Saturday, September 29, 2007

 

Super, SUPER Saturday

I woke up early this morning like a little kid on Christmas, because today something supremely awesome is going down: I'm getting together with my bitches to drink beer, blow on some trees, eat pizza, and watch "Beverly Hills, 90210" (AKA "Nine-o" AKA "Bev Niner" AKA the BEST SHOW in the entire HISTORY of television) season 2 DVDs!!!!!!!!!--wait, I need more exclamation points to truly convey my feelings about this--!!!!!!!!!!!!!

We already had a Bev Niner day when the season 2 DVDs dropped in May, but decided we could not wait until December 11th when season 3 (containing the infamous "Donna Martin graduates!" episode and multiple instances where David Silver overcomes racial tensions by rapping) is released. When we did this in May, I woke up at the ass crack of dawn and started calling my fellow Bev Niner aficionados and the calls all went something like this:

Rack: 'Sup, Raz?
Razzy: What it do? Did I wake you up?
Rack: Nah, man, I'm at a pub.
Razzy: A pub at 10 a.m. Nice. Are you watching soccer or something?
(Rack loves foreigners--such as her current British boyfriend OldGuy--so she keeps abreast of decidedly un-American sports like soccer).
Rack: It's FOOTBALL, Raz.
Razzy: Soccer.
Rack: Football.
Razzy: Soccer.
Rack: Anyway, this could go on all day. BT-dubs, there's a hobbit here.
Razzy: A what?
Rack: A HOBBIT, dude. Like from your favorite movies.
Razzy: Really? Which one?
Rack: Pippin, maybe? I don't know...the one that's on "Lost" now.
Razzy: Oh, that's Merry. Go take a picture with him, I'll put it on my blog.
Rack: I'll try, it's pretty packed in here. Anyway, what time are you going to JerseyGirl's?
Razzy: A-fucking-SAP. Dude, I'm so excited.
Rack: Me too!
Razzy: Dude, I watched disc 4 the other night, and I just about had an orgasm it was so fucking hot.
Rack: Dude, I'm totally excited.
Razzy: Okay, JerseyGirl's on the other line, I'll see you around 12:30. Try to get a picture with Merry Brandybuck.
Rack: I'll do my best. Bye.
(I click over to the other line.)
Razzy: DUDE! ARE YOU FUCKING EXCITED?!
JerseyGirl: DUDE! Oh my God, YES!
Razzy: I couldn't resist, I had to watch some the other night, and can I just tell you how fucking rad this is?
JerseyGirl: We HAVE to start with the episode where Emily Valentine slips U4EA into Brandon's drink at the underground club.
Razzy: Well, that's episode 3 on disc 4, but I have to tell you, the whole thing is the money DVD of the entire collection. Episode 1 on that is "Halloween," where Kelly gets dumped and goes to this party as the sluttiest witch in the history of Halloween costumes.
JerseyGirl: Uh huh...
Razzy: And then Brenda and everyone else are all, "Don't you think you're asking for trouble?" and Kelly's like, "Loosen up! If I can handle my mom's epic coke-and-booze binges at the mother-daughter fashion show, I can handle this outfit."
JerseyGirl: And then she almost gets date raped again, right?
Razzy: Totally...by this USC frat boy dressed as a Wild West gunslinger, who never gets out of character even when he's trying to force himself on her. He's all, "Well, that there dress don't look like you're sayin' no to me, lil' darlin'." It's some quality acting.
JerseyGirl: And Steve Sanders beats his ass for calling Kelly a slut! God, I love Steve.
Razzy: YES! And I so concur. Anyway, then in the NEXT episode Scott shoots himself in front of David Silver, and then is the infamous U4EA episode, and then Emily Valentine goes crazy and steals Brandon's vintage "Walsh '87" Minnesota Twins World Series jersey and tries to burn down the homecoming float while Brenda and Dylan practically fuck in the audience at the symphony.
JerseyGirl: What episode is the one where Jim Walsh catches Dylan and Brenda making out in the shower at the Beverly Hills Beach Club?
Razzy: I think that's before...disc 1 is the "summer season". God, Jim Walsh is the worst father ever. He had such egregious double standards for Brandon and Brenda.
JerseyGirl: I fucking HATE Jim Walsh. He was so unfair. Holy shit. I'm SO excited. Get your ass over here at 12:30 sharp.
Razzy: Oh, fa sho! I'll be there with the DVDs and a sixer of Heine.
JerseyGirl: Awesome.

Rack, JerseyGirl, and JerseyGirl's friend Senioritis feel me so hard on the Bev Niner tip. We keep talking about making a video for my blog called "Mystery Science Theater 90210", where we'll just tape ourselves watching Niner and commenting on it. This may actually happen today now that I figured out how to use my MacBook's webcam. Our knowledge of this show is so fucking encyclopedic we should all get honorary doctorates in it, and between the four of us, we may have seen every episode from all ten seasons at least five times each. JerseyGirl and I send each other texts all the time that are like, "Dylan, you're scaring me!" and "Dammit, Dylan, if you're going to drink then get the hell out of my house!", and assorted other quotes derived from the tempestuous whirlwind of passion otherwise known as the coupling of Brenda Walsh and Dylan McKay.

We are so into this that we had to schedule another day--today--to rewatch the season 2's greatest hits because season 2 is just so hot. Bev Niner really came into its own during season 2. David Silver started becoming cool (aided by his geeky childhood best friend Scott's convenient accidental demise by self-inflicted gunshot wound, and his father the oral surgeon's affair with Kelly's now-sober ex-Farley Girl mom Jackie) and begins his disc jockeying career spinning for the West Beverly PA system, Kelly hones her chops as Beverly Hills' resident snotty rich cunt, Donna discovers her mother's terrible secret while stalking Color Me Badd at the Bel Age Hotel, Steve confronts his adoption issues, Brandon engages in the ill-fated torrid affair with the verifiably insane Emily Valentine, Brenda ups her typical volatile and unreasonable bitchiness to a whole new level, Andrea Zuckerman becomes even more annoying and self-righteous as she tackles heavy issues like the Holocaust, gun control, and AIDS, and Dylan copes with his abandonment issues by falling off the wagon, surfing, porking Brenda, having increasingly frequent fits of rage, and wearing very ill-advised sleeveless Baja jackets:

In fairness, it's hard to make fun of Dylan's early-90s SoCal surfer clothes or those super dated Vuarnet shades he's rocking when Steve Sanders is showcasing his muscle definition by posing like a ballerina with a pair of O.P. short-shorts and a surfboard. And that's nothing compared to the fashions the ladies are sporting:

Love the fucking ruffled peasant blouse that Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman's trying to youth it up with in this picture. It's too bad it doesn't change the fact that she looks like a 36-year-old mother of two who drives a minivan instead of a socially challenged yet earnest and perky 17-year-old editor of the West Beverly Blaze. She doesn't get to sex it up like Kelly and Donna, with their underwire Laura Ashley floral pattern bikinis.

If you don't decide to spend the rest of the day watching "Beverly Hills, 90210" (which by now you have undoubtedly decided to purchase and place in a place of honor, like right by your Bible or dictionary or integrals table or copy of The Sun Also Rises or whatever you consider an absolute essential), then you have really, really fucked priorities. I'm watching this morning's Niner reruns on SoapNet to prefunk. Bev Niner FOREVER!

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# posted by Razzy @ 9:00 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Friday, September 28, 2007

 

I hella heart Tacoma prostitutes

So I've spent much of the morning scanning the news. Things have been succeeding for me SMASHINGLY in lab (seriously, my PI told me yesterday that I will graduate in a year OR LESS, and this is news so great I can't even really adequately begin rejoicing about it), so I decided to spend a leisurely morning checking up on what's happening back in the P-N-Dub.

I started reading an article from our fine local newspaper, the Tacoma News Tribune, entitled "Crackdown on Pacific Avenue." This article detailed all the police and community efforts to stop hookers from getting their meth money on the south end of Pacific Ave, which is crappy crime central. In addition to ample private establishments and clubs (read: dilapidated and/or abandoned buildings) dealing in the thriving meth and crack trades, there is more herpetic, nasty pussy for sale on this stretch than anywhere else in Tacoma (although South Tacoma Way FOR SURE can give Pac Ave a run for its money in places). However, people who have moved into the neighborhood have decided to take a bite out of crime, and now they are working with extra police patrols to clean up the streets.

Apparently, there's been an influx of hookers to Pac Ave because "Tacoma is the place to be." Maybe for the working girls, but that's only because the johns clearly have no standards (and trust that is true, when I lived in Tacoma I got laid like crazy and was regarded as a great catch on account of not having bacne, hair extensions purchased at my neighborhood Bartell's drugstore, and a legitimate job...the men there really have no standards whatsoever). For example, here's a shot of one of Tacoma's finest hassling a lady of the night:

I hope that bitch isn't charging more than $5 for EVERYTHING, because even though I can't see her face, I can't imagine being a john and getting too excited about fucking the unkempt sack of skinny tits beneath this Streetwalker by Jordache ensemble. Aren't hookers supposed to be sexually compelling? I have a hard time believing that whenever she turns around and you can gaze upon her meth-ravaged countenance, she can really bring that extra bit of sexy. Wouldn't anyone in their right mind rather just go beat off than pay to get a blow job and FOR SURE get herpes (you know this whore's mouth probably looks like that "Ring of Fire" map of volcanic activity around the Pacific rim) from this hooker in an alley off the side of Tacoma City Blueprinting? The prostitution biz is indeed booming: Gary "the Green River Killer" Ridgeway is cooling his heels in maximum security so there are no current active hooker-murdering serial killers on the loose, and you can dress like the bitch above and still be briskly employed as a sex worker. Only in the City of Destiny.

I'm actually just worried about these hookers. Now that the cops and the local residents have taken a bite out of hooker crime, these women aren't going to have a whole lot of options, because I don't care what the cops say, bitches aren't peddling their undoubtedly infectious wares to pay for their college tuition. And since most of them look like the hot mess above, it's not like they can move on to anyplace besides possibly the overpass that Aileen Wuornos used to troll for johns under. These tramps are not even DIY webcam material, much less worthy of going on to work at the Mustang Ranch or Heidi Fleiss-type sex-for-money. They're not even very business savvy. Once HotLawyer told me he represented one of these unfortunate pros, who was arrested after she shouted at a nearby uniformed police officer, "Hey, Officer! Get out of here...you're scaring away my customers!" With brains like that, I don't see these ladies having much of a future, and that's sad. Poor Pacific Avenue hookers...my heart goes out to them.

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:21 AM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Naegleria fowleri


Name: Naegleria fowleri

DOB: Discovered in 1960s

Occupation: algae consumption, laying the necrotic inflammatory smack down on one's central nervous system

Hometown: discovered in Australia

Current residence: anywhere it's hot...like Arizona

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: A couple years ago, I went to a wedding in California (Dirty Hippie, a friend from my old job in Seattle). DirtyHippie and I were cubicle neighbors, and trust that I teased him mercilessly about his interests, fashion sense, and taste in music. He even shaved the dreadlocks he was attempting to rat into his hair because of my constant harping on how disgusting I thought it was. Anyway, because this dude is a semi-hippie, after the wedding, we all went camping at this hot spring about 20 miles outside Santa Barbara. I don't mind camping for one or two days, so long as it's car camping without much hiking, with ample beer, food, and coolers, and with access to a shower or some type of water source during the time. Even if I just give myself a whore's bath (heating up water in a pan, stripping down to your skivvies, and sponging yourself off with the water and whatever detergent is handy), I have to be able to carry out the most basic hygiene chores. I ask myself, "What would Lil' Kim do?", and I know that even if she was roughing it in the backcountry of southern California, she'd be keeping her pussy (and all her other plastic body parts) fresh.

Being aware that this was an extremely primitive campsite, I purchased an extra 5-gallon dispenser of purified water at the grocery store strictly for bathing. The morning after a drunken night of stumbling around in the darkness to find the hot spring, wading through streams, pissing in the woods, sleeping uncomfortably on hard ground, listening to the godawful Phish that my damn hippie friends liked, and consuming around four cases of Tecate, I brought my washing water to the hot spring, threw it in, and heated it up. While I was waiting for the water to heat, DirtyHippie and I were sitting around in the hot spring, and got to talking microbial pathogens. He's in medical school.

"Dude, have you ever heard of Naegleria fowleri?" he asked me.

"No," I said, somewhat perturbed. It's rare that someone drops the name of an infectious microbe that I don't know. "Is that a bacterium?" I'd never even heard of anything in genus Naegleria.

"It's a protozoan," he said. "It kills you by melting your brain!"

"Really?" I said. I was wondering if he was fucking with me, because surely I'd have heard of something causing such extreme pathology. "Are you kidding me? What do you mean by this 'brain-melting'? Give it to me in science."

"Amoebic meningoencephalitis. It's pretty rare. Something like only 6 cases have occurred in the last 10 years, and usually it's associated with some type of facial injury, like a broken nose or soft palate injury."

"Interesting," I said. "But you know me, I steer clear of those parasitic diseases. Viruses are my jam."

"Well, I bring it up because they're commonly associated with hot springs and other warm, standing freshwater bodies. So you might want to think twice before ducking your head under water."

"Like I'm bathing in this hot spring, hippie! I'm not ducking my head under anything unless it's a hot guy or this double distilled shower water I brought from the grocery store!"

I pretty much forgot about N. fowleri except that it had a very impressive mortality rate and was a reminder of why I don't like swimming in lakes, until TODAY.

As I was scanning the news this morning, I came across a local news story from Arizona, which led off with this graphic:

I remembered my conversation from two years ago with DirtyHippie, and read the article. As it turns out, N. fowleri has been fucking with the kids hard at Lake Havasu, and it's pretty much my hero pathogen of the day. First, it's wiping out kids, which I obviously approve of on account of my unmitigated hatred of children. Second, after being so rare that only 23 people were afflicted in ten years, there have been six cases so far this year alone. That's what those of us in the wild world of microbiology like to call an "emerging pathogen." It's like being the "It Girl" of the infectious disease scene. N. fowleri is the Sienna Miller (circa 2004) of neurotropic amoebic pathogens. So props to N. fowleri for transcending being merely the subject of a notecard they make med students memorize while studying for boards and achieving outbreak status! And keep culling those hordes of swimming children!

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:39 AM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Douchebag: Javier Pena and all his little DEA agents


Name: Young Jeezy would call them "federales" or "Alphabet boys"

Occupation: killing everyone's buzzes

Douchebaggery: Apparently the DEA has nothing better to do than come up with new ways to ruin everybody's fun. Check this article from KTVU:

Feds Bust Pot-Laced Munchies Operation

OAKLAND -- Federal agents have seized hundreds of marijuana-laced candies, approximately 460 marijuana plants, one handgun, an unknown amount of money in a series of raids in the East Bay, authorities announced Thursday.

Drug Enforcement Administration Special Agent in Charge Javier F. Pena said multiple federal search and arrest warrants had been served in an investigation of Tainted Inc., an Oakland-based company that makes pot-laced candies sold in cannabis clubs in the Bay Area, Los Angeles, Seattle, Vancouver and Amsterdam in the Netherlands.

Among the products seized were marijuana-laced chocolate candy bars in multiple flavors, cookies, ice cream, peanut butter, jelly, BBQ sauce, chocolate syrup, flavored energy drinks, granola bars, moon pies, brownies, chocolate covered pretzels, and "rice krispy" treats.

"Tainting candy and other products with marijuana is not sweet, it is criminal," Pena said. "These items could have harmful effects on a user, especially the unsuspecting ones. Manufacturing, distributing, and possessing marijuana-laced products is in clear violation of federal law."

Pena said the investigation began about two years ago and led to Wednesday's searches of Tainted Inc.'s factory, marijuana growing facility, the El Sobrante home of owner Michael Martin, the residence of several other Tainted employees and cars identified as being used in Tainted's operations.

Agents also arrested Jessica Sanders, 30, of San Leandro; Michael Anderson, 42, of Oakland and Diallo McLinn, 35, also of Oakland on distribution charges.

Meanwhile, federal agents said Martin was being considered a federal fugitive at large.
Special Agent in Charge Javier Pena is an ASSHOLE! For one thing, this is the first I've heard about cannabis clubs in Seattle. I mean, not like I'd go to such an establishment because I don't do drugs, but I bet they have really delicious hash browns there. I mean hash brownies! I mean...whatever. Anyway, one thing wherever these mystery dens of pot smoking (that now I'll probably never get to go to since I still don't know where they are besides my friend Mullah AntoniHo's house) in the P-N-Dub won't have are all the delicious, THC-filled snacks listed above. I didn't know you could make weed-laced "flavored energy drinks" but if it's Sugar Free Red Bull, I want to try it! For investigative purposes only, of course.

Furthermore, I could make one hell of a rack of Super Bowl Sunday ribs with that BBQ sauce that they've mentioned up there. Or one hell of a PB & J sandwich. But alas, now these amazing meals will never come to pass now that the buzzkilling federal government has ended the party. No more Buddafingas for all you hungry potheads (and damn, that sounds good):

I don't see what the big deal is. While I realize that "it's not sweet (a matter of opinion), it's criminal" and "a clear violation of federal law," I thought the DEA went after bigger shit, like terrorists smuggling heroin and cartels in Colombia. According to his biography, Javier Pena earned his DEA stripes by running the investigation into a little cocaine dealer in Medellin named Pablo Escobar, and now he's busting candy stashes? Sounds like the war on drugs these days is pretty chill if they have time to send their hot shit DEA dudes after a bunch of pot brownie manufacturers stupid enough to both incorporate their illegal food supply operation AND name it "Tainted, Inc." Or maybe it's because they're not getting anywhere trying to burn down the Afghan poppy fields and in order to seem like they're doing something useful that the media can cover, they just go obnoxiously bust up places like Tainted and take candy out of the mouths of hungry stoners.

This is reason #459 to elect me president in seven years when I turn 35. For starters, I'm going to straight-up end the war on drugs as we know it. I'll fire everyone at the DEA and replace their asses with the producers of "Intervention" and lobbyists for NORML (who will be looking for jobs anyway, since I plan to legalize marijuana...AND prostitution, but that's another issue). Actually, what am I talking about? I'm a libertarian. The DEA is getting entirely downsized. Javier Pena will have to resort to selling drugs for his livelihood and I'll laugh at the irony after I derail his career as a civil servant. Razzy 2012! Think about it, it could work. And I'm in the market for a President of Vice if anyone's interested. You must be clever, eloquent, decent in bed (sexing me at my whim will most definitely be part of the job), fond of trashy television, hate the Yankees and Shitsburgh Stealers, preferably named either Curtis Jackson or Robert Sylvester Kelly, and almost constitutively drunk and/or stoned. I'm now accepting applications: razzy@razzy.org.

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:41 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, September 27, 2007

 

Don't threaten Kells with a good time

It's like two of my favorite things got together and had a baby:

1. A Sylvester Films production starring the incomparable Robert Sylvester Kelly, Kid Rock, and Ludacris AKA the video for "Rock Star" (an awesome song in which R. Kelly--assuming the guise of mythic hero Hercules--promises to make his prospective sex partner's ass hurt by fucking her so hard she "think she's got the hiccups"). I'd also like to applaud the whole R.-Kelly-et-al-go-to-redneck-town-and-whip-the-trashy-white-chicks-into-a-frenzy theme, as that's pretty much like my ultimate fairy tale romance fantasy come true:


2. A cheap, drunk skank whore from Vh1's "Rock of Love with Bret Michaels"! In fact, it's the cheapest drunkest skank whore of them all...Tiffany, the unintelligible, babbling mess who would always overdo it with the vino and warn anyone crossing her path not to threaten her with a good time.


Apparently, this is supposedly Tiffany's ample "South Side booty" impressing Kells in the "Rock Star" video. I can't really tell, but Vh1 says so and I'll just go ahead and believe them.

Tiffany should get a bigger role in the next Sylvester Films production (and by bigger role I mean R. Kelly's romantic interest/ideal woman/main video ho), because her brand of crazy would complement the R-uh in R&B's brand of ridiculous like lube complements anal play. Seriously, Tiffany needs a part in "Trapped in the Closet" chapters 23+. I want to see what kind of drama she can bring to R. Kelly's corner of Chi-town. With an ass like that, you must be a rock star, baby! Hercules, Hercules!

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# posted by Razzy @ 9:31 AM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

De-Colonize this

Unfortunately, I sometimes get annoying e-mails from undergraduates at Columbia who are all caught up in the whole college activism thing. Granted, I think many of the activist causes are good ideas in theory, but usually the people who get into it are such a bunch of humorless, condescending jerkoffs that you end up rooting against them regardless of your beliefs in their mission to end racism, sexism, classism, ageism, homophobia, or whatever else. I was hoping that being in grad school for hard science would result in exposure primarily to people concerned about no cause other than their thesis who are too busy working to waste time being insufferable demagogues. Generally, this is the case, but every once in a while something comes up.

My first year, some girl used the grad school listserv to encourage everyone to go to Central Park and participate in some kind of anti-George Bush 5K fun run, and the three diehard Republicans went apeshit about using the listserv to facilitate whiny liberal propaganda or whatever. I'm also constantly getting e-mails about Columbia abusing eminent domain to take over part of Manhattanville, where they plan to build a slick new campus for all the neuroscience research because neuro is SO HOT right now. So long as Dinosaur BBQ stays in business, I could care less. They have awesome ribs and brisket. Anyway, every once in a blue moon, some campus organization sends something that is so unbelievably stupid that I wonder if the idea didn't originate at Smith College. This is one of those e-mails:
From: Samantha Stanton (shs2121@columbia.edu)
To: every single last Columbia e-mail address including mine
Subject: de-colonization day

Hey guys,

I know you folks are maddddd busy, but it would really be dope if you could do something for De-Colonization Day. As you know, SPEaK and Latino Heritage Month are putting it on October 8th, here's our little blurb:

On October 8th we will rename "Columbus day" "decolonization day" because we do not support the historical myth of conquest. We instead empower those whose lives, homes and cultures were stolen. On this day we claim campus spaces to express our histories, celebrations, oppressions, visions and triumphs. There will be music and performance on Low Plaza from 12-2 as part of latino Heritage Month. We invite your organizations to join us in our celebration of decolonization by participating in the day's festivities.

If you are interested in celebrating DECOLONIZATION DAY, please RSVP with your commitment to an issue, and how you will perform your solidarity on October 8th.

Let me know if you need more deetz

peace, power and love,
--
Samantha Stanton
Columbia College, 2009
"Don't talk about it, be about it"

Well, Samantha, I hate to burst your self-righteous bubble or otherwise interrupt your gathering of other overprivileged Ivy League college students to whine about oppression, but "the historic myth of conquest" is not a myth. If it was a myth that those conquistadores who tore up South America with smallpox and muskets, the explorers who exterminated tribes of people in the West Indies, and the European powers who eventually cowed the indiginous peoples of North America, then you'd have nothing to complain about. They actually did that shit. It wasn't right, but it actually happened, so it's not a fucking myth!

Also, by declaring your lack of support for "the historical myth of conquest," do you mean that you're planning on making up a "decolonization myth" instead? Because that indeed would be a myth, since colonialism happened for a couple centuries. Last I checked, my hometown was still part Indian reservation and socioeconomic class-based racial stratification still is in full swing, so how does your renaming of Columbus Day do anything but assuage the apparent historical white man's guilt you and all the other bitches from Connecticut felt in your History of Indiginous Peoples class? But then again, I guess that's what myth-perpetuating is all about.

I'd like to know how exactly "claim(ing) campus spaces" for a bunch of interminable drum circles and hacky-sacking is supposed to "empower those whose lives, homes, and cultures were stolen." Because nothing--and I mean NOTHING--can mitigate the sting of historical wrongs like the slave trade, the Trail of Tears, and the fall of the mighty Aztecs like a bunch of hippies skipping class and stinking up the steps of Low Library. Unless you plan to ship all the white people back to Europe, you're not "de-colonizing" so much as "distracting" and "irritating" everyone else with your extraordinarily lame way of spending Columbus Day, which is a righteous holiday because it's a day off with absolutely no obligation to do anything but enjoy it.

Since Samantha and crew are so busy committing to issues and "performing their solidarity " (a performance that I suspect will involve many hairy armpits and acoustic guitars) because they're so worked up about the name of Columbus Day, and the only issue clearly articulated here is the problem of using the name "Columbus" which is apparently synonymous with every dominating , native people-abusing European power of yesteryear, I would be remiss if I didn't point out that she'd better start filling out her (Smith College) transfer application now. Because in spite of her dumb ass attributing all the past evils of the world to the name "Columbus," she seems unaware that the school she attends--Columbia--is in fact named after Columbus also! "Columbia" is the feminine version of "Columbus"! And since I can't imagine any more than a handful of radically-minded morons would want to change the name of this hallowed ivory tower to Decolonization University, this renaming as an antidote to historically shameful exploration programs is clearly an idea drafted by stupid, narrow-minded retards.

Needless to say, I'm "madddddd busy," so much so that I won't have time to "get the deetz" to come up with a "dope" way to "perform my solidarity" on October 8th. Sadly, grad students don't really get to take Columbus Day off, so I'll be too busy in lab to make it to the Morningside Campus for this pointless orgy of pseudo-empowerment. I will, however, give a suggestion as to how undergrads could better use their boundless energy on Columbus Day.

When I was in my junior year at Smith, I was stuck at school on Columbus Day when nearly everyone else had gone home to their families for the long weekend. I was sitting around drinking with two of my friends H and A, one of whom was also from the west coast (and, in fact, the P-N-Dub) and thus didn't fly all the way back to Oregon, and one of whom was from Northampton, so she was already home. We were bored and drunk, and somehow decided that it would be funny if we made an amateur porn movie. So I went and borrowed a camcorder from this other bitch down the hall (who declined to be in it...pussy), and then asked my boyfriend Benzo, "hey, do you want to go over to your parents' house (they were out of town) and videotape us having sex with H and A?" What kind of guy says no to that? Not Benzo, that's for sure. "Uh...YES!" he responded.

Appropriately, Benzo's parents' house was on COLUMBUS Street and he chose the name "Bobby Columbus" for his amateur porn debut. After an all-girl three-way brought about by a poorly acted attempt to rearrange furniture into a more orgy-friendly configuration, "Bobby Columbus" the door-to-door dildo salesman demonstrating his wares on A, and me fucking Bobby Columbus in cowgirl, Columbus Day would forever have a far different meaning for me than a celebration of the subjugation of the indiginous people by imperialistic European colonial assholes. And that's how you dumb 19-year-olds at Columbia should be spending your Columbus Day, not busy getting empowered with a bunch of idiotic blowhard activists. You're in college for God's sake; lighten up and try not to be so fucking stupid.

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:52 AM 6 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: the brassiere


Name: the brassiere AKA the bra

DOB: September 27, 1907

Occupation: holding and improving the greatest things ever...TITS

Hometown: Bridgeport, Connecticut (the only good thing EVER to come from Connecticut)

Current residence: EVERYWHERE there's bitches with hot racks

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Back in my angry lesbian feminazi days, I used to never wear bras. That's because I didn't really do much in the way of sports, and my clothes were so hideously oversized that it was impossible to see my boobs underneath the many layers of flannel and thermal underwear sacking which usually covered them. I think the reason I dressed this way and rocked such appalling clothing was because when I was of puberty age, I was the last girl in my class to get boobs, and my shame and anguish at not having bigger cans caused me to reject the concept of needing to sling them up, draw attention to them, and otherwise embrace them or even admit I had them. In fact, my mother bought me this AAA cup training bra for my pubescent rosebuds, and once the boys in my seventh grade class found out about this, they teased me mercilessly. I remember this kid Dan Lopez (who is dead now, God rest his soul, probably because of the bad karma he racked up in middle school teasing sensitive young girls like me) folding over the front of his sweatshirt and loudly proclaiming, "Look, I have bigger boobs than Razzy! I better go get a bra too!"

At that point, I was like, "Fuck this. I'm never going to get boobs and what I've got makes me feel bad. I'm just going to pretend they don't exist. I am a rock! Nobody gets to me!" Then I spent most of high school being righteously outraged and dressing like a homeless man, and never thought twice about a bra until my senior year. At that point, I realized that sometimes my chest felt uncomfortable in its braless state. This is because, unnoticed by me, my breasts did actually grow. In fact, they grew from tiny, weird-looking pimple-sized mouthfuls into C cups, but I was too busy writing bad poetry to notice this. I decided that I would go get a bra and wear it only to be practical and mitigate the uncomfortable bouncing feeling that went on under my many layers of drab sheeting. I still figured my breasts were not attractive, and by extension, I wasn't either, so I just continued with the whole deconstruction of feminine beauty thing I was into.

Then, my senior year of high school, I was trying to get rid of my lame boyfriend who had threatened to kill himself if I broke up with him. He had major daddy issues, an uncontrollable temper, a drug problem, a terrible complexion, and bad breath, and I was ready to drop that dead weight before I went off to Smith. While these days I'd call the "I'll commit suicide without you" bluff, at the time I was like, "Oh, I can't be responsible for his death, so naturally I'll have to make him break up with me instead." So in a swoop of Machiavellian genius, I blew this other dude at a party and made sure EVERYONE knew about it afterward. Unfortunately, my boyfriend tried to forgive me, which led to me dumping his ass anyway (and no, he didn't kill himself...he went out and knocked some other bitch up which may or may not be worse). While said dude and I were hooking up, he worked his way through removing my many strata of shirts, and got a look at the girls in their unfettered glory.

"Damn, Razzy, your boobs aren't as big I thought they'd be," he commented.

WHAT?! He thought my boobs were big?! He was interested in seeing them?! This was news to me...GOOD news. This meant that whatever low opinion my early adolescence had instilled in me about my breasts and whatever efforts I took to cover them up and hide them as an embarrassment, dudes were not only curious about them, they were assuming they'd be large and sexy!

From that moment on, I went through a radical transformation regarding my attitude toward my breasts, as well as the way I presented myself. No more XL polo shirts or thrift store Western-inspired button downs for me! I decided that it was breast-accentuating time from then on, and my first step was to purchase a closetful of underwire bras to give the ladies the lift they needed. I applaud the editors of Vogue magazine 100 years ago today for bringing the term "brassiere" and later "bra" to mainstream culture, and for bringing hot bras to stores. My jugs look great braless, but when I do have to wear clothes and venture out into society, nothing can make them seem as sexy and provocative as a quality bra to lift them halfway out of the V-neck on whatever slutty-ass shirt I'm wearing. A good bra can provide me physical comfort while I'm out running around, make me look good, and ultimately get me laid, and those are all huge pluses in my book. So thank you, bra! And happy birthday!

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:56 AM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Douchebag: the New York Yankees


Name: the New York Yankees

DOB: 1901

Occupation: lords of douchebaggery in Major League Baseball

Hometown: Baltimore, Maryland

Current residence: the Bronx, New York

Douchebaggery: Last night the Yankees secured yet another trip to the playoffs, reminding me again how much I hate that fucking team. I hate them so much that every time I see someone running around with a Yankees cap on (especially if it's a chick in a pink Yankees cap), I want to rip it off their heads and trample it. I hate them so much that if I see them I'll punch as many of them as I can square in the nuts before I get hauled away, starting with Jeter and his boyfriend Gay Rod. I hate them so much that I am convinced that in hell, the only sports channel on TV is probably YES, and it plays nonstop footage of Yankees World Series victories. I HATE THE YANKEES, and this has nothing to do with the fact that the Mariners have, as usual, pissed away any slight chance of making it to the playoffs.

The only thing that makes me happy about 2007's trip to the postseason for Satan's pinstriped legions is the fact that if anyone had any doubts as to Alex Rodriguez's dubious sexual orientation, I think the picture above should erase those. Okay, it might be champagne they're pouring all over his gasping, delighted ass for the back cover of the Post, but you know later he's going to be making the same expression at the Yanks circle jerk and bukkake party. I can only pray that Gay Rod and all his "poker buddies" at Yankee Stadium will be too caught up buggering each other in celebration of their bid for yet another AL pennant and yet another World Series victory to actually play decently. You know Gay Rod is going to choke at the plate per usual because he's so distracted by his fond memories of the pre-game salad tossing he gives Jeter as part of their October ritual back in the clubhouse. At least that's a silver lining.

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:17 AM 2 Comments Links to this post

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

 

I'm Not Buying It: Aveeno Positively Ageless Active Naturals with Active Shiitake Complex

COOL JEW NOTE: This is the first installment in a new series identifying beauty and lifestyle products that even I – a JAP who is completely and eternally obsessed with her weight, clothes, skin, weight, hair, clothes, and weight and willing to drop serious dimes on anything that promises to slim, shine, clarify or otherwise titivate me – would never purchase. Advertisers be warned: if you're hawking your creams, pills, shadows, concealers and push-ups so poorly that even I won't waste my money and time, you're going to want to head back to the drawing board.

I'm Not Buying: Aveeno Positively Ageless Active Naturals with Active Shiitake Complex


AKA: Face cream

Price: $14.99 at Walgreens.com

The Shill: "Natural Shiitake Complex, a blend of Shiitake and Mannentake mushrooms, has been shown to help accelerate skin's natural cell renewal process to leave skin looking and feeling fresher, younger, and more radiant. Natural Shiitake Complex works similarly to a natural enzyme that we have in our skin, which releases the chemical bonds that hold dead skin cells together. The result: "increased cell renewal that allows younger skin to come to the surface without overdrying."

The Real: "Shiitake complex"? Really? Every time this commercial comes on the set and those mushrooms start bouncing across the screen, I snort and guffaw disdainfully. Apparently, this face spooge contains a microbial coagulant known as Mucor miehei, which happens to be found
in most mushrooms. Shiitakes may be delicious, but they have a ridiculous name and I highly doubt that a drug store product is going to make my face as supple as a mushroom's backside. The word "shiitake," naturally, makes me think of shit, which makes sense since mushrooms grow on shit. And all that really makes me want to rub it on my face. Sha.

I'd Rather Buy: La Prairie Skin Caviar Luxe Cream, $650 for three ounces, available at high-end department stores. Sure, the active ingredient here got spurted out of a sturgeon's fuckhole and the concept may be just as inane as the "shiitake complex." But this is the most expensive face cream you can buy, caviar is delicious and La Prairie is way too cool for television commercials, so I want it. Duh.

RAZZY EDIT: I know this says it was by me, but it was actually written by LL Cool Jew, she just asked me to post it for her. For one thing, I am not a JAP, but rather shikse PWT from the P-N-Dub who looks no further than my local Rite-Aid for skin care and knows not of this "La Prairie" business. Like I told LL Cool Jew, that shit might as well be "La Choy" discount soy sauce. For another, my idea of personal care involves shaving my pussy without slipping in the bathtub and dying, picking a shirt that showcases as much cleavage as possible, wearing cheap heels, and a lot of drugstore eyeliner and cocksucker red lipstick. This type of thing is totally LL Cool Jew's department.

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# posted by Razzy @ 3:57 PM 3 Comments Links to this post
 

Y'all cats can't touch him

I meant to comment about this last week, but in my computerless state, I was unable to keep abreast with the most important legal news of the century if not the millenium, and no, it's got nothing to do with Britney Spears or the Jena Six. I'm talking, of course, about the trial of a certain boyfriend of mine named Robert Sylvester Kelly, which was supposed to commence on September 17th.

I was relieved to see last week after a quick covert internet search at work that this did not occur. I was equally relieved to know that brilliant legal minds are keeping abreast of this, as I think it is a real problem that the courts aren't abuzz with discussion of what may be the most groundbreaking case ever to break open the court system. Bakke versus UC Regents? WHO CARES?! Miranda versus Arizona? Snoooore. Roe versus Wade? Brown versus Board of Education? Marbury versus Madison? All trifling diversions compared to a massively important decision which will be rendered in the case of Illinois versus Robert Sylvester Kelly, now dropping in spring 2008. At least one lawyer appreciates the impact this trial could potentially have. Morrissey'sHair sent me this e-mail this week to provide me with the insight that has egregiously overlooked by every so-called "respectable" law journal:

From: Morrissey'sHair, Esq. (mhair@helpingbrokemotherfuckersllp.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)

You probably already know this, but The Trial of the Century, aka, The State of Illinois vs. KELLS, has been continued yet again. This time due to the lead prosecutor's health issues. Looks like Kells won't be in court until the spring of 2008. I've always assumed that he would beat those charges like Rocky, but now I'm beginning to think he won't even have to face them after all. These charges have "dismissal" written all over them.

Morrissey'sHair

PS- Nice boobies.
Well, thanks to the esteemed counselor for his compliments concerning my rack, and consider me relieved that an actual member of the bar has given my boyfriend Kells's case such a positive prognosis. Anyone who read my astute analysis of R. Kelly's acquittal prospects, after expressing shock and disbelief that I myself am not a high-powered attorney on account of my brilliant legal mind given its hard-hitting and entirely convincing persuasive, logical arguments, probably is already aware that Kells has a pretty strong case for reasonable doubt. However, I'm glad to get Morrissey'sHair's second opinion, and wrote back to confirm my support for his position:
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
To: Morrissey'sHair (mhair@helpingbrokemotherfuckersllp.com)

Dude, I SO already know. I was all over the internets on the 17th waiting to hear the breaking news from Illinois Superior Court or whatevs and after a lot of digging found that it had been continued because the judge has other more important cases to address. Apparently there's a gag order imposed on the proceedings, which is why it's so damn hard to find news on any of this.

However, I get the feeling that in spite of there being a gag order, this judge is determined not to try Kells, and there can only be one reason for that: he's such a huge fan that he can't bear the thought of someone so black, handsome, who sings, plus is rich and is a flirt would be draped in a drab prison uni rather than a crystal-studded hoodie and a pair of bedazzled stunner shades. I'm expecting all charges dismissed next spring, right in time for Robert Sylvester to release yet another amazing album for playerette flirters like myself to get down to.
The world cannot live without Robert Sylvester's ridiculous, lasciviously hilarious brand of genius, and you know he wouldn't last two seconds in jail. He needs to stay on the outside so he can make more songs about answering machine messages "You have reached R. Kelly, unfortunately I'm asleep, been out partyin' all night, I'm blasted off that Hennessy...and this goes out to all the honeys that's callin', so leave your name after the beep and I'm sure to get with you if I'm not asleep, or smokin' some trees, or havin' a little sex, or I'm not faded, or makin' a baby." Okay, "Leave Your Name" is obviously my favorite R. Kelly song of the day, although "Sex Planet," "Rollin'," and "Snake" are enjoying a lot of time on my iTunes as well. Anyway, the world needs a lot more of that, and all the other masterworks Kells has blessed the world with.

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# posted by Razzy @ 1:17 PM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: the SLUT




Name: South Lake Union Trolley

DOB: scheduled for December 2007

Occupation: getting ridden

Hometown: Seattle, Washington

Current residence: reppin' 206

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: The perennially brilliant city planners (ie: Paul Allen) in Seattle decided to solve their many traffic problems using mass transit technology from the turn of the century, by which I mean 1900. A trolley is getting installed in the South Lake Union area of Seattle to carry bitches back and forth from Fred Hutch to the Westlake Center, where they can catch a bus that will take them to another slow-ass bus or a train that doesn't run very often (but has wi-fi!) and basically not solve any kind of traffic problems at all. However, it being Seattle, I'm sure the new trolley is "green," or at least is made out of recycled shit or somehow otherwise has the trappings of earth-friendliness.

Anyway, the trolley's original name was supposedly the South Lake Union Trolley, AKA the "SLUT," and although the name has since officially become the South Lake Union Streetcar, the original acronym has stuck. Finally Seattle does something I heartily approve of besides building Safeco and Qwest Fields. Every town can use more sluts, and Seattle's probably been going through withdrawals since I quit skanking up the biotech scene there and moved out of the P-N-Dub five years ago. Furthermore, as much as it pisses me off just looking at the smarmy faces of these rodeo-inspired part-time baristas/full-time douchebags, I have to grudgingly admit that "Ride the SLUT" t-shirts may be the best thing ever to come out of the annoying Seattle coffeehouse scene:

These tools look so excited and smug because they know that this is the greatest achievement of their lives. This was the one stroke of brilliance in a banal lifetime of shopping for cowboy hats and kitschy belt buckles, pretending to read Milan Kundera novels, trimming their scruffy but arranged facial hair, and otherwise fine-tuning their Western-inspired hipster coffee snob mystique. The Seattle Post-Intelligencer has an awesome video getting reaction from other slightly less-irritating locals (most of whom are obnoxious Seattle people beating the "ride the SLUT" jokes like a dead horse, arguing that the SLUT will be accepted by the locals because "Seattle is pretty diverse," and bitching about the increased prevalence of using acronyms because "everything stands for something anymore") that you should definitely go and watch, if only for the footage of the man who goes, "I can't ride the SLUT...come on, man. I got little children. Come on, cuz. Come on, dude! What kind of message is that?!" Then his friend throws up his arms in disgust and goes, "What the hell is going on with Washington, man?", and he responds, "See, (Seattle mayor) Mike Nichols, you a bad guy. You can shut down the clubs but you can't change the name for a transit called SLUT? Come on, dog. Where's our tax money going, baby?"

Like I said, it's priceless. Click this link and go halfway down the page to watch it because it's a must-see. The Seattle PI just jumped into the running for Best Newspaper in the Universe against the inimitable New York Post. And big props to Seattle for making this awesomest of mistakes. Granted, the trolley service will probably suck as hard as what its acronym implies because that's Seattle mass transit for you, but the name alone has boosted my esteem of the Emerald City. Hats off and tits out to you, SLUT.

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:52 AM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Douchebag: Warren Steed Jeffs


Name: Warren Steed Jeffs

DOB: December 3, 1955

Occupation: President and Prophet, Seer and Revelator of the Fundamentalist Church of the Latter Day Saints, Child Rapist and Child Rapist Accomplice

Hometown: Salt Lake Valley, Utah

Current residence: Purgatory Correctional Facility, Purgatory Flats, Utah (best name for a prison/prison town EVER)

Douchebaggery: After his father Rulon croaked, Warren took over as the HBIC of the Fundamentalist Latter Day Saints. This is a group that spun off the conventional Mormon church because they disagreed with church elders who banned a certain practice they felt was sanctioned by God (because Rulon said so, and he ws apparently a persuasive motherfucker): polygamous marriage to pubescent first cousins. Rulon gained a following after convincing them he was descended from Jesus Christ and Joseph Smith, which is like the Fundamentalist Mormon equivalent of what that DaVinci Code crap characterized as "the holy grail" (obviously that piece of facile trash was fictional, since everyone knows that Indiana Jones left that shit down some misty crevice in the temple at the end of the Canyon of the Crescent Moon after he healed the mortal bullet wound Sean Connery got courtesy of those pesky relic-crazy Nazis). and then hauled his congregation to the small town of Colorado City, Arizona. The whole polygamy-with-young girls thing resulted in a lot more babies and a lot more wives, and pretty soon the town was overrun.

Upon Rulon's death, Warren promptly took his dynasty by the reins and married all but two of his father's several dozen former wives and taking first pick of his hottest twelve-year-old blood relatives. He has over seventy fecund young brides now. In the meantime, he excommunicated as many teenage boys as possible to ensure that Warren and all his lecherous old brothers and cousins could fuck the town's young girls without any competition. When they got tired of the girls, Jeffs and his homeboys would amuse themselves by sodomizing their 5-7 year old male nephews and preaching racial bigotry (ie: "the black race is the people through which the devil has always been able to bring evil upon the earth") along with his doctrines of plural marriage, incest, and child rape. Obviously this man's resume has all the hallmarks of a great prophet. I'm sure Moses and Elijah and the elite crew we Catholics call "all the angels and saints" were up to those hijinx as well, and just forgot to mention it was essential to salvation and divine favor. Presumably Jesus got crucified before he got a chance to weave a clever parable encouraging incestuous pedophilia, so the Jeffs family got tapped to get the message out there that such acts are the highway to heaven.

I guess Jesus never gave Warren any insight about courage or the importance of having it, though, because the second he was charged with rape of a minor by state authorities in Utah and Arizona, the bitch tucked his undoubtedly small, crooked penis (he's got a SERIOUS crooked pencil dick vibe) between his scrawny legs and hit the road with a whole suicase full of wigs, trenchcoats, sunglasses, and various disguises. Since he was notorious enough to make the FBI's Ten Most Wanted list, he had to really get his fugitive on. As befits a criminal cult leader, he was also rolling in style; when he was arrested on I-15, he was cruising out of Vegas in a burgundy Escalade with a couple of the choicest children in his flock of top-notches, $55,000 cash, and 16 cell phones.

Yesterday, a jury in Utah convicted Jeffs of two counts of accomplice rape, each of which carries a sentence of five years to life, for directing a 14-year-old girl to marry her 19-year-old first cousin and subsequently exhorting her to "do her duty" and put out. Then he mounted a defense consisting of the first cousin rapist in question taking the stand and crying about how frustrating it was that his child bride wouldn't fuck him. The jury was like, "Cue the violins, perv" and voted for guilty. Now that Utah's had their way, Arizona is getting its turn to bitchslap this disgusting creep for eight counts of sexual conduct with a minor and incest. God willing, he'll be grabbing his ankles in the prison shower to reap the fruits of his prophecies for decades to come. That would really put the "penitent" in "penitentiary," and it's what a pussified hypocrite bitch like Warren Jeffs should rightfully get for using his interpretation of the Christian message as an excuse to bang kids. So I'm psyched that there's a good prospect Warren isn't ever going to shit right again. Justice is served.

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# posted by Razzy @ 4:54 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Judge William H. Overton

(*RAZZY NOTE: I couldn't find a picture of this William Overton, so I went with the Federal District Court judge of the same name who bitch-slapped the creationists in his ruling on McLean vs. the Arkansas State Board of Education in 1982 instead...wait, DAMN! I can't find a picture of him either, but I did get a few pics of John Scopes popping up with my "William Overton" search, so I might as well throw him up here even though he has zero to do with this. He's a hot piece and I'd let him teach me evolution any day.)

Name: Hon. William H. Overton

DOB: January 29, 1953

Occupation: Eagle Scout, youth baseball coach, traffic court judge in Pinellas County, Florida

Hometown: St. Petersburg, Florida

Current residence: St. Petersburg, Florida

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Judge Overton was responsible this past week for handling the case of Nick Bollea, Hulk Hogan's poorly equipped, overcompensating son, for going double the speed limit in his tacky yellow crotch-rocket car in spite of being pulled over multiple times and told to slow down. Nick pleaded no contest, so the Judge adjudicated him guilty and threw the biggest book he had at his disposal at him, giving him the maximum fine of $1000.

You know that Judge Overton was so fucking stoked to mete out some serious justice when that bitch's speeding ticket showed up on his docket. If I were a traffic court judge and I spent all day listening to tools making excuses for going ten miles over the speed limit to reduce the fines on their tickets, I would live for the day when a spoiled brat who had just been publicly involved in a drag racing accident that left one person in intensive care showed up to defend his going over 100 miles an hour in spite of repeatedly being told to slow the fuck down in his souped-up Viper or whatever strolled into my courtroom. Judge Overton rues the fact that when Nick's friend in the hospital dies and he gets charged with AT LEAST vehicular manslaughter he isn't going to be presiding over the trial. He'd hang his bleached blonde ass high. That's my kind of celebrity justice.

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:58 AM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Douchebag: Star Simpson


Name: Star Simpson (and NICE onesie jammies, BTW)

DOB: 1988

Occupation: per self--"inventor, artist, engineer, and student", and stupid "crazy idea" lover

Hometown: Kihea, Hawaii

Current residence: Boston, Assachusetts

Douchebaggery: Last week, Star Simpson's dumb ass decided that it would be a great idea to go pick her 42-year-old boyfriend (and you KNOW he's probably her nasty-ass troll of a comp sci professor at MIT) up from Logan International Airport wearing this fugly homemade sweatshirt:

Good idea, dumbass. Walk into the airport where two of the 9/11 flights took off from in the middle of 9/11 month wearing a fake bomb. I guess that is one of the "crazy ideas" that Star says she loves. After being arrested at gunpoint, Star explained that this stunt was a misunderstanding, and that her sweatshirt was an "art project" she had designed for "career day." I didn't go to MIT, but I am in science and I have gone to a few career fair-type things at the various fancy high-falutin' schools I've attended, and one thing I have NEVER seen is a fucking Hezbollah booth recruiting suicide bombers. I mean, what other career do you make yourself an exceptional candidate for besides IED-rocking terrorist with that sweatshirt? I guess one could make an argument for starving artist, but they're not hiring for that on career day either since being unemployed isn't a career. I shudder to think of what this bitch's resume must look like.

A lot of the blogs are coming to Star's defense, claiming that all the uptight Yankees running shit in Boston tend to overreact (like with that Cartoon Network thing that happened last year, a hoax/marketing stunt also perpetuated by a bunch of badly groomed geeks) and she didn't know it would be such a big deal. Given that this bitch hails from Hawaii, I'm willing to bet that she's been on a plane before and knows exactly how uptight and annoying airport security is. Even though going to MIT doesn't guarantee intelligence (as she has clearly demonstrated), I would think that it at least guarantees literacy, so it's hard to imagine how she didn't notice all the signs around every airport warn people imperatively not to joke or screw around with the TSA at the security checkpoints. A lot of these same blogs are pointing out that the bomb was Play-Doh and a 9-volt battery, and nobody would ever think bombs are made out of circuit boards and drugstore batteries anyway, so what's the harm? Well, I wouldn't think that bombs could be made out of fertilizer and fuel oil either (because I sucked at chemistry), but that didn't stop Timothy McVeigh from blowing up a fucking federal building with one. Besides, asking whether or not most people have any idea as to the specifics of whether a 9-volt battery and a garden variety circuit board can ignite plastic explosives is making a ridiculously high estimation of the intelligence and education level of the average American. All they know is that McGyver could probably have done it, so it seems like a plausible enough threat. The fact is that wearing a bomb-looking thing affixed to one's stank MIT hoodie is the modern day equivalent of falsely shouting "fire!" in a crowded theater, and bitch can't complain that she got detained.

I hope that wherever Star Simpson is right now, she feels like a real dumbass, because she is one. She's probably sweating her job prospects BIG TIME right now, since her other skill set involves providing the internets with instructions on how to motorize your rollerblades, crimp cables and wires, and make a backpack out of a plastic shopping bag:

Now that I think about it, faux suicide bomber is looking like Star's best job prospect in comparison.

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:02 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Monday, September 24, 2007

 

Looks like I started a trend

This weekend, BigBagel e-mailed me to let me know I'm not the only one with a brand new MacBook. He went ahead and demonstrated that he too was capable of using Photo Booth, although because he's not as cool as me he didn't show his tits. Okay, my tits are better than his (it's not like he's a NFL head coach and can outdo me in the rack department), so I can't blame him for being shy. Instead he appropriated his and LL Cool Jew's 5-lb Chihuahua, dainty lady, and urinator extraordinaire Dulcinea to showcase all the fun effects:




Looking at these pictures, I can almost hear LL Cool Jew saying on D's behalf (because we both have voices we do to speak for our dogs, and we are so accomplished in speaking them to each other send each other texts in these dialects), "OHMAHGAWD, Antzi, I look RELLAY weird. I almost look as funky as that asshole Chingy!.

Almost, D. But not quite.

Oh yeah, and there's not really any point to this post except that people (including myself) like to look at pictures of cute dogs. Almost as much as they like to look at bare breasts. But not quite.

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# posted by Razzy @ 9:51 AM 1 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Douchebag: Lee C. Bollinger


Name: Lee C. Bollinger

DOB: ???, but he's old and pretty busted...I wouldn't hit that mess

Occupation: lawyer, president of Columbia University

Hometown: Santa Rosa, California

Current residence: somewhere Morningside Heights-ish in New York City (he used to always be the next on the list for my Fresh Direct deliveries when I lived on 125th Street)

Douchebaggery: All of New York City is in an uproar because Bollinger invited Mahmoud Ahmedinejad, crazy, Members Only jacket-loving president of the Islamic Republic of Iran, to visit Columbia. Politicians have denounced it, half the city is protesting, every morally righteous blowhard at Columbia and Barnard has his or her panties in a twist, and, more importantly, the tabloids have been having a field day for the past week. Surprisingly, the greatest paper ever, the New York Post decided to take a break from Ahmedinejad Madness on the cover, but I'm sure they'll be chiming in tomorrow when he decides to visit Ground Zero even though Mayor Bloomberg told him to suck it when he asked for an official tour. Luckily, the Daily News isn't tired of busting on Columbia's invitation (or "invitation" as the Daily News puts it, as presumably the quotes means that something far more sinister than a friendly world leaders forum is going on):


Good thing some pissed-off people saved their Post covers from last week to turn into the awesomest protest signs EVER:

I guess I'm one of the few Columbia students who is not outraged at this. I mean, he is a World Leader, and a more exciting one than the lame-ass presidents of Hungary and shit that they usually get to show up at these shindigs I never attend. At least he's controversial. Besides, there's nothing people love more than getting pissed off, and there are very few things that can piss off a bunch of self-righteous, overprivileged college kids as much an America-hating, anti-Semitic misogynist who denies the Holocaust and loves nukes. Obviously I am no fan of Ahmedinejad except for the fact that he's like the Dr. Evil of the Middle East . He is a fucking entertaining villain. The prospect of World War III being started by a man who rocks a wardrobe that seems like a bizarre amalgamation of Alex P. Keaton and Edward James Olmos from "Miami Vice" amuses me as much as the prospect of World War III possibly can. So on that note, props to Bollinger for getting someone more delightfully villainous than the premier of Luxembourg or whatever.

Anyway, apparently I don't take myself or my belief that Ahmedinejad is a crackpot seriously enough, so everyone else is protesting, which I considered doing only to provide some comic relief. I figured that running into the forum topless and wearing my strap-on would do the trick. I totally saw Not Without My Daughter, and even though Sally Field never did exactly that (I'm pretty sure that scene got cut out of the part where she escapes with her daughter through snowy, terrorist-filled mountains to Turkey, which is a shame), the movie led me to believe that those Iranian Shiite fundamentalists get bent WAY out of shape whenever women expose any flesh or betray any hint of empowered sexuality. Unfortunately, unlike these lazy fucks with nothing better to do than whip themselves up into a frenzy of sanctimonious anger and march around campus all day expressing this via chanting and posterboard signs, I have a full day in lab, I can't go down to the main campus and try to fuck with Ahmedinejad in the fashion I would prefer. It's just as well, because Bollinger has enough drama on his hands, which brings me to why he's my Douchebag of the Day.

I would normally applaud Lee Bollinger for courting controversy and, like the First Amendment-defending lawyer he once was, pointing out that sometimes living in a free society means listening to people who are offensive assholes like Ahmedinejad even though you don't like their message or agree with it. However, while having Ahmedinejad here in the first place and then defending it in spite of almost universal condemnation was a bold move that I applaud, today I opened my inbox to find that under it all, Bollinger is a true tool of a college administrator at the end of the day. I'll translate this pussified, hey-everyone-settle-down e-mail for you since, as president of the Science Geek grad students and having been in schools filled with administrators like these for the past 20 years, I'm fluent in bureaucratic mumbo jumbo:

From: Lee C. Bollinger (officeofthepresident@columbia.edu)
To: everyone at Columbia including razzy@razzy.org
Subject: Thoughts on Today's Forum

Dear fellow members of the Columbia community:

I would like to share a few thoughts about today’s appearance of President Ahmadinejad at our World Leaders Forum. I know this is a matter of deep concern for many in our University community and beyond. I want to say first and foremost how proud I am of Columbia, especially our students, as we discuss, debate and plan for this highly visible event.

TRANSLATION: I read the Post, people, and TRUST that I've gotten all the online petitions you all so zealously filled out, so I know you're all pissed. Now just simmer down, so I can compliment you for being royal pains in my ass from a PR point of view.

I ask that each of us make special efforts to respect the different views people have about the event and to recognize the different ways it affects members of our community. For many reasons, this will demand the best of each of us to live up to the best of Columbia's traditions.

TRANSLATION: Don't bust this shit up like you did the fucking panel discussion with those Minutemen border patrol vigilantes a few months back. That shit was on the news for a week! You have no idea how much spin doctory I had to pull on that one. All I have to say is, thank God I'm a lawyer and I bust out some persuasion when need be.

For the School of International and Public Affairs, which developed the idea for this forum as the commencement to a year-long examination of 30 years of the Islamic Republic in Iran, this is an important educational experience for training future leaders to confront the world as it is -- a world that includes far too many brutal, anti-democratic and repressive regimes. For the rest of us, this occasion is not only about the speaker but quite centrally about us -- about who we are as a nation and what universities can be in our society.

TRANSLATION: Hey, assholes! Censorship is what they do in Iran, you dumbasses. And this is for a class. A CLASS, people! If you don't like International and Public Affairs, then major in math or art or something.

I would like just to repeat what I have said earlier: It is vitally important for a university to protect the right of our schools, our deans and our faculty to create programming for academic purposes. Necessarily, on occasion this will bring us into contact with beliefs many, most, or even all of us will find offensive and even odious.

TRANSLATION: Again, you retards, did I mention this was for a CLASS? Just because you losers don't like doing integrals doesn't mean we're taking that out of our calculus classes. Just deal with the fact that homeboy is the president of Iran, so who better to be a guest speaker for Iran class? I'm just sayin'...

But it should never be thought that merely to listen to ideas we deplore in any way implies our endorsement of those ideas, or the weakness of our resolve to resist those ideas, or our naiveté about the very real dangers inherent in such ideas. It is a critical premise of freedom of speech that we do not honor the dishonorable when we open the public forum to their voices.

TRANSLATION: Now it's time to use some vague civil liberties-related blah blah blah to remind you that you're all being a bunch of free speech-suppressing losers. Who's like Hitler now? OH, SNAP!

The great majority of student leaders with whom I met last week affirmed their belief that this event, however controversial, is consistent with the values of academic freedom we share at the center of university life. I fully support, indeed I celebrate, the right to peacefully demonstrate and engage in a dialogue about this event and this speaker, as I understand a wide coalition of our student groups are planning for today. That such a forum and such public criticism of President Ahmadinejad’s statements and policies could not safely take place on a university campus in Iran today sharpens the point of what we do here. The kind of freedom that will be on display at Columbia has always been and remains today our nation’s most potent weapon against repressive regimes everywhere in the world. This is the power and example of America at its best.

TRANSLATION: Don't get violent. And for the love of God, quit complaining to the Post about me; I'm a better American than you are. You dumb bitches all just got OWNED! You better ax somebody."

Sincerely,

Lee C. Bollinger

I would have a lot more respect for Lee Bollinger if he just flipped up his middle fingers to everyone and shouted a resounding "FUCK YOU ALL, I'M RUNNING THIS BITCH!" instead of sending this long, boring I'm-proud-of-you and America-is-great letter to everyone. And I'd also have a lot more respect for him if he was honest about meeting with "student leaders." I never got an invitation to that and like I said, I'm the motherfucking student prez of the nerds on the medical center campus! Why wasn't I fucking consulted about Ahmedinejad? My opinion would have obviously been of great importance to the planning and orchestration of this event, and it was a SERIOUS oversight on Bollinger's part that he forgot about it and just sent me the same bullshit e-mail that he sent to the rest of the nerds whom I benevolently rule ("rule"=provide beer, pizza, and discounted movie tickets to). Clearly, not only is Bollinger unattractive and unable to admit what's really on his mind, but he's incompetent as well. Fool.

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:13 AM 2 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Mike Carey


Name: Michael Carey

DOB: 1949 (!!!!-he looks WAAAAAAY younger)

Occupation: hottest referee in the National Football League

Hometown: San Diego, California

Current residence: San Diego, California

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Mike Carey is a NFL ref who does not fuck around. When he's calling some random penalty, he looks like a damn rhythmic gymnast. His hand motions are so precise that when he's calling a holding penalty, you can almost feel his hands grabbing your arm in his steely, practiced grip. He is particularly sexy when he demonstrates the motions for a face mask penalty, and his stoic expression makes you realize exactly how much the offending team deserves that loss of fifteen yards or half the distance to the goal (or five, but he's deadly serious even with the lesser face mask penalty). I swear this dude practices the motions for every penalty for hours. He probably stands in front of the mirror the same way Tyra Banks exhorts her would-be models to do on "America's Next Top Model." He demonstrates a level of dedication unparalleled by any other official in all of the National Football League.

Mike Carey also doesn't take any shit whatsoever. He has ejected more players from games than any other referee in NFL history. I can just imagine some loudmouth shit-talker like Jeremy Shockey trying to haggle with him over some dinky 5-yard penalty, and getting summarily booted for being an asshole. If you've ever watched a NFL game, you know that the players and coaches argue with the ref about any and every call. Mike Carey will put up with that, but anyone foolish enough to call him an asshole, make an obscene gesture, or otherwise show disrespect will be hitting the fucking showers promptly. Mike Carey runs a tight ship, and he is grossly underappreciated.

Mike has never officiated a Super Bowl, and this is a crime. As you can tell by his impeccably trimmed mustache, he has an eye for precision and detail. If he had been the referee in, say, the day of unfairness and misery so great it was exceeded only by Pearl Harbor and 9/11 known as Super Bowl XL, this bullshit offensive pass interference call against Darryl Jackson--thus stripping the Seahawks of a touchdown--would never have happened:

Nor would Ben Roethlisberger going down by contact a good inch or two short of the goal line EVER been ruled a touchdown:

BITCH DIDN'T GET THE BALL ACROSS THE PLANE OF THE GOAL LINE! I mean, the ball was tucked up under his pussified little nutsack! It's nowhere NEAR the plane of the goal line! Mike Carey would have not only taken notice of this when this play was reviewed, but he would have declared it bullshit with the most perfectly choreographed and executed hand signals.

Most importantly, however, he never would have sold a Super Bowl, and especially wouldn't do so by such blatantly obvious bad officiating. For one thing, he's independently wealthy thanks to his side business of inventing and manufacturing ski boot accessories, so he doesn't need to taint his legacy out of sheer greed. For another, he is a man of integrity who would never succumb to the temptations of Heinz family money delivered by Big-Chin Cowher in hopes of boosting sales of soon-to-be throwback Bettis jerseys:

Okay, that picture MIGHT be fake. I'm sure that when the Stealers actually bribed the officials in the hopes that they would invent offensive penalties against the Seahawks, fudge where Roethlisberger's knee went down and where the ball was, and ignore gratuitous horse-collar tackles, they wrapped the money in a Terrible Towel for discretion. Not that I'm bitter or anything. But regardless, those sorts of corrupt shenanigans would NEVER have gone down had Mike Carey been running the show.

Therefore, when the Seahawks rise to the top of the toilet known as the NFC and go to the Super Bowl again (hey, a girl can dream, and the Hawks are now 2-1), Mike Carey better get the fucking nod. He is the fair, amazingly accurate, detail-oriented hotness.

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:41 AM 1 Comments Links to this post

Friday, September 21, 2007

 

Patience, precious

I fully intended to be back in the saddle with regard to blogging by today, but unfortunately, not having a computer for the last week really fucked me up in terms of my work backlog. I've got assloads of unfinished shit for my job at the Columbia patent office, and since they actually pay me more than $10 in ad revenues here and there, that has to come first. Also, it seems everyone I know needs some important document proofread, and guess who their favorite editor is? It seems that my friends don't just love me for my incisive wit, willingness to bare my breasts, and legendary beauty; apparently, they also love my obsession with proper spelling and grammar and my ability to edit the shit out of important documents like qualifying exams and cover letters for consulting jobs. Although I don't get paid for that, I'm a giver, so I work with their deadlines too. Besides, my buddy Js and Ps won't be able to come eat wings and watch football with me this Sunday if he's stuck trying to remove all the accidental German words that made their way onto his CV. Good luck trying to get a fancy international management consulting job when your CV says "schiesse" all over it. You see why I have to help.

However, rest assured that this weekend I'll be breaking my way back onto the blog, and by Monday should be back to a normal two-or-more posts a day schedule. I have lots of opinions as to what's been going on since the death of my laptop effectively gagged me on the internets. There's ample material I want to bitch about, like the depressing fact that Fitty is not outselling Kanye (for now!), the tragedy of living in a country where you can be publicly tortured by taser for asking John Kerry impertinent questions, and the fact that I'm pissed that my dogs are completely useless at filling in for me on the blogging tip.

I tried to get Caesar and/or Chingy! to pick up some of the slack yesterday, and Caesar seemed interested in the MacBook only if I would throw it for him to chase, retrieve, and chew. Since I'm not into destroying my brand new $1500 computer, I tried to give Chingy! the job instead. Needless to say, he was not interested in sharing anything with the blogosphere besides his rank breath and his disdain. He was also not a fan of the beeping sound the webcam makes right before it snaps a picture:

CHONGAY CHONG, WEBCAM! CHONGAY CHONG, RAZZYBLOG!

And yes, I know I'm sitting around with no clothes on looking like some amateur porn star trying to duplicate the sexiness attained by the newlywed Mrs. Tonya Harding Gilooly in that masterpiece of leaked sex tape known as Tonya and Jeff's Wedding Night, but like that's a surprise. Just another day in Razzy land, where the Puyallup is being throughly done 24/7.

Anyway, like I said, I'll be back in full motherfucking effect by Monday, and will put up something more clever and substantial this weekend. Thanks for your patience with me in the meantime, and thanks for being such good sports about me putting up semi-nude pics instead of any real writing. I know it's a cop-out, but it's a cop-out with tits, and that's not all bad!

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:17 AM 2 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, September 20, 2007

 

I'm BACK, bitches

So FINALLY my new computer arrived yesterday, and while I would have spent last night catching up on blogging for all of my dedicated Razzyphiles, I decided to go out and get laid instead. Not that I wasn't concerned about all your undoubtedly desperate jonesing for Razzification, but getting ass will always take priority over anything else. I'm sure you all understand. And if you don't...well, fuck off. You can all lick the drying semen off the small of my back (that's a lot grosser and more meaningful than simply saying "you can all kiss my ass.")

Anyway, don't think I don't care. Although I can't quite get back to the full bloggity routine today on account of having a lot of backlogged work to do, I'm more than happy to show you some of the more awesome features of my new computer. For starters, it has a webcam. I was totally going to make a video of me sitting around, hung over and butt-ass naked, so that you can all enjoy my somewhat grating and obnoxious voice along with the sacred vision that is my tits, but I can't figure out how to do anything with it besides take a picture. I was tremendously excited to see that the camera actually takes pictures in Predator Vision! I spent literally a solid 30 minutes in lab yesterday doing this:



I kept saying shit like "What's the matter, Dillon? The CIA got you pushing too many pencils?" and "If it bleeds, we can kill it" in Ahnold-voice at my webcam thanks to this faux thermal cam effect, because I'm a big nerd loser who has seen Predator entirely too many times. The fake comic book effect also amused me:

As did the faux Andy Warhol thing. Again, behold the awesome power of the Mac! It makes me look WAY hotter than a Campbell's soup can or that busted plus-sized Marilyn Monroe bitch!

However, I know what you really all want to see. I did take a picture of last night's honey biting my breast, but for some odd reason I can't figure out, he didn't want me to put that up here. Pussy. So instead I just took a picture of yours truly in my state of topless post-coital glory:

Anyway, I'm back and tomorrow I'll get down to the regular blogging you've all come to depend on like air or water or food. In the meantime, hopefully the tits will tide you all over.

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:06 AM 7 Comments Links to this post

Monday, September 17, 2007

 

Gimme More

You heard it here first – Britney will be back. (I know, I know, who needs another blog post about Britney Spears – but rather than heralding her demise, like Jesus I am bringing you the good news).

Despite the fact that I was told this weekend by a 19-year-old frat boy in southern Mississippi that I “look good for (my) age,” I still have my finger on the white-hot cutting edge of youth culture – and I can tell you that “the legendary Ms. Britney Spears,” as Timbaland protégé Danja calls her toward the end of the “Gimme More,” is already on the way to the fabled comeback. Hey, at least I didn’t get told I look like hell for my age.

That gut-checking, “Pick-Up Artist”-esque, back-handed compliment came, rather predictably, on the night of a football-themed pub crawl in the sub-suburban university town deep in the heart of Trent Lott country where I used to work at the local newspaper; there, coyote taxidermists enjoy brisk business, Crocs are still in style and all the white boys rock that bangs-brushed-to-the-front look that “Two-A-Days” made famous. What I’m telling you is that the tastes in this provincial burg reflect those across mall-trolling, gum-snapping, top-40-radio-listening America – and during their pub crawl, the heavily indoor-tanned blondes wanted Britney. “Gimme More” got the drunk bitches throwing their hands in the air and waggling their be-denimed asses while their male counterparts roared their enthusiasm. Two days later, I was back in the city and driving to the grocery store (as old people are wont to do), and heard that “Gimme More” was the most-requested song on the Top 40 station three hours in a row.

So what explains the apparent against-all-odds grassroots popularity of “Gimme More”? Because it’s Britney, bitch – she who was once so mesmerizingly fuckable is now leading a life best described as a spectacularly entertaining trainwreck-a-thon, the walking, procreating embodiment of your mom’s worst nightmare. And given the astonishing before-and-after contrast, I know I’m not alone in wanting to rest my very eyeballs on everything B does: despite the categorical drubbing she got on the blogs and in the press, the MTV Video Music Awards enjoyed a 23 percent ratings bump over last year’s broadcast in the first hour of the show – all for Britney, y’all. And the lyrics of “Gimme More” invite us into her crazy, fucked-up, ongoing afterparty. When she sings, “Cameras are flashing while we're dirty dancing / They keep watchin’” through a Cher-reminiscent voice filter, you can almost picture yourself as the random loser who got into the club and whom Britney decided to fuck that night. The legendary Ms. Britney Spears indeed!

LL Cool Jew predicts: Britney’s next single will be much better than the first. And PS: I really hope that story about her getting banned for life from the Chateau Marmont because she smeared food all over her face is true.

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# posted by LL Cool Jew @ 3:38 PM 1 Comments Links to this post

Saturday, September 15, 2007

 

Why it's time to get my Mac on

Last night I was chatting with LL Cool Jew about how our lives have changed since we met back at Smith in 1998. "Who would have thought that ten years later, I'd be married to a guy and you'd be fucking girls?" she asked.

Although I did protest that I still fuck plenty of boys too, that's kind of how I feel about becoming a Mac owner. I never thought I would join this club. For one thing, I'm from the P-N-Dub, and I feel a special fondness for Microsoft, much the way I feel about Boeing, Brown and Haley, or Starbucks. Mac owners are pretentious and annoying. Whenever Steve Jobs drops some piece of crap, sleekly designed new overpriced gadget, all the morons who line up outside to get the iPhone, or the new edition of Mac OS Tiger, or whatever won't shut up with their whole line of pompous "the Mac operating system is SO powerful" bullshit. Mac owners always act like they are some sort of superior class of human being because they have a computer based in UNIX or whatever.

Apple completely fosters this snottiness with their marketing strategy. They have those irritating "Hi, I'm a Mac, I'm a stuck-up ass clown because I come with a webcam" and "Hi, I'm a PC, and I'm fat, ugly, socially inept, virus-ridden, and prone to crashing" commercials. I don't care if Macs do come with webcams; it's not like I've forgotten that the Mac starred opposite Lindsay Lohan in Herbie: Fully Loaded. No amount of smug patronizing is going to distract me from the fact that he's a gangly, pube-stached fuckwit without an ounce of sex appeal and a serious small dick vibe. It's like the Apple marketing department asked (Canadian pick-up artist and general douchebag clusterfuck of stupid headwear and black nail polish) Mystery how to trick intellectually insecure people into buying Macs by incorporating a bunch of condescending "negs" into their ads. Lanky, insufferable assholes with pencil dicks are not what I want in a man OR a computer.

Even worse, Apple actually has the audacity to call the tech support staff in each Apple Store "the Genius Bar." I'm sorry, but that cheap, techie-fied Sarah Jessica Parker knockoff doesn't look like a fucking genius to me, and I dare her to claim that she is so goddamn brilliant just because her ballet flat-wearing hooker ass can configure fucking QuickTime or install iTunes, and dumb it down for the superiority complex-having Mac customers having issues with their supposedly perfect computers.

In spite of this, I'm still getting a MacBook, which is supposedly arriving next Wednesday or Thursday (at which point, I'll be back to my normal blogging routine...thanks for your patience, Razzyphiles). I am doing so primarily because I won't have to figure out how to configure a bunch of add-ons (as is generally necessary with a PC), and because my boss is hooking me up with a bunch of expensive software for Macs. I would be lying if I said that that I wasn't totally excited that one of those software pieces is the web design software that I use to manage my domain (RAZZY.org), and having it on my laptop means that I'll be able to take care of the rest of my site from home. My inability to do that on my old PC (God rest its noble soul) is the reason why everything on this site besides this blog is so horrendously neglected.

Mitigating the sting of becoming what I despise is the fact that the new generation of MacBooks can run Windows. I plan to run Windows whenever possible, and every time some Mac owner sees me on it and tries to engage me in an obnoxious celebration of our computers, I'm going to be like, "Fuck UNIX and Mac OS, I'm running Windows, bitch!" Just because I'm technically going to be among them doesn't mean I'm going to be like them. As excited as I am to get it and reinsert myself in the Matrix (aka the internets)...fuck a Mac and the people who worship them!

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# posted by Razzy @ 4:43 PM 1 Comments Links to this post

Friday, September 14, 2007

 

Breaking radio silence

Okay, bitches, I know you probably have been worried sick the last few days about me. I realize that I probably occupy 99.9999999999% of your thoughts (waking and in dreams), so I'm sorry to have you all freaked out about what could be causing me to not update. Well, don't worry...my stalker didn't get me, I didn't get hit by an errant taxicab, and I didn't fall off the face of the earth. I'm still alive and well, but unfortunately my home computer is not. In fact, pour out some liquor for it, because bitch is more dead than Steve Fossett probably is. Apparently, Windows just decided to self-destruct, which isn't that surprising considering my laptop was in such poor health. It pulled the computational equivalent of a Jack Kevorkian suicide rather than continue suffering through its myriad problems (falling-out Zip drive, malfunctioning fan, functionally dead battery, spyware I don't know enough about to remove, etc.).

Because of my computer's unexpected departure from this mortal coil, I haven't been able to get up early and blog as I would like to. At work, I've been slammed with lab bullshit, my stupid departmental retreat, and patent analysis assignments for my side job, and since I'm only allowed to blog "after-hours" (and since I work 10-12 hour days, I wonder when "after-hours" actually is) there, I haven't been able to keep up with my regular schedule of Razzification.

The good news is that I have just purchased a brand spanking new MacBook, which will be arriving sometime next week. The even better news is that, since it's a Mac, I can hook it up with all the sweet Photoshop/Illustrator/GoLive software we have here at work, and thus have better pictures, and more updates to the horribly neglected rest of my site. More rejects! More boyfriends! More porn reviews! The long-awaited (by Rack and JerseyGirl) "Beverly Hills, 90210" fan section! Even better, the new MacBook comes with a webcam, so all the haters will have more opportunities to see me in action and make fun of my weight, appearance, hair color, voice, pallor, etc. in the form of video blogs. Maybe I'll make like R. Kelly and strip for you all when it comes in, just to pop the webcam's cherry all proper-like. In the meantime, please be patient with the relative lack of updates. I'll get some more shit up over the weekend (since I have a full day in lab tomorrow, I'll have nothing to do during incubation times besides describe how my life lately has been, in the words of the Christian rap group GRITS, like ooh-aah. And next week I'll be back in full motherfuckin' effect. Possibly naked. So don't forget about me (like you could)!

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# posted by Razzy @ 12:42 PM 4 Comments Links to this post

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

 

Merry 9/11, y'all!

So today I am sorry to say I don't have time to do a "Daily Dude I Want to Hit" or "Daily Douchebag" today as I'm busting out a poster full of rhinovirology hotness for my department's retreat. J-Sexy's is so cute, complete with a catchy title ("Interfering with Interferon") and her trademark "polio-o's" (replacing the letter "o" in her title with little polio virions). Since she set the bar high for eleventh hour virology hotness, I've got to produce something equally aesthetically pleasing for the crowd of discriminating microbiology nerds to praise.

In addition to the science business, I was distracted this morning by all those depressing 9/11 memorials on TV. That shit is live from Ground Zero every year, and while I obviously understand the importance of having a 9/11 memorial service, why does it have to be on every single fucking channel? It is a lousy way to start the morning listening to a choked-up NYFD captain rattling off the names of all his dead friends, and I wish there was ONE channel that would pay attention to other important news. I think it would provide hope to us all to hear some GOOD news on 9/11 for a change. For example, the news that 50 Cent's album Curtis dropped today and it is AWESOME.

As usual, 50 Cent is the master of the diss and the unintentionally hilarious lyrics about his prowess in the bedroom (if the song "Peep Show" wasn't titled that, I would have thought Fitty and Eminem were inviting women to their "Creep Show"). I suspect that because of the Razzy-related drama between my top two boyfriends Curtis Jackson and Robert Sylvester Kelly, 50 had some choice words for Kells: "I'm pissin' on grown women...R. Kelly do it to children." That diss will be outdated when the R-uh in R&B is exonerated at his trial starting next Monday, but whatever. Fitty is the silver lining on this 9/11, or as he puts it, he's "in the cut like germs" and you should go celebrate the day we got seriously dissed by Al Qaeda by buying yourself a copy of Curtis and listening to the dulcet beef-fomenting tones of 50 Cent, the world's most accomplished hater next to Osama.

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# posted by Razzy @ 10:07 AM 3 Comments Links to this post

Monday, September 10, 2007

 

It's Britney, bitch!

The entire internet is blowing up about Britney Spears's disaster of a "live" performance last night at the VMAs. I put live in quotes because she spent most of the time failing at lip syncing (which, given her career, I would think is absolutely second nature to her) and she seemed like she prepared for the performance by washing down a handful of Xanax with a bottle of NyQuil. However, I can think of three good things that haven't been getting as much attention on the blogosphere that merit a mention and should not be overlooked. First, in case you haven't seen this shitshow (in which case, you may be the only person in America who has not), here's the video of it to get you caught up. At the very least you should watch it just to see the priceless expression on 50 Cent's face while he's watching the performance. Or to see Rihanna openly laughing at Britney from the front row. I guess Rihanna did not take a vow to be Britney's umbrella-ella-ella or whatever:

While the negatives are patently obvious, let me just point out what Britney did right:

1. She has an ass now. Okay, so the Taco Bell and Red Bull diet isn't good for maintaining the abs Britney was rocking in 2003, and while it has given her an unsightly FUPA/gut that was not at all complimented by that bikini outfit or the busted-looking tracks that she probably glued onto her head herself, it did put some junk in her trunk. You know she'd rather die than give up the Cheetos and the Twinkies, so the ass is here to stay. I am a proponent of ass, and I think it's a good thing so long as she keeps that midriff NOT bared.


2. The entire world is at Britney's command. Seriously, General Petraeus gave Congress a report on how that little war in Iraq is going, and Osama dropped one of his annual 9/11 commemorating "you will die, infidels!" YouTube vlogs, and still everyone is talking about Britney. If she ever realizes that great power could potentially be had from the entire world being utterly fascinated with your transformation from one of the world's hottest pieces of ass to the spectacular trainwreck of a greasy-fingered sow that she has become, we are in trouble. Because with great power comes great responsibility, and if there's one thing Britney has NONE of, it's a knack for being responsible.

3. Her song begins with "It's Britney, bitch!" Even though she didn't bring the attitude that should go with that, I just fucking love that. I was so disappointed that Britney starting on that aggressive note didn't translate to awesomeness. All day I've been walking up behind J-Sexy and going, "It's Razzy, bitch!" If I were a wrestler, my entrance music would seriously be "Gimme More (Doritos)" or whatever Brit's song is called. That shit sets one hell of an asskickin', fightin' redneck, cheap weave-tearin'-out type of tone.

I think last night did prove that Britney's days of inspiring millions of hard-ons worldwide by dancing with a python, or stripping down to a flesh-colored glitter bodysuit on stage, or sucking face with Madonna, are long over. However, I think the sheer height of Britney's insane, inadvisable career choices are just now hitting their stride, and that is some quality entertainment right there. It's Britney, bitch!

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:30 PM 4 Comments Links to this post
 

Thank you, HotLawyer

My buddy and loyal Razzyphile HotLawyer sent me a spontaneous gift last week, which was very nice of him. He and I send each other unexpected surprises every so often. I once sent him some nerdy historical books about seamen, and this past week he sent a shirt which would allow me to "rep the 253" here in the 212. He requested that I wear it out and about in NYC, and take some pictures of me doing so. Unfortunately, the shirt was too big (I swear that it was only "medium" if Lane Bryant was doing the sizing), and I hate wearing ill-fitting, baggy t-shirts that hide my tits and make me look like a fat box.

Luckily, my friend Rack is a fashion designer, so when I went out for beers with her, I brought the shirt along hoping that she could remedy the situation. We got some scissors from the bar waitstaff, and Rack fixed it up for me commendably. It's now SUPER PWT, and although the shirt lauds Tacoma, it really gave it that extra dash of Puyallup that makes it right for me. She was then kind enough to take pictures of her handiwork, so that I could show my appreciation for HotLawyer by doing as he requested and taking pictures of me running around the city reppin' the 253. I didn't go to any famous NYC spots, like Times Square or somehwhere with a view of the Statue of Liberty, or Central Park, but in my opinion, the outdoor seating area of McAleer's Pub on 81st and Amsterdam is an unsung gem of Mannahattas. It should be in the Fodor's guide, because you can do all sorts of classy stuff there in an "I Hella Heart Tacoma" t-shirt. Like stand around drinking beer (important, because Tacoma is where my alcoholism really came into its own, so booze is absolutely necessary for effective representing) gazing vaguely at the camera like I might be retarded:


Or switch up my style to really go for that extra, I've-teased-out-my-half-grown-out-perm for a Tonya Harding level of trashtasticness. Hey, everyone, look at my desperately-in-need-of-some-Feria dark roots!


Or eat chicken wings and jalapeno poppers suggestively:

Thank you, HotLawyer (and Rack, for the alterations...you are the Diane Von Furstenburg of trailer park casual chic). I will always rep the 253 with pride. City of Destiny, bitches!

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# posted by Razzy @ 5:54 PM 6 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: the A train


Name: A train

DOB: September 10, 1932

Occupation: carrying some impatient-ass New Yorkers (like me) from 125th Street to 59th St-Columbus Circle without stopping

Hometown: NYC

Current residence: NYC, Far Rockaway or Lefferts Boulevard-Ozone Park to 207 St in Manhattan.

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Okay, I know the A train is a pretty weak selection for "Daily Dude I Want to Hit," but I take this train every day and it's one of the dopest express trains ever (at least it is when it's actually running express, and today is the 75 year anniversary of the A train coming into service. Besides, yesterday my home computer had a fucking terrible crisis which is unresolved (Windows won't start...how can Windows not start?!?!) and which may result in me calling my mom and asking for a $1300 computer purchasing loan if Columbia's IT hotness--a tech named Jose who sounded cute but who probably has acne, a prodigious gut, and bad taste in Sun Microsystems polo shirts--can't fix it. Therefore, I was unable to blog this morning, unable to check my Fantasy score last night when I got home drunk, unable to YouTube highlights from the VMAs, and otherwise unable to manage my life at all.

Add to that my efforts to blog up to my usual standards at work are hindered because my boss doesn't like me spending a lot of time blogging in lab, and because our department retreat is tomorrow and he just informed me that he'd like me to present a poster of my work there. While "retreat" implies getting away from it all for a relaxing holiday, it's actually 24 hours of science hell. Practically everyone from the department talks about their work, and I just frankly don't give a fuck about anyone else's project. I'm a fifth-year grad student, which means I'm cynical, jaded, and completely unenthused about anything science-related. There are free drinks, but they do little to mitigate the irritating monotony of the marathon talk sessions we have to sit through. So instead of trying to catch up on my useless bullshit, I have to put something together so I can contribute to the clusterfuck of data nobody wants to see.

So bear with me through lame blog entries resulting from trying to write covertly while I'm supposed to be working until I get this computer business figured out and get this stupid retreat out of the way. Hopefully I'll be back to being mindblowingly awesome shortly. Until then...yeah, the A train is hot. It's the longest subway line in NYC and Duke Ellington once played a song about it. Holla!

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# posted by Razzy @ 5:18 PM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Douchebag: Bret Michaels


Name: Bret Michael Sychak

DOB: March 15, 1963

Occupation: lead singer of Poison, diabetic, insecure bald dude

Hometown: Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania

Current residence: Los Angeles, California

Douchebaggery: Last night the tragedy that I had long feared and dreaded finally came to pass...Brandi M.'s tour ended on "Rock of Love with Bret Michaels." After noting that "if you want to date a rock star, you've got to party like one," Brandi proceeded to drink so much Gray Goose vodka out of the bottle that she vomited into her napkin during dinner. Luckily, the horror known as Lacey was also drunk off her ass but she managed to stick around because Bret has no taste in women.

When "Rock of Love" first started, I SORT OF liked Bret Michaels because not only does Poison have its moments and because fucking Bret Michaels is an entirely more appealing prospect than with Flavor Flav. Getting sexy with Flav gives a whole new meaning to the term "doing the nasty." I'd take some Bret Michaels dick over that ugly little hobbit at any time. Besides, Bret has a mildly self-deprecating sense of humor that's sort of endearing, and he doesn't have the annoying tendency to shout "yeah, boyeeeeeeee!" incessantly like Flav does. However, Bret's affection for the stank, Satanic Lacey, as well as his absolutely horrible taste in outlandishly gaudy cowboy hats, is irritating to me.

Last night, as I watched him suggest that Brandi M. was a bitch for leading him on when she told him she loved him or something while she was puking, but then admitted that she really didn't think they made a very strong connection, I was like, "NO! Brandi M. is being honest with you! More honest than Lacey or drag queeny-ass Heather! Keep her around!" Brandi may not be head over heels in love with Bret, but come on, like these shows ever result in the world's greatest relationship. Obviously things worked out so well for his predecessor Flav with Hoopz and Deelishis that he's now doing "Flavor of Love 3." Vh1 reality shows may be extremely entertaining, but I would say that their track record is pretty poor when it comes to setting up successful relationships. In fact, it's so crappy that last season's "I Love New York" reunion ended with Tango dumping New York on live TV. So who cares that Brandi M. didn't fall in love with Bret's ass in the extremely contrived climate of Bret's mansion? At least she was honest about it.

However, Brandi's honesty was probably her downfall. Bret was concerned that she'd give away his greatest secret. My complaining about yet another shiteous piece of flame-emblazoned "American Outlaw" crap headwear last night led J-Sexy and my buddy Unicorn Dick to wonder why he is so intent on always putting something hideous on his head. "He's bald, dude," said Unicorn Dick. That actually makes a lot of sense. I have yet to see Bret without a bandana or stupid hat covering the entire top of his skull. It's been years since we've seen the top of Bret Michael's head. I think he's hiding something, specifically a helicopter launching pad surrounded by those long blonde tresses which are his trademark. Brandi got the boot because she'd probably get sloppy drunk and tell the world what Bret's head looks like, and it wouldn't really help Bret's "rock star" image retain its rapidly declining relevance to be singing "Unskinny Bop" while sporting a big shiny bald spot. In my long and storied experience, that kind of insecurity can mean only one thing: small, ugly, crooked, skinny, or otherwise inferior penis! Brandi should count her blessings, because she dodged some disappointing dick.

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# posted by Razzy @ 1:07 PM 1 Comments Links to this post

Friday, September 07, 2007

 

Curtis will eat Kanye's children

This is the cover of the new Rolling Stone, and I think it's pretty obvious that this isn't even a contest:

This is like watching Mike Tyson do a pre-show press posturing contest with some well-manicured prep school douche with a practiced condescending sneer and an unprecedented case of Jesus envy: you know Tyson would say something effeminate and confusing, skinny boy would unwisely try to intimidate Tyson with some overdone intellectual posturing, and Tyson would thump his chest and just stab him, bludgeon him, poke his eye out, bite his nuts off, or otherwise deal him some seriously grievous hurting.

Okay, in fairness, the other day my buddy was listening to a new Kanye West song that I kind of liked. I heard it, and I was like, "I know this is Kanye...I know this is Kanye...but it's kind of catchy. I like the beat. I can just ignore his preachy, pompous prattle."

"Is this Kanye West?" I asked my friend Neo.

"Yes," she said.

ARRGH! I winced, knowing that it goes against everything I stand for to like Kanye West. I then calmed myself with the knowledge that even though I might like ONE Kanye West song here and there (I liked that "Slow Jamz" song too, if only because of the part where Twista says "let me get you wet listening to Keith Sweat"), my boyfriend Fitty will still destroy Kanye in this contest that Kanye supposedly didn't even want to participate in. SHA RIGHT...this whole thing was a big publicity stunt that was probably Kanye's idea in the first place. That bitch is so in love with himself he had to come up with something clever to bring his album sales up to match his ego. 50 Cent is getting rich, but Kanye is apparently dying trying, so naturally he'd need a clever ploy to piggyback on 50's album sales. Now, as a result, they did a big photo shoot together for Rolling Stone to promote the albums that will be going head to head in a sales contest when they drop on 9/11.

Based on menacing eyebrow-based scowling tactics alone, 50 is taking this one all the way. Besides, Kanye may have one song that's enjoyable if you ignore Kanye's bloviating lyrical flow, but Fitty has songs on his new album where he brags about how he's "got more whips than a runaway slave" and where he pitches his new vibrator line in terms of an anecdotal tale of his erotic carny magic tricks ("now watch me pull a rabbit out of a hat, then you can use the rabbit all over your cat"). Curtis is taking Kanye's pretty ass down.

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:54 AM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: President Roh Moo-hyun


Name: Roh Moo-hyun

DOB: September 1, 1946

Occupation: president of South Korea

Hometown: Gimhae, South Gyongsang, South Korea

Current residence: Seoul, South Korea

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: President Roh came from a humble farming family, didn't go to college, and taught himself enough law to pass the South Korean bar exam. He started off as a tax attorney, but was galvanized to become an aggressive human rights litigator when he agreed to defend students who had been tortured for possessing contraband books. Several years later, he got involved in politics and was elected president in 2002. He was impeached by corrupt politicians in the Korean National Assembly, but thanks to checks and balances, his impeachment was overturned by the courts and he's been kicking ass ever since.

Continuing with the asskickery, he today sat down with President Bush ahead of the Asia-Pacific Economic Summit in Australia. This was supposed to be a friendly chat about all things Korean peninsula. When President Bush decided to do a little diplomatic dick-swinging about North Korea's pledge to give up their nukes by declaring that a disarmed Kim Jong Il would mean an official end to the Korean War (which hasn't seen combat since a truce was signed in 1953, and so is technically still ongoing), President Roh decided to hold him accountable for his words.



"I think I might be wrong. I think I did not hear President Bush mention a declaration to end the Korean War just now. Did you say so, President Bush? If you could be a little bit clearer," said President Roh, courteously but firmly.

President Bush, squirming in his seat and looking might uncomfortable, repeated himself, saying, "I can't make it any more clear, Mr. President. We look forward to the day when we can end the Korean War. That will happen when Kim Jong Il verifiably gets rid of his weapons programs and his weapons." However, it's obvious that as usual, Bush doesn't like having to commit to anything that comes out of his own mouth. He probably has reason to be concerned about making statements about the Korean War, the bulk of Bush's knowledge about which probably comes from watching reruns of "M*A*S*H." Thanks to President Roh's insistence, President Bush just reiterates what Condi or whoever told him to say while trying to sound authoritative, because if he is pressed about the ins and outs of the Korean War, his only original contribution to the discussion will be "that darn Hawkeye fella sure was a character!"

President Roh's years as a relentless lawyer and politician have given him an exquisitely sensitive bullshit detector, and he knew President Bush was full of shit and wanted to get him clearly stating his commitment to disarming crazy-ass Kim Jong Il and signing a permanent peace treaty. I applaud ability to instigate a bitch fight and call Bush out for his typical dumbassery in a damned diplomatic manner. President Roh's unwillingness to let Bush just jawflap incessantly and meaninglessly about foreign policy and smoothness at accomplishing the same is certainly an asset to the people of South Korea. Roh is a ball-busting hot slice of diplomatic leadership, and he, along with the delicious spicy squid- and/or barbecue-based foods Korea produces, make me want to move to Seoul.

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:19 AM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Douchebag: Shelley Lubben


Name: Shelley Lubben

Porn name: Roxy

DOB: May 18, 1968

Occupation: ex-porn star, Jesus freak, anti-porn crusader, hypocritical two-faced cuntrag

Hometown: Pasadena, California

Current residence: Bakersfield, California (after finding God in Tacoma, Washington)

Douchebaggery: After a miserable childhood featuring negligent, emotionally absent parents and sexual abuse, Shelley Lubben grew up to be a stripper, prostitute, and star of such films
as Used and Abused 2, Roxy's Gangbang Fantasy, and Cumm Brothers 3: The Boys Go to Traffic School. She developed a drug and alcohol addiction, attempted suicide, took anti-depressants by the cartload, and got herpes and cervical cancer. Up until this point, Shelley Lubben seems like a sad, cautionary tale to inspire pity and sympathetic wishes that she might one day get her life together. Well, be careful what you wish for, because Shelley Lubben found Jesus and now won't shut the fuck up about it.

I first found Shelley Lubben via this Christian website called LiveOffensively, which sells obnoxious imperative t-shirts to kids that say "Abortion is Mean" and "Pornography is for Posers." Apparently she and her meth-addict husband stumbled into Champions Center church in Tacoma, formed a personal relationship with the big JC, got cleaned up, and started getting her judgmental crusader on! Shelley's new mission in life is to blame porn for all her problems (because it would be too obvious just to blame severe childhood trauma, right?) and to wage war against pornography on behalf of the Lord JEE-saws Chrasst. As she puts it on her website's mission statement:
"We are committed to helping improve the lives of persons struggling with pornography addiction, sexual abuse, sex industry exploitation and emotional and mental poor health. We press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus. Shelley will use her past experience and present knowledge to help people transform their lives by providing powerful resources and tools to equip people to live Champion lives. www.shelleylubben.com is also on a hardcore mission to smash the illusion of pornography and tell the world the awesome truth about God’s amazing love for every individual person."
According to Shelley, this means hooking up people who wish to forsake porn (being in it or just watching and enjoying it AKA "porn addiction") with some Bible know-how and some good old-fashioned Christian compassion. It also means crusading hard against all the evils in porn, including STDs, drugs, objectification and victimization of women, abuse, etc.

Shelley's crusade got some media attention and she got a few convert porn stars to exploit the shit out of as "success stories," and MTV decided to make a documentary about her ministry. Shelley decided to approach a porn star named Taryn Thomas, who gained a bunch of weight, left porn, kicked her coke habit, and is now planning a triumphant return to fucking on camera. Fortunately, one of my regular porn gossip blogs (yes, I read porn gossip blogs) faithfully reproduced their correspondence in full:
Hi Taryn,

My name is Shelley Lubben and I am a former porn actress who reaches out to girls in the porn and sex industry the past three years.

Recently, MTV Producers approached me and asked me if they could film my current work of helping girls out of the porn industry.

If you visit my (MySpace) profile you will see I help girls leave the porn industry and assist them as they rebuild their lives after porn. The reason this appealed to me is because I could help many MORE girls if my work was filmed on TV. I want to start a foundation to help all girls in the sex industry once the TV show is up and running.

I looked at your profile and thought I would ask you if you are interested in being filmed as well. They are looking for girls who want to leave a life of porn and make a better life for themselves. They want to follow the girl’s story so you would be in a main role on the show. They will be offering pay as well you will be on a mainstream TV series and get much exposure and many better opportunities than what porn could ever offer you.

My heart is to see girls escape porn and live the lives they were meant to live. All porn offers is pressure to do sex acts, hooking, drugs, abusive men, risking your life everyday to catch sexual transmitted diseases and cervical cancer and possibly miscarriages. I personally caught Herpes a non-curable disease, have had three miscarriages, cervical cancer and an ectopic pregnancy. Yes porn and prostitution ruined my life for many years but I have been able to rebuild my life and now it’s my heart to help other girls.

I absolutely believe you were made for much greater things than porn.

Let me know if you are interested.

And if you are not interested, I wish you all the happiness in the world!

Much love to you,

Shelley

PS: Please check out my profile to get to know me.
This e-mail must have been unsolicited, because Taryn responded with a polite but unmistakable "thanks but no thanks," as well as some her own thoughts about her experiences in the porn industry.

Hi Shelley:

I respect what you are doing, but I feel you are saying things about the porn world that are not entirely true. I don’t know when you were in porn or what happen in your career to make you say these things about the industry. In my time in porn I have never once been to a set where the director has offered me drugs or alcohol. Nor have i ever seen a girl shooting up, smoking crack, sniffing coke, drinking etc on set. And I am sure it does go on but I have never seen it nor do i want to.

Honestly if i did see that on set or if i was offered it i would walk right off set. Simply bc of the fact I am sober now for a year and six months do to a small relapse I had last year after being sober for 4 years. At this time I am making my comeback into porn after taking almost 2 years off and want nothing more to continue with my porn career and be even more successful than before. During my two years off I did not struggle I went to cosmetology school, & real estate school and had a normal job working a pharmacy tech like I did before porn.

Also was able to live comfortably bc of all the money I saved working in porn. Right now I am actually working with a producer (mainstream) to film a documentary on my return to porn and my family in general. I am fortunate to have come from a upper class family, with a good up bringing. I feel the need to tell you all this bc you only seem to want to shed light on the bad things in porn instead of focusing on the bad and good. I think it’s people like you that make out industry look so bad when it’s really not. So I think you should try to shed light on both sides now that’s an idea!

Taryn
Apparently, Shelley didn't want to take no for an answer and didn't appreciate having her ministry questioned by some godless coke whore...I mean, beloved child of God. She went straight from believing that Taryn was made for much better things than porn (like real estate, pharmacy teching, and cosmetology, apparently) to calling Taryn a liar and making some statements that sound vaguely like a segue into a blackmail or extortion attempt:
Taryn, You are lying. I am being very nice not mentioning things about you publicly because I respect you. But I know quite a bit about you. More than you can imagine. Are you sure you’ve never done drugs on the set? Hmmmmm.
To Taryn's credit, she immediately responded in kind by telling Shelley to fuck promptly off:
Shelly,

I have never met you in my life nor do I wish to. You emailed me out of the blue. You are now making false statements about me, and have about the industry for sometime. Please do not email me again. I am very happy with my life and career. And will never be apart of your cause. I am for porn 100% till the day I die. Again do NOT email me again.

Thanks Taryn
The problem with women like Shelley Lubben is that they come out of the gate with "compassion" and offers of help to "rebuild (porn star) lives." The second that their target offers a differing opinion or challenges their proposals, the true nature of their "love" reveals itself, and it doesn't include wishing one "all the happiness in the world." I don't know what Jesus would do in this scenario, but I believe that he would not choose to demonstrate compassion by responding to challenges with veiled threats of public humiliation, petty personal attacks, or a sickening sense of self-righteousness.

Shelley Lubben is like the Dolores Umbridge of the Christian anti-porn movement. If you don't read Harry Potter, Dolores Umbridge is this simpering, fussy bureaucrat at the Ministry of Magic who teaches Defense against the Dark Arts in year 5 at Hogwarts. When she arrives on the scene, in spite of her toadlike appearance, she seems to be a prim, particular woman intent on educational reform with a fetish for ornamental cat plates. Quickly, however, she demonstrates her innate evil, punishing students by forcing them to write lines using a quill which etches the words painfully into their skin. She's horribly prejudiced against "half-breeds" and at one point threatens to use the Cruciatus Curse on Harry Potter to extract information from him by torture. Shelley Lubben is the same way, marketing her ministry as a mission of Christian love and compassion, but perfectly comfortable resorting to undisguised cruelty and spite in order to ensure that her interfering worldview remains unimpeached.

As a Christian, I do not appreciate it when people constantly drop the name of MY Savior to justify doing the most un-Christian things imaginable. If Shelley has really read the Bible as closely as she claims, she might remember the parts in the gospels of Mark, Matthew, and John where Jesus tore up the Temple. To paraphrase the Good Book, Jesus got pissed that they were selling cattle and shit in the Temple, and ran around turning over tables, releasing doves, and calling the vendors and Temple dudes hypocrites. As far as I can remember, this is the only time Jesus ever got a little violent, and it was because he was mad that the sanctity of the Temple was being desecrated by swindlers and crooks. I wonder what Jesus would say about bitches like Shelley, who invoke his name and then use and abuse the people they claim to be saving, either by parading them around as success stories or trying to browbeat them into acquiescence by claiming the moral high ground. Shelley apparently thinks this is being a "Champion." I call it being a fucking duplicitous, manipulative, selfish, judgmental bitch whose actions make all of us who actually believe in Jesus to be embarrassed about admitting that.

Shelley seems to think that her connection to the big Savior upstairs is more important than most other Christians, however, because Jesus saw fit to give her a fellow born-again zealot to make babies with, and because he "miraculously" cured her of herpes and depression. If Shelley were Catholic, she'd be two-thirds of the way toward canonization with that kind of miracle track record. As a virologist, I was curious how Shelley knows about the miracle of her herpes cure, which, as she regularly reminds the reader in her website's bio section, is incurable. Apparently she enrolled in some clinical trial and was rejected because they couldn't detect virus in her blood. I hate to shatter some of Shelley's miracle-receiving Christian street cred, but this is because herpes simplex virus, like all herpesviruses, has a latent stage in its replication cycle. That means that between outbreaks (which are known as the lytic stage), the infection is latent and lies dormant in your neurons. Neurons are the cells that make up nerves, and they don't circulate in the blood, so during periods of latency, herpes simplex is undetectable by anything short of a biopsy. That stupid bitch probably didn't even let the tech who told her she was disqualified from the trial based on undetectable viral load explain that she could have an outbreak any time and to keep taking her fucking Valtrex, and just waltzed out of the clinic praising Jesus for curing her dumb slag ass. Don't call it a miracle when it's just biology taking its course, you herpetic skank.

I also don't appreciate being called a "porn addict" because I enjoy porn. I probably watch more porn than many women, but I'm more addicted to blogging than I am to porn. Porn fascinates me, arouses me, entertains me, amuses me, and, along with reality TV, pepperoni pizza, Fantasy Football, my dogs, books about seamen, and Heineken, it is just one aspect of my life that I enjoy and sometimes indulge in. I think that porn is a healthy part of many people's sex lives, and while there are some people who can't control their impulses to watch it, most of us who do consider it one of many pleasant diversions. Of course porn stars are often damaged human beings. Most people would not choose to make their living fucking on camera, putting themselves at risk for injuries or STDs, being ostracized by mainstream society, and called a whore regularly if they had high self-esteem or good job prospects. I'm also sure there are many porn stars who are addicts of one sort or another, victims of abuse, and suffer from mental illness. However, these people were all probably broken before they got into porn. It's kind of Shelley Lubben to offer them a better life if they want it, but it's misplacing blame to say that porn is the reason they are broken. Like Shelley, they were fucked up before porn, and while getting out of porn may help them deal with their personal issues, it's not porn's fault that they are experiencing the sequelae of a traumatic childhood. Becoming a sanctimonious, Bible-thumping Jesus fanatic isn't going to fix them, and it's simplistic and foolish to think that it would.

I hope that Shelley Lubben starts reading her Jesus material a little more closely before demonizing an industry based on her own personal bad experience and projecting her issues in the form of unrelenting judgment onto anyone who crosses her path. She's a fool, and an idiot, and woe betide the misguided and desperate porn star who thinks Shelley will help her become anything but a condemning, unfair, pitiless parrot regurgitating her twisted interpretations of Christian love. I hope the next time I'm home in Tacoma, I run into Shelley Lubben so that I can flash my tits at her and tell her personally what a fucking asshole I think she is. And then I'll pray for her sorry, twisted soul.

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:12 AM 19 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, September 06, 2007

 

It's the most wonderful time of the year...

That's right...the National Football League officially begins its 2007 season in less than one hour, and I couldn't be more fucking stoked. Today, I got this e-mail in my inbox, and it served to increase my frenzied excitement (as well as almost lick my computer screen, until I remembered that I work in a lab full of live viruses and it's inadvisable to put my tongue on anything in here):

I'm not sure which of these two wants it more, but I can tell you which one I WANT more, and I'll give you a hint...it's not FAS* Manning's big brother. (*FAS="fetal alcohol syndrome")

The only thing that makes me take a break from my swooning over the hotness that is Reggie (Get in My) Bush for one second is the sting of knowing that he's not on my fantasy team. In spite of my leaguemate Unicorn Dick's attempts to trick me into drafting with my pussy rather than my years of Fantasy Football experience, I begrudgingly passed over Reggie to fill out my team with LaDanian Tomlinson. LT's hot too, and as an added bonus he hasn't stuck his dick in Kim Kardashian, but he just doesn't have that same debonair, seductive appeal that Reggie brings so effectively. Alas...Bush got snapped up in the first round before I could add him to my roster.

At least I'll get to watch his fine ass cutting all over the field in the face of the pathetic and hapless Colts defense. Seriously, Reggie can outrun and outblock a Pepsi machine. I think he's going to stomp his fly-ass cleats all over Indianapolis's pathetic excuse for a run defense. On the sidelines, Peyton's going to be pissed, shouting "fuck!" to himself as he is wont to do on every occasion where he can't shout his favorite derogatory alternative to the f-bomb ("idiot kicker!"). It's going to be awesome. I CANNOT WAIT!!!! I'm so ready for some football!

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:05 PM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Dennis Saunders


Name: Dennis Saunders

DOB: 1948?

Occupation: convicted perv

Hometown: San Rafael, California

Current residence: San Rafael halfway house?

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Okay, I actually don't really want to hit that pallid, paunchy, chinless creep, but I have to give him props for shamelessness. After being released from prison in August--where he was serving an eight-year sentence for over 40 counts of secretly taping women from his apartment complex in their bathrooms--his first order of business was to demand that the cops return his epic porn collection. The over 700 tapes and magazines, according to Saunders, are worth $25,000. I'm especially impressed that Saunders is asking for all of them back and so grossly overvaluating them, because his is a porn collection that it requires a special sort of indignity to request back publicly.

Although he's not requesting his old tapes of his victims, Dennis wants to have the right to watch his copies of the seminal Muffmania or Eat Cum series, as well as flip through one of his back issues of High Society Teen Angels. I don't see why the police have a right to sit around the San Rafael station house watching Dennis's copy of Cum Quarts or Creme de la Face (assuming the cops running the evidence locker love the whole facializing genre of porn as much as Dennis). The fact that the cops aren't giving back any of the films exploring themes of sex with hirsute PWT from the P-N-Dub makes me wonder what kind of depraved sickos are working on the San Rafael police force. If they're hanging onto the Seattle Hairy Girls video repertoire for their own amusement, I think the taxpayers deserve to know what's up with the taste and standards of their law enforcement officials. I mean, for God's sake, he owned a copy of this masterpiece, the magnum opus of amateur P-N-Dub erotica, if you can call watching the Gilloolys consummating their nuptials at the Portland Red Lion Inn "erotica":


Dennis sure does support the burgeoning cottage industry that is Pacific Northwest-related porn, so I've got to thank him for bolstering my local economy, at least in terms of amateur hardcore action. His collection includes videos produced by my hometown's very own "porn king," Jeff Harder. NYPD Nude, Swami MD, and Northwest Amateurs were among the titles currently being kept from Saunders, and it makes sense that Uncle Fester Saunders likes to spank it to Jeff Harder and a bunch of other ugly-ass P-N-Dub dudes pounding nasty, worse-for-the-wear so-called "MILFs" (in my judgment, the "ILF" part of that acronym most certainly does NOT apply to these busted slags rocking Fantastic Sam's spiral perms fresh off the South Tacoma Way Deja Vu stripper pole). See for yourself at Jeff Harder's website, but PREPARE yourself to be visually assaulted by baggy-snatched Pierce, Thurston, and south King County chlamydia carriers wearing full Lovers Package fuck-me lingerie ensembles). The fledgling Puyallup gonzo porn industry is exactly what I would have imagined it to be. On second thought, I wish Dennis hadn't spent his money keeping this in business, as "the Puyallup" is best done at a trot, at a gallop, or so slow one's heart won't palpitate, and not by some withered crone in a cheap corset being anally piledriven on a low-quality Camcorder.

Anyway, Dennis Saunders is a revolting old pervert, but I say give him back his porn. He should get it just for telling the police, "Bitches, you have no right to keep me from my copy of Northwest Amateurs!" He's gross, but he's fighting for his rights to get his shudder-inducing rocks off in spite of being a convicted degenerate weirdo, and to his guts, his unabashedness, and his brave sense of duty to upholding his civil liberties I say bravo. Besides, if he's busy beating off to Naughty Neighbor Newcummers, he's probably not trying to watch his neighbors take a piss or otherwise invade their privacy, so everybody wins.

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:14 AM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Douchebag: Senator Sam Brownback (R-Kan)


Name: Samuel Dale Brownback

DOB: September 12, 1956

Occupation: Senator, presidential hopeful, most embarrassing Catholic this side of Benedixteen

Hometown: Garnett, Kansas

Current residence: Washington, DC

Douchebaggery: Sam Brownback is one of those super "family values" types of politicians, where in his mind "family values" means "we don't want none-a them homos gettin' no special privileges" ("special privileges"=being victims of hate crimes) and "let's go on ahead and wiretap all-a them A-rab's phones without a warrant just to be on the safe side." Among his brilliant ideas are that we could solve all our immigration problems by building a wall to keep out the Mexicans, exempting the oil industry from environmental regulations, and teaching "intelligent design" in schools (because evolution is a THEORY, whereas the Genesis creation narrative is FACT). He's also dead-set against abortion, even in cases of rape or incest, to the point where when I was forwarded this link about a blog supporting Brownback that argues "rape" should be renamed "USE" ("USE"="unplanned sexual event"), I initially thought it was actually a real site.

Even worse, Brownback is CATHOLIC. We RCs have enough bad press to deal with, given our creepy, trollish blowhard of a Pope who is bringing Medieval back, and the misinformed animosity of people like my Aunt Jesus, who regards the whole "saint" business as glorified idolatry. Now, thanks to Sam Brownback, who oddly converted to Catholicism in spite of being an evangelical Christian (Catholic interpretation of scripture isn't literal), we're getting painted with the fundamentalist stick. We don't need dickheads like Brownback coming onto the scene and spouting off a bunch of bombastic pro-life rhetoric under the banner of Catholicism, then voting repeatedly to uphold the death penalty. I have no problem with people who are pro-life even though I am not. My mother is very pro-life based on her Catholic faith, and to her, that means opposing abortion as well as capital punishment and war. Even though I disagree, I think her views that people who claim to be "pro-life" and then vote for hastening executions and reducing the opportunities of death row prisoners to appeal are fucking hypocrites are right on. If Brownback wants to bring Jesus into it, then he should go hang out with the evangelicals where he belongs and quit dragging my church's name through the mud of conflicting pro-life views and attacks on Darwinism.

Luckily, Brownback's message isn't really catching on. Even among the super conservative Christian types, nobody wants to hear any of the bullshit that Brownback is slinging. Yesterday, he went to New Hampshire to deliver a fiery speech decrying civil rights for whores and foreigners intended to galvanize the Brownback faithful as the primaries and caucuses approach. I'm sure all eight of them were deeply moved by his message of inflexible, punitive, discriminatory harshness, or as he likes to call it, "compassion:"

You can almost hear the crickets chirping. This douche is going straight back under the primitive, judgmental rock he crawled out from under within a month. Not even Jesus would vote for his ass out of pity.

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# posted by Razzy @ 5:44 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Wednesday, September 05, 2007

 

If you're a blowjob-loving pervert looking for limos in Puyallup or Brandi M. sucking dick, you've come to the right place

Yesterday I was dicking around on my stats page, which is something I do whenever I'm feeling particularly webmasterly. Statcounter has all sorts of statistics I can look at for my amusement, like how long people stayed at my site, what pages they read, what websites referred them here, and the like. I idly clicked on "Recent Keyword Activity" to see what words were driving people to my site from Google, and immediately began laughing out loud:

I don't know how anyone wound up on my blog wondering about the resignation of the pastor of "Empowerment Temple" or who "G Brown" the jock asshole is, but everything else seems right on the money. I'm clearly all about fellatio, cumshots, show-stopping around my hometown in luxury chaffeur-driven vehicles, and "pussyeat dolls" (and that probably was NOT a typo), and if Polish Google directed someone elsewhere besides my site in a search for "slizzing hot game," then I'd say they got their algorithms totally twisted.

To make sure these search trends weren't a fluke, I checked out my keyword activity today, as well. In addition to being completely sure that much of my traffic these days is coming from dudes with a mouse in one hand and his dick in the other hunting for photos of Brandi M. demonstrating her prowess at sucking cock while attempting to flash her bedroom eyes at the webcam, I was pleased to see that I'm getting hits from people presumably enamored with the scorching Norse hotness that is Captain Sigurd Hansen of the F/V Northwestern and that my counterstrike against the Tej Offensive has been successful. I also wish desperately that I had pictures of a white guy (ideally Colonel John Matrix, Commando and current Governor of California) doing Rae Dawn Chong doggystyle.
I am so glad that people are still landing at my site when Googling Tej Bindra, because I plan to make her pay in character capital for as long as I own this damn domain. For those of you who are new to the site, Tej Bindra is an avowed Razzy Hater and all-around dumb Smith bitch who didn't appreciate my ridiculing her dorm room's profile in the Smith Alumnae Quarterly, and REALLY didn't like the e-mail I sent her a year later when she called me an assfuck and demanded a retraction in which I instructed her to eat me. Tej sought to retaliate by having some nefarious consort(s) of hers leave me threatening voicemails, post naked pictures of me on the internet, post more naked pictures of me on the internet, and impersonate me in the hopes that some Craigslist perv would inadvertently rape me. The whole thing worked out, because I got to meet some hot NYPD detectives, and because I vowed thereafter to ensure that RAZZY.org is the first thing potential employers or romantic interests see when they search the internets for "TEJ BINDRA." If that bitch thought making me fear for my sexual safety was a reasonable punishment for not taking down a relatively insignificant blog posting making fun of the room she shared with her dour, titless girlfriend in Wesley House back at my dear old alma mater, then she was dead fucking wrong. This should go to show that if you are some dipshit history major at a liberal arts college who thinks your feelings are paramount to everything else, you should consider VERY carefully the consequences of fucking with a shameless bitch with an internet audience. I hope that stupid, chunky twat is still peddling her worthless internship-replete CV all around the human rights non-profit circuit hoping desperately to come across one that doesn't check references or know about Google.

Anyway, the keywords have it. Not only am I getting the hits I want from the nasty sex pigs seeking free celebreality porn, connoisseurs of "slizzing hot game," and randoms looking for limos or model plastic RoboCops, but also I am getting revenge and man, it is sweet. I win again and as always! It rules being me.

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:37 AM 2 Comments Links to this post
 

My Buffalo theory continues to evolve

Last night was my Fantasy Football draft, and since Morrissey'sHair dropped out of the draft early, I had to call him up to inform him that thanks to his auto-selections, his starting wide receivers were now Chris Chambers and Darryl Jackson. We got to talking about how he ran into our mutual high school classmate Mullah AntoniHo at Uwajimaya (Asian food and furniture supermarket in Seattle) while he was having lunch with a friend who was visiting him from out of town last weekend. A little later in the conversation, we were talking about football and somehow J.P. Losman came up, and in the course of that discussion, he mentioned that his recently visiting friend was from Buffalo.

After Morrissey'sHair had to get off the phone to "talk to the cable guy" (aka probably bang some 22-year-old Seattle hipster ho-bag/unemployed model or something of that ilk), I went back to drafting, made a few phone calls, and generally went about my typical Razzy business (drinking Heineken, reading Fantasy Football blogs, and watching TV). Then, I had one of those divine, Doc-Brown-fell-off-his-toilet-and-cooked-up-the-flux-capacitor moments of inspiration about my Buffalo theory.

My Buffalo theory was an idea I had a while back while writing about the hotness that is Brandi M. from "Rock of Love with Bret Michaels" on Vh1 and realized I had never met an unattractive person from Buffalo. If you can count on native Buffalans for anything, it's that their love for hockey is bordering on achieving Canadian-level amounts of fanaticism, and it's that they are SEXY AS HELL. My buddy G-Cat, one of the hot Buffalo natives upon whose attractive phenotype I based this theory, helped me tweak the paradigm a bit, assuring me that all the fuckable people from Buffalo have all moved away leaving nothing but morbidly obese, wing-stuffed lardasses in his hometown. Thanks to his helpful input, I've now revised my model to reflect that Buffalo's sexworthy natives have all moved to other cities, which works out well for me, since I bet there's lots of them here in Nieuw Amsterdam. However, now, thanks to Morrissey'sHair, my Buffalo theory needs revising yet AGAIN. Also, unfortunately for me, it indicates that the men of Buffalo aren't into the whole Scandinavian white trash thing I've got going on.

Morrissey'sHair casually mentioned that he and his friend were at Uwajimaya because his friend "has an Asian fetish." This same friend hates J.P. Losman because like all Bills fans he spends a lot of time nostalgically rhapsodizing about Jim Kelly, who led the Bills to four straight Super Bowls, all of which they lost, and only a Buffalo native son thinks like that. A light went on in my genius brain and...EUREKA! Hot dudes originally hailing from Buffalo all love the Asian ladies! My buddy G-Cats, while apparently having more fondness and sympathy than Morrissey'sHair's pal for the unfortunate and tragically flawed (with an inconsistent quarterback, a pathetic running back situation, precious few players capable of catching a pass, no defense whatsoever, and one of the crappiest, underachieving offensive lines in the NFL) Bills, ALSO has an Asian fetish. I have never seen him with a non-Asian girlfriend EVER. I have seen him turn down offers from insanely hot non-Asian women. When we went camping the other weekend, in addition to bringing his Asian girlfriend, he had an entire harem of Asian women surrounding him at almost all times. He loves the Asian ladies and is so famous for it that it's often one of the first descriptors you hear of him at a grad school party. I don't know what Morrissey'sHair's friend looks like, but I'd be willing to bet that he's quite the looker given his Buffalo expat status and his lust for the mysterious treasures of the Orient, or whatever.

Too bad these fellas weren't visiting their hometown this past weekend, where the ravenous Korean-American fox Sonya "The Black Widow" Thomas, fifth-ranked competitive eater in the world, took home the title of Buffalo's top wing eater when she consumed 173 chicken wings (5.12 pounds) in 12 minutes.

You know this slavering, sauce-smeared bundle of fierceness can probably give one hell of a sloppy blow job. After having seen her on ESPN slamming Nathan's famous hot dogs at Coney Island this past summer, I can say with near absolute certainty that she can deep throat like a damn porn star.

And speaking of porn stars who know their way orally around a weiner, at least I can find some solace at not being phenotypically appreciated by Buffalan men in Amateur Facialist Brandi M. The great thing about being bisexual is that even though the hot dudes of Buffalo may reject my uber-Nordic physical features due to their inherent preferences, I can still hit it with the fine ladies hailing from there. Brandi M. is a Las Vegas stripper, former cocksucking webcam whore, and current hot-ass, liquor-swilling, extremely horny, genital-ruled Scorpio, so I bet she's been known to get down with (or go down on) some bitches. Besides, if Bret Michaels is any indication, she likes her sex partners to have long blonde hair, a trashtastic aura, and a blue-collar background, so there's still a chance I might break me off a piece of some fly upstate ass. And I will.

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# posted by Razzy @ 5:59 AM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Douchebag: Steve Fossett


Name: James Stephen Fossett

DOB: April 22, 1944

Occupation: securities robber baron, aviator, seaman, pursuer of pointless records

Hometown: Garden Grove, California

Current residence: the Nevada desert

Douchebaggery: I get so annoyed with all these rich guys who decide to become famous and take up space in my news coverage with their attempts to do stupid, pointless, incredibly expensive shit. These billionaires all decide to live out their childhood fantasies of being an astronaut or a professional athlete by buying tickets to space in Russia or buying a pro sports franchise. At least the sports team owners provide some entertainment, both in terms of their product and their courtside antics (in Mark Cuban's case, anyway). The astronaut types are annoying and provide nothing of value except stupid articles concerning the breaking news of their flight in some overpriced test rocket.

Steve Fossett clearly has experienced a variation of the I-always-wanted-to-be-an-astronaut syndrome afflicting so many other dudes enjoying their billions, as he apparently wanted to be Charles Lindbergh or Phileas Fogg when he grew up. He's set a ton of records important to nobody except the publishers at Guiness, and is always looking for new ways to circumnavigate the globe for no apparent reason. His means of travel have the trappings of danger, and thus every time he busts out in the "Global Flyer" or his balloon or whatever, the media covers his ass more than the war in Iraq. However, money, press, and faggy flight suits do not make the man Magellan. Steve Fossett will interest my ass when he tries to sail around Cape Horn in a rotting, worm-ridden, single-hulled piece of Spanish crap subsisting solely on rancid seal blubber and Madeira wine while quashing mutinies and battling scurvy. Until he does that (hopefully also going out like Magellan and getting hacked to death by a horde of angry Filipinos), I could care less about anything Steve Fossett does, much less that he's missing.

While this douche was out scouting salt beds to race along in the desert, he disappeared in his buddy Barron Hilton's (aka grandfather of Paris) fancy plane. This has been the top headline for the past day, and I just don't care. Everyone seems to be shocked that this happened, but COME ON! Planes crash and this dude was always in one, so it's not like it's a surprise. His ass is probably dead and thankfully so, as he'll now never annoy me with future news headlines about breaking the land-speed record, his latest attempt at setting a who-fucking-cares record.

Sir Richard Branson, the self-proclaimed "rebel billionaire" who owns Virgin and loves to get in on the market opportunities afforded by his buddy Fossett's hobby, seems confident that I am wrong. "Steve is a tough old boot. I suspect he is waiting by his plane right now for someone to pick him up. The ranch he took off from covers a huge area, and Steve has had far tougher challenges to overcome in the past. Based on his track record, I feel confident we'll get some good news soon." A rebellious statement on par with a report to shareholders on quarterly earnings, to be sure. Branson is obviously pissed that he can't slap Virgin Atlantic logos all over Fossett's land-speed rocket car, because the charred carbon representing all of Steve Fossett's earthly remains is probably baking along with the twisted wreckage of his plane beneath the hot Nevada sun. You know that motherfucker probably had a GPS in his Rolex, so the fact that every plane in Nevada has to be called out for the search isn't particularly encouraging concerning, whatever Sir Branson might deviously say. Steve Fossett is dead. Praise the Lord.

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# posted by Razzy @ 5:20 AM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: J. Craig Venter


Name: John Craig Venter

DOB: October 14, 1946

Occupation: genomics geek, unrepentant capitalist, yachtsman

Hometown: Salt Lake City, Utah

Current residence: Rockville, Maryland

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: As far as celebrity scientists go, J. Craig Venter is one of the most notorious. In the late 1990s, he founded Celera Genomics and boasted that he was about to mop the floor with the Human Genome Project in the race to decode our DNA. Celera's "shotgun sequencing" technology was much faster than the old school sequence-and-connect-the-contigs method being used by the Human Genome Project, and Dr. Venter decided the best way to announce his company's entrance into the human genome fray was to announce smugly that not only was Celera about to kick the NIH's ass, but that Celera would be happy to share the results with the science community...for a fee. This was so unpopular with all the academic geeks over at the NIH's Human Genome Project that they doubled their efforts to publish their results openly in the academic community. In 2000, Venter and his nemesis Francis Collins from NIH seemingly made peace when they jointly announced that the genome was fully mapped and freshly uploaded to the NCBI database. Not to be mistaken for an altruistic government/academic type, Venter continued to try to sell his genomics data until Celera's board fired his ass for refusing to go in a different and more profitable direction.

Obviously,a cocksure dude like J. Craig Venter didn't sit around crying about getting canned by his own company. He decided that the research institute he founded in 1992 and run by his second ex-Mrs. J. Craig Venter, The Institute for Genomics Research (TIGR), needed a new, modest name: the J. Craig Venter Institute. Immediately the J. Craig Venter Institute put all their efforts into finishing what Celera started: sequencing the genome of J. Craig Venter. Because the current human genome data available to anyone who swings over to NCBI's website is the composite of five people, Dr. Venter wanted a better genome map that eliminates all those other pesky people's DNA from it and is solely prime Venter sequence. Continuing in the tradition of great polio vaccinologists who would test their preparations on themselves and their children and then publish the material, he published his own personal DNA sequence this past week in PLoS Biology. The PLoS journals are open access, thun ensuring that anyone who wants to can swing over there and drool over all 6 billion nucleotides of Venter genetic hotness.

This achievement has resulted in CNN.com lauding Venter as "part of a new kind of scientific explorer whose uncharted territory was his own genes." In fact, the CNN article heaps the corny science worship on so thick that I'm surprised it wasn't written by J. Craig Venter himself, gushing that "Venter's gene map provides a new understanding of his genetic destiny" and "Venter probably knows more about his biology than any other human being." This is kind of bullshit, because the best Venter has discovered is that he has genes which MIGHT predispose him to blindness, alcoholism (duh...he's a Ph.D scientist and you can't do that shit without booze, trust), lactose intolerance, substance abuse (see what I said about lab rats and liquor), high blood pressure (again, his dad had a heart attack three years before, so DUH), obesity (who doesn't have that gene?), and Alzheimer's. Most of the above diseases are probably multigenic in origin, meaning that more than one gene contributes to onset of the condition, and many of them are heavily influenced by as-yet-undetermined environmental factors. There are thousands of frazzled, workaholic grad students and post-docs busily tinkering with their GST pull-down conditions or trying to get some group overseas to send a goddamn antibody that works in a Western blot in the hopes of figuring out the mechanics of how genetics influences disease states, and until their underfunded, underpaid (salary and research funding are two VERY different things) asses get their experimental conditions right, knowing your genome doesn't say shit about what those disease alleles are going to do. It's not like old J. Craig can read his genome data like the crop report used by Dan Aykroyd and Eddie Murphy to dupe the Duke brothers and corner the frozen orange juice futures market at the end of Trading Places. He can't just pick it up and say, "Hmm...forecast calls for dementia, a seeing-eye dog, a lifelong Plavix regimen, and HELLA BOOZING," although if our dipshit President's successor raises scientific research funding to even remotely acceptable levels, that might happen sooner.

In spite of my skepticism regarding the grandeur of the CNN article, I think J. Craig is pretty damn hot, and I'm not alone. Dr. Venter has torn through a series of wives (as mystifying as it seems, some of the most prominent science nerds are infamous for their womanizing) in spite of his overwhelming vanity and nerd machismo. He rivals Libertarian party political candidates in his pursuit of adventure sports, and shamelessly tries to patent everything that comes anywhere near him. His unrepentant self-promotion, lust for life, and coordinate entrepreneurialism is so assholish that it's hot. I wonder if he has the gene that makes whiskery, chrome domed nerds seem like sexy bad boys, because he's certainly displaying the phenotype. Looks like I'm going to be doing some reading from the latest issue of PLoS Biology today.

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# posted by Razzy @ 4:03 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Tuesday, September 04, 2007

 

To revadge or not to revadge?

Last week, BigBagel, who is obviously VERY busy covering health issues on the Gulf Coast of the mighty Mississip in his waning days as a newspaper reporter, sent out the following query to LL Cool Jew and some of her friends:

To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org), FalloniusMonk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com), Rack (rack@fashiondesignhouse.com), LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@trotskyitepropagandistnonprofit.org), Jersey Girl (jerseygirl@thirdrankedcablenewscompany.com), Wmania (wmania@bighugecorporatePRfirm.com), MillerTime (mtime@tacomahmo.com), Motherbucker (mbucker@somepoliticalplaceoranother.com), HotLawyer (hotlawyer@criminaldefenselawfirm.com), Morrissey'sHair (morrisseyshair@bankruptcylawfirm.com)
From: BigBagel (bigbagel@pulitzerprizewinningdirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
Subject: being that i am now a married man...

ah, the funny things I come across as a health journalist. anyway, I feel a little more comfortable asking about this now that I am a married man, well, really since I now have access to a network of female friends.

http://www.reuters.com/article/healthNews/idUSN3125637420070831

this is a totally unscientific survey entirely for non-professional curiosity reasons. this is also an attempt to deal with my senioritis issues at work, even though I have a fuckload to do right now. Anyway, what do y'all think of the vaginoplasty procedure? Would you consider it for yourself? If so, under what cirucmstances? Cosmetic ever be a consideration? Performance-based reasons? "revirgination"? I can tell you from my perspective, no goddamn way i'd let anyone get a knife near my johnson unless it was somehow the only way to prevent it from falling off.
In case you didn't read the above article, it's all about how vaginoplasty (cosmetic reconstruction of the vadge and/or surrounding lady bits) has come into vogue either to improve one's genital appearance or to make a new fake hymen for crazy Christian bitches who want to physically repent for their old, sluttish ways. The article explores concerns among surgeons about vaginoplasty being an unnecessary and potentially dangerous procedure. LL Cool Jew was mortified that BigBagel had decided this was a move sanctioned by the very beautiful and sweet marriage vows they exchanged back in April:
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail list
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@trotskyitepropagandistnonprofit.org)

zomg, i cannot *believe* my husband just sent a vaginoplasty article to all my friends...it was an unsanctioned move, fyi, and btw bigbagel, hotlawyer and morrissey'shair are men...
I then felt the need to respond, not because I was shocked BigBagel decided to solicit this informal poll, but because this topic has interested me ever since I saw some old bitch get vaginoplasty on an episode of "Nip/Tuck" a couple seasons back and since I heard the rumors on the internet about the horrors that befell Jenna Jameson when she underwent this procedure:
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail list
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)

NO FUCKING WAY.

1. My vagina is a goddamn work of art, and it has many admirers who agree with me (including certain unnamed parties on this e-mail list).

2. Because of this procedure, Jenna Jameson's vagina looks like Petra after the hot Nazi stupidly brought the Grail over the Seal at the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. In fairness, I haven't seen her post-surgical modifications, but if the work she's had done on the rest of her is any indication of her surgeon's skill, I sincerely doubt its appearance has been improved.

3. I don't know why any woman would consider this unless her cooch looks like the Mines of Moria. If your vadge is too loose, there's this little exercise called a Kegel that EVERY woman should know about and do on the regs, and that can fix it up.

4. As to the notion that I might have unattractive external or internal genitalia...SHA RIGHT. Like I said, my shit looks like a freakin' Georgia O'Keefe lily. Except better.

5. After a particularly memorable (in a most unpleasant way) one-night stand with a dreadlocked retard who had eleven penis piercings and experienced the extremely painful process of healing from a vaginal shredding, including walking bow-legged (and not in the good way promised to strippers by R. Kelly in "R&B Thug"), I have decided not to let anything sharp and metal near my twat ever again. That dude also gave me a visible hickey and a urinary tract infection...bastard.

You might also be interested to know that there is also a type of collagen injection called "The G Shot" that, per its website (www.thegshot.com), "can temporarily augment the Grafenburg spot in sexually active women with normal sexual function." MAYBE I would consider something like that because I'm down for more intense orgasms and it's just a little shot...except in this case, the lengthy list of risks (http://thegshot.com/risks.htm ) including "vesico-vaginal fistula (hole between the bladder and vagina)," "erosion," "exposed material," and "local tissue infarction and necrosis," mitigates the reward. NO THANKS! I'll stick to my regular old orgasms and leave my lady parts unsullied by medical intervention.
I felt that pretty much covered it, and so did FalloniusMonk, albeit for apparently different reasons. I'm assuming she was referring to point #5 about fucking dudes with penis piercings, since she's a big ol' lesbo.
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail list
From: FalloniusMonk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com)

They should call it Revagination.

I leave the eloquence to Dr. Raz. For wildly different reasons, BigBagel, I concur with her - and you, for that matter: hell motherfucking no.
Motherbucker, likewise a big ol' lesbo, decided to take a more snarky approach in her response:
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail list
From: Motherbucker (mbucker@somepoliticalplaceoranother.com)

I would definitely get it. I want my twat to remain forever tight for all the hot dick I regularly get involved with...
JerseyGirl, as all of our friends would have predicted, responded with a typical "ew, gross!" sentiment. JerseyGirl once almost threw up when I was discussing some of the messier aspects of anal sex, so this topic didn't suit her rather squeamish temperament.
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail list
From: JerseyGirl (jerseygirl@thirdrankedcablenewscompany.com)

That is gross. No.
So far, with the exception of Motherbucker who was being 100% sarcastic, nobody has taken a pro-vaginoplasty stance. However, to relieve BigBagel's insatiable curiosity about the wild world of revagination, I thought I'd bring the debate to the internets. If anyone has an opinion about whether they'd personally would or would not get vaginoplasty or why they would or would not encourage their bitch to get a Twat 2.0, spend those two cents on the comment page, y'all! Maybe BigBagel can write another Pulitzer-worthy investigative report on it. Also, I'm still waiting to hear from HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair about what they think as far as their vaginas are concerned.

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:02 AM 1 Comments Links to this post
 

Hottest spots for toe-tapping

In the wake of the Senator Craig bathroom cruising scandal, I went to the internets to do a little research on some of the tricks of the secret gay dudes on the DL trade. I found the whole "toe tapping is a known signal for men looking for clandestine airport bathroom sex" thing hilarious, and I was curious about the whole secret world of gesture-based codes for anonymous sex. Besides, this past weekend, I went to the beach with J-Sexy, and being that we were semi-drunk after our train ride back, we had to pee at Penn Station. There was a huge sign in the ladies room stating "ANY LEWD OR LASCIVIOUS ACTS WILL RESULT IN YOUR ARREST," so I made sure to keep my toilet stance as narrow as possible and minimize fidgeting, lest some undercover officer misinterpret my attempt to execute a "hover piss" (urinating in a public toilet without letting your ass cheeks touch the toilet seat). The last thing I want is to get the herp from pissing at Penn Station, and the second-to-last thing is to get accidentally arrested for doing so.

Anyway, I couldn't find much in the way of a glossary of secret I-want-sex signals, but I did find an interesting website called cruisingforsex.com. This site has a fascinating directory of the best public places to cruise for a little action. First, I went to check out the listings for New York City. Much to my relief, I discovered that the ladies room at Penn Station is not listed here. Then again, cruisingforsex.com appears to be directed toward dudes seeking "hot sex pigs," so perhaps they aren't listing the spots for hot anonymous lezzie action, assuming that such spots even exist outside of Craigslist.

Anyway, for the fellas, Abingdon Street Park at 12th and Hudson is apparently "filled with nice-looking guys on the prowl." No shocker there...that shit is right down the street from Chelsea. Someone else listed the bathroom at Aqueduct Racetrack in Queens, but another user wrote, "You have to be joking. There is no action at that track." Arthur Von Briesen Park in Queens, however, seems to get rave reviews, as one user noted "I was walking my dog there and got my dick sucked. Great place." Another user verified that this is an excellent spot for the fellatio-seeking dog owner, noting "I tried this place because I don't live that far away. You must come when it's dark. Many guys walking their dogs here. I got a blowjob in the bushes." The Crowne Plaza Hotel is also a great place for doing some happy hour circle jerking.

I was also surprised to see that BARD ATHLETIC CLUB is listed here! That is the busted, stinking, non-air conditioned Columbia gym where I used to work out! It's usually filled with lame med students and uptight old women who either want to tell me how to shrink my ass or who wash their rotten vaginas at the sink. I was astounded to see that the men's locker room is a premier spot for getting a quick BJ from some random dental student. Who knew?

Other than the shock of seeing the Bard Athletic Club, however, I was disappointed to see that most of the places in NYC are ones everyone knows about, like the Ramble in Central Park or various steamrooms at the Bally's and Crunch locations throughout the city. I figured that either it's because the men of Gotham looking for "cruisy" sex in public places don't want to reveal their secrets for the internets, or because virtually EVERY park and public restroom here in the city is fertile ground for getting some quick homo action.

Therefore, I decided to check out a place that would be less accepting than New York of this sort of thing. In New York, anything goes. There are open sex clubs and sex parties here. There are entire communities of people who come together at bars and clubs dedicated to their particular fetish. Even in Washington Heights by my school there is a gay bar dedicated to serving Dominicans on the DL (as well as Wall Street types who want to cruise for thuggish man-loving fellas as far from their staid rich-boy downtown neighborhoods as possible). New York might not need the services of a sex-cruising directory, because that shit is so out in the open here. New York magazine probably bestows a "Best Bathroom to Get Blown In" award to some lucky park every year, complete with a bloviating, pompous review of its decor and features. Dudes cruising for sex here have many choices. So I decided to see what cruisingforsex.com had to offer in a place where gay men--whether in or out of the closet--have a much harder time finding places to "walk their dogs" (wink, wink): western Washington.

In Seattle, all the cruising spots seem to be limited to various 24 Hour Fitness locations throughout the city, but especially the one at Denny Way and Stewart. No surprise there...that shit is right on Capitol Hill, the epicenter of gay action in Seattle. In my hometown of Puyallup, there's apparently only one spot that works for these fellas, Wildwood Park, where as a young girl, I once played softball. Little did I know that there was all sorts of untoward shit going on in the men's room there. Tacoma, where I lived for several years and went to high school, is much richer in terms of hot places to cruise. I already knew that Five Mile Drive at Point Defiance Park, Wapato Lake Park, and Delong Park were good places, as I myself had gone to all those locales to either smoke or bang my boyfriend on the low when I was in high school. I'd be willing to bet that Titlow Park is also a good spot. I can't even begin to tell you how many times I walked down the beach to the secluded wooded area there to get some teen action with my high school paramour. Those places are all great to have secret sex, so I would not be shocked that cruisy gay men were as familiar with them as myself and my boyfriend. Being 17, we couldn't go back to our parent-occupied places to get it on, so public outdoor and/or car sex was basically our main jam. We had sex in the car so many times that there was a jizz stain on the passenger seat of my boyfriend's car, and when his dad inquired about it, he told him he'd "spilled a latte" there. But I digress.

Anyway, what I didn't know about Tacoma is that the bathroom at the Fred Meyer on 19th and Stevens is also a hot spot, as is the basement men's room on the north side of the University of Puget Sound student center. It seems the Pacific Lutheran University library bathroom was once a great spot, but has now fallen into ruin and disrepair. A dude posts, "It looks like an old spot. There are two stalls, and it's patched and painted. Video surveillance now. Two-door entry, but I did not feel it was very safe. No signs of action." I guess the pesky administrators at PLU wised up to the trysts taking place in the second floor library bathroom and took appropriate steps to ensure it would no longer be violated by dudes trying to get some. Cockblockers. Also, Elmo's Books off South Tacompton Way was a hotspot during lunch and happy hour, until management decided to start calling the cops. What kind of self-respecting dirty erotic bookstore does that?

Also, on the message board, there was some dude named BeefyT253 requesting that gentlemen head to Spanaway Park for a little hanky-panky in one of our state's most noted meth-cooking burghs. BeefyT253 writes:
Horned up looking for some outdoor fun Up 4 some fun today in the park ? jack, suck , fuck? shoot me an email can meet you there or will be there this morning at 8:30am or shoot me an email 152nd & Pacific Avenue. The lake is behind the golf course. Park in the lot near the north entrance of the park (just off 152nd St.). Walk down past the restrooms (which often have plenty of action) and across the stream where you'll find plenty of well used trails. Turn right just after the bridge across the little stream and follow trails the lead right. Keep hard and take it out when someone follows you to a secluded area.
If I were home right now, I'd head over to Spanaway Park just to try and catch a glimpse of this rare and secretive species of gay in its native environment. I could bring binoculars or something and pretend to be enjoying the pristine splendor of Spanaway and all its fauna and flora. I don't know why I decided to stick to doing "hard science" like virology when I could have become a sexual anthropologist. This shit is fascinating.

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:42 AM 1 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Douchebag: Mohammed al-Sanussi


Name: Mohammed al-Sanussi

DOB: 1980?

Occupation: hooker beater, trust fund dickhead

Hometown: Tripoli, Libya

Current residence: London, England

Douchebaggery: Mohammed al-Sanussi, nephew of Libyan "Brotherly Leader and Guide of the Revolution" Muammar al-Gadhafi (or is it Khadafy? Qaddafi? it's always spelled differently!), decided to celebrate my birthday last November 17th by hiring a couple hookers. If I were the unemployed, filthy-rich expatriate son of Libya's intelligence service, that's what I would do if I looked at the calendar and said, "Hey, it's Razzy's 28th birthday. Hooker threesome time!"

Unfortunately, al-Sanussi didn't just settle in comfortably for what should have been an awesome, money-well-spent evening with some pussy for hire. He got into a dispute with the ladies about their fees, and wound up hitting them. Actually, he didn't just hit them: he beat one of them so badly that she sustained numerous skull fractures, and rearranged the other one's face with a number of ugly-ass bruises.

I feel a lot of sympathy toward prostitutes, and before anyone starts making any cracks about my own sexual generosity, it's not because I'm kind of like one. I'm a slut, not a whore. Sluts give it up for free as opposed to those in the world's oldest profession, or in the words of Lil' Kim, "Some bitches fuck to get they riches...I fuck to bust a nut." Most hookers end up getting a pretty raw deal. They are dependent upon fucking for their livelihood, and that's definitely got to take a lot of the fun out of sex. Also, they have to put up with all sorts of unpleasant shit, like diseases and abuse. Not that regular women don't have to put up with these things, but it's worse when herpes and woman-beaters are an occupational hazard rather than just the risk inherent in fucking around for fun. As one of these British trollops noted, "I don't think that because somebody pays me to be there they can hit me in the face." Unfortunately in her case, Mohammed al-Sanussi disagreed.

Mohammed's trial started three weeks ago in Blackfriars court, and all was going well until both hookers mysteriously decided not to testify after all. One of the hoes explained that she was followed, and said she withdrew because she was "scared." In other words, Mohammed's daddy set some covert Libyan spies to intimidate her while she worked the track, and consequently, Mohammed gets to skate on these charges. Since he's the son of the HBIC of the Libyan spy network, and they are whores, he wins.

There is nothing, and I mean NOTHING, I hate more than guys who abuse women and push them around and expect to get away with it because they can scare the women. I recently had a situation with this guy Ryan, a misogynistic, abusive stalker at work, and in spite of him using the same harassment-based tactics to threaten a number of other women in my department, he had never been formally complained about until I decided I could not let the matter rest because I was tired of being constantly anxious that he might pop up anytime in my lab, or at other grad school functions. Why was my complaint the first, you ask? Because he scares people. Nobody wanted to stick their necks out to ensure that he was reprimanded for his completely unacceptable behavior for fear that he'd go postal on them. This is a reasonable concern, because Ryan is an irrational, completely unstable, emotionally stunted individual who overcompensates for his pencil dick (which I know he has, because I've seen it) by shouting at, menacing, and otherwise intimidating his primarily female colleagues. He also refuses to take any responsibility for his actions, being of the "well, I wouldn't have done it if that stupid bitch didn't piss me off so much in the first place" school of excuses and dodging culpability.

I shared my colleagues' concerns about safety (and, for that matter, still do), but I would rather be afraid after having done something about it than afraid that he'd be able to do it over and over and over again because he's effective at bullying people into not taking any action to prevent it. I think he thought that with me, just like with all the other women, he'd be able to rely on his ability to frighten me into silence and continue going about his business. In my case, he was gravely mistaken. I will not be bullied, and even if it means I'm constantly looking over my shoulder, I at least have the assurance that now a formal complaint has been made, if he so much as glances menacingly in my direction, he'll be booted from school and I'll be able to secure a restraining order. I've realized, however, that I am not typical of abused women. Assholes like Mohammed and Ryan depend on the fact that most ladies will be cowed by even the specter of violence against them, and they are more likely to once they've been on the receiving end of it. They are pathetic, insecure losers who try to cover up their cowardice by dominating those who they think cannot fight back, and unfortunately they are right about that most of the time.

If Mohammed (or Ryan) ever had the poor sense to get physical with me, I'd gladly sleep with one eye open until they got the fucking justice they deserve. It is horribly unfair that motherfuckers get away with this because they are allowed to continue terrorizing their victims into submission, and I'll take one for the team and stand up against it. I wish that in Mohammed's case, these poor hookers were able to do the same, but I understand why they could not. Life is unfair.

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:32 AM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Ori Schwartz


Name: Ori Schwartz

DOB: 1981?

Occupation: computer nerd

Hometown: New York, New York

Current residence: New York, New York

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Ori graduated from Boston University in 2003 and went to work at IBM as a programmer for awhile. However, he decided to give the finger to corporate America, and spend all his time nerding out at one of his favorite pursuits: fantasy football. Thus, he combined both his expertise as a code-crunching nerd and a NFL stat-crunching nerd and developed FleaFlicker.com, a free software program for managing one's fantasy league. Being that I am the commissioner of my league, the Columbia Ballers, I give a flying fuck about these things.

In years past, my fantasy league has always relied on one of the free major fantasy football sites, either NFL.com or Yahoo.com. However, last year, this other guy started a league at school, and it became apparent that in the world of Columbia grad school fantasissimos, there were two divisions of play: the just-have-fun league, and the super hard core league. Obviously, my league is the latter. It has gotten this reputation because in years past, I've booted people from the league for not showing adequate dedication or level of play. I gave LL Cool Jew and BigBagel their walking papers two years ago for letting too many weeks go by where they let players on bye weeks take up active roster space. I rule with an iron fist, and anyone not up to snuff can go back to playing the fantasy equivalent of Pop Warner. As a result, the Columbia Ballers league is now full of expert fantasy players who trade, talk smack, and compete something fierce. The other league at school...well, let's just say that in their inaugural season, one guy released his entire team halfway through the season because he wasn't winning, and another guy who won the league only did so because, not knowing anything about football, some blog told him to take LaDanian Tomlinson in the draft and he coasted solely on LT's rushing production for the entire year. Amateurs.

Anyway, to further distinguish our league's prowess, we decided that this year, the Columbia Ballers were taking the next step and going keeper, which for all you non-fantasy ballers out there means we keep players in our rosters from year to year. That means a lot more work for me as commissioner and a more tricked-out software package to handle it (because God knows I ain't doing that shit on an Excel spreadsheet). In the past, being commissioner meant signing up for a NFL.com league and inviting everyone, and that's about it. Now I have to decide on scoring rules, keeper rules, trading rules, waiver wire rules, drafting rules, etc., and manage this in a way that doesn't cause an uproar with the other highly opinionated team owners. I don't mind the extra commissioner tasks, but the software I was much less sure about. The only way to run a keeper league through NFL.com is to pay $130 for their super fancy deluxe commissioner package, and even the people in our league who have graduated and thus have real jobs were reticent to cough up $12 for a share in that. However, someone tipped me off to this FleaFlicker.com site, and once I got there, I realized that I had found a brilliant solution to accommodate our needs while placating the cheapskates. There were a variety of reviews lauding FleaFlicker (especially because during the 2005 season, a lot of the major fantasy sites crashed due to an inability to handle the traffic, but FleaFlicker stayed operational and thus hot).

After taking a tour of the site and enjoying the artwork featuring a lot of cranky-looking, football-playing fleas, I was still unsure as to whether it could fulfill our keeper needs (check it year round, execute trades in the off-season, etc.), so I e-mailed my questions. Ori responded to me PERSONALLY. When I checked out his picture and saw that he looks like a skinnier, tech geek version of Vin Diesel, I made my first decision as commissioner for the 2007 season and opted for FleaFlicker. Besides, any website named after one of my favorite gimmick plays of all time rules. The flea-flicker play, in which the QB passes off the ball to a running back, who then laterals the ball back to the QB for a forward pass, has provided some of football's greatest moments. The gnarliest sports injury of all time--the snapping of Joe Theismann's femur--was during his attempt at executing a very ill-advised flea-flicker in the face of a blitzing, Lawrence Taylor-containing Giants defense. If you haven't seen this, you should, because it is some NASTY shit watching Theismann's career end as his shin literally breaks in half beneath the original LT's massive weight:

Anyway, props to Ori for making some dope-ass fantasy software and naming it after this. Oh, and did I mention that my fantasy draft is tonight? I got the number one pick in the random draft order, which is SO AWESOME! Hmmm...will I take LaDanian Tomlinson, or will I take Reggie (Get in My) Bush??? I have to be careful, because the last time I had a number one pick in the draft was in 2001, and that year I selected Kurt Warner, who promptly broke his fucking finger and spent the rest of the season reading his Bible and being whipped by that evangelical power lesbian he's married to, thus leaving me switching every week from pathetic quarterback to pathetic quarterback. With considerably more fantasy expertise under my belt at this point and the stinging memory of that season (as well as last season, when thanks to my lack of running backs and my roster being devastated by injuries, led me to finish second-to-last in the league), I have high hopes that I will not be doomed to repeat past mistakes. Rest assured, I will NOT be picking Kurt Warner ANYWHERE in the draft.

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# posted by Razzy @ 5:15 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

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