
Hometown: Toronto, Ontario (I knew he was fucking Canadian)
Current residence: A Beverly Hills mansion dubbed the "Hollywood Project" where unfuckable nerds gather to learn how to insult stupid women from Mystery and his cadre of "seduction mentors" (i.e. ugly dudes in distracting, effeminate outfits)
Douchebaggery: Unsurprisingly, Mystery began his life as a frustrated Dungeons and Dragons aficionado who never got laid. In an incomprehensible bid to change his luck, he became a Penn-and-Teller-esque magician in New York, and through thousands of trials that doubtlessly led to thousands of drinks being thrown in his face, Mystery developed what he calls a foolproof method for "getting beautiful women into bed fast."
Apparently, this involves teaching ugly virgins to insult women they want to sleep with within three minutes of meeting them to confuse and unbalance them, thereby exploiting unstable women's attraction to emotional retards and abusers.
It isn't surprising that a D&D fan/magician would come up with such a lame and trifling program. The Mystery Method lexicon includes such anti-cool terms as "Avatar" (the silly, sleazy pseudonyms Mystery and his minions self-apply, like "The Matador," "J-Dog," "Herbal" and "Ajax"), "peacocking" (dressing said Avatar in puzzling, drag-queen-ish outfits to cause women not to ogle, but rather to double-take, that have included but are not limited to chrome-framed goggles, animal-print-inspired hair-dye jobs, obsolete facial piercings and fluffy top hats), "neg" (a comment intended to demean a woman and set her about begging for approval and "qualify" for the right to fuck a clown like Mystery).
At first, mainstream normals like us had no idea who Mystery was, because having healthy sex lives and maintaining a general respect for our fellow human beings, we felt no need to explore manuals that would teach us to con drunk people into flirting with us. But now, as reality television lovers who have no choice but to lap up every single VH1 series except "Scott Baio is 45...and Single," we are thrust into merciless awareness of Mystery and his program for teaching losers how to convince themselves and others of their dominant social status in watering holes and dance clubs.
Apparently, lots and lots of nerd virgins are eager to pay Mystery to teach them what wife-beaters have known for years - that misogyny is a powerful aphrodisiac to insecure women. He's become rich selling multimedia products, delivering seminars and "in-field" evaluations of students trying to hit on drunk girls and even conducting a workshop last year at M.I.T., where nerd virgins gather to become wealthy and, inexplicably if they want to get laid, attend what must be the only other higher education institution in America besides VMI and the Citadel where male students still outnumber their female counterparts.
Mystery will get his well deserved comeuppance, however, when he loses it all after his list of prerehearsed lines (sorry, "openers") and "negs" like "Nice nails. Are they real?" become well known to women. Wouldn't it be so fucking awesome to be a fly on the wall when some drunk chick being harassed by a tubby, clammy virgin hears something she recognizes from "The Pick-Up Artist" and replies with a curt, "You're one of those mouth-breathing Mystery wannabes, aren't you?"
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, LL Cool Jew, magick is bullshit, overcompensation, small penises, you're ugly
A big welcome to LL Cool Jew
FINALLY, now that she's left the grind of reporting for a central Mississippi daily newspaper for the greener, cushier pastures of Trotskyite propaganda crafting, LL Cool Jew now has time to write for my blog! And no offense to my other contributors, but LL Cool Jew is a better writer than all of us combined. Yes, I'm including myself in that, and yes, that's difficult for me to do because of my extraordinary narcissism, but nonetheless, it's true and fair. She is the dopeness, and thank God her first official post is a "Daily Douchebag" entry about trashy reality TV stars who look like the bastard spawn of Kevin Federline and the lead singer of Jamiroquai. For one thing, I'm a little overworked right now and it gives me a day off from a beloved yet time-consuming chore. For another, it's hilarious. So go leave her some comments or something! She rules.
Labels: internet domination, LL Cool Jew
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Dana Perino
DOB: May 9, 1972
Occupation: White House Deputy Press Secretary, PR fembot
Hometown: Denver, Colorado
Current residence: Washington, DC
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: As much as I loathe the entire Bush administration, I can't help but want to do Dana Perino like she desperately needs to be done. Being the Joseph Goebbels of the Bush evil empire may have its perks (ie: power, de facto immunity from any type of white-collar crime, etc.), but I bet that getting properly laid isn't one of them. Dana Perino is way too hot to be so neglected, although she probably doesn't mind given that her soul is composed of silicon chips and microcircuitry.
You can really see how mechanized she is by the way Dana handles herself in press briefings. She manages to evade every pointed question with either a subdued Barbie smile, a statement that she'll "ask the vice president's office for more information" (sha right), or a girlish laugh and an admission of confusion. EVERY time. I imagine that she sees the world in Terminator vision, with code constantly scrolling down her infrared field of vision.
(On an interesting aside, based on the code here, it appears that the Terminators ran Mac OS. They have a Quicktime player? So that the Terminator can catch up on his favorite downloaded viral videos while attempting to thwart John Conner's rise to lead the human resistance following Judgment Day.)
Anyway, back to Dana. When someone asks something like, "So, is the vice-president a member of the executive or legislative branch?", presumably she sees this (in infrablue, because I suck at Photoshop and because her thermal imaging software is probably more inclined to see everything icily anyhow):
Seriously, this chick is a robot, and if you don't believe me, watch her in action. Even when attempting to show emotion, this bitch has lifeless doll eyes. It's all in the programming.
I'd still hit that even if she is literally a propaganda machine. Didn't the Stepford Wives have a "hot in the sack" plug-in anyway? Besides, it's not like I don't have sex with a robot on the regs...that's basically what a vibrator is. I'm not above that. Besides, Dana is much hotter than the previous version. Props to Karl Rove for upgrading to a sexier model of question dodging automaton than Tony "Ass Cancer" Snow.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot chicks, intentional buffoonery, media whores, politics, tyrannical rulers
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
I'm Alexyssktyzed
Jesus Christ. I'm trying to get some work done and what should happen but I am alerted that there is an update to my only YouTube subscription: Alexyss K. Tylor. How am I supposed to be analytical, rational, and otherwise all-scientist-like (aka BOOOOORRRRRIINNNNG) when this woman keeps showing up with her keen and discerning words warning me against letting men bust nuts all up in my ass and dickmatize me without even buying me a plate of fried shrimp beforehand? It's impossible.
In case you've somehow missed the awesomeness that is Alexyss K. Tylor, let me quickly summarize. She's a fierce advocate of vagina power, and hosts a self-titled show on Hotlanta cable access where she tackles all types of sexual issues that other people are afraid to tackle. Sue Johansson, a wizened yet spry Canadian grandmother and late-night Oxygen network sex therapist who I've seen mimic the proper angle for comfortable anal penetration with her gnarled talons, seems unbelievably tame compared to Alexyss. Alexyss has previously warned women about the dangers of penis power, and how it will make you take dick up in your rectum without being showered with the respect you deserve, and how it will cause predatory gay Spelman College adjunct professors at obscure regional Georgia airport bathrooms molest unsuspecting dudes at the urinal, and how it causes men to struggle with their inner evil dick that stabs pussy in the back. I thought I knew all about sexual politics being a big slut and all, but Alexyss blows my damn mind.
Anyway, this month's show addresses a topic that has been largely untouched by the popular media: wealthy white men who venture into black neighborhoods, pick up black male prostitutes, and "screw em all in they ass," on account of their "addiction to have these black boys fill them up with black dick...bendin em over and busting their assholes out." This addiction apparently makes the wealthy white gay black dick addicts "rejuvenated...because ejaculation is gratification." Even better, Alexyss invited her mom to join in on the discussion about seedy interracial gay sodomy-for-hire addiction and its many perils:
I love when Alexyss's mom tries to underscore the prevalence of gay hooking among what Alexyss calls these "dope-sellin'...dressed like thugs, sellin' crack" men, and Alexyss goes crazy. "These are some GOOD-LOOKIN' MEN...out on the stroll flaggin' dicks down." And it's not just the crack dealers...it's also the crack addicts and the homeless who will apparently "suck a dick up until they hiccup for a fee. Or a piece of bread or a samich or something." At this point, Alexyss's mother assumes a "Dear Jesus save me" eye-rolling facial expression for the remainder of the clip, or at least for the parts where she isn't babbling incoherently. She can't seem to get over her confusion about what label to apply to these men and what the going rate for a blow job is in hamburgers, until Alexyss sagaciously reminds her of "the dog inside men" which compels even old men chewing snuff and wearing Depends on account of "their assholes being blown out, the bottom drops out on account of them having so many huge goddamn King Kong dicks up their ass."
Basically, Alexyss concludes by noting that almost all the world's problems are caused by too many dicks being shoved into too many asses. Alexyss does reassure her mother that she's not going to go that way, as she would like to avoid any "bowel problems, intestinal problems, and sit-down problems" and then provides viewers with an interesting lesson in colon physiology.
If not the president, Alexyss should at least be the surgeon general. She might be self-taught, but I guarantee she could instruct America a whole hell of a lot more effectively about human sexuality than that masturbating Joycelyn Elders quack. Man, whatever is in Alexyss's Kool-Aid...I WANT MORE!
In case you've somehow missed the awesomeness that is Alexyss K. Tylor, let me quickly summarize. She's a fierce advocate of vagina power, and hosts a self-titled show on Hotlanta cable access where she tackles all types of sexual issues that other people are afraid to tackle. Sue Johansson, a wizened yet spry Canadian grandmother and late-night Oxygen network sex therapist who I've seen mimic the proper angle for comfortable anal penetration with her gnarled talons, seems unbelievably tame compared to Alexyss. Alexyss has previously warned women about the dangers of penis power, and how it will make you take dick up in your rectum without being showered with the respect you deserve, and how it will cause predatory gay Spelman College adjunct professors at obscure regional Georgia airport bathrooms molest unsuspecting dudes at the urinal, and how it causes men to struggle with their inner evil dick that stabs pussy in the back. I thought I knew all about sexual politics being a big slut and all, but Alexyss blows my damn mind.
Anyway, this month's show addresses a topic that has been largely untouched by the popular media: wealthy white men who venture into black neighborhoods, pick up black male prostitutes, and "screw em all in they ass," on account of their "addiction to have these black boys fill them up with black dick...bendin em over and busting their assholes out." This addiction apparently makes the wealthy white gay black dick addicts "rejuvenated...because ejaculation is gratification." Even better, Alexyss invited her mom to join in on the discussion about seedy interracial gay sodomy-for-hire addiction and its many perils:
I love when Alexyss's mom tries to underscore the prevalence of gay hooking among what Alexyss calls these "dope-sellin'...dressed like thugs, sellin' crack" men, and Alexyss goes crazy. "These are some GOOD-LOOKIN' MEN...out on the stroll flaggin' dicks down." And it's not just the crack dealers...it's also the crack addicts and the homeless who will apparently "suck a dick up until they hiccup for a fee. Or a piece of bread or a samich or something." At this point, Alexyss's mother assumes a "Dear Jesus save me" eye-rolling facial expression for the remainder of the clip, or at least for the parts where she isn't babbling incoherently. She can't seem to get over her confusion about what label to apply to these men and what the going rate for a blow job is in hamburgers, until Alexyss sagaciously reminds her of "the dog inside men" which compels even old men chewing snuff and wearing Depends on account of "their assholes being blown out, the bottom drops out on account of them having so many huge goddamn King Kong dicks up their ass."
Basically, Alexyss concludes by noting that almost all the world's problems are caused by too many dicks being shoved into too many asses. Alexyss does reassure her mother that she's not going to go that way, as she would like to avoid any "bowel problems, intestinal problems, and sit-down problems" and then provides viewers with an interesting lesson in colon physiology.
If not the president, Alexyss should at least be the surgeon general. She might be self-taught, but I guarantee she could instruct America a whole hell of a lot more effectively about human sexuality than that masturbating Joycelyn Elders quack. Man, whatever is in Alexyss's Kool-Aid...I WANT MORE!
Labels: Alexyss K Tylor, I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, perversion, Razzification, sex
Gone but not forgotten
Okay, so Karl Rove isn't actually gone yet, but his legacy lives on. Case in point: Hillary Clinton, shameless huckster that she is, is running this ad in Iowa:
I am actually having to put aside some of my monstrous hatred for Hillary to agree with her for the most part: "If you're a family that is struggling and you don't have health care, you are invisible to this president. If you're a single mom trying to find affordable child care so you can go to work, you're invisible too...and the troops in Iraq and Afghanistan are invisible as well." I think it's very true that the only way to be visible to the President is to be one of his boys from back in Texas gettin' into a little hot water for just havin' a little fun (aka obstructing justice, tapping phones without warrants, perjuring oneself before Congress, and/or generally wadding up the entire fucking Constitution and wiping one's oil-moneyed ass with it). In that case, you'll be visible enough to get your sentence commuted, keep the job 99% of America thinks you suck royally at, and enjoy an all-expenses paid trip down to the ranch in Crawford. Most people would nod and say, "Hillary, you have a point. President Bush sucks more rancid Skull and Bones dick than a DC Madam hooker, and I appreciate your frankly pointing that out. Maybe I'll listen to more of what you have to say in spite of the fact that you're a closet lesbian who looks like Gollum's long-lost sister in pearls and a somewhat tasteful suit and not a gun-toting, skydiving libertarian."
Not so fast, though. Karl Rove is still in the White Heezy, and he's not going to step out without letting his frigid fembot spokeswoman take a few digs at the Senator. Today at a press conference, the frostily hot Dana Perino announced that "This is a president who, first and foremost, has helped millions of seniors across the country have access to prescription drugs at a much lower cost." Huh? Then why is Wilford Brimley still gruffly encouraging me to get my diabetes testing supplies from Liberty Medical and why are there ads for Medicare supplements on every time I flip to the damn cable news? It's not like Hillary did much better when she used nepotism to her full advantage to become "health czar" or whatever during her hot-ass husband's first term, but I think it's a giant fucking leap to say that Bush's priority "first and foremost" was reducing the cost of Lipitor for the elderly, when we all know it was actually avengin' the indignities his daddy suffered from that pesky varmint Saddam. And lustin' after his oil, too!
Anyway, Dana Perino has been programmed well by MC Rove, and she went on to say, "I think that it is absurd and that it is unconscionable that a member of Congress would say such a thing." This has Rove chutzpah all over it. The Bush administration has thus far thrown an election, treated 9/11 like carte blanche to be tyrannical, faked evidence of WMDs and consequently landed us in a completely unfixable shitshow of a war, drove public education into the ground, gave huge tax cuts to the rich, opposed the 9/11 commission, laughed at consumers as the price of gas skyrocketed, drove the economy into the toilet and the budget deficit into the stratosphere, screwed grad students everywhere by underfunding the NIH, hushed up scientists and outright banned stem cell research, invaded the privacy and trampled all over the due process rights of hundreds of Americans and foreign nationals alike, sat around jerking off while New Orleans drowned and the Gulf Coast got absolutely fucking demolished, outright ignored the AIDS epidemic, spit at the Geneva Convention, paid off all his old buddies with lucrative government contracts funded by John Q. Public, ruined a woman's career in the CIA because her husband exercised his right to free speech, lied and obstructed the investigation into the whole Plame to-do, excused the dude who took the fall for lying because they were all tight bros, gave the finger to Congressional subpoenas, lied to Congress, and generally FUCKED US ALL. And their spokeswhore actually has the stones to stand up there and call Hillary Clinton "unconscionable" for pointing that out. Karl Rove is truly a wonder for concocting this ridiculous yet extraordinarily effective scheme.
I can just see it now. The boys are sittin' round a big jug of sweet tea on the porch in Crawford, shootin' the breeze after a long day of padding their wallets with the blood, sweat, and tears of the American people, and Karl Rove says, "From now on, we're just going to act like we're totally infallible, like that idol-worshippin' fruit name-a Benedixteen in Rome. Period. Even if we do something worse than the Holocaust--and let's face it, fellas, we all know that's a big fairy tale them Jews made up to keep their greedy paws clutchin' at our money--we're just going to say that everyone else is an evildoin', Jesus-hatin' bad American with no soul. Then we'll have Dubya say 'Aw, shucks.' Trust me, boys, it'll fly like a barrel of buckshot into an elderly trial lawyer's face."
Then the other dudes (Cheney, Gonzales, assorted other good ol' oil tycoons) shout things like "That's just crazy enough to work!", give Rove some approving daps, and go back to jawflappin' about cool shit like overbid Halliburton contracts, torturin' terrorists (wink, wink), and robbin' the poor to feed the rich. I'm pretty sure that's how the PR strategy planning session went down, and since it seems to work almost every time, it's clearly a keeper. Today's events suggest just that.
At least Hillary is unfazed. The second Rove's sexbot responded to criticisms that--per the latest Rasmussen (aka awesome and indisputably accurate) poll, anyway--are echoed by the vast majority of Americans by calling them "unconscionable," Hillary's web site immediately announced "WHITE HOUSE ATTACKS NEW AD!" I still don't really like Hillary much, but props to you, bitch, for harnessing the opinion of 70% of Americans and running with it. Hillary's totally taking the Democrats.
I am actually having to put aside some of my monstrous hatred for Hillary to agree with her for the most part: "If you're a family that is struggling and you don't have health care, you are invisible to this president. If you're a single mom trying to find affordable child care so you can go to work, you're invisible too...and the troops in Iraq and Afghanistan are invisible as well." I think it's very true that the only way to be visible to the President is to be one of his boys from back in Texas gettin' into a little hot water for just havin' a little fun (aka obstructing justice, tapping phones without warrants, perjuring oneself before Congress, and/or generally wadding up the entire fucking Constitution and wiping one's oil-moneyed ass with it). In that case, you'll be visible enough to get your sentence commuted, keep the job 99% of America thinks you suck royally at, and enjoy an all-expenses paid trip down to the ranch in Crawford. Most people would nod and say, "Hillary, you have a point. President Bush sucks more rancid Skull and Bones dick than a DC Madam hooker, and I appreciate your frankly pointing that out. Maybe I'll listen to more of what you have to say in spite of the fact that you're a closet lesbian who looks like Gollum's long-lost sister in pearls and a somewhat tasteful suit and not a gun-toting, skydiving libertarian."
Not so fast, though. Karl Rove is still in the White Heezy, and he's not going to step out without letting his frigid fembot spokeswoman take a few digs at the Senator. Today at a press conference, the frostily hot Dana Perino announced that "This is a president who, first and foremost, has helped millions of seniors across the country have access to prescription drugs at a much lower cost." Huh? Then why is Wilford Brimley still gruffly encouraging me to get my diabetes testing supplies from Liberty Medical and why are there ads for Medicare supplements on every time I flip to the damn cable news? It's not like Hillary did much better when she used nepotism to her full advantage to become "health czar" or whatever during her hot-ass husband's first term, but I think it's a giant fucking leap to say that Bush's priority "first and foremost" was reducing the cost of Lipitor for the elderly, when we all know it was actually avengin' the indignities his daddy suffered from that pesky varmint Saddam. And lustin' after his oil, too!
Anyway, Dana Perino has been programmed well by MC Rove, and she went on to say, "I think that it is absurd and that it is unconscionable that a member of Congress would say such a thing." This has Rove chutzpah all over it. The Bush administration has thus far thrown an election, treated 9/11 like carte blanche to be tyrannical, faked evidence of WMDs and consequently landed us in a completely unfixable shitshow of a war, drove public education into the ground, gave huge tax cuts to the rich, opposed the 9/11 commission, laughed at consumers as the price of gas skyrocketed, drove the economy into the toilet and the budget deficit into the stratosphere, screwed grad students everywhere by underfunding the NIH, hushed up scientists and outright banned stem cell research, invaded the privacy and trampled all over the due process rights of hundreds of Americans and foreign nationals alike, sat around jerking off while New Orleans drowned and the Gulf Coast got absolutely fucking demolished, outright ignored the AIDS epidemic, spit at the Geneva Convention, paid off all his old buddies with lucrative government contracts funded by John Q. Public, ruined a woman's career in the CIA because her husband exercised his right to free speech, lied and obstructed the investigation into the whole Plame to-do, excused the dude who took the fall for lying because they were all tight bros, gave the finger to Congressional subpoenas, lied to Congress, and generally FUCKED US ALL. And their spokeswhore actually has the stones to stand up there and call Hillary Clinton "unconscionable" for pointing that out. Karl Rove is truly a wonder for concocting this ridiculous yet extraordinarily effective scheme.
I can just see it now. The boys are sittin' round a big jug of sweet tea on the porch in Crawford, shootin' the breeze after a long day of padding their wallets with the blood, sweat, and tears of the American people, and Karl Rove says, "From now on, we're just going to act like we're totally infallible, like that idol-worshippin' fruit name-a Benedixteen in Rome. Period. Even if we do something worse than the Holocaust--and let's face it, fellas, we all know that's a big fairy tale them Jews made up to keep their greedy paws clutchin' at our money--we're just going to say that everyone else is an evildoin', Jesus-hatin' bad American with no soul. Then we'll have Dubya say 'Aw, shucks.' Trust me, boys, it'll fly like a barrel of buckshot into an elderly trial lawyer's face."
Then the other dudes (Cheney, Gonzales, assorted other good ol' oil tycoons) shout things like "That's just crazy enough to work!", give Rove some approving daps, and go back to jawflappin' about cool shit like overbid Halliburton contracts, torturin' terrorists (wink, wink), and robbin' the poor to feed the rich. I'm pretty sure that's how the PR strategy planning session went down, and since it seems to work almost every time, it's clearly a keeper. Today's events suggest just that.
At least Hillary is unfazed. The second Rove's sexbot responded to criticisms that--per the latest Rasmussen (aka awesome and indisputably accurate) poll, anyway--are echoed by the vast majority of Americans by calling them "unconscionable," Hillary's web site immediately announced "WHITE HOUSE ATTACKS NEW AD!" I still don't really like Hillary much, but props to you, bitch, for harnessing the opinion of 70% of Americans and running with it. Hillary's totally taking the Democrats.
Labels: intentional buffoonery, libertarians rule, media whores, overcompensation, politics, ranting, tyrannical rulers
I've now officially gone black
...at least as far as my environmentalist leanings are concerned. This morning, I received the following e-mail:
From: Leila and Nadia (newsletter@11thhouraction.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: We Are the Generation that Gets to Change the World
Friend,
Each year awareness of the environmental problems our planet face grows. However, we are nowhere near the critical mass of awareness needed to create the change necessary to reverse the damage and begin restoring our planet's life systems.
We made "The 11th Hour" with Leonardo DiCaprio to raise awareness another degree so that we all begin to act. "The 11th Hour" opens this weekend August 17th in New York and Los Angeles. In the following weeks, it will open in cities across the United States. We now need your help!
We have worked with Evite and created a service that allows you to invite your friends, family, and co-workers to any specific show. Please check it out. Just as importantly, Evite has a carpool tool, so you can all pile into one car and begin the change we need on the way to see "The 11th Hour." If you have 25 people or more contact group sales here, and they will help arrange.
We are the generation that gets to change the world, it's an exciting time! Please see the movie and please join us.
Very Sincerely,
Nadia Conners
Leila Conners Petersen
Directors of The 11th Hour
www.11thhouraction.com
P.S. Check out more clips from the film on our nifty new video player .
*You have received this letter because you have expressed interest in our environmental action.
Be sure to add newsletter@11thhouraction.com to your address book list to ensure future email deliveries.
Enjoying this note? Please forward it on!
Um...NO I did not ever express interest in your or anyone else's environmental action. I don't recycle just to be an asshole (well, actually it's because there's no recycling in our building, but really, the bums who go through the trash sort out the recyclables for me...I've probably donated a small fortune in Heineken bottle deposits to them). I am not interested in environmental action, unless you're talking about having sex outside. Furthermore, like HELL I'm going to add your stupid e-mail to my address book so that I can ensure delivery of pompous, preachy activist-speak concerning whatever issues you're concerned about with regard to the planet's "life systems"...or as real scientists call them, ECOSYSTEMS, you ignorant tree-hugging fucks! I don't need you two twats or Leonardo Di Caprio, who has managed to parlay his career as a model-fucker and (I suspect) Martin Scorsese "poker buddy" into a side job as the most insufferable climate change crybaby this side of Al Gore to tell me that. And speaking of Mr. Gore, if these granola hybrid-drivers actually had a snowball's chance in Greenland after 200 more years of global warming of collecting the "critical mass of awareness" they strive for, maybe they'd try something besides his tired schtick of combining heavily massaged scientific findings with overbearing condescension. I mean, these morons actually included an entire paragraph consisting of explicit instuctions on how to use Evite, and then have the audacity to suggest that arranging carpools is tantamount to changing the world. Newsflash, jackasses: the dinosaurs were probably wiped out--at least in part--due to climate change, and there weren't any humans around then to blame (I guess that dinosaur-destroying meteor wasn't thinking green when it collided with the damn Yucatan peninsula). Climate change happens whether or not some sanctimonious liberal arts college graduate decides that it's humanity's fault and that she and her idiot sister have been appointed by Leonardo DiCaprio to alter that, so stop lecturing everybody about "awareness." We're all aware that climate change could theoretically screw us over royally as a species, but what exactly are we supposed to do to cool the fucking oceans down? Drive slightly less? Use the awesome power of Evite to arrange carpools to a fucking heavy-handed pompumentary? Go see a crappy movie? The last time I read Science (which was YESTERDAY), there is still no consensus on whether global warming is even a fucking problem in the scientific community, so lay off the "critical mass" and "change the world" rhetoric until the climatologists can figure out an agreeable and rational explanation for what's going on.
Obviously since I did not "enjoy this note," I did not forward it on. Since there were no instructions on how to "unsubscribe"--indicative of how truly self-righteous these bitches are, as they don't expect that anyone wouldn't want to receive kilobytes upon kilobytes of similar correspondence--I instead responded with an enjoyable note of my own:
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
To: Leila and Nadia (newsletter@11thhouraction.com)
Subject: We Are the Generation that Gets to Change the World!
Take me off this list, you prostitutes. I NEVER signed up to receive your mind-blowingly pretentious marketing e-mails, and I'm quite positive I never expressed any interest in being on such a mailing list. My only interest in the environment is harming the shit out of it and exploiting it like what. I'm going to make sure I leave all the lights and the air-conditioning on just to be an asshole today, in your honor. And when I go to the theater and DON'T see your poor man's "An Inconvenient Truth" propaganda film full of fictional scientastic gibberish about climate change, I'll make sure I drive a gas-guzzling SUV.
Go fuck yourselves, hippies.
Best wishes,
Razzy
It's not like I really hate the environment, but its advocates have got to be some of the most irritating people on the planet. I somehow suspect that they won't take me off their list just to be dicks about it (in fairness, they'd be justified in wanting to be dicks about it). They're a lot like the hypocrites over at PETA, who will do everything short of actually killing a human being to disrupt some type of standard animal-based practice. I actually don't have a problem with living a more eco-friendly lifestyle if it's not too inconvenient or expensive, but I don't need these sluts cluttering up my inbox and thinking they have some authority to talk down to me just because the bratty foster brother from "Growing Pains" decided to give them a damn job as Leni Riefenstahls for the green movement. Besides, I don't buy their credibility to make a case for the planet, since last time I checked, bras weren't endangering the planet and these bitches have nonetheless decided most unwisely to eschew them.
Saggy tits on the red carpet will never fill up the theater at your premiere, ladies. Good thing you have Pube 'Stache DiCaprio there with you to sex it up a SMIDGE, if you're into pretty boys, anyway (I'm not).
If they really wanted me to see this movie, they should have just sent me a copy of the poster. Based on this, The 11th Hour looks like it should be the most awesome SciFi original movie ever made, about alien giant construction workers and/or Timberland-wearing rappers getting their stomp on or something similarly asskicking, er, earthkicking. It would probably have Grant Show, Richard Grieco, or Casper Van Dien in it, and I'm sure it would own every other SciFi original movie in the past (even Shark Attack 3: Megalodon, and that's a tough one to beat):
Sadly, this poster is figurative, and merely implies that the entire movie will cover how badly we're fucking everything up and there's no hope for survival if we don't listen to a bunch of overzealous, bombastic, floppy-titted pedants and start using unbleached toilet paper and driving around in hybrid Prii (or is it Priae...how do you pluralize a fake Latin car name?). These hookers need to move back to Fern Gully and stay the fuck out of my inbox.
Anyway, I am NOT going to see The 11th Hour, and I strongly urge you all not to as well. Someone needs to take a stand against these high falutin' planet fanatics once and for all, and I'm happy to be that someone. From now on, I'm going to actively campaign against seeing such films, as well as promote NOT recycling, leaving the water running while you're brushing your teeth, driving Hummers, killing endangered species for their fur, eating rainforest beef, using aerosol propellants containing CFCs, disposing of my Freon-containing air conditioners improperly, and...shit, what else is bad for the earth? Oh yeah...and deforest the hell out of everything, Weyerhauser style! I won't stop until the planet is a smoldering ruin just to show these dumb fucktards the dire consequences of implying that I wanted environmentalist spam in my inbox. From now on when people tell me I should go green, I'll tell them that I've already gone black. And you know what they say about going black...you never go back. Too true.
From: Leila and Nadia (newsletter@11thhouraction.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: We Are the Generation that Gets to Change the World
Friend,
Each year awareness of the environmental problems our planet face grows. However, we are nowhere near the critical mass of awareness needed to create the change necessary to reverse the damage and begin restoring our planet's life systems.
We made "The 11th Hour" with Leonardo DiCaprio to raise awareness another degree so that we all begin to act. "The 11th Hour" opens this weekend August 17th in New York and Los Angeles. In the following weeks, it will open in cities across the United States. We now need your help!
We have worked with Evite and created a service that allows you to invite your friends, family, and co-workers to any specific show. Please check it out. Just as importantly, Evite has a carpool tool, so you can all pile into one car and begin the change we need on the way to see "The 11th Hour." If you have 25 people or more contact group sales here, and they will help arrange.
We are the generation that gets to change the world, it's an exciting time! Please see the movie and please join us.
Very Sincerely,
Nadia Conners
Leila Conners Petersen
Directors of The 11th Hour
www.11thhouraction.com
P.S. Check out more clips from the film on our nifty new video player .
*You have received this letter because you have expressed interest in our environmental action.
Be sure to add newsletter@11thhouraction.com to your address book list to ensure future email deliveries.
Enjoying this note? Please forward it on!
Um...NO I did not ever express interest in your or anyone else's environmental action. I don't recycle just to be an asshole (well, actually it's because there's no recycling in our building, but really, the bums who go through the trash sort out the recyclables for me...I've probably donated a small fortune in Heineken bottle deposits to them). I am not interested in environmental action, unless you're talking about having sex outside. Furthermore, like HELL I'm going to add your stupid e-mail to my address book so that I can ensure delivery of pompous, preachy activist-speak concerning whatever issues you're concerned about with regard to the planet's "life systems"...or as real scientists call them, ECOSYSTEMS, you ignorant tree-hugging fucks! I don't need you two twats or Leonardo Di Caprio, who has managed to parlay his career as a model-fucker and (I suspect) Martin Scorsese "poker buddy" into a side job as the most insufferable climate change crybaby this side of Al Gore to tell me that. And speaking of Mr. Gore, if these granola hybrid-drivers actually had a snowball's chance in Greenland after 200 more years of global warming of collecting the "critical mass of awareness" they strive for, maybe they'd try something besides his tired schtick of combining heavily massaged scientific findings with overbearing condescension. I mean, these morons actually included an entire paragraph consisting of explicit instuctions on how to use Evite, and then have the audacity to suggest that arranging carpools is tantamount to changing the world. Newsflash, jackasses: the dinosaurs were probably wiped out--at least in part--due to climate change, and there weren't any humans around then to blame (I guess that dinosaur-destroying meteor wasn't thinking green when it collided with the damn Yucatan peninsula). Climate change happens whether or not some sanctimonious liberal arts college graduate decides that it's humanity's fault and that she and her idiot sister have been appointed by Leonardo DiCaprio to alter that, so stop lecturing everybody about "awareness." We're all aware that climate change could theoretically screw us over royally as a species, but what exactly are we supposed to do to cool the fucking oceans down? Drive slightly less? Use the awesome power of Evite to arrange carpools to a fucking heavy-handed pompumentary? Go see a crappy movie? The last time I read Science (which was YESTERDAY), there is still no consensus on whether global warming is even a fucking problem in the scientific community, so lay off the "critical mass" and "change the world" rhetoric until the climatologists can figure out an agreeable and rational explanation for what's going on.
Obviously since I did not "enjoy this note," I did not forward it on. Since there were no instructions on how to "unsubscribe"--indicative of how truly self-righteous these bitches are, as they don't expect that anyone wouldn't want to receive kilobytes upon kilobytes of similar correspondence--I instead responded with an enjoyable note of my own:
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
To: Leila and Nadia (newsletter@11thhouraction.com)
Subject: We Are the Generation that Gets to Change the World!
Take me off this list, you prostitutes. I NEVER signed up to receive your mind-blowingly pretentious marketing e-mails, and I'm quite positive I never expressed any interest in being on such a mailing list. My only interest in the environment is harming the shit out of it and exploiting it like what. I'm going to make sure I leave all the lights and the air-conditioning on just to be an asshole today, in your honor. And when I go to the theater and DON'T see your poor man's "An Inconvenient Truth" propaganda film full of fictional scientastic gibberish about climate change, I'll make sure I drive a gas-guzzling SUV.
Go fuck yourselves, hippies.
Best wishes,
Razzy
It's not like I really hate the environment, but its advocates have got to be some of the most irritating people on the planet. I somehow suspect that they won't take me off their list just to be dicks about it (in fairness, they'd be justified in wanting to be dicks about it). They're a lot like the hypocrites over at PETA, who will do everything short of actually killing a human being to disrupt some type of standard animal-based practice. I actually don't have a problem with living a more eco-friendly lifestyle if it's not too inconvenient or expensive, but I don't need these sluts cluttering up my inbox and thinking they have some authority to talk down to me just because the bratty foster brother from "Growing Pains" decided to give them a damn job as Leni Riefenstahls for the green movement. Besides, I don't buy their credibility to make a case for the planet, since last time I checked, bras weren't endangering the planet and these bitches have nonetheless decided most unwisely to eschew them.
If they really wanted me to see this movie, they should have just sent me a copy of the poster. Based on this, The 11th Hour looks like it should be the most awesome SciFi original movie ever made, about alien giant construction workers and/or Timberland-wearing rappers getting their stomp on or something similarly asskicking, er, earthkicking. It would probably have Grant Show, Richard Grieco, or Casper Van Dien in it, and I'm sure it would own every other SciFi original movie in the past (even Shark Attack 3: Megalodon, and that's a tough one to beat):
Anyway, I am NOT going to see The 11th Hour, and I strongly urge you all not to as well. Someone needs to take a stand against these high falutin' planet fanatics once and for all, and I'm happy to be that someone. From now on, I'm going to actively campaign against seeing such films, as well as promote NOT recycling, leaving the water running while you're brushing your teeth, driving Hummers, killing endangered species for their fur, eating rainforest beef, using aerosol propellants containing CFCs, disposing of my Freon-containing air conditioners improperly, and...shit, what else is bad for the earth? Oh yeah...and deforest the hell out of everything, Weyerhauser style! I won't stop until the planet is a smoldering ruin just to show these dumb fucktards the dire consequences of implying that I wanted environmentalist spam in my inbox. From now on when people tell me I should go green, I'll tell them that I've already gone black. And you know what they say about going black...you never go back. Too true.
Labels: assholes, celebrities, correspondence, fuck the planet, overcompensation, retard rage, scathing indictments, sexy delicious animals
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Don Francisco
DOB: December 28, 1940
Occupation: television host, musician, the total Don
Hometown: Talca, Chile
Current residence: Miami, Florida
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: If you don't know who Don Francisco is, then you must not speak Spanish. Granted, I don't speak Spanish (well) either, but I speak enough to know that Don Francisco's show "Sabado Gigante" is one of the greatest masterpieces in the history of Univision. A combination of singing contests, advice from immigration lawyers, hot chicks in slutty sequined outfits, interviews, paternity tests, absurd competitions (I seriously saw two dudes compete in a hedge trimming contest once...no joke), infomercials, comedic performances, and guest musicians, "Sabado Gigante" certainly lives up to its grandiose name. Every time I happen to catch a little "Sabado Gigante" (hardly ever because I don't stay home Saturday nights on account of being a huge player, but this is not news), I feel like I've been transported to crazy land. Crazy AWESOME land. There's a reason why "Sabado Gigante" has been on for 40 years, and is now a hit all over Latin America, and that reason is that Don Francisco rules harder than Pinochet.
Don Francisco invented this show 40 years ago in his home country of Chile, because he felt that there was a dearth of shows combining all the best features of every good show in the US and Argentina. Hence, he invented the dopest variety show ever to grace the airwaves. Have you ever wanted to watch Maury Povich, Larry King Live, the O'Reilly Factor, Saturday Night Live, Barney and Friends, a Fanta commercial, American Idol, and The Price is Right all at the same time? Well if you can understand a little basic Spanish, that's pretty much what "Sabado Gigante" is. It's genius. As are Don Francisco's sublime fashion choices. He's usually rocking either an impeccably tailored old man suit or some type of ridiculous cowboy outfit, either of which are appropriate and tasteful for doing things like the following:
Officiating a pit fight between two would-be members of Menudo, or whatever the Chilean boy-band equivalent is. NICE outfits, by the way. I bet the preteen girls go crazy for the mullets and nerd uniform ensemble.
Staying cool when some random guy in a tux dashes out to zanily usurp the interview with a celebrity guest, only to strip him of all his dignity by sending out a court jester to tackle him and force him to wear a funny hat. Okay, that last part's not in the picture, but I'm almost positive that's what likely happened next here.
Leading the audience in raucous cheers as bus boys from the audience compete in a table-stacking and carrying contest.
Laughing at stupid pet tricks.
Singing his heart out. Marc Anthony is "El Cantante", my ass! Don Francisco rules la musica.
Sexually harassing some hot, scantily clad bitches as foreplay for giving away mad Ford Focuses.
Don Francisco is always suave and sexy, and he's going to stay at it until he drops. He said that he would never retire, and would not fail to show up every week for a new "Sabado Gigante" until he drops dead. That is some serious dedication right there, especially considering that being surrounded by all the SUPER EXCITING AWESOMENESS of "Sabado Gigante" probably takes years off one's life because it's so mind-blowingly ridiculous. Because Don Francisco seems to be the source of all that frenetic energy, I wonder if he's actually human and not some sort of god sent to entertain those of us fortunate enough to understand sufficient Spanish to figure out what's going on. I hope he is divine..."Sabado Gigante" por siempre!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, que magnifico, ridiculous absurdity, TV
Daily Douchebag: Kirstie Alley
DOB: January 12, 1951
Occupation: fat actress, Jenny Craig spokewhore and non-success story, Operating Thetan Level VI
Hometown: Wichita, Kansas
Current residence: Clearwater, Florida--the spiritual home of Scientology
Douchebaggery: Oh please, bitch! If you want to hit the world over the head with your fat issues, subjecting everyone to that "Fat Actress" shitshow followed by a bevy of obnoxious "CALL JENNY!" commercials, and then running around in a bikini on Oprah to brag about your (insufficient) weight loss, you can't get pissed when a paparazzo snaps your recently fat-again ass heading home with some very non-Jenny Craig, MSG-loaded, trans-fat-filled sweet and sour or whatever. One might understand if you were living a quiet retirement and not constantly trumpeting about your dramatically fluctuating BMI why getting snapped after a dramatic weight gain would be middle finger-worthy, but you haven't shut up about your weight for the past five years, so don't hate just because some dude at TMZ spotted your massive bulk waddling down the street. You should be glad there's a single celebrity photographer out there who remembers who you even are. "Cheers" was over like 15 years ago, and who the hell is clamoring to see the star of the appalling Look Who's Talking trilogy? Not a damn soul. The only thing people care about is that you, the self-proclaimed conqueror of fat thanks to an overpriced diet plan and screeching gadfly harassing people into calling Jenny Craig, are fat again and you have nobody to blame for that but yourself, Kirst.
I guess Kirstie COULD be pissed because these days, I don't think she's getting very much work (per IMDB, she's in some US remake of a British sitcom that has yet to appear on the fall TV schedule), and from the looks of things, her days hawking Jenny are numbered. For one thing, Valerie Bertinelli is way cuter and way more likeable, and her bubbly cheer is going to oust Kirstie's dour, hollering, cantankerous self as the future of Jenny Craig for sure. For another, it doesn't do much for Jenny's sales pitch about being an easy-to-stick-to diet when the chief spokeswhore just packed on all 75 of the pounds she supposedly lost and is going strong with the greasy Chinese takeout.
Serves Jenny Craig right for picking her, because you know you're in for nothing but DRAMA when you hire a Scientologist. Those fuckers are seriously crazy. Every time I get one of their red-jacketed minions pursuing me through a subway station demanding I take a "stress test," I always have to shout, "GET AWAY FROM ME...I'M NOT JOINING YOUR FUCKING CULT!" to them before they will leave me alone. (Also they go away if you say "I'm broke," because there's no Beatitudes in Scientology, and they definitely don't think the meek and the poor folks shall inherit the earth). Besides, I know it's crazy that I believe in a divine carpenter rising from the dead to save our sinning souls, but it's even crazier to believe that we're all filled with the evil spirits of volcano-dwelling aliens who were made up by some pulp sci-fi writer in the 50s. At least Jesus was a real fucking person, whether you buy the whole messianic schtick or not. Last I checked, there was no mention of Xenu anywhere in any books not written by L. Ron Hubbard I've ever seen. That shit reads like a bad SciFi original movie, and I can't understand why so many people piss away their life savings for it. What does Scientology actually offer besides a solid brainwashing (the value of which I probably shouldn't underestimate)? Because it's sure as hell not offering weight loss. I guess the thetans that Kirstie has yet to purge are some gluttonous fuckers. I think that STRESS (real or as measured by an E-Meter) is only a problem for her when it mixes with the hypertensive condition consequent to her obesity.
Kirstie Alley needs to go to a fucking fat camp or hole herself up in her house and eat bonbons or sit in a sauna with her Scientologist friends or just DISAPPEAR, because nobody is appreciating her "I'm a failure...AND A BIG BITCH" attitude. And nobody likes looking at her either. Go away.
Labels: celebrities, Daily Douchebag, fat fucks, oh the horror, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Monday, August 13, 2007
Rosie, leave the FUCKING LESBIANS out of it!
God, Rosie O'Donnell needs to quit blogging almost as much as she needs to learn how to capitalize and spell pronouns and helping verbs. This is what she wrote about an incident over the weekend with a lesbian-hating biker guy outside the TGIFriday's where Rosie was stuffing her fat face with deep-fried green beans:
Ugly lesbians have been ruining it for the rest of us for years now. Making it worse is the fact that like their champion Rosie, these bitches overcompensate for their physical lack of appeal by being patronizing, outspoken fucktards. Combining stupidity, self-righteousness, and an exceptional drive to overcompensate is always a dangerous thing. Thanks to these hordes of unattractive, pretentious, fat, frumpily sacked, loudmouthed, toady, curmudgeonly lezbots, people almost always associate "lesbian" with trolls such as these:
I and probably the rest of the sensible world would much rather have it conjure up these images:
You know bitches like Rosie are seriously screwing things up when I think scenes from Showgirls are a preferable connotation. All the lesbians I know are fine-ass bitches, and have better things to do than let some tiny-dicked, overcompensating tool on a Harley goad them into a screaming match in a mall parking lot. Of course, there's no reason why any self-respecting same-sex loving lady shouldn't get pissed when a homophobic loser is dim-witted enough to think that disparaging a person's sexual orientation is an acceptable retort, but in Rosie's case, she asked for it. Bitch says she's a lesbian more than she says she's a mother or a comedian or an actress or a talk-show host or a woman. I don't think anyone needs to "cower, to fall 2 r knees, ashamed" in the face of an irate and unbalanced motherfucker slinging petty insults, but Rosie should hardly be surprised this asshole brought it up. Her name is becoming synonymous with lesbian, so she need look no further than her own constant harping on the topic to determine why this moron with the motorcycle went there. And given her atrocious conduct in general, it's understandable why this moron thought "lesbian" could be used as a disparaging term.
Rosie needs to just sit down before she does permanent damage to the lesbian community. Her obnoxious qualities have nothing to do with her being a lesbian, but she seems bound and determined to inextricably link them, and I'm tired of it. Hollywood needs to anoint a new prominent lesbian and start ignoring everything Rosie says and does. I can think of a few candidates who would be far better for giving women-loving women the awesome reputation we deserve (yes, I'm including bisexual bitches like myself in that...we count too).
Portia De Rossi is way hot, and she was on "Arrested Development," which was a funny show. She also seems sane and smart, and I think is generally a great example for admirable qualities to associate with lesbians.
Briana Banks may only be bisexual due to her profession, but she also seems sane and certainly can teach some bitches a thing or two about licking snatch. Her love for Jenna is also well-known. Okay, I admit a porn star probably isn't the greatest representative in terms of giving the girlie gays some credibility, but I think Briana Banks should be the damn president of the world and I'm always looking for an excuse to give her a shout-out.
Michelle Rodriguez may be a self-loathing drunk, but her girlfriend Kristanna Loken is pretty hot, and they look pretty sexy swordfighting in their Xena fetish wear. They'd do, if Michelle would ever get over herself, quit driving after a few Mojitos at the LA equivalent of Henrietta Hudson's, and come out, already.
She might look a little scary sometimes, but Suze Orman is not only a proud lesbian, she's a financially responsible one, as well. She shows the world that not only are lesbians cheerful, they can make shrewd investments, get out of debt, and plan one hell of an estate.
Christ, even Miss Cleo the fradulent Ja-Fake-An TV psychic would be better than Rosie. At least Miss Cleo's sales pitches are entertaining. The cards never lie!
Rosie needs to GO AWAY and quit dropping the L word, because she's setting acceptance of lesbians back by decades every time it issues forth from her mouth. People like my crazy Aunt Jesus see Rosie spout off at the mouth and instantly get that much more ammunition for their retarded "Gods Hates Fags" prayer meetings. When she lets an altercation with an unstable person who isn't even remotely worth it escalate into a screaming match about her sexual orientation, or trashes Kelli Ripa for covering Clay (In the Closet) Aiken's mouth, or accusing "heteros" of being backstabbing bitches while on a concert tour promoting friendship between people of all genders and gender preferences all under her ubiquitous "I'm a LESBIAN" rubric, you can almost hear the rest of the world's lezzies lift their faces out of their girlfriends' twats and collectively groan. It's time for Rosie to sit the fuck down on her whopping ass, plug that gaping, hemorrhaging cakehole of hers with a rack of Chili's babyback ribs, and hand over the "I'm a lesbian" reins to someone more worthy. No more ugly bitch bloetry!
alongSHUT UP, ROSIE! You embarrass all of us who like some hot girl-on-girl action by belaboring this point. We all know you're a big old dyke, but you play "the trump card" just as much as all those men you seemingly despise. These idiot-hetero-is-picking-on-me-cause-I'm-a-big-hippo-ass-dyke are the main anecdotes you usually decide to share in your barely readable bloetry (blog + poetry=blows, hence "bloetry"...get it?), and I for one am sick of having your bloated, busted ass spring to mind every time I think "lesbian."
came a bald screaming infuriated man
it's always a man
i tell ya …
as i buckled my belt
he ran towards r car
angry
"MY MOTORCYCLE BLAH BLAH !!!"
"chill dude -
we didn't touch it"
he got madder
pupils big - snorting like a dragon
FUCK LESBIANS
he screamed
the trump card
always
and we r supposed to cower
to fall 2 r knees ashamed
not good enough
unworthy
not tonight
mr bald muscle man
with a pimped out hog
not tonight
i stood up in the front seat
hands above my head
smiled and yelled
CORRECT SIR - FUCKING LESBIAN!!!
he stormed back to his table
right there in the lincoln mall
Ugly lesbians have been ruining it for the rest of us for years now. Making it worse is the fact that like their champion Rosie, these bitches overcompensate for their physical lack of appeal by being patronizing, outspoken fucktards. Combining stupidity, self-righteousness, and an exceptional drive to overcompensate is always a dangerous thing. Thanks to these hordes of unattractive, pretentious, fat, frumpily sacked, loudmouthed, toady, curmudgeonly lezbots, people almost always associate "lesbian" with trolls such as these:
I and probably the rest of the sensible world would much rather have it conjure up these images:
Rosie needs to just sit down before she does permanent damage to the lesbian community. Her obnoxious qualities have nothing to do with her being a lesbian, but she seems bound and determined to inextricably link them, and I'm tired of it. Hollywood needs to anoint a new prominent lesbian and start ignoring everything Rosie says and does. I can think of a few candidates who would be far better for giving women-loving women the awesome reputation we deserve (yes, I'm including bisexual bitches like myself in that...we count too).
Portia De Rossi is way hot, and she was on "Arrested Development," which was a funny show. She also seems sane and smart, and I think is generally a great example for admirable qualities to associate with lesbians.
Briana Banks may only be bisexual due to her profession, but she also seems sane and certainly can teach some bitches a thing or two about licking snatch. Her love for Jenna is also well-known. Okay, I admit a porn star probably isn't the greatest representative in terms of giving the girlie gays some credibility, but I think Briana Banks should be the damn president of the world and I'm always looking for an excuse to give her a shout-out.
Michelle Rodriguez may be a self-loathing drunk, but her girlfriend Kristanna Loken is pretty hot, and they look pretty sexy swordfighting in their Xena fetish wear. They'd do, if Michelle would ever get over herself, quit driving after a few Mojitos at the LA equivalent of Henrietta Hudson's, and come out, already.
She might look a little scary sometimes, but Suze Orman is not only a proud lesbian, she's a financially responsible one, as well. She shows the world that not only are lesbians cheerful, they can make shrewd investments, get out of debt, and plan one hell of an estate.
Christ, even Miss Cleo the fradulent Ja-Fake-An TV psychic would be better than Rosie. At least Miss Cleo's sales pitches are entertaining. The cards never lie!
Rosie needs to GO AWAY and quit dropping the L word, because she's setting acceptance of lesbians back by decades every time it issues forth from her mouth. People like my crazy Aunt Jesus see Rosie spout off at the mouth and instantly get that much more ammunition for their retarded "Gods Hates Fags" prayer meetings. When she lets an altercation with an unstable person who isn't even remotely worth it escalate into a screaming match about her sexual orientation, or trashes Kelli Ripa for covering Clay (In the Closet) Aiken's mouth, or accusing "heteros" of being backstabbing bitches while on a concert tour promoting friendship between people of all genders and gender preferences all under her ubiquitous "I'm a LESBIAN" rubric, you can almost hear the rest of the world's lezzies lift their faces out of their girlfriends' twats and collectively groan. It's time for Rosie to sit the fuck down on her whopping ass, plug that gaping, hemorrhaging cakehole of hers with a rack of Chili's babyback ribs, and hand over the "I'm a lesbian" reins to someone more worthy. No more ugly bitch bloetry!
Labels: assholes, Aunt Jesus, fat fucks, lezbollah, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, stank vaginas, you're ugly
Curtis shall overcome
I've obviously spent all morning dicking around on The Smoking Gun's website, and while there I came across one more reason why super douchebag Kanye West is going to SO LOSE to my boyfriend Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson in their album sales throwdown on 9/11.
I've already established that I think Kanye West is a pussified little twat with a big mouth and an annoying sense of self-righteous messianic egotism. That haughty expression constantly on Kanye's bitchy little face makes him look like a privileged prep school wuss on his way to go sailing or hit the squash courts, and certainly no match for a scowling, Louis Vuitton-holster-wearing, Heckler and Koch-wielding, highly motivated, extremely aggressive gangster-turned-businessman like Fitty. Okay, that "highly motivated, extremely aggressive gangster-turned-businessman" thing is actually from a Westside Connection song, but it works for Curtis too. Anyway, adding to his contrasting general impression of manicured pretty boy-ness, Kanye West's tour rider demands a whole host of faggotronic personal care items, from Nivea "Intensive" moisturizer to a fucking BARBER CHAIR. He also insists that each venue purchase socks and underwear for him, although he declines to specify his brand preference, which is surprising since he seems the fastidious, label-whore type whose coochie remains in the Gucci name. He seems the type whose patience you should never test on account of being high maintenance...HIGH CLASS, and if you ain't rollin', then bypass. Kanye's doing a terrific job of bucking those materialistic ideals prevalent in hip-hop culture that he loves to alternately embrace and criticize at his convenience. He also requires a new soft-bristled toothbrush and Neutrogena dandruff shampoo. Kanye West has a dandruff problem? No wonder he also requested a white crew-neck t-shirt...it helps disguise those embarrassing scalp flakes.
Kanye must also not be keeping up on his business news, because he states in emphatic capital letters, "NO COKE PRODUCTS ARE TO BE PLACED IN THE DRESSING ROOM" while simulaneously noting that eight bottles of Vitamin Water are a "must have." Vitamin Water is made by Glaceau, which was just acquired by Coca-Cola in a deal that made Fitty's stake in the company worth $400 million. I think it's safe to say that Fitty is going to beat the shit out of Kanye on the Billboard charts if he's such a dominant and pervasive force that Kanye himself requires a Formula 50 before each and every performance. God knows he can't shout "We want pre-nup! We want pre-nup!" satisfactorily unless he's pounded a bottle ofCurtis Jackson grape-flavored water. He probably needs a dose of Fitty's chutzpah before he can muster the stones to go preach to his audience full of socially conscious liberal arts college students.
Anyway, if anything ever indicated that Fitty is going to mop the floor with Kanye's preppy, metrosexual, dandruff-shedding ass, it's his own damn prima donna tour rider. Fitty's only requirements for general accommodations (at least according to his lyrics) are "stash box, laptop, fax machine, phone...bulletproof this bitch and I'm gone." He's a sexily dangerous handful, I'm sure, but I bet he doesn't stoop to a level of diva where he specifies which brand of pistachio nuts he'll deign to eat. He also MIGHT be on the down low, but you'd never see him giving that away with demands for L'Occitane soap. Kanye not only has the audacity to insist that each concert venue provide him with toothpaste and deodorant, but insists on prefunking with 50's own eponymous Kool-Aid. What a fucking tool. Curtis is going to smote his thoroughly moisturized, Izod-loving ruin upon the mountainside come 9/11.
Kanye must also not be keeping up on his business news, because he states in emphatic capital letters, "NO COKE PRODUCTS ARE TO BE PLACED IN THE DRESSING ROOM" while simulaneously noting that eight bottles of Vitamin Water are a "must have." Vitamin Water is made by Glaceau, which was just acquired by Coca-Cola in a deal that made Fitty's stake in the company worth $400 million. I think it's safe to say that Fitty is going to beat the shit out of Kanye on the Billboard charts if he's such a dominant and pervasive force that Kanye himself requires a Formula 50 before each and every performance. God knows he can't shout "We want pre-nup! We want pre-nup!" satisfactorily unless he's pounded a bottle of
Anyway, if anything ever indicated that Fitty is going to mop the floor with Kanye's preppy, metrosexual, dandruff-shedding ass, it's his own damn prima donna tour rider. Fitty's only requirements for general accommodations (at least according to his lyrics) are "stash box, laptop, fax machine, phone...bulletproof this bitch and I'm gone." He's a sexily dangerous handful, I'm sure, but I bet he doesn't stoop to a level of diva where he specifies which brand of pistachio nuts he'll deign to eat. He also MIGHT be on the down low, but you'd never see him giving that away with demands for L'Occitane soap. Kanye not only has the audacity to insist that each concert venue provide him with toothpaste and deodorant, but insists on prefunking with 50's own eponymous Kool-Aid. What a fucking tool. Curtis is going to smote his thoroughly moisturized, Izod-loving ruin upon the mountainside come 9/11.
Labels: 50 cent, assholes, boyfriends, overcompensation, rap, scathing indictments
Mugshots are almost better than backshots...almost
Every week, The Smoking Gun features these mugshot galleries that I can't get enough of. They usually feature people making silly faces, or doing ridiculous shit, or wearing ironic shirts. Every time I look at one of these galleries, I seriously wish I was somehow involved in law enforcement. Along with the show "Cops," these mugshots prove one thing: criminals are hilarious, and I wish I got the opportunity to laugh at them as part of my daily job. Viruses are nowhere near this amusing. See for yourself:
If the blank, dead-eyed stare is any indication, this guy's dogs were let out some time ago. I think who let them go is irrelevant.
No thanks, dude...my body has already been inspected. I wonder if this guy's work as a "female body inspector" is the reason why he's having his picture taken by a county photographer.
Neither is eyebrow waxing, which is why this hooker has a couple of caterpillars adorning her gracious brow.
You're not Mr. Right Now, either.
Success is only measured in felony convictions if you're trying to join some type of international crime syndicate. Otherwise, a picture like this is more a measure of failure. But then again, you're already not on the road to success if you need a catchy t-shirt to provide instruction.
That nose injury--likely from the fight that got this bitch locked up on an assault charge in the first place--would lead me to believe otherwise.
I wonder if his wife and presumed prayer buddy will be visiting his whiskery ass in the pokey?
Okay, true. And we have more fun. And gentlemen prefer us. But usually not in prison stripes, blondie. And NEVER in that jail jumpsuit orange color...NOTHING makes a blonde bitch look more sallow and jaundiced than an orange shirt. Next time, get the shirt in red or blue, and stay on the good side of the law while you're rocking it.
CLEARLY.
Nothing is more convenient that getting busted with the bail bondsman's number handy.
And that somebody ain't you, sister.
This guy is literally wearing his defense on his shirt. His accomplices should have recruited someone in a "Stop Snitching" shirt for whatever caper landed them in the clink instead.
It's also a bad meth-face day.
This bitch may be party trained, and she's certainly party-hardened, but apparently she skipped the training program where they teach you to evade capture by the police.
Not yet you aren't.
Whatever the "Jedi way" entails besides engaging the Empire in an epic struggle for peace and freedom in the galaxy, I don't think it involves doing a shitload of crank and getting busted while acting the fool.
Don't believe that contrite statement, and don't look into this bitch's eyes either. I'm almost positive this bitch is the long-lost relative of the Basilisk Harry Potter dispatched with the sword of Godric Gryffindor in the Chamber of Secrets. The arresting officers had to read her Miranda rights in Parseltongue. Her gaze is deadly and her venomous fangs destroy Horcruxes. Trust.
Judging by the vacant eyes and mouth lesions--the natural dermatological consequence of sucking heavily on a crack pipe and/or a crack dealer's herpetic, purulent weiner--this chick didn't accomplish effective "living" or "loving" either.
Obviously. However, this burly gentlemen let it wander in the right direction, because he looks positively thrilled at the possibility of reuniting with his lifting buddies, AKA the skinheads in the prison weight room. Soon he'll be able to relive pleasant memories from his former vacations at the state's expense, like shanking rivals in the yard or conducting sodomy-themed orientation courses for new inmates in the showers. Good times.
3. Also, the person wearing this shirt.
Maybe not, but what you do do is an excellent impression of Miss J. Alexander, the runway coach and annoying queeny judge from "America's Next Top Model."
And if there's one thing Miss J. does VERY well, it's drama, so methinks that shirt is being just a wee bit untruthful. Besides, that rather androgynous criminal has a serious, "Oh no you DID-UNT, BITCH!" look his/her eyes, and that to me is the exact variety of drama implied by that shirt.
Anyway, I could look at these mugshots all day. I'm easily entertained by stupid people. You can go see more of them at The Smoking Gun, but be warned...it can result in hours of mindless e-dicking around.
If the blank, dead-eyed stare is any indication, this guy's dogs were let out some time ago. I think who let them go is irrelevant.
No thanks, dude...my body has already been inspected. I wonder if this guy's work as a "female body inspector" is the reason why he's having his picture taken by a county photographer.
Neither is eyebrow waxing, which is why this hooker has a couple of caterpillars adorning her gracious brow.
You're not Mr. Right Now, either.
Success is only measured in felony convictions if you're trying to join some type of international crime syndicate. Otherwise, a picture like this is more a measure of failure. But then again, you're already not on the road to success if you need a catchy t-shirt to provide instruction.
That nose injury--likely from the fight that got this bitch locked up on an assault charge in the first place--would lead me to believe otherwise.
I wonder if his wife and presumed prayer buddy will be visiting his whiskery ass in the pokey?
Okay, true. And we have more fun. And gentlemen prefer us. But usually not in prison stripes, blondie. And NEVER in that jail jumpsuit orange color...NOTHING makes a blonde bitch look more sallow and jaundiced than an orange shirt. Next time, get the shirt in red or blue, and stay on the good side of the law while you're rocking it.
CLEARLY.
Nothing is more convenient that getting busted with the bail bondsman's number handy.
And that somebody ain't you, sister.
This guy is literally wearing his defense on his shirt. His accomplices should have recruited someone in a "Stop Snitching" shirt for whatever caper landed them in the clink instead.
It's also a bad meth-face day.
This bitch may be party trained, and she's certainly party-hardened, but apparently she skipped the training program where they teach you to evade capture by the police.
Not yet you aren't.
Whatever the "Jedi way" entails besides engaging the Empire in an epic struggle for peace and freedom in the galaxy, I don't think it involves doing a shitload of crank and getting busted while acting the fool.
Don't believe that contrite statement, and don't look into this bitch's eyes either. I'm almost positive this bitch is the long-lost relative of the Basilisk Harry Potter dispatched with the sword of Godric Gryffindor in the Chamber of Secrets. The arresting officers had to read her Miranda rights in Parseltongue. Her gaze is deadly and her venomous fangs destroy Horcruxes. Trust.
Judging by the vacant eyes and mouth lesions--the natural dermatological consequence of sucking heavily on a crack pipe and/or a crack dealer's herpetic, purulent weiner--this chick didn't accomplish effective "living" or "loving" either.
Obviously. However, this burly gentlemen let it wander in the right direction, because he looks positively thrilled at the possibility of reuniting with his lifting buddies, AKA the skinheads in the prison weight room. Soon he'll be able to relive pleasant memories from his former vacations at the state's expense, like shanking rivals in the yard or conducting sodomy-themed orientation courses for new inmates in the showers. Good times.
3. Also, the person wearing this shirt.
Maybe not, but what you do do is an excellent impression of Miss J. Alexander, the runway coach and annoying queeny judge from "America's Next Top Model."
And if there's one thing Miss J. does VERY well, it's drama, so methinks that shirt is being just a wee bit untruthful. Besides, that rather androgynous criminal has a serious, "Oh no you DID-UNT, BITCH!" look his/her eyes, and that to me is the exact variety of drama implied by that shirt.
Anyway, I could look at these mugshots all day. I'm easily entertained by stupid people. You can go see more of them at The Smoking Gun, but be warned...it can result in hours of mindless e-dicking around.
Labels: America's Next Top Model, crime and punishment, down with OPB (other people's blogs), hilarious shit, I LOVE IT
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Lindsey Lawrence
DOB: July 26, 1986
Occupation: drunken brawler
Hometown: Maple Valley, Washington
Current residence: Seattle, Washington
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Apparently Ms. Lawrence decided to put her recently-of-legal-drinking-age ID to good use and check out karaoke Thursday at Changes Tavern in Seattle. Unfortunately, some dude decided to try singing "Yellow" by Coldplay, which did not meet Ms. Lawrence's high and exacting standards. She first explained to the man that both his singing abilities and song choice "fucking sucked." Then, when he failed to cease and desist what must have been some godawful falsetto whining, Lindsey took it to the next level. According to a police report available on The Smoking Gun, she "grabbed at the microphone and pushed and punched him in order to get him to stop singing." At that point, she was thrown out of the bar physically (because she wouldn't go when they asked nicely), and proceeded to assault most of the bar patrons. When the cops arrived, she went ballistic and "threw 2 or 3 headbutts" at one of the arresting officers before they were able to cuff her and haul her ass away.
I have to applaud Lindsey Lawrence, because as anyone who has ever had to sit through the actual Coldplay version of "Yellow" can attest, "fucking sucks" is an accurate description of that song. I can only imagine how much worse it is when reimagined by a Rainier-swilling U-Dub frat boy. Needless to say, I fully sympathize with Lindsey, because that might provoke violent rage in me after imbibing a few frosty-cold pitchers of Vitamin R. As TSG points out, a blistering New York Times review of Coldplay's X&Y album calls them "the most insufferable band of the decade," boasting lyrics that make the reviewer "wish I didn't understand English." Jon Pareles, the reviewer, goes on to describe Coldplay singer Chris Martin as "a passive-aggressive blowhard, immoderately proud as he flaunts humility." And I find no fault whatsoever in this paragraph:
Clearly, Coldplay is beloved: by moony high school girls and their solace-seeking parents, by hip-hop producers who sample its rich instrumental sounds and by emo rockers who admire Chris Martin's heart-on-sleeve lyrics. The band emanates good intentions, from Mr. Martin's political statements to lyrics insisting on its own benevolence. Coldplay is admired by everyone - everyone except me.Amen, Jon Pareles! And you are not alone. There are at least two people who share your views on Coldplay, and one of them is myself. The other is the eminently admirable Lindsey Lawrence, who didn't sit idly by while some wannabe "emo rocker" decided to break loose with some "heart-on-sleeve lyrics."
If I were in the P-N-Dub, I'd go post that bitch's bail myself and hook her up with HotLawyer's business card. In spite of his own emo-boy, Morrissey-related leanings, I have no doubt that based on the New York Times review and the natural reaction experienced by most people forced to listen to "Yellow," he could make a solid case for justifiable self-defense and get Lindsey off. If the song sounds like shit, you must acquit. I would characterize enduring a single verse of that simpering, caterwauling, whiny auditory shitshow as a painful and traumatizing assault. The fact that "Yellow" is even available for karaoke should be a crime in itself. Lindsey Lawrence is a hero standing up against the unctuous, cloying, fulsome falsetto renditions of earsplitting aural abortions that ruin a perfectly good night of drunken karaoke. Bravo, Lindsey. You fucking rule.
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot chicks, HotLawyer, I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, P-N-Dub, PWT
Daily Douchebag: Arthur Lawton
DOB: 1938?
Occupation: former employee of Eatonville Pioneer Farm Museum
Hometown: Unknown, but I'm betting it's somewhere in unincorporated Pierce County
Current residence: Tacoma, Washington
Douchebaggery: Mr. Lawton was working at the Eatonville Pioneer Farm Museum until one of his colleagues stumbled into a barn and caught him with his pants down (literally) while he was in the process of FUCKING A GOAT. He then came up with a really lame excuse and told the chick who caught him that he was just trying to milk it, which is the line he's giving prosecutors too. I milked a goat once at the Puyallup Fair and as I recall, while that act did involve some firm teat-squeezing, it in no way involved penetrating the animal with a penis.
He is now the second person to be arrested under Washington state's felony bestiality law. The fact that my home state actually had to pass a law prohibiting bestiality is a statement unto itself; more embarrassing is the fact that both arrests for this have been in the county where I grew up. First there was the Spanaway man who was caught fucking his family pit bull on the back porch of his meth-cookin' shack, although his Jerry Springer-looking ass was acquitted on animal cruelty charges. I guess the pit bull liked it. Now there's Aberforth Dumbledore's perverted white trash counterpart getting his goat on in Eatonville. Seriously, what is up with all this animal fucking going on in the P-N-Dub? It's a damn epidemic! I shudder to think about how the jails are going to fill the fuck up come September when the Fair starts up. The Puyallup Fair is my hometown's claim to fame, and in addition to rides, scones, and onion burgers, provides barn after barn full of various types of livestock for fairgoers to ogle. The theme song for the Fair goes, "You can do it at a trot, you can do it at a gallop, you can do it real slow so your heart don't palpitate...but don't be late...DO THE PUYALLUP." All these bestiality-minded pervs running around Pierce County are going to give "do the Puyallup" an unwholesome and entirely revolting new meaning. Gross.
[RAZZY EDIT: I went to the Puyallup Fair's website, and discovered that the rest of the words to the "Do the Puyallup" theme song are even dirtier. "All the people and the animals down at the Fair, they do the Puyallup like they didn't have a care, and it looks like so much fun to do, I think I'm gonna learn how to do it too. I saw a duck and a chicken down by the barn, kickin' up the hay and raisin' such a storm, so I asked the farmer just what they're up to, and he said 'The Puyallup, it's what they do.'" Also, if the busted-ass clip art on the site is any indication, in addition to the roller coaster (AKA "the BIG roller coaster" even though it's older than the damn Coney Island Cyclone), the X-treme Scream, and the farm animals, the Fair now features flying corn dogs, which is pretty fuckin' sweet. Ahhh....Puyallup.]
Labels: bestiality, crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, gross, oh the horror, P-N-Dub, perversion, PWT
Sunday, August 12, 2007
It's a DUMB BITCHES TROVE, not a women's college
I went on Facebook today, which is something I rarely do. Somehow I got talked into getting on Facebook, much as I've been talked into venturing my e-self onto Friendster and MySpace in the past. Much like its predecessors, Facebook now is yet another thing that I hate yet feel obligated to occasionally maintain, lest I offend active people in my network who may have messaged or commented or tagged or poked or smiled at or otherwise e-harassed me. Unlike Friendster or MySpace, Facebook has this feature called a "Mini-Feed" where they provide me with "news"...aka whatever banal shit other people have done to tweak their profiles or the groups they've joined. I saw that one of my fellow Smith alumnae has joined this group, and proceeded with having a mini-stroke when I looked at it. I realized that I have some issues to address with the bitch who founded this "Common Interest--Beliefs and Causes" networking node:
Okay, for starters, if you are so pissed off about semantics, then maybe you should learn how to use the PLURAL POSSESSIVE PROPERLY. It's WOMEN'S college, not WOMAN's college...dumbass. Unless, of course, like most of the knuckle-dragging, mustachioed hookers that went to school with me at Smith, you are thinking exclusively of yourself, in which case "girls' school" should have been "girl's school." Keep it grammatically consistent, you overcompensating, pompous twat!
Second, nice use of a picture of a stupid little brat wearing a fucking ERA shirt! The ERA! COME ON! That shit crashed and burned over thirty years ago. If you are truly trying to spout some "Yay! Victory for semantic hair-splitting feminism!" line, at least go with Rosie the Riveter. Rosie motivated bitches to pick up the slack in war-machine manufacturing, and if nothing else, that was productive. The ERA tanked harder than "Joe Millionaire 2." I mean, good idea, but it was already in the Constitution and you privileged, $30,000-a-year-school-attending bitches should be glad we've got the damn vote. If that seminal "Man Show" episode where they convinced a number of random ladies to sign a petition fighting "women's suffrage" is any indication, most woMEN don't actually even appreciate that basic right, so before you get all hot and bothered about what someone calls your foofy, troll-infested ugly factory of a liberal arts college, make sure the offender is sufficiently literate and verbose to understand your beef. Furthermore, that bitch in the ERA shirt is holding a sign saying "girls are strong." Isn't the point of this whole group devoted to not using the term "girls?" Your politically correct standards of term usage are INCONSISTENT...dumbass.
And as far as your consequences...well, I find it hilarious that some undoubtedly stupid, self-righteous Smith girl with no tits and a fugly-ass mock turt beneath a "A Woman Needs A Man Like a Fish Needs a Bicycle" shirt wants to threaten me or anyone else who calls Smith/Mount Holyoke/Wellesley/Bryn Mawr/Barnard/Simmons a "girls' school" with a bitch-slapping into next week. The same girl who wrote this probably is spending her post-grad years working for some worthless non-profit dedicated to fighting some form of violence, so not only is that a severely empty threat, it's also extraordinarily hypocritical. Quit making the rest of us "girls' school" graduates look as moronic as you are. I have better things to get pissed off about than this:
Razzy: I went to Smith College.
Person I'm Talking To: Isn't that a girls' school?
WHO CARES?! Usually that is followed with "Smith is a good school" or "I heard there's a lot of lesbians there." Either way, nothing's wrong with that! Nobody thinks that "we are 12 and learning to drink tea and sit like a lady." Most people think we're either learning our trade and/or learning how to lick snatch properly, both of which are admirable pursuits. Besides, for me, there are only two ways I can see that conversation ending, and both are inordinately positive:
WAY #1:
Razzy: I went to Smith College.
Person I'm Talking To: Isn't that a girls' school?
Razzy: Totally. I pissed off lots of bitches there. I also narrowed down the mechanism by which RimJ transcriptionally regulates fimbrial gene expression in E. coli. And I was Associate Editor of the school paper. I am an exceptional woman.
Person I'm Talking To: Want a job and/or admission to an Ivy League graduate school?
OR
WAY #2:
Razzy: I went to Smith College.
Person I'm Talking To: Isn't that a girls' school?
Razzy: Totally. I pissed off lots of bitches there. I also narrowed down the mechanism by which RimJ transcriptionally regulates fimbrial gene expression in E. coli. And I was Associate Editor of the school paper. I am an exceptional woman.
Person I'm Talking To: Did you have sex with chicks while you were there?
Razzy: Not really. Only one time when I made an amateur porn. But it was two chicks at the same time. I'm freaky like that.
Person I'm Talking To: My place or yours?
In other words, NOBODY cares what term is employed to describe Smith or any other woMEN'S college. Nobody thinks that because I went to a "girls' school" like Smith, I'm not smart. They usually think I'm smart and/or gay, and when I demonstrate the humorous abilities my intelligence permits and establish that I'm lesbish because I'm a slutty nympho lush...PARTY ON, dudes! People who are actually intelligent don't squander their energies getting upset about their insecurities concerning the words used to describe the expensive, pretentious school where they got their undergraduate degree. Since I am an "intelligent, well-informed, confident" woman, I can attest that I have better things to do than waste my precious time getting pissed off about which words people choose to describe my alma mater. The whole "confident" part indicates that I don't need to expend my energy flipping out about that. In fact, it's a better use of my time chastising the stupid whores making embarrassing Facebook groups that make graduates of "woMEN'S colleges" look like petty, trivial, insecure cuntrags who probably still live with their parents in Connecticut. If you have nothing better to do than spend your time uploading retarded pictures found by a "classic feminist history" Google search and busting the indifferent chops of people who have different tastes in word choice than you, then maybe you should log out of Facebook, get your fat, spreading ass off the chair in your parents' study, and go GET A DAMN JOB! If you do, this will probably seem entirely less significant.
And just for fun:
I WENT TO SMITH COLLEGE...IT'S A GIRLS' SCHOOL.
Okay, for starters, if you are so pissed off about semantics, then maybe you should learn how to use the PLURAL POSSESSIVE PROPERLY. It's WOMEN'S college, not WOMAN's college...dumbass. Unless, of course, like most of the knuckle-dragging, mustachioed hookers that went to school with me at Smith, you are thinking exclusively of yourself, in which case "girls' school" should have been "girl's school." Keep it grammatically consistent, you overcompensating, pompous twat!
Second, nice use of a picture of a stupid little brat wearing a fucking ERA shirt! The ERA! COME ON! That shit crashed and burned over thirty years ago. If you are truly trying to spout some "Yay! Victory for semantic hair-splitting feminism!" line, at least go with Rosie the Riveter. Rosie motivated bitches to pick up the slack in war-machine manufacturing, and if nothing else, that was productive. The ERA tanked harder than "Joe Millionaire 2." I mean, good idea, but it was already in the Constitution and you privileged, $30,000-a-year-school-attending bitches should be glad we've got the damn vote. If that seminal "Man Show" episode where they convinced a number of random ladies to sign a petition fighting "women's suffrage" is any indication, most woMEN don't actually even appreciate that basic right, so before you get all hot and bothered about what someone calls your foofy, troll-infested ugly factory of a liberal arts college, make sure the offender is sufficiently literate and verbose to understand your beef. Furthermore, that bitch in the ERA shirt is holding a sign saying "girls are strong." Isn't the point of this whole group devoted to not using the term "girls?" Your politically correct standards of term usage are INCONSISTENT...dumbass.
And as far as your consequences...well, I find it hilarious that some undoubtedly stupid, self-righteous Smith girl with no tits and a fugly-ass mock turt beneath a "A Woman Needs A Man Like a Fish Needs a Bicycle" shirt wants to threaten me or anyone else who calls Smith/Mount Holyoke/Wellesley/Bryn Mawr/Barnard/Simmons a "girls' school" with a bitch-slapping into next week. The same girl who wrote this probably is spending her post-grad years working for some worthless non-profit dedicated to fighting some form of violence, so not only is that a severely empty threat, it's also extraordinarily hypocritical. Quit making the rest of us "girls' school" graduates look as moronic as you are. I have better things to get pissed off about than this:
Razzy: I went to Smith College.
Person I'm Talking To: Isn't that a girls' school?
WHO CARES?! Usually that is followed with "Smith is a good school" or "I heard there's a lot of lesbians there." Either way, nothing's wrong with that! Nobody thinks that "we are 12 and learning to drink tea and sit like a lady." Most people think we're either learning our trade and/or learning how to lick snatch properly, both of which are admirable pursuits. Besides, for me, there are only two ways I can see that conversation ending, and both are inordinately positive:
WAY #1:
Razzy: I went to Smith College.
Person I'm Talking To: Isn't that a girls' school?
Razzy: Totally. I pissed off lots of bitches there. I also narrowed down the mechanism by which RimJ transcriptionally regulates fimbrial gene expression in E. coli. And I was Associate Editor of the school paper. I am an exceptional woman.
Person I'm Talking To: Want a job and/or admission to an Ivy League graduate school?
OR
WAY #2:
Razzy: I went to Smith College.
Person I'm Talking To: Isn't that a girls' school?
Razzy: Totally. I pissed off lots of bitches there. I also narrowed down the mechanism by which RimJ transcriptionally regulates fimbrial gene expression in E. coli. And I was Associate Editor of the school paper. I am an exceptional woman.
Person I'm Talking To: Did you have sex with chicks while you were there?
Razzy: Not really. Only one time when I made an amateur porn. But it was two chicks at the same time. I'm freaky like that.
Person I'm Talking To: My place or yours?
In other words, NOBODY cares what term is employed to describe Smith or any other woMEN'S college. Nobody thinks that because I went to a "girls' school" like Smith, I'm not smart. They usually think I'm smart and/or gay, and when I demonstrate the humorous abilities my intelligence permits and establish that I'm lesbish because I'm a slutty nympho lush...PARTY ON, dudes! People who are actually intelligent don't squander their energies getting upset about their insecurities concerning the words used to describe the expensive, pretentious school where they got their undergraduate degree. Since I am an "intelligent, well-informed, confident" woman, I can attest that I have better things to do than waste my precious time getting pissed off about which words people choose to describe my alma mater. The whole "confident" part indicates that I don't need to expend my energy flipping out about that. In fact, it's a better use of my time chastising the stupid whores making embarrassing Facebook groups that make graduates of "woMEN'S colleges" look like petty, trivial, insecure cuntrags who probably still live with their parents in Connecticut. If you have nothing better to do than spend your time uploading retarded pictures found by a "classic feminist history" Google search and busting the indifferent chops of people who have different tastes in word choice than you, then maybe you should log out of Facebook, get your fat, spreading ass off the chair in your parents' study, and go GET A DAMN JOB! If you do, this will probably seem entirely less significant.
And just for fun:
I WENT TO SMITH COLLEGE...IT'S A GIRLS' SCHOOL.
Labels: Dumb Smith bitches, feminazism, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Friday, August 10, 2007
Vote for my boyfriend (buy his album)
A few days ago, my boyfriend Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson decided to accept an offer by BET to host a debate between him and bitchy prima donna Kanye West. Their third albums, Fitty's Curtis and Kanye's Graduation, both drop like the Twin Towers on September 11th, and the mock candidates' debate will allow both rappers to publicly explain why they are superior to each other. I'd say that judging by album cover alone, Fitty wins by a longshot. He looks hot and intense, while pretentious douchebag Kanye's album looks like it was designed by a fifteen-year-old wannabe Harajuku girl snorting Oxycontin and watching a marathon of "I Love the 80s Strikes Back" on Vh1.
Kanye claims the debate is a stupid idea, saying "what am I going to debate about? It's the stupidest thing. When my album drops and 50's album drops, you're going to get a lot of good music at the same time." Some might consider this tactful, but I would argue that it's actually a cowardly way of pussying out because he knows he can't hold a candle to Fitty's world-famous dissing skills. Fitty isn't taking diplomacy as an answer, and has decided to raise the stakes in his competition with Kanye. He is literally betting his career on being better than Cuntface West according to "my favorite hip-hop website's favorite hip-hop website" SOHH.com. According to Fitty:
Checks not trophies! G-g-g-g-g-unIT!
"Let's raise the stakes. If Kanye West sells more records than 50 Cent on September 11, I'll no longer write music. I'll write music and work with my other artists, but I won't put out any more solo albums."WHAT?! This cannot be. I will freak out if I can't buy new music where Fitty says stuff like "I got no pick up lines, I stay on the grind, I tell the hoes all the time, 'Bitch, get in my car'" and "isn't it ironic how erotic it is to watch you in thongs" every couple of years. Fortunately, it seems that my boy CJ is confident that he'll win. He also had this to say:
"And I bet this, when Kanye West's sales come in, he's gonna have a 70% decrease [the second week] 'cause Def Jam is gonna buy records to keep him closer to 50 Cent. So watch the first week and then watch the second week. Watch his ass drop off the planet. We keep our angles covered before we make a decent bet. I didn't get one trophy for ‘The Massacre.' ... I don't get trophies, I get checks. He gets the trophies."Whew. I'm glad Fitty has his bases covered. I would expect him to, because it takes an especially prescient business mind to parlay a small investment in Glaceau into an overnight $400 million Vitamin Water fortune, but still...gambling with a career like his is enough to send me into fits of hysterical terror. I'll do my part to ensure that Fitty continues making ridiculous CDs by encouraging you all to go pre-order Curtis RIGHT NOW.
Checks not trophies! G-g-g-g-g-unIT!
Labels: 50 cent, boyfriends, capitalism, hot dudes, intentional buffoonery, rap
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: BloodyTosser
DOB: November 9, 1977
Occupation: photographer, blogger, Muay Thai fighter
Hometown: London, England
Current residence: Brooklyn, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: BloodyTosser is one of the most remarkable, interesting people I've met. We met back at Smith when she started dating my friend KatieScarlett, and when she graduated, they went off to art school in Chicago together. Fast forward seven years, and they've long since stopped being a couple in the romantic sense, but are still best friends and business partners. They're brilliant photographers (not that I'm any judge, but people who know about artsy shit also say they're amazing), and they've taken lots of hot nudey pictures of me over the years. Therefore I've had many opportunities (albeit not enough) to hang with BloodyTosser. We've had lots of fun singing mindblowingly awesome duets of "Don't Stop Believin'" together, making fun of the model (me) during some drunken photo shoots, pounding sake at various sushi/karaoke establishments throughout Manhattan, and generally raising hell whenever possible. At her birthday party a couple years ago, she also snapped the greatest candid photo of me EVER:
I didn't realize quite how much ass "Milla the Killa" kicked, though, until I was cruising by her blog this morning and saw this video. BloodyTosser is the bitch in the white top who absolutely destroys her opponent:
Okay, so she doesn't actually knock her out or anything, but she does get the other chick's blood all over her sports bra. As an added bonus, you can hear KatieScarlett cheering for her the entire time like a proud parent at a soccer game: "Yeah!", "Get her, Mils!", and Mortal Kombat-style "FINISH HER!" It's lucky I wasn't there, because the whole tape would feature a soundtrack of me drowning out KatieScarlett shouting "Sweep the leg! Sweep the leg! Put her in a body bag, Milla! NO MERCY!" I realize that kickboxing isn't the same as karate, and BloodyTosser is a sight better looking than either Ralph Macchio or the guy who played Johnny from the Kobra Kai dojo, but it would still work.
Anyway, BloodyTosser is the hotness, and while I want to hit her, I pray to God she doesn't ever decide to hit me. My last experience with pugilism was when I clocked Joy Stochosky in the fourth grade for beating me in the Spelling Bee, and I'm out of practice. I get the feeling if BloodyTosser ever hit me, I'd be either out cold or sitting on the floor in a daze with a ring of twittering cartoon birds flying around my head. I better stay on her good side.
Labels: BloodyTosser, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot chicks, sportsmen
Daily Douchebag: Derek Jeter
DOB: June 26, 1974
Occupation: shortstop for the bastard-ass Yankees, ladies man, genital scourge of Hollywood
Hometown: Kalamazoo, Michigan via Pequannock Township, New Jersey
Current residence: New York, New York
Douchebaggery: Derek Jeter the Peter-Eater is already a major douchebag based on a simple and obvious fact: he plays for the fucking Yankees. In fact, he's the captain of the damn Yankees. My opinion of the New York Yankees is that they are somewhere between Hitler and the Devil himself in terms of atrocious, despicable, loathsome entities. I hate them and I would not cry if a nuclear bomb landed on the South Bronx today and destroyed Yankee Stadium. Well, I also probably also wouldn't cry because I live just over the Harlem River from there, and any such bomb would also destroy me, but I'd take comfort in knowing that the pinstriped legions of hell were annihilated before my own destruction even if I didn't have time to consider lamentation.
Anyway, when he's not sucking off Alex "Gay-Rod" Rodriguez, looking smug, or hawking annoying products like his perfume "Driven," Jeter likes to run around with a lot of prominent Hollywood beards on his arm. In the past, he's dated Mariah Carey, some Miss Universe from a few years ago, Jessica Biel, and Jessica Alba. It seems he left these ladies with more than just some fond memories about how he couldn't maintain an erection unless they spoke in a deep voice and let him call them "Alex." According to the gossip internets, a disgruntled former assistant of Jessica Alba is telling everyone that he had to fill her regular Valtrex prescription, an unfortunate consequence of her brief dalliance with the second biggest down-low poker player in Major League Baseball next to Gay-Rod himself.
Not that Derek Jeter is the only one spreading herpes all over Hollywood. I think everyone knows about this:
Nor is Jeter the only professional athlete to be freely sharing his genital ulcerations to his swooning fans. There's also dog-torturer Michael Vick, AKA Ron Mexico. Vick apparently gave the herp to some chick he was banging, and she sued his lesion-spattered ass for giving her herpes under cover of the alias "Ron Mexico." This inspired a number of creative customized Dirrty Birds jersey purchases, at least until NFLshop.com got wise and banned any jerseys saying "Ron Mexico" or "Herpes." Too bad, because that shit is funny. I bet by now they've also banned Falcons #7 jerseys saying "Pit Fighter" and "Puppy Murderer":
Anyway, since 21% of the population, including many in his combined industries of professional sports and media whoring have herpes, Derek's not alone in the VIP section of Club Simplex. As far as I'm concerned, that's just another reason for me to dislike him and stay as far away from him as possible, along with Jessica Alba, Jessica Schwarzenegger Biel, Mariah Carey, and all the various celebrity tramps he's flapped his soft penis against the thigh of. My brother Lil' Tevie, who is constantly vacillating between deciding whether Britney Spears circa 2001 or Jessica Alba is hotter, will now have a compelling reason to stop wearing that infernal Yankees cap that he sports sometimes (to the mortified shame of the rest of my family). I've always thought that Jessica Alba looks like her face got stung by a swarm of bees, and she seems like a stuck-up bitch, so Lil' Tevie's going to have to admit that her unholy union with one of Satan Steinbrenner's minions is strike three and declare that bitch out.
The professional sports teams need to get their act together with regard to their players spreading VD around the country. In particular, Steinbrenner needs to tell Jeter to keep his pustule-covered peen safely in his jockstrap and stop subjecting his hetero decoy girlfriends to its viral ravages. He needs to just quarantine himself with his poker buddies who probably all have it too, and quit infecting dumb sluts like Jessica Alba, who is probably giving it to (Brody Jenner/Cisco Adler/Jesse Metcalfe/Brandon Davis/insert name of vacuous D-list actor, musician, or heir here) as I write this. Stop the epidemic!
Labels: celebrities, Daily Douchebag, epidemic geekery, fuck the Yankees, sluts, viruses rule
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Single predator catchers are so kewl
I just received the following e-mail from JerseyGirl, who is a cable news producer:
So dude today and yesterday I've been working at Rockefeller Center. So I go to catch the elevator and who's waiting in the elevator banks .. but CHRIS HANSEN!!! I was so shocked. I walked out and we made eye contact and I was like a bumbling idiot, and I say "I just have to say, I am a HUGE fan!" and he was real cool and was like "aw, thanks so much" and then I said yeah my mom and I watch you all the time and he alerted me that there was a new one last night (didn't catch it though)...anyway it was so funny. He is really cute! I noticed now he doesn't wear his wedding band anymore
What? Chris Hansen is single? I was getting all hot and bothered last night watching him track human traffickers through Malaysia and the Philippines, but I figured he was off limits on account of his marital status. He is FINE!
However, now that he's single, I can find out his IM handle and start sending him all sots of seductive messages, like "m lookin 4 anal lol r u man enuf 4 me?" Maybe then at least he'll try to entrap me, jump out ready to moralize me, and I can be like, "Psych! I'm 28! So you want to fuck? I mean, do you want to mentor me?" And then he'll say yes and we'll go at it for hours and it will be really kewl. I'm going to have to get JerseyGirl to do some recon with regard to what his IM address is. Or at least figure out some way to invite me to a NBC news work party so I can put the moves on him in person. I haven't figured out what my seduction approach will be, but it will involve lots of laughing out loud, rolling on the floor laughing my ass off, and announcing that everything is sooper krazy kewl.
So dude today and yesterday I've been working at Rockefeller Center. So I go to catch the elevator and who's waiting in the elevator banks .. but CHRIS HANSEN!!! I was so shocked. I walked out and we made eye contact and I was like a bumbling idiot, and I say "I just have to say, I am a HUGE fan!" and he was real cool and was like "aw, thanks so much" and then I said yeah my mom and I watch you all the time and he alerted me that there was a new one last night (didn't catch it though)...anyway it was so funny. He is really cute! I noticed now he doesn't wear his wedding band anymore
What? Chris Hansen is single? I was getting all hot and bothered last night watching him track human traffickers through Malaysia and the Philippines, but I figured he was off limits on account of his marital status. He is FINE!
Labels: hot dudes, JerseyGirl, kewlness
Finally, an Olympics where I could medal
I didn't know these existed, but I am FOR SURE going to compete in the Summer Redneck Games next year. This decathlon of sorts for the trailer-dwelling rusty truck aficionados is the ultimate in athletic competition. Some of the events are as follows:
Mattress Chuck: teams of two pound a half-rack of Beast, climb into a pickup and DRIVE, then climb into the truck bed to throw a mattress from the moving truck as far as they can.
Ugly Buttcrack Contest: this is self-explanatory
Mudpit Belly Flop: contestants are judged on the distance, trajectory, and splash style of throwing themselves face-first into a hog wallow
Bobbing for Pigs' Feet (AKA "Fear Factor", Texas Style): it is unclear whether this is done in a bucket of water, or in the nasty, decades-old brine that pigs' feet are conventionally embalmed in
Hubcap Hurl: basically its Olympic discus throwing meets a yard of rusting vehicles mounted on cinderblocks and in various states of oxidizing decay
Seed Spittin' Contest: the modern, less carcinogenic version of the tobacky-spittin' contest, competitors are judged both on distance and accuracy
Armpit Serenade: for those with less athletic and more musical inclinations, this tests the contestants' abilities to create armpit-based arrangements of Toby Keith's "Beer for my Horses."
Redneck Horseshoes: the classic picnic game of horseshoes, using toilet seats in place of the actual horseshoe
Starter Toss: shot-put with the starter of an 80s model American-made car
Tampon Toss: for the ladies only, this is hammer-throwing with a waterlogged poon plug (didn't the lead singer of L7 do this at a concert one time, shouting something like "eat my used tampon, fuckers!" while throwing her bloody mess into the audience? They're lucky she wasn't competing)
Spam Eating Contest: GROSS! But I bet Kobayashi or Joey Chestnutt could clean up in this one.
Bill Foster and Tommy Patton Invitational Wet T-Shirt Contest: they provide regulation wife-beaters to ensure that none of the broads involved cheat with a more sheer trashtastic top than the already extremely threadbare ones provided
Redneck Car Bash: There is no apparent "winner" to this one, but it allows a bunch of good ol' boys to take out their aggressions against foreign automakers and their high-falutin' "safety features" by bashing the hell out of a Volvo with sledgehammers and baseball bats
These contests are apparently wildly popular in Georgia, so some guy in Texas decided to host his own version of this contest on his property. The "Mattress Chuck" event drew the attention of police since it obviously involves drinking and driving one's rig around, and resulted in 54 people being arrested for everything from DUI to public intoxication to general charges of misdemeanor hellraisin'.
"I'm an ol' fuddy duddy and all that, but you got a vehicle, you got alcohol, you got illegal dumping, and you're making a contest out of that? We are very fortunate we didn't have a fatality," said party pooping Lieutenant Pat McWilliams of the local sheriff's department.
Lameass. Of course, I'd probably spend all my time competing in the Tampon Toss and the Bill Foster and Tommy Patton Invitational Wet T-Shirt contest (assuming I've got sufficiently appealing fun bags to warrant an invitation, but I've got faith that my girls are up to par) and avoid the Mattress Chuck. I'm from Puyallup, and out in the unincorporated part of Pierce County where I'm from, there's plenty of ATV-ridin' and truck muddin' going on, events usually occurring in concert with drunk driving and illegal dumping, but I've never actually done any of that. In fact, I once tried to drive an ATV sober and crashed it into a tree. I'd avoid the Mattress Chuck (along with the spam-eating, starter toss, and "Fear Factor," Texas Style events), but in almost every other event, I think I could be a real contender. I've never been much of an athlete, but I think I could be victorious when pitted against a mob of toothless, unshaven, inbred, jaundiced knuckle draggers in Git R Done orange camo hunting hats drunk on Natty Light. Seriously, when Pierce County organizes one of these, I could probably kick ass in locally flavored competitions like meth cookin' (even though meth's not my scene, I did take two years of chemistry and have mad skills with a Bunsen burner, and I know better than to stick my face over a pot of boiling anhydrous ammonia without personal protective equipment), Rainier shotgunnin', cow tippin', America-lovin', graveyard-fuckin' (I almost got arrested once in high school for doing that), and salmon guttin'.
I may never make it to the Olympics for my prowess at legitimate athletic contests, but I have high hopes that I could dominate the women's bracket at the Redneck Games. When is this shit coming to a vacant lot, gun range, or ATV park near my parents' house? I want in.
Mattress Chuck: teams of two pound a half-rack of Beast, climb into a pickup and DRIVE, then climb into the truck bed to throw a mattress from the moving truck as far as they can.
Ugly Buttcrack Contest: this is self-explanatory
Mudpit Belly Flop: contestants are judged on the distance, trajectory, and splash style of throwing themselves face-first into a hog wallow
Bobbing for Pigs' Feet (AKA "Fear Factor", Texas Style): it is unclear whether this is done in a bucket of water, or in the nasty, decades-old brine that pigs' feet are conventionally embalmed in
Hubcap Hurl: basically its Olympic discus throwing meets a yard of rusting vehicles mounted on cinderblocks and in various states of oxidizing decay
Seed Spittin' Contest: the modern, less carcinogenic version of the tobacky-spittin' contest, competitors are judged both on distance and accuracy
Armpit Serenade: for those with less athletic and more musical inclinations, this tests the contestants' abilities to create armpit-based arrangements of Toby Keith's "Beer for my Horses."
Redneck Horseshoes: the classic picnic game of horseshoes, using toilet seats in place of the actual horseshoe
Starter Toss: shot-put with the starter of an 80s model American-made car
Tampon Toss: for the ladies only, this is hammer-throwing with a waterlogged poon plug (didn't the lead singer of L7 do this at a concert one time, shouting something like "eat my used tampon, fuckers!" while throwing her bloody mess into the audience? They're lucky she wasn't competing)
Spam Eating Contest: GROSS! But I bet Kobayashi or Joey Chestnutt could clean up in this one.
Bill Foster and Tommy Patton Invitational Wet T-Shirt Contest: they provide regulation wife-beaters to ensure that none of the broads involved cheat with a more sheer trashtastic top than the already extremely threadbare ones provided
Redneck Car Bash: There is no apparent "winner" to this one, but it allows a bunch of good ol' boys to take out their aggressions against foreign automakers and their high-falutin' "safety features" by bashing the hell out of a Volvo with sledgehammers and baseball bats
These contests are apparently wildly popular in Georgia, so some guy in Texas decided to host his own version of this contest on his property. The "Mattress Chuck" event drew the attention of police since it obviously involves drinking and driving one's rig around, and resulted in 54 people being arrested for everything from DUI to public intoxication to general charges of misdemeanor hellraisin'.
"I'm an ol' fuddy duddy and all that, but you got a vehicle, you got alcohol, you got illegal dumping, and you're making a contest out of that? We are very fortunate we didn't have a fatality," said party pooping Lieutenant Pat McWilliams of the local sheriff's department.
Lameass. Of course, I'd probably spend all my time competing in the Tampon Toss and the Bill Foster and Tommy Patton Invitational Wet T-Shirt contest (assuming I've got sufficiently appealing fun bags to warrant an invitation, but I've got faith that my girls are up to par) and avoid the Mattress Chuck. I'm from Puyallup, and out in the unincorporated part of Pierce County where I'm from, there's plenty of ATV-ridin' and truck muddin' going on, events usually occurring in concert with drunk driving and illegal dumping, but I've never actually done any of that. In fact, I once tried to drive an ATV sober and crashed it into a tree. I'd avoid the Mattress Chuck (along with the spam-eating, starter toss, and "Fear Factor," Texas Style events), but in almost every other event, I think I could be a real contender. I've never been much of an athlete, but I think I could be victorious when pitted against a mob of toothless, unshaven, inbred, jaundiced knuckle draggers in Git R Done orange camo hunting hats drunk on Natty Light. Seriously, when Pierce County organizes one of these, I could probably kick ass in locally flavored competitions like meth cookin' (even though meth's not my scene, I did take two years of chemistry and have mad skills with a Bunsen burner, and I know better than to stick my face over a pot of boiling anhydrous ammonia without personal protective equipment), Rainier shotgunnin', cow tippin', America-lovin', graveyard-fuckin' (I almost got arrested once in high school for doing that), and salmon guttin'.
I may never make it to the Olympics for my prowess at legitimate athletic contests, but I have high hopes that I could dominate the women's bracket at the Redneck Games. When is this shit coming to a vacant lot, gun range, or ATV park near my parents' house? I want in.
Labels: crime and punishment, I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, PWT, ridiculous absurdity
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: the tick that bit George W. Bush
DOB: ??? 2006?
Occupation: blood-sucking, reproducing, transmitting Borrelia burgdorferi
Hometown: Crawford, Texas
Current residence: Crawford, Texas? Is it even still alive?
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: In a stupid stunt probably intended to distract people from the other, more important things they refuse to disclose (like everything involving Alberto Gonzales), the White House revealed today that last year, President Bush was treated for Lyme disease after a tick bite sustained whilst ridin' round his ranch on his mountain bike. I hate President Bush, so I wanted to shake that tick's hand (or antenna, I guess). Granted, the tick probably immediately died after taking a blood meal from Bush, since I presume that his circulatory system is imbued with the infinite destructive power of Satan himself and thus deadly to any parasitic insects in the neighborhood, but still. That tick is awesome.
It would be great if Bush got Lyme disease. Lyme disease is an infection of Borrelia burgdorferi, a spirochaete (corkscrew-shaped bacteria) that can be treated during the acute phase with antibiotics. If left untreated, a variety of unpleasant things can happen, the most common being a debilitating form of autoimmune-mediated arthritis. People who get Lyme disease are usually assholes, although I should state here that this generalization is based solely on seeing that chick who got slapped on "The Real World: Seattle" act like a dumb, whiny bitch until she left the show. My "only assholes get Lyme disease" theory is borne out by President Bush being treated for it, and the fact that I once also had a suspicious bite. The characteristic mark of acute B. burgdorferi infection is a distinctive "bulls-eye" rash around the bite.
"What? Is that urgent?" she asked.
"It's an infected tick bite, and since I don't fancy getting crippling arthritis, I want an antibiotic shot."
The receptionist put me on the short list of walk-ins, probably just to get me out of her face. The doctor took one look at my chart and said, "What department are you in again?"
"Microbiology."
"Ah, yes. I know what you think you have."
"Well, my rash seems to be spreading, it's classic erythema migrans. And it looks like a bulls-eye!"
She examined it and based on a few features, determined it was merely a bad reaction to a mosquito bite, but told me to come back if it kept spreading. "Obviously, you are qualified to determine in several days if it's worth a trip back here." It didn't spread, so it wasn't going to become Lyme disease, but nonetheless, it would bolster my "only assholes get Lyme disease" epidemiological theory.
Anyway, President Bush is lame, so it would be rad if this tick made him physically lame as well as politically. Whatever tick decided to hop into his sock as he pedaled by on his Cannondale deserves the Congressional Medal of Honor, even though his attempts at Lyming up the prez failed. He/she sets an example of bravery against tyranny for us all. USA! USA! Hope still shines on the possibility of some other kickass American hero tick getting lucky in the future. Spokeman Scott Stanzel advised that it's "not uncommon" for Bush to get bitten while riding around his property, so let's all cheer for the next eight-legged, bloodsucking, brush-dwelling, pathogen-spreading hotness to bite him on the chode or somewhere that the bulls-eye rash will be more undetectable. You go, Lone Star ticks!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, epidemic geekery, politics, science, tyrannical rulers
Daily Douchebag: Hung Huynh
DOB: Sometime in 1978
Occupation: contestant on "Top Chef," conceited snob
Hometown: Pittsfield, Assachusetts
Current residence: Las Vegas, Nevada
Douchebaggery: I thought I was the only loser I know who watches "Top Chef" on Bravo. It's no "Project Runway," nor is it "Hell's Kitchen" featuring the hot profanity-barking Scotsman Gordon Ramsay, but I watch it nonetheless. I like how head judge Chef Tom Colicchio hardly ever says anything nice about anyone. You could put a plate of nectar and ambrosia fit for Zeus in front of him, and he'll say something like, "Well, it's cooked perfectly, and it tastes delicious, but don't you think this was playing it a little SAFE? Isn't this really TAKING THE EASY WAY OUT? This is a competition, and perfectly executed food for the gods just isn't going to cut it." He's doubly bitchy when either Anthony Bourdain or the food guy from "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" is on, and I love watching people squirm under his withering gaze. Add to it Salman Rushdie's ex-wife and model/cookbook author Padma Lakshmi, who smiles all the time but can dish out some withering criticism should anything she doesn't like cross her palate. Anyway, it's great trashy reality competition TV, and as of last weekend, LL Cool Jew is now hooked on this show as well. Just like when we were roommates and used to watch "Survivor" and "The Apprentice" together, we now watch "Top Chef," except we converse by text message. This usually goes as follows:
LL Cool Jew: R u watchin top chef?? Caseys so pissed!
Razzy: I hate hung
LL Cool Jew: Dude we r dealin w/ hung another week. Howies team is going 2 elimination. They sucked
Razzy: Totz
Razzy: Dude i think brians hot...hes got a grant show thing going on
LL Cool Jew: Brian IS hot! I said so 2 bigbagel this weekend but he protested. Even tho he does have that lil artfaggy "imperiale"
Razzy: Brians soul patch sucks
LL Cool Jew: Padma practically puked when she tasted the cuban samich. Tre kicked ass w/ his bacon-wrapped shrimp n cheesy grits
Razzy: The medianoche was ill-advised
Razzy: Cheesy grits...mmm
LL Cool Jew: Tre wins after saying how much he admires the black chef! 2 wins in a row 4 tre!!!
Razzy: Yeah, but "up north"? How is Miami "up north"? (Tre had said he wanted to expose the people "up north" to Southern cooking)
LL Cool Jew: Quick--sara or howie? (This was her request for my elimination prediction).
Razzy: Howie
As usual, I got my prediction wrong, and Sara was eliminated. I always wrongly predict the winner of contest reality shows. However, whether Sara or Howie went home, I won't be happy until they cut Hung's bitch ass. If you watch "Top Chef", you probably don't even need an explanation as to why I can't fucking stand Hung. He's arrogant, irritating, and obnoxious, and I don't think anyone wants some damn sous chef telling them what they should like. Hung got on my nerves from day one. He acts like he fucking invented sashimi, and while sometimes he turns out some deliciousness, sometimes he tries too damn hard. Last night during an ice cream challenge, he sneered at everyone else who was adding berries and nuts, and made an ice cream with tempura coating, some kind of nasty gelee, and white chocolate-cauliflower foam. CAULIFLOWER! Then, when the guest judge and Padma the hot host didn't like it, he criticized their sense of taste and bitched that they wanted something "less original" than his fucking ten treasures mess of nastiness.
He really got on my bad side around week three or so, when the contestants had to reinvent traditional American comfort food. He said that fried chicken, mac 'n' cheese, chicken and dumplings, tuna casserole, etc. were "disgusting" and spent the entire episode trashing on my nation's cuisine. He was so pissed that he was being forced to make such gauche food, reminding everyone, "I don't CREATE foods with butter and cream, my style is light and flavorful and far superior to this middle-class suburban trash." Okay, he didn't say exactly that, but it was in that vein. I was literally shouting from my couch at the TV, "Don't FUCK with tuna casserole, you snobby little bitch!" Another time, he was running around the kitchen with a knife and almost stabbed Casey, then failed to apologize for nearly running her through with the blade of his French chef. He acts like he is the only one with any talent or ability, and therefore is the only one with any right to be there. He also can't take criticism. Once some famous chef (Barton G. Weiss, I believe) didn't like an appetizer he made, and he scoffed, "OBVIOUSLY he wasn't able to comprehend the concept." On the bright side, his insufferable pomposity and inability to listen to more accomplished chefs than him and learn from his mistakes will probably cost him the contest down the road, but in the meantime, his despicable presence is driving me insane.
It's no coincidence that Hung went to culinary school with Marcel from "Top Chef" season two. Marcel was this overcoiffed, ugly little asshole whose signature was using a variety of lab chemicals to make a pantheon of nasty espumas. He was always comparing his knives to the other people's (seriously), and spouting off a bunch of pretentious bullshit about his training in "molecular gastronomy." Hung and Marcel obviously took social skills lessons from the same friendless food-snob jerkoff because like his colleague and predecessor, everyone hates Hung.
Furthermore, Hung is from Pittsfield, Ass, a charming mountain town that boasts the largest known soil contamination of toxic polychlorinated biphenyls thanks to the GE plant there. Much as everyone I've ever met from Buffalo, NY is hot, everyone I've ever met from Pittsfield is a passive-aggressive, duplicitous prick. My college lab partner was from there, and moved to Seattle after graduation. I got her a job at the company where I worked, which was the last time I do that for someone I don't know very well. When I told my friend Wmania (her former roommate) I had done this, she exclaimed, "WHY? That bitch is out of her fucking mind. She is UNSTABLE, Razzy! She's probably not even any good at cloning or whatever it is you do." Wmania's warning was realized when this chick reminded me why I did the bulk of our lab work back in Bacteriology class at Smith (dumb bitch couldn't even execute a simple Gram stain, which I could probably train one of my dogs to do). As soon as she started, she demonstrated her ineptitude at bench work, refused to be trained, contaminated several large scale cultures (each contamination being a $20,000 dollar mistake) because of her inability to grasp sterile technique, sustained a needle stick when she stuck her hand into a sharps container to retrieve a lost $5 calculator, and instead of congratulating me on the promotion I got several months after she started, began a two-year campaign of anti-Razzy image tarnishment out of jealousy. Once she actually tattled on me to the Chief Business Officer of the company for calling her "annoying" in an email, and the CBO (who was later fired for embezzling and trying to usurp the CEO's position...obviously they were kindred spirits) actually forced me to apologize to the bitch. Her bad attitude eventually caught up with her, as she was eventually laid off, rehired on contract for a different department, fired, rehired on contract for yet another department, and quit, only to be fired from her next job. That's my standard for Pittsfield people, and Hung is living up to it. I think all that industrial waste in the soil there makes people the most atrocious human beings they can possibly be.
If you don't want to take it from me or watch "Top Chef" to see for yourself, just take a gander at Hung's MySpace. The profile's pretty spare, but all you need to do is look at the picture section to see what a fucktard he is. The entire gallery is Hung looking serious as he makes one of his faggy Asian fusion masterpieces. I also think that anyone who takes one of these black-and-white subway riding pictures deserves automatic hatred:
Ooooo, LOOK! I'm on the SUBWAY, just like a real hipster douchebag, which is why I look somewhat wistful, yet contemptuous. Where's his messenger bag and the Kierkegaard book he's pretending to read? I'd take one look at this asshole taking a picture of himself posing like this on the damn R train and immediately conclude one thing: SMALL PENIS. Posturing like he's some avant-garde, mind-blowingly sophisticated food and taste connoisseur only highlights the fact that he's hung like a fucking shrimp.
Hung needs to pack his knives and go, already.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, gluttony, overcompensation, small penises, TV
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Daily Douchebag: Barry Bonds
DOB: July 24, 1964
Occupation: Left fielder for the San Francisco Giants, steroid aficionado, perjurer
Hometown: Riverside, California
Current residence: San Francisco, California
Douchebaggery: Last night, Barry Bonds hit 756 beat Hank Aaron's career home run record, which wasn't a big surprise. However, he could hit 10,000 home runs and I'd still think he was a BIG FUCKING CHEATER, so it might as well have not happened at all.
Barry Bonds is one of these assholes who will never admit to taking steroids even though EVERYONE knows he did. His trainer ran BALCO, the nation's leader in sneaky banned performance-enhancing substances, and pled guilty to distributing illegal anabolic steroids. This same trainer was hooking up half the heavy hitters in the major leagues with designer hormones. Furthermore, his ex-girlfriend claimed he had all sorts of bacne and rage problems consistent with steroid use, and that he all but outright admitted using them to her. Barry Bonds, however, dodges inquiries regarding that by being a dick about it. In 2002, he said, "Doctors ought to quit worrying about what ballplayers are taking. What players take doesn't matter. It's nobody else's business." Sure, it's nobody's business if you're taking something for a damn enlarged prostate or some other medical condition, but it is most certainly everyone's business if what you're taking is something along the lines of designer human growth hormone shots in the ass that HELP YOU CHEAT!
One of his favorite ways of handling all the negative steroid press is to play the victim and remind people that there are other issues in the world. "What did I do? What did I do? What are you going to apologize for when you're wrong? This is old stuff. I mean, it's like watching 'Sanford and Son.' It's just rerun after rerun after rerun. It's almost comical, basically. We've got alcohol that's the No. 1 killer in America, and we legalize that. You've got tobacco, No. 2 or 3 killer in America. We legalize that. There's other issues." What you did, Barry, was tell a federal grand jury that your longtime trainer rubbed mystery creams and clear liquids into your arms and then claim it was Ben-Gay and flaxseed oil. If you allow a trainer under investigation for providing designer drugs to athletes in all areas of sport to administer unknown "supplements" to you and you don't even ask him what it is, AND everyone already suspects you of using steroids, then you are seriously remiss for not questioning what he's administering. Take some damn responsibility like a man and quit blaming other people for your own transgressions. Also, thanks for reminding everyone that steroid use by MLB players isn't the only issue in the world. I don't think anyone was saying that cheating among overpaid professional athletes was a more important issue than alcohol, tobacco, Hurricane Katrina, cancer, or any of the other red herrings he's attempted to distract people with. However, just because it's not the most critical issue facing humanity, does that mean that you should just be allowed to take your tetrahydrogestrinone in peace and not answer to charges that you lied to a federal grand jury? That's like saying that because there's a war in Iraq, muggers shouldn't be prosecuted because there are other more important issues. Just because Barry Bonds doesn't think he's wrong doesn't mean that he's right and should be left alone based on not being the number one problem facing humanity.
In 2005, he seemed to almost admit that he knew about "the cream" and "the clear" that were supposedly his only unwitting forays into performance-enhancing substances. "You're talking about something that wasn't even illegal at the time. All this stuff about supplements, protein shakes, whatever. Man, it's not like this is the Olympics." No, it's not the Olympics, Barry, but it IS our fucking national pasttime, which makes cheating--whether with an illegal substance or a not-yet-illegal one--just as fucking bad. Later that year, he added, "The fact that someone should write in the newspaper is, I've never failed a drug test." That would be because MLB didn't drug test prior to 2003, and most of the substances touted by BALCO were customized steroids specifically designed to pass detection by conventional drug testing. Every time this pompous, arrogant jackass opens his mouth, I'm more convinced of his culpability.
Just engrave that asterisk next to his Hall of Fame plaque already and be done with it. 756 home runs, courtesy of BALCO Labs!
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, sportsmen
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Dennis Kucinich
Name: Dennis John Kucinich
DOB: October 8, 1946
Occupation: congressman, socialist, presidential candidate
Hometown: Cleveland, Ohio
Current residence: Cleveland and Washington, DC
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Let me preface this by saying that I never, EVER thought I would utter words expressing any kind of desire for Dennis Kucinich. In the last election, he was a disagreeable, whiny crybaby with crazy ideas and even worse, he's a damn VEGAN and he's drafting some bullshit legislation to ban handguns. However, after seeing last night's candidates' debate, I surmised that this time around, he's still got crazy ideas, but he's FUCKING HILARIOUS.
In his closing statement, he called himself "the Seabiscuit of this campaign," getting some laughs right before coming out of the gate with "the first thing I will do as president is immediately withdraw from the WTO and NAFTA." He followed that by a minute-long soliloquy about his socialist agenda, and I was practically holding my sides with laughter. I realize that last night's debate was the AFL-CIO debate and thus heavy on the health care/pension/labor-type issues, but Kucinich used "the workers" to address the American people so many times that I thought he'd been transported through space and time from Red October to Soldier Field.
He actually said that he wants a "workers' White House." He may as well show up for the next debate in a damn Che Guevara shirt. Since when was pinko rhetoric in style? Never, here in the United States of Asskickery, but that isn't going to stop Kucinich from using it. He's a twinkly eyed, cheerful, hyperactive, puckish commie gnome (or possibly a variety of elf or sprite), and he thinks it's cute. His politics may be absurd and ridiculous (wait until you hear him go off on space-based weapons, like chemtrails, particle beams, electromagnetic radiation, plasmas, extremely low frequency radiation, and mind-control technology...it's like he's opposing an episode of "Star Trek"), but he's funny as hell. I pray that Kucinich makes it deep into the Democratic primaries, because I can't get enough of his hyperactive crackpot crazy.
Labels: crazies, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, politics, United States of Asskickery
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Hottest. Swimsuits. Ever.
The internets alerted me to the fact that the market for Mennonite-inspired swimwear is untapped, because there is a company called Wholesome Wear devoted exclusively to providing "swimwear that highlights the face rather than the body." Apparently, the demand for bathing suits straight out of the Victorian era is not being met, as "the need for modesty in swimwear is greatest and the supply is almost non-existent." Hence this appalling sack of spandex and Taslan, which "limits cling and adds modesty and style." Translation: it makes you look like a fat baby machine in some type of prudish religious cult that likes to swim in synthetic Liederhosen. Somehow I don't expect to see many of these making the cut during the next season of "Project Runway" unless the modesty-loving cult who inspired them somehow manages to slip Michael Kors some of their Kool-Aid.
Hmm, I don't think I'll be plunking down a whopping $71 for one of these soon. Despite the website's talk of "swimming ease," I bet that a string bikini is easier. Then again, I'd go to beach naked if I could. Swimming doesn't get any easier than skinny dipping, and I hate tan lines. Can you imagine the farmer's tan from hell that these "culotte", "slimming," and "skirted" styles result in? It's bikini or less all the way for me. Besides, if I feel like covering up at the beach, I just hide behind a hot guy like so:
My modesty strategy is considerably better.
Labels: hilarious shit, Project Runway, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity
When I enter the political fray...
...this is the type of action my constituents can expect from me. For the first time EVER, I wish that I lived in Cleveland, Ohio's 11th Ward, because I'd feel comforted knowing that my political hero was going to bat for me. The Smoking Gun has a copy of what may be the finest piece of correspondence EVER between city councilman and crackhead.
When I was in the gifted program in grade school, mock city council was a year-long project we worked on. I had eschewed running for mayor despite the sexy title, because I knew that as the chair of the council, I could have more power in terms of passing fake ordinances for parallel universe Puyallup that we governed. I got an A thanks to a vicious verbal beat-down I administered to one of the non-ambitious kids playing a townsperson on account of a bullshit, fascist dog control proposal he presented to the council. If there had been a fictional epidemic of gang-related crack dealing occurring at a Circle K in my district, I like to think that I would have been writing vitriolic shit to the perpetrators as well. Councilman Michael D. Polensek is my new political hero.
I looked him up online (assuming he would be a hot piece of ass) and discovered that he's been on the city council since 1977, is a proud product of the Cleveland Municipal School system, and doesn't fuck around when it comes to crime, as evidenced by the above letter. I was also right about that hot piece of ass part.
Okay, maybe he looks a little like the bastard child of Steve Carell and David Gest, but only in SOME pictures.
I'd just tell him to put on his serious city council face and let him hit it from the back. I'd also insist that he call me shit like "Mr. Quarterback loser" and "piece of trash" because I bet that crime fighting tongue-lasher makes mean dirty talk SEXY. Michael Polensek may be one of the greatest American politicians ever to have lived. Why isn't his "dumb stupid ass" (by "dumb stupid" I mean "obscenely attractive") running for president? I'd take him over Obama or Hillary or Giuliani or whoever else (I'd say McCain here also, but things aren't looking so hot for him these days) any day. He gets my vote for letter-writing skills alone.
I looked him up online (assuming he would be a hot piece of ass) and discovered that he's been on the city council since 1977, is a proud product of the Cleveland Municipal School system, and doesn't fuck around when it comes to crime, as evidenced by the above letter. I was also right about that hot piece of ass part.
Labels: correspondence, crime and punishment, hot dudes, politics, retard rage, ridiculous absurdity
Daily Douchebag: Les Stroud
DOB: October 20, 1962
Occupation: "Survivorman," amateur musician
Hometown: Mimico, Ontario
Current residence: Huntsville, Ontario
Douchebaggery: Les Stroud is the host of "Survivorman" on the Discovery Channel, which last night I had the misfortune of watching. I think these survival shows are stupid, because even though they're billed as the "realistic" answer to reality shows like "Survivor," the hosts of them always OBVIOUSLY prepare for whatever remote location they're supposed to be teaching people to survive in. I already know how to survive in cold places thanks to the movie Alive: eat the dead. And in case of being stranded in the tropics, it's not a fucking secret that coconuts are edible or that they have water inside them. The Discovery Channel needs a new mandate (ie: year-round "Deadliest Catch") other than hiring obnoxious hippies to teach people who take adventure vacations how to survive in case they get lost trying to get back to their resorts.
I didn't think it was possible to hate one of these annoying survival guys more than I hate the hotel-staying faker "Man vs. Wild" host Bear Grylls, but I stand corrected. At least Bear Grylls was in the British Special Forces and did break his back once, even if he does turn the cameras off at night, break out of whatever shiteous shelter he's constructed, and check into whatever nearby establishment offers turndown service. Les Stroud has literally no credentials other than being "a frostbitten Canadian boy," as he constantly reminds viewers. I wish he'd get frostbite, and preferably on his mouth, because nothing would make me happier than seeing his ugly, grinning, leering lips frozen off and preventing him from talking or hosting a TV show.
He's married to some wilderness-loving hippie fruitcake, and from what I can tell, the only cool thing he's ever done was assistant-direct a damn Rush video. That achievement was canceled out by his assistant directing a Corey Hart video, and NOT "I Wear My Sunglasses at Night." Some other Corey Hart song nobody's heard of. He also is a musician himself, as he often demonstrates by performing a variety of bluesy harmonica numbers on "Survivorman." His debut CD is one of the gayest things I've ever seen:
Labels: Daily Douchebag, oh the horror, overcompensation, sportsmen, Survivor, you're ugly
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: the Matawan Creek shark
