Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Further validating my Britney-doesn't-offend-Catholics hypothesis
Yesterday, I wrote a post about how there's nothing Britney Spears can really do to piss off Catholics on any substantial issue, especially when compared to the Pope. However, I apparently spoke too soon. Thanks to the miracle of Facebook, I've gotten to witness my Halloween legacy popping up online in real time as my friends and fellow nerdalicious grad students have uploaded the contents of their cameras to the social networking internets. And apparently, I anticipated Brit-Brit's foray into trashily juxtaposing images of whorishness with those of the clergy (and hot Asian chicks in bandages who obviously want to hit my hotness):
And I also anticipated the trend Britney's attempting in dragging the south Indian cricket-playing community into the controversy along with the Holy See. Maybe nothing like that has happened yet, but trust that it will:
Hell, you can almost see the extent to which I took the accuracy of my Britney costume in this picture. In fact, I'm amazed that my HV (hairless vadge), which I shaved just for this monumental occasion, didn't make an appearance to augment my outfit like what. It's right on the threshold of peeping out. Damn...I guess I really can't beat myself up too much for failing to perfectly imitate the master of the paparazzi crotch shot.
And dudes, can you all take a minute to just appreciate how fucking hideously trashtastic my weave and nails look??? Being that trailer fabulous comes naturally to me. You can take the girl outta Puyallup, but you can't take the Puyallup out the girl! Anyway, happy Halloween, y'all!
And I also anticipated the trend Britney's attempting in dragging the south Indian cricket-playing community into the controversy along with the Holy See. Maybe nothing like that has happened yet, but trust that it will:
And dudes, can you all take a minute to just appreciate how fucking hideously trashtastic my weave and nails look??? Being that trailer fabulous comes naturally to me. You can take the girl outta Puyallup, but you can't take the Puyallup out the girl! Anyway, happy Halloween, y'all!
Labels: Britney Spears, Catholicism, Halloween, PWT, Razzification
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Britney Spears
DOB: December 2, 1981
Occupation: trainwreck
Hometown: Kentwood, Louisiana
Current residence: Malibu, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: While Britney is a Cheeto dust-encrusted, bloated, meth-addled shadow of the hot piece of ass she once was, it's Halloween, and she was my muse this year! So even though she'd have to convince me to do her entire supply of meth to hit that fatness (although not like I should talk, see below), I have to salute Britney for her inspiring me to spend all of the Halloween party I went to this weekend doing Britney-type stuff that was the epitome of well-mannered, decent, ladylike behavior and typical of what people can expect from me and the mother of the year out in California. You know, using a deft combination of Starbucks and macrobrewed beer to round out my waistline and attract lesbian interest:
Also, you have to be utterly without shame to allow your record company to advertise your new "comeback" album with the most hilarious commercials of the year. It's seriously laugh out loud, knee-slapping, hilarious, from the first moment Britney croaks "I just can't control myself" (no SHIT!) to the announcer calling her "today's hottest star" to describing the album as "rush-released for October 30th," as if the reason for that wasn't due to the entire thing getting leaked on the internets but because it's "the album the world has been waiting for." Man, I don't want to ruin all the punch lines. Enjoy for yourself:
Anyway, in the spirit of my Halloween costume and my continued gratitude to Britney for her constantly entertaining me via providing ample fodder for mean-spirited internet gossip, I salute her trashtastic ways on this day of what my friend KatieScarlett would call "spooktiness." Gimme gimme MORE, gimme more, gimme gimme...
Labels: Britney Spears, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, fat fucks, Halloween, intentional buffoonery, lezbollah, PWT, Razzification
Daily Douchebag: Anthony Merino
DOB: 1983?
Occupation: part-time morgue lab technician; geriatric necrophile
Hometown: Bronx, New York
Current residence: W. 185th Street, Manhattan, New York, New York
Douchebaggery: A quick glance at his metallic Playboy-symbol embossed MySpace might lead you to believe that Anthony Merino is your usual harmless guido-next-door. His interests are pretty typical, including "watching Movies, weight training, playing football, making mix dance/club mixes, going out to the hottest clubs in NYC, and last but not least working hard always cause I know in the end it will all pay off. The harder you work the harder you can party." He likes "eurodance" music and his favorite book is something called Extreme Muscle Enhancement. I have a feeling that Anthony can execute a flawless fist pump.
However, Anthony's life is not entirely spent going to "the hottest clubs in NYC" (translation: Crobar, Avalon, and any other hellish bacchanalian clusterfuck of cocaine, overpriced drinks, and house music that attracts the Bridge-and-Tunnel types), improving his muscles, and taking pictures of his crotch rocket car. He's also a student and thus spends lots of time "studing" (probably the most awesome guido misspelling of all time) and working as a "histotechnologist" AKA slide sorter at some New Jersey hospital lab. In the course of his professional efforts, he has access to the hospital morgue. After all, "histotechnologist" refers to someone who works with technology relating to tissue samples, and where are there more tissue samples than in a morgue?
However, Anthony decided to take a rather unconventional approach to his job. Instead of taking a tissue sample from the corpse of the 92-year-old woman who had just been wheeled into his office after hours, Anthony decided to leave one of his own. In her cold, collapsed, dead elderly woman vagina. GROSS! He got arrested and was clearly sad about getting caught:
Anthony is a revolting perv, and me being disgusted by someone's perversion is a tall order indeed. Ladies, if you happen to be out clubbing and you see this fella, fist-pumping away in a fuzzy pastel Kangol hat and a pair of stunner shades to some eurotrash techno, RUN don't walk away from him! His dick has hit dead vagina, and even I draw the line at sitting on that. Indeed, what lies behind and before are small matters compared to what lies within, if by "within" you are referring to my cooch and by "what" you are referring to necrophiliac guido dick. NO THANKS.
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, gross, oh the horror, people who died, perversion, sex, sexual assault
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
I'm amazed Chingy! hasn't done this yet
Meet Jerry, this big jock-type dude's new Pug. Jerry doesn't much appreciate not having a soft bed to stink up and people food to eat, and he makes this known in the style of his people: namely, through aggressive and offensive use of bodily functions. I'm glad Chingy! was asleep when I watched this YouTube, because I don't want his fat ass getting any ideas of new revolting tricks to complement his repertoire of shit-eating, decomposing animal-eating, stamping of ass-prints on white or pale-colored pants, vomiting spontaneously, etc.:
http://view.break.com/388970 - Watch more free videos
CHONGAY CHONG, Jerry the Pug!
http://view.break.com/388970 - Watch more free videos
CHONGAY CHONG, Jerry the Pug!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, ridiculous absurdity
Britney not as bad as Benedixteen
Supposedly Britney Spears's album (which DROPPED AT MIDNIGHT, BTW, Y'ALL! Go pick it up and start bumping soon-to-be immortal classics like "Hot as Ice," "Freakshow," and my personal favorite, "Get Naked (I've Got a Plan)" today...or better yet, illegally download it from a peer-to-peer file sharing network!) contains some artwork offensive to Catholics.
Usually "offensive to Catholics" stuff never offends me, but I get the feeling that my threshold for offensiveness is much higher than your average follower of the gospels as theologized by Rome. Madonna dancing around with plaid skirted schoolgirls underneath three burning crosses singing "Like a Prayer"? Yawn. Fully frontal naked Jesus made of chocolate? Sounds delicious. A painting of the Blessed Virgin covered in horse manure? Well, in fairness, she did give birth in a barn. I have a hard time believing the Holy Family, without reservations, short on denarii already, and at the height of Roman tax season in Bethlehem, were able to secure accomodations in a guaranteed manure-free stable. Basically, none of this stuff that is supposed to horrify my Catholic sensibilities ever does. I mean, I've got better things to do than get all hot and bothered about Madonna, who made a career mocking Catholicism, to the point of showing my outrage by boycotting Pepsi or whatever. Who fucking cares? Is it really a fucking attack on my faith that Madonna's leathery, middle-aged, turkey-necked, baby-stealing, cult-belonging ass wants to sing that appalling "Music" song (something about the way Madonna says "bourgeoisie" just infuriates me) from a perch atop a giant mirror-tiled cross. If Madonna wants to make like Jesus and get her crucifixion on for the sake of justifying $150 ticket prices on her last tour, I really could care less, because she's always pulling bullshit like that. Jesus is probably bored of her doing shit like that at this point. I'd like to think that the Son of God has better things to do than worry about the oldest trick in Madonna's business book.
So I was curious to see what Britney had come up with that would be so offensive. Behold, Catholics...if you think you can stomach it, anyway. It's far worse than anything Madonna has ever done. And by "worse," I mean "less interesting."
Okay, the only thing I can see here that's unrealistic is that a priest would go for Britney seducing him into providing her with the sacrament of reconciliation. If priests are into any sex kittens it's boys, and minus ten years in the age department. Unless, of course, they've changed the way a standard confession goes since I last went (1993). In the intervening fifteen years since I last asked the big three-in-one to forgive sins I don't even remember committing, I suppose they could have replaced the "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been blah blah blah since my last confession" with sitting on the priest's lap and relating our mortal and venial transgressions like a kid rattling off their Christmas list to Santa, except in a whorish fashion. And instead of saying Hail Marys and Our Fathers (with an Act of Contrition and possibly a Glory Be every here and there for extra penitential measure) as penance, we treat the officiating clergyman to a slutty striptease. It would be reasonable to think the Church did change this if they weren't famous for changing things so infrequently...like every millenium infrequently. Somehow, I think this "offensive" take on holy confession is a fantasy that came out of Britney's thoroughly addled and completely unholy little mind. I mean, from what the internets tell me, she speaks in her own secret language to herself, considers an order of Nachos Bellgrande on par with a religious experience, and whose public image is best described as a Frappuccino and santorum-scented cross between a spitted hog at a pig roast, Anna Nicole Smith's idiot cousin, and those rednecks that raped Ned Beatty in Deliverance. I was frankly expecting something a lot worse, like Britney smoking meth with the Pope, or tossing an effigy of Jesus's salad, or having a threesome with him and Jamie-Lynn or something akin to that.
Before they get all offended because of this lame-ass "cover art", Catholics ought to take stock in our faith. Britney's boring-ass visit where she contaminated her local parish's confessional with scabies is hardly as offensive as our current troll of a Pope, Benedict XVI, laying into Brazil for using condoms to halt the spread of AIDS, bringing back the Latin mass, saying that Catholicism is the only true religion and that everyone else can consider themselves DAMNED TO HELL, threatening to excommunicate every liberal politician in Mexico, and dropping choice quotes from fourteenth century Crusade-running Byzantine emperors in the interest of building diplomatic relations with Muslim countries. Those are a hell of a lot more embarrassing, in my view, to Catholics than Britney staging a naughty sojourn into the confessional. Before you boycott Britney, boycott Benedixteen! Seriously, every Catholic should consider it their duty to pray for his rapid death so we can get a new pope, ideally one who is so impressive that we have nothing better to do than get pissed off about someone who is literally retarded trying to be pathetically and unsuccessfully controversial. Amen.
Usually "offensive to Catholics" stuff never offends me, but I get the feeling that my threshold for offensiveness is much higher than your average follower of the gospels as theologized by Rome. Madonna dancing around with plaid skirted schoolgirls underneath three burning crosses singing "Like a Prayer"? Yawn. Fully frontal naked Jesus made of chocolate? Sounds delicious. A painting of the Blessed Virgin covered in horse manure? Well, in fairness, she did give birth in a barn. I have a hard time believing the Holy Family, without reservations, short on denarii already, and at the height of Roman tax season in Bethlehem, were able to secure accomodations in a guaranteed manure-free stable. Basically, none of this stuff that is supposed to horrify my Catholic sensibilities ever does. I mean, I've got better things to do than get all hot and bothered about Madonna, who made a career mocking Catholicism, to the point of showing my outrage by boycotting Pepsi or whatever. Who fucking cares? Is it really a fucking attack on my faith that Madonna's leathery, middle-aged, turkey-necked, baby-stealing, cult-belonging ass wants to sing that appalling "Music" song (something about the way Madonna says "bourgeoisie" just infuriates me) from a perch atop a giant mirror-tiled cross. If Madonna wants to make like Jesus and get her crucifixion on for the sake of justifying $150 ticket prices on her last tour, I really could care less, because she's always pulling bullshit like that. Jesus is probably bored of her doing shit like that at this point. I'd like to think that the Son of God has better things to do than worry about the oldest trick in Madonna's business book.
So I was curious to see what Britney had come up with that would be so offensive. Behold, Catholics...if you think you can stomach it, anyway. It's far worse than anything Madonna has ever done. And by "worse," I mean "less interesting."
Okay, the only thing I can see here that's unrealistic is that a priest would go for Britney seducing him into providing her with the sacrament of reconciliation. If priests are into any sex kittens it's boys, and minus ten years in the age department. Unless, of course, they've changed the way a standard confession goes since I last went (1993). In the intervening fifteen years since I last asked the big three-in-one to forgive sins I don't even remember committing, I suppose they could have replaced the "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been blah blah blah since my last confession" with sitting on the priest's lap and relating our mortal and venial transgressions like a kid rattling off their Christmas list to Santa, except in a whorish fashion. And instead of saying Hail Marys and Our Fathers (with an Act of Contrition and possibly a Glory Be every here and there for extra penitential measure) as penance, we treat the officiating clergyman to a slutty striptease. It would be reasonable to think the Church did change this if they weren't famous for changing things so infrequently...like every millenium infrequently. Somehow, I think this "offensive" take on holy confession is a fantasy that came out of Britney's thoroughly addled and completely unholy little mind. I mean, from what the internets tell me, she speaks in her own secret language to herself, considers an order of Nachos Bellgrande on par with a religious experience, and whose public image is best described as a Frappuccino and santorum-scented cross between a spitted hog at a pig roast, Anna Nicole Smith's idiot cousin, and those rednecks that raped Ned Beatty in Deliverance. I was frankly expecting something a lot worse, like Britney smoking meth with the Pope, or tossing an effigy of Jesus's salad, or having a threesome with him and Jamie-Lynn or something akin to that.
Before they get all offended because of this lame-ass "cover art", Catholics ought to take stock in our faith. Britney's boring-ass visit where she contaminated her local parish's confessional with scabies is hardly as offensive as our current troll of a Pope, Benedict XVI, laying into Brazil for using condoms to halt the spread of AIDS, bringing back the Latin mass, saying that Catholicism is the only true religion and that everyone else can consider themselves DAMNED TO HELL, threatening to excommunicate every liberal politician in Mexico, and dropping choice quotes from fourteenth century Crusade-running Byzantine emperors in the interest of building diplomatic relations with Muslim countries. Those are a hell of a lot more embarrassing, in my view, to Catholics than Britney staging a naughty sojourn into the confessional. Before you boycott Britney, boycott Benedixteen! Seriously, every Catholic should consider it their duty to pray for his rapid death so we can get a new pope, ideally one who is so impressive that we have nothing better to do than get pissed off about someone who is literally retarded trying to be pathetically and unsuccessfully controversial. Amen.
Labels: Britney Spears, Catholicism, celebrities, contrition, Dear God, oh the horror, overcompensation, Pope Benedixteen, sluts
Important Details
As I was perusing the gossip internets today, I noticed that some sites were talking about Jonathan Rhys Meyers (and the serious gay face he's giving) on the cover of next month's issue of Details magazine.
Pretty fagtacular if you ask me, but that's how Details rolls. All the men's magazines have their gimmick; Maxim and FHM always have some slutty chick giving serious fuck-me face, GQ always has some snobby movie star looking smug, and Details always has a snobby movie star looking smug and metrosexual to the point of being straight-up gay. If I were them, I'd put John Rhys Davies--AKA Salah from the Indiana Jones movies and Gimli son of Gloin from LOTR--on the cover instead since he pretty much dominates the market in terms of virile, masculine guys named John Rhys. However, I guess that Details readers prefer this queen sticking out his DSLs at them, so that must be why I'm stuck in the purgatory of grad school and not balling like the editor of Details.
Apart from the effeminate piece on the cover, I do have to commend the editors of Details because they have otherwise put together a useful magazine. Men's magazines are so much better than women's. To illustrate this, compare the cover of Details to the cover of this month's Cosmopolitan.
Details has a mix of practical information that men can use. There's an intriguing report on some American on trial for war crimes, a tip on how to keep your parents from overspending in their retirement, and some advice on how to conduct oneself professionally. As far as trashy sex stuff, Details has me feeling cheerful in knowing that the market for blondes starring in dudes' sexual fantasies is booming. Cosmo, on the other hand, has an entire cover filled with useless, uninformative crap. Sure, with all that sex talk, it SEEMS intriguing, but I've been suckered in by Cosmo's claims before and know that their promises of unraveling the mysteries of sex are FALSE. There's nothing new here; Cosmo is selling the same old sex-tip snake oil. "Guys' Sex Confessions: Surprising stuff they don't want from you in the sack" and "100 Outrageous Facts About Men" are both articles which probably take a long time to inform the reader that of the same thing: basically, guys like blowjobs, they don't like girls who get too clingy, and not all of them want to do you up the butt. "Bed me eyes" translates to "smoky eye makeup" and "the hottest thing to do to a man with your hands" probably is step-by-step instructions on how to give a great back and/or foot massage, or cook for his ass. "I Know What Your Boyfriend Did Last Night?" Unless what he did was me, I'm thinking nothing but "zzzzzzz" about that article. And "why be a jealous bitch?" is a question probably answered by some bitter, freshly dumped bitch explaining that all men are oversexed, lying, fiendish dogs who you shouldn't trust and who you should be constantly and unpleasantly suspicious of. And finally, if I need breaking news on the period front, I'm turning to my gynecologist, not Cosmo. Even the boring soldier biographies promised by Details sound more intriguing than that. And certainly I'd rather know if I'm dating a "tweenager" than what my "sex style" is, if only because I already know that I fuck like a tiger and don't need some quiz to tell me so, and because I'd not only like to know what a "tweenager" is, I'd like to know how to avoid fucking one because it sounds bad and illegal. Like I said, the men's magazine actually has some information that actually serves a useful purpose.
Seriously, the only useful tips Cosmo does have in it are some examples of stuff that bitches are wearing these days, and that is only marginally helpful for me since I don't give a fuck about the latest purses or whatever, and I'm too poor to be much of a clothes horse anyway. I think this sucks. Women's magazines need to get their acts together, if only because even bitches like me who never read them have maxed out on the number of useful sex tips we can glean from their glossy pages. To date, the only unique piece of information I've ever gotten from Cosmo was the knowledge that apparently, some women have orgasms every time they sneeze. After reading about some poor woman suffering from this condition (and trust, while that might be cool at first, I can see how that could really be embarrassing in certain situations, like church, funerals, work meetings, etc.) in a Cosmo Q&A column, I was like, "Damn, I've never heard of that before." That time was unique and has yet to be duplicated. Excepting the sneeze-orgasmer, I've yet to find anything interesting or useful in the pages of Cosmo or any other of the similar crap marketed to chicks. Women's magazines blow harder than the bitches applying their tips on how to please your man.
Apart from the effeminate piece on the cover, I do have to commend the editors of Details because they have otherwise put together a useful magazine. Men's magazines are so much better than women's. To illustrate this, compare the cover of Details to the cover of this month's Cosmopolitan.
Details has a mix of practical information that men can use. There's an intriguing report on some American on trial for war crimes, a tip on how to keep your parents from overspending in their retirement, and some advice on how to conduct oneself professionally. As far as trashy sex stuff, Details has me feeling cheerful in knowing that the market for blondes starring in dudes' sexual fantasies is booming. Cosmo, on the other hand, has an entire cover filled with useless, uninformative crap. Sure, with all that sex talk, it SEEMS intriguing, but I've been suckered in by Cosmo's claims before and know that their promises of unraveling the mysteries of sex are FALSE. There's nothing new here; Cosmo is selling the same old sex-tip snake oil. "Guys' Sex Confessions: Surprising stuff they don't want from you in the sack" and "100 Outrageous Facts About Men" are both articles which probably take a long time to inform the reader that of the same thing: basically, guys like blowjobs, they don't like girls who get too clingy, and not all of them want to do you up the butt. "Bed me eyes" translates to "smoky eye makeup" and "the hottest thing to do to a man with your hands" probably is step-by-step instructions on how to give a great back and/or foot massage, or cook for his ass. "I Know What Your Boyfriend Did Last Night?" Unless what he did was me, I'm thinking nothing but "zzzzzzz" about that article. And "why be a jealous bitch?" is a question probably answered by some bitter, freshly dumped bitch explaining that all men are oversexed, lying, fiendish dogs who you shouldn't trust and who you should be constantly and unpleasantly suspicious of. And finally, if I need breaking news on the period front, I'm turning to my gynecologist, not Cosmo. Even the boring soldier biographies promised by Details sound more intriguing than that. And certainly I'd rather know if I'm dating a "tweenager" than what my "sex style" is, if only because I already know that I fuck like a tiger and don't need some quiz to tell me so, and because I'd not only like to know what a "tweenager" is, I'd like to know how to avoid fucking one because it sounds bad and illegal. Like I said, the men's magazine actually has some information that actually serves a useful purpose.
Seriously, the only useful tips Cosmo does have in it are some examples of stuff that bitches are wearing these days, and that is only marginally helpful for me since I don't give a fuck about the latest purses or whatever, and I'm too poor to be much of a clothes horse anyway. I think this sucks. Women's magazines need to get their acts together, if only because even bitches like me who never read them have maxed out on the number of useful sex tips we can glean from their glossy pages. To date, the only unique piece of information I've ever gotten from Cosmo was the knowledge that apparently, some women have orgasms every time they sneeze. After reading about some poor woman suffering from this condition (and trust, while that might be cool at first, I can see how that could really be embarrassing in certain situations, like church, funerals, work meetings, etc.) in a Cosmo Q&A column, I was like, "Damn, I've never heard of that before." That time was unique and has yet to be duplicated. Excepting the sneeze-orgasmer, I've yet to find anything interesting or useful in the pages of Cosmo or any other of the similar crap marketed to chicks. Women's magazines blow harder than the bitches applying their tips on how to please your man.
Labels: gender bending, intentional buffoonery, ranting, sluts, vulgar display of faggotry
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: My Bed
DOB: N/A
Occupation: providing a platform for catching some z's
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I haven't been feeling well since Sunday, and I actually even took yesterday off work because of it. Apart from some stomach issues that I won't get into, I slept like ALL DAY LONG. In spite of that, I went to JerseyGirl's to watch "I Love New York 2" and "The Hills" last night, and the short trip down to the Upper West Side just about killed me. I was so sleepy when I got home that, in spite of sleeping all day long, I immediately went back to sleep. I'm not sure what's wrong with me, but I do know that sleep seems to be what my body wants as a cure. I can't really take another day off from lab because I have a ton of shit to do, but I have a feeling I'll be leaving early today to be horizontal in my bed because I'm not one to ignore when my body's calling. So forgive me if I can't think of anything I want to do more than get my snooze on. Even badass motherfucking bitches like yours truly feel a little under the weather from time to time.
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Razzification
Daily Douchebag: Tailor Made
DOB: ???
Occupation: reality whore, "retail planner for a prominent designer in New York"--translation: folds shirts at the Gap
Hometown: ???
Current residence: New York, New York
Douchebaggery: Of all the contestants on "I Love New York 2," probably the most villainous and despicable is Tailor Made. In the premiere, he actually tried to pay the other contestants $100 cash to give him a few minutes alone with New York. He also has been spending big to try and impress her, giving her everything from roses (which were purloined by the possibly retarded contestant and shoulder-licking aficionado, It) to a pair of Manolos. While ostentatious displays of wealth are particularly helpful at winning the heart of sophisticated ladies like Tiffany "New York" Pollard, Tailor Made has demonstrated that he's not exactly a good catch due to some of his other bad habits. More specifically, Tailor Made is a huge snitch who is CONSTANTLY running off to New York's room to tattle on the other contestants, even if the accusations he puts forth are false. Last night, one of the other dudes suggested that a contestant named Pretty might be gay due to what Tailor Made characterized as a decidedly limp wrist, he was in New York's room within five minutes outing pretty. Then, when confronted, he actually SPAT on another contestant named Mr. Wise, which as anyone who recalls the infamous incident on "Flavor of Love" when Pumkin spat on New York after "callin' her out," knows is something New York will not react to kindly:
Such a hot piece. Anyway, to further validate what a fucking asshole he is beyond always tattling and spitting and inciting the other contestants to get violent, Tailor Made gave an interview to some magazine that confirms what any "I Love NY 2" viewer already knows. This guy is what my "I Love New York 2" viewing partner JerseyGirl would characterize as "oh my God, SUCH a total D-bag."
In said interview, Tailor Made showcases his intellect in a string of eloquently phrased synonymous words describing New York's irresistible appeal ("sexy, sassy, independent minded, and not afraid to speak her mind") and his taste for the finer things by sharing the two mottos he lives by ("a lifestyle is a terrible thing to waste" and "work hard but play harder"). He also demonstrates exactly what type of loser snob he actually is when he describes how such a successful "retail planner" wound up on Vh1 Celebreality:
I live in New York and read the Times, exclusively. One day I went to the news stand to pick up a copy and they were sold out. So I reluctantly bought the Post. I generally refuse to buy the Post because of their conservative agenda (even though I love Page Six). Anyway, I'm flipping through the paper and I see an article about an open casting call for I Love New York 2. I decided to go . . . and two months later I was in New York's house competing for her heart.First off, what kind of news kiosk runs out of the fucking New York Times? Even if Tailor Made does patronize the most ill-prepared news kiosk in the city, it's not like there's not another one down the block where he can buy his precious snotty Times instead of the greatest paper in the history of the printed word, the New York Post. And yeah, the Post really is doing a lot to push that conservative agenda he complains about by featuring information about casting calls for "I Love New York 2," because nothing says "conservative" like a woman whose favorite form of rebuttal is mooning her opponent. SHUT UP ALREADY, Tailor Made! New York needs to deny him a chain next week. And viva Midget Mac!
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, I Love New York, intentional buffoonery, overcompensation, TV, Vh1
Monday, October 29, 2007
It's Razzy, bitch!
So hot off the press is the first glimpse of this year's Halloween costume and its execution for the annual grad student party I attend every year:
My Britney look went pretty well considering I did it all at the very last minute. I went out for brunch Saturday morning with LL Cool Jew and BigBagel, Rack and TheOldGuy, Fallonius Monk, JerseyGirl and Kodiak, and J-Sexy. Then I went over to hang out at LL Cool Jew and BigBagel's hotel for a moment, but that was thwarted when LL Cool Jew became violently ill from drinking one too many Campari-and-sodas the night before with yours truly. I was pretty hung over myself from drinking from 5 pm, throughout the Morrissey concert, after the Morrissey show with Miss Corbutt and her boyfriend, and then after that with LL Cool Jew at two different bars. I got to bed at 4 in the morning and had to get up again at 10.
However, in spite of having a busy schedule of cocktail consumption, concerts, and catching up with all my tightest bitches, I knew that I could get the costume shopping done in around an hour by heading for Manhattan nexus of places to buy cheap, slutty underwear, fake hair, and glue-on French manicure fingernails for my "Gimme More" Britney outfit: 125th Street.
I first stopped at Rainbow, a trashtastic store where you can buy 15 different styles of hoop earrings for under $3 per pair, the most painful, shabbily made stripper shoes imaginable, and bras that cost less than $5. I initially found the perfect black, sparkly bra, but as I went through the rack, I noticed that the entire stock was a little too big. I have pretty big tits for a girl my size, but 48DD is a whole other species of gigantic rack compared to my comparatively modest 34C. "Why the fuck are all these damn bras so big?" I wondered, then noticed that all the matching boy-short panties were also quite voluminous. Again, I have a pretty big ass for a girl my size, but not so big as to warrant a "3X"-sized panty. After another examination of the merchandise, I realized I'd accidentally stumbled into "plus-size" territory. Crap! Those black, sparkly bras were only available in size 14, and despite aspersions concerning my weight advanced by some Razzy Haters on the comments page of this very blog I am nowhere NEAR being a size 14. Thus, I had to give up on the perfect bras and get the closest substitute in my size. It wasn't perfect, but it was the best I could do.
Then, I picked up some tacky nails at the nearby Rite-Aid, and tried fruitlessly to explain the concept of my costume to the mostly non-English speaking Haitian guy working at the beauty supply store J-Sexy recommended. In spite of the fact that he seemed determined to sell me $50 skeins of copper-colored hair, I managed to find some $6 Barbie hair. I picked up an iced tea at Starbucks (I know, I should have gotten a caramel Frappuccino, but I just wasn't in the mood to consumer 15,000 liquid calories in any other form besides beer), snagged a pack of Marb lights, glued nail tips to all my fingers but the right ring, and behold...I AM the legendary Ms. Britney Spears:
I may have gotten the costume at the last minute, but I didn't work out for a full month to achieve this perfect Britney body. No sit-ups, no Gauntlet, not even so much as a single, short, mile-long trot around the park, just so I could have the perfect quantity of love handle to spill over the waistband of my $3.50 Rainbow boy shorts. That's dedication. I've successfully trashy-slutted up another Halloween party, and I knew this to be true when Captain Jack Sparrow stumbled up to me and informed me that I was "the most beautiful woman in the history of the world" right before he locked himself into the bathroom to regurgitate the bottle of Captain Morgan's he'd unwisely chugged in a little over an hour. Halloween: mission accomplished.
However, in spite of having a busy schedule of cocktail consumption, concerts, and catching up with all my tightest bitches, I knew that I could get the costume shopping done in around an hour by heading for Manhattan nexus of places to buy cheap, slutty underwear, fake hair, and glue-on French manicure fingernails for my "Gimme More" Britney outfit: 125th Street.
I first stopped at Rainbow, a trashtastic store where you can buy 15 different styles of hoop earrings for under $3 per pair, the most painful, shabbily made stripper shoes imaginable, and bras that cost less than $5. I initially found the perfect black, sparkly bra, but as I went through the rack, I noticed that the entire stock was a little too big. I have pretty big tits for a girl my size, but 48DD is a whole other species of gigantic rack compared to my comparatively modest 34C. "Why the fuck are all these damn bras so big?" I wondered, then noticed that all the matching boy-short panties were also quite voluminous. Again, I have a pretty big ass for a girl my size, but not so big as to warrant a "3X"-sized panty. After another examination of the merchandise, I realized I'd accidentally stumbled into "plus-size" territory. Crap! Those black, sparkly bras were only available in size 14, and despite aspersions concerning my weight advanced by some Razzy Haters on the comments page of this very blog I am nowhere NEAR being a size 14. Thus, I had to give up on the perfect bras and get the closest substitute in my size. It wasn't perfect, but it was the best I could do.
Then, I picked up some tacky nails at the nearby Rite-Aid, and tried fruitlessly to explain the concept of my costume to the mostly non-English speaking Haitian guy working at the beauty supply store J-Sexy recommended. In spite of the fact that he seemed determined to sell me $50 skeins of copper-colored hair, I managed to find some $6 Barbie hair. I picked up an iced tea at Starbucks (I know, I should have gotten a caramel Frappuccino, but I just wasn't in the mood to consumer 15,000 liquid calories in any other form besides beer), snagged a pack of Marb lights, glued nail tips to all my fingers but the right ring, and behold...I AM the legendary Ms. Britney Spears:
Labels: Britney Spears, FalloniusMonk, fat fucks, Halloween, Harlem world, J-Sexy, JerseyGirl, LL Cool Jew, nudity, NYC, Rack, Razzification, sluts, vanity
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: David Phillips
DOB: 1976
Occupation: IT strategy consultant, gay slut, notch on belt of Senator Larry Craig
Hometown: Alexandria, Virginia
Current residence: Washington, DC
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Well, David is about as gay as they make them, so chances are I won't be hitting that hotness any time soon. Frankly, I'm not sure that I would want to even if he were into girls, given the shoddy manner in which he prepares himself hygienically for secret anal sex with down-low closeted Republican senators. Anyway, I have to salute David for bravery, though, as he came forward in this stomach-churning exclusive on the DC political blog Wonkette to tell one of the grossest and most embarrassing stories in the history of horrifying sexual encounters:
It was late in the Spring of 1987, and Phillips was a graduate student at George Mason University. “One of my favorite hangouts was The Follies,” Phillips explains, referring to the notorious and now-closed go-go boy bar La Cage aux Follies on Capitol Hill. “There were so many closeted neocons who trolled for cock and ass there, particularly cock and ass on younger men: Terry Dolan, Jon Hinson, and a bunch of other men who seemed to run in a close and secretive group. I had sex with some of them at The Follies, and I even went home with a couple of them — at different times, at least — based on smooth talk and their attraction to a 20-something geek. One of them I would later recognize as Larry Craig.”I can verify that any experience in which the term "I wasn't clean and he was frantic about not getting my shit on anything" comes up in relation to a conservative Republic senator from a state famous for its potatoes, survivalists, and skinheads is usually not a good one. Frankly, it is because of incidences like the one Phillips describes above that I don't let dudes into the back door unless I have adequately prepared, and by "adequately prepared" I mean "enema." Seriously! That shit is nasty, and the one time I had a similar experience, I was so horrified I literally thought about HIDING. I can only imagine how much nastier when Larry Craig, withered old troll that he is, is the dude clumsily coaxing that out of one's ass, only to send one unceremoniously away covered in shit and with a pathetic $20. I would have been like "$20? That's IT? Add another couple zeros and we're talking, geezer." Then again, if I were a big flaming bear covered with tattoos implying that I am biohazardous, I'd never have such abysmally low self-confidence as to let Larry Craig, even twenty years ago, coerce me into degrading spare-bedroom sex under any circumstances. I'd look disdainfully at that aged monstrosity and tell him to tap his old man's toes elsewhere, as would any other cruising anonymously oversexed bear with a solitary ounce of self-respect.
One night, Phillips continues, “I followed [Craig] from The Follies to a Capitol Hill neighborhood, parking on the street no telling how far from his house. We walked up the alley and through the back door of a house, with him repeating several times, ‘You were never here. You don’t know me. Right?’ and me responding, ‘Right!’ in boyish submission. As we tiptoed from the back door to the stairs to the upper floor, as if somebody else was home, he turned to grope my crotch and brush my face with his hand.” The house’s decor led Phillips to believe that this was a married man: “The bric-a-brac with family pictures didn’t scream ‘old queen’ to me; it announced a woman’s influence. Still, we made our way upstairs.
“When we got to what reminded me of a rarely used guest room, he stripped me down, and the man’s hands and mouth were all over me. He kept his pants on, though, while laying me back on the bed to suck my cock. Then, he stripped naked and asked me to suck him. I complied for a while, then he disappeared and returned with lube and a condom to fuck me me with. It was a clumsy and unremarkable fuck, except that I wasn’t clean and he was frantic about not getting my shit on anything. Still, he blew his load, ripped the dirty condom off and ordered me to get dressed without wiping myself. He hurried me to the back door, again ranting, ‘You were never here. You don’t know me. Right?’”
Mr. Phillips’ next claim is startling, indeed: “On the way back through with shit all in my briefs and feeling totally humiliated I let my eyes wander and saw on a table a small envelope, like one from a gift or a floral arrangement, with ‘Suzanne Craig’ neatly written on it. This memory,” Phillips insists, “I noted about three hours after hearing Craig’s voice again, the night before I saw a current picture of him and a good day before I heard of his wife in the news. ‘That’s who’s going to fuck me up if she finds out,’ I thought. As he reached for the door, he took a $20 bill from his wallet, shoved in my front pocket, adding ‘Remember, I can buy and sell your ass ten thousand times over. You were never here. Don’t try to come back here. You don’t know me.
“When I next heard that voice two months ago,” David concludes, “my mind went right back to that encounter, leaving me feeling cold and used all over again. I wish I hadn’t been a screwed-up kid at the time and had had the presence of mind to tell him to keep the money he shoved at me like I was part of the trade common to The Follies.”
However, clearly David, understandably embarrassed about this story, doesn't give a fuck, since he's telling it to Wonkette and the internets at large. I mean, it takes a real man to admit that Larry Craig picked him up in a bar, made him his bitch, and sent him packing with a lousy tip and santorum all over his pants. I think it's safe to say that Senator Craig is the type who won't respect your ass in the morning. Hell, he doesn't respect one's ass in the heat of the "clumsy and unremarkable" moment. Props to you, David Phillips, for coming forward with such a horrifying tale right in time for Halloween...it's gory, shocking, and utterly frightening. Plus, David Phillips is a hot bitch in spite of his biohazard tat (and HELLO, asshole, that is like tattooing "I'm infectious" on your arm, and not such a great idea for a promiscuous queer slut of the anonymous down-low neocons), and he is crazily mustachioed. I'd like to read his memoirs about "the trade common to The Follies," so give the man a book deal already.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, gross, oh the horror, overcompensation, perversion, politics, sex, sluts, vulgar display of faggotry
Daily Douchebag: the Boston Red Sox...AGAIN
DOB: 1901
Hometown: Fenway Park, Boston, Assachusetts
Current residence: Taking a long-desired (by everyone else who isn't an obnoxious Boston fan) break from the spotlight after winning the damn World Series...I hope
Douchebaggery: Last night, instead of a Sunday night football game, the fucking Red Sox swept the World Series and won...again. While I've already awarded the Red Sox the illustrious title of Daily Douchebag once before, now that they've won their second Series in four years, I plan to hate, not congratulate. In spite of the fact that my ex-boyfriend Benzo, upon waking from his post-Sox winning revelry, will no doubt post some comment busting on the Mariners/Seahawks in retaliation for my anti-BoSox position, and in spite of the fact that the only good thing I can think about this victory is "at least the Yankees didn't win it," I don't have any problem saying that I'm already sick of the Red Sox--and any Assachusetts team, for that matter--being good. If the Patriots win the Super Bowl this year, which judging from the way they've been playing so far this season, they have a very, very good chance at doing, the world is going to have an epidemic of insufferably superior Boston fans refusing to shut up for the next year or ninety.
As far as I am concerned, the World Series this year was about as exciting as a Pampered Chef party minus a box of Franzia white zin, so I barely watched it. Last night, I was recovering so hard from the weekend's festivities that I actually had to leave Sunday football EARLY so I could take a nap for the first two-thirds of World Series game 7. I watched "America's Most Smartest Model" (if only to see Andre shout, "And victory again for the Soviets!") instead of most of the game, and just glared at the TV when I saw that the Sox had won. Man, fuck the Red Sox! The thing is, that even though they have won two championships in the past four years, Red Sox fans are STILL going to complain that it took them so damn long to start doing so. They could win the World Series every year for the next ninety years and Sox fans would still complain that somehow they're getting screwed over, most likely by the malicious specter of and/or a spell cast by the late Babe Ruth, or some other paranormal agent of the Yankees.
Speaking of the Yankees, they are acting as unpalatably arrogant as usual. Note the cover of today's New York Post, and see if you notice how much (or more appropriately, how little) they devote to World Series coverage:
Labels: Assachusetts, Benzo, Daily Douchebag, fuck the Yankees, large exclamatory font, NYC, sportsmen
Friday, October 26, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Morrissey
DOB: May 22, 1959
Occupation: singer, object of pathological obsession for me when I was sixteen and many of my friends now
Hometown: Manchester, England
Current residence: London, I guess
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Well, I don't really, because rumor has it Morrissey isn't very much into getting sexy and even if he was/is, I don't think he's into girls. However, today I'm going to the Morrissey concert tonight at the Hammerstein Ballroom because Morrissey and Sylvia Plath were the king and queen of my world when I was an insecure, confused, upset, misunderstood, faux-suicidal teenage lesbian with a fetish for bad poetry, and because I still like Morrissey even if I'm not spending all my time obsessively relating to the lyrics of "November Spawned a Monster" (my birthday is in November; I felt this song so seriously). Anyway, Morrissey'sHair got very excited when I informed him that I was going to this show, and in addition to demanding that I blog about it, told me that I was about to experience the greatest night of my life.
Uh...SHA RIGHT. For one thing, as exciting as it will be to see Morrissey live, and I'm sure he'll engage in plenty of amusing witty banter between songs, he'll probably say something about animals that will piss me off. To counteract Morrissey's pro-PETA and pro-vegan stance, I'm taking my posse of fellow concertgoers to a German wurst restaurant prior to the show, where the only thing on the menu not containing meat is the sauerkraut. And trust that I'm wearing slutty leather boots. Also, as much as I'm sure Morrissey will be a great concert, LL Cool Jew and I had other thoughts as to what the greatest musical day of our lives will be (NOVEMBER 23RD, NASSAU COLISEUM, ROBERT SYLVESTER KELLY WITH NEYO, KEYSHIA COLE, AND J. HOLIDAY), as detailed here in yet another one of the neverending Google chats she and I waste time doing all day at work:
Razzy: morrissey'shair told me today that the morrissey concert I'm going to will be the greatest of my lifeHowever, while Morrissey will never approach R-uh Kelly's status in my baller hierarchy, I am certain that I will still have a great time tonight, and hopefully something amusing will happen for me to blog about. Morrissey'sHair and his brother HotLawyer are both ridiculous Morrissey fans. Last time I was in the P-N-Dub, Morrissey'sHair straight up blew me off one night so he could get up early the next day and stalk Morrissey (who was in town) all over Seattle, and another time I had gone out drinking with HotLawyer and crashed at his place, and when we got there, he popped in "The M in Manchester" and started drunkenly raving about it. Since they are both super-Razzyphiles, I'd better throw them a bone, so I'll make something blogworthy happen tonight at the Hammerstein Ballroom. Trust.
Razzy: and that it would be superior to kells
Razzy: i SNORTED ALOUD
LL Cool Jew: sha
Razzy: and sent him a scoff-heavy e-mail advising him otherwise
Razzy: i told him that the opinions of a man who spent half of the same email defending gwen stefani's virtue are taken with a grain of salt
Razzy: i mean, i'm sure morrissey's going to be great
LL Cool Jew: it will
LL Cool Jew: but it won't be kells
Razzy: but morrissey has never said, "you want to ride up in my truck, but you don't want to let me fuck you"
Razzy: exactly
Razzy: it won't be kells
Razzy: steven patrick morrissey is great and stuff, but he is no robert sylvester kelly
Razzy: no way no how
LL Cool Jew: not like you are expecting it to be kells
LL Cool Jew: you're expecting it to be morrissey
Razzy: exactly
Razzy: i'm sure morrissey will say some funny shit
Razzy: and i'll probably get to roll my eyes when he shoots his mouth off about animals
Razzy: hopefully he will bust on some celebrities or america
Razzy: or fat people
Razzy: but there won't be any real talk
Razzy: see, girl
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, HotLawyer, LL Cool Jew, Morrissey'sHair, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Daily Douchebag: UPS Whiteboard Guy
DOB: September 2007
Occupation: UPS spokesperson, inducer of Razzy into frenzied murderous rage
Hometown: whatever level of hell faux corporate assholes with brown dry-erase markers spring from
Current residence: TV on Sundays during NFL games
Douchebaggery: Ever since football season started, I've been tormented every Sunday by this obnoxious asshole during commercials. He gets up on the screen with his brown marker and his stupid cashmere V-neck and, even though I usually can't hear him on account of the sound being turned on exclusively on the TV showing the Jets or Giants game, just seeing him swagger out onto the screen to inform me about "what brown can do for you" pisses me off.
For one thing, this asshole is entirely too cocksure for someone rocking a set of man-tits and a Prince Valiant haircut. I bet he also drives a sportscar and left his wife for his dental hygienist or something, and I KNOW that definitely and FOR SURE he's rocking an unimpressive package. In fact, I bet his weiner barely extends past the shelf of gut that hangs unflatteringly over the waistband of his ill-fitting Dockers. If there's one thing I know from these commercials that brown CAN'T do for me (and memo to the jackasses in the UPS marketing department, "brown" is British slang for heroin, you idiots, so congrats on branding your company with something that anyone who has seen Trainspotting will associate with junkies and AIDS), it's find a decent stylist for their corporate spokespeople. I mean, WHO thought that haircut looked remotely appealing? I can't believe that shit tested well with anyone except possibly an audience of the blind, and even they would have been pissed off at the patronizing tone this asshole uses to describe all of UPS's fabulous features while he takes the captive audience through his completely uninformative whiteboard presentation.
Anyway, I was perusing the news today, and I knew there was a reason that this UPS whiteboard asshole was pissing me off even more than pompous, long-haired, probable bad lays generally do; he's a TOTAL creep! It seems that, in order to deflect suspicion from themselves, the parents of that British tourist girl who went missing in Portugal last year, have released a sketch of the mystery kidnapper. I took one look at it and solved the mystery.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, NFL football, small penises, you're ugly
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Razzy v. Rick Friar: Hilarity will likely ensue
Yesterday I was checking my razzy@razzy.org e-mail and, after deleting all the penis enlargement, software ads, and bogus stock tips and basking in the adoring glow of my fan mail, I was attracted to the following e-mail based on the subject line. It's been all quiet on the Razzy Hater front for the most part, so I was curious to see what kind of vitriol the author of this e-mail would be spewing:
Anyway, I guess that Rick didn't get to fully elucidate what a faggoty self-loathing white person writing hypocritical made-up quotes about racism being "edgy," so before I had a chance to reply, he sent me another e-mail clarifying his position:
Anyway, it seems Rick is pretty pissed off at the whole Jena Six business, but I'm thinking he kind of missed the point. Number one, given the context of "historical shit," the noose hanging from the tree in Jena makes it no less than a direct threat of lynching. Second, the problem is not that the black kids aren't being allowed to stomp white kids, it's that nothing was done in the way of disciplinary action against the white kids who hung A FUCKING NOOSE UP AT THE PUBLIC HIGH SCHOOL, and furthermore that the six who "stomped" the white kids in retaliation were charged with more serious crimes than they normally would have been. The Jena Six story illustrates the inherent racist discrepancies in our justice system, but I'm wasting my time trying to explain that to someone so moronic they describe a noose as "something offensive" and "just a tied rope in a tree." But the fact is, my blog post was not even about the Jena Six as much as it was about that dumb bitch who decided to do damage control for being a racist fucktard by saying "I have black friends" and blaming her poor choices on booze, thus sullying its good name. Rick doesn't have very good reading comprehension skills.
I decided to see who this racist was that was accusing me of being a "lib", a "bitch", and a "faggot," so I went to the intellectual toilet of the internets. There is no place more likely to collect the mentally deficient with blowhard opinions like a little social networking website the kiddies call MySpace. I quickly located his MySpace profile, and was not surprised to see what Rick Friar is all about: being the biggest loser imaginable.
Apparently, Mr. Friar is a 26-year-old aspiring science fiction writer currently living in his mom's basement in the Bay Area (explaining his resentment towards "libs"...I guess as long as he's unemployed and stuck at mommy's place in San Fagcisco he's surrounded by them) and self-publishing his own trilogy of craptastic novels called "The Keepers." (This reaffirms my belief that there's some secret rule mandating that sci-fi only comes in trilogies). The plot synopsis is as follows:
My favorite, and certainly the most frightening, is the laser-shooting dolphin, or "water dog" as Chance from "I Love New York" would call it. The oceans will be a very dangerous place once we are forced to contend with these mean marine robot mammals:
I can't believe this moron actually wrote to me calling me a faggot and a bitch and expect me not to have a field day with the fact that, despite his desperate attempt to sell what sounds like the most preposterous book ever written (even in the sci-fi genre), he can't even spell "Battlestar Galactica" properly on his MySpace profile and the best he has going for him is that he's actually not as hideous looking as I would expect a masturbating shut-in to be. In fact, ladies, feast your eyes:
Yeah, Dick Friar is some hot stuff. I think it's pretty telling that he has about 600 fewer MySpace friends than me in spite of the fact that he's a PUBLISHED author of the most terrifying prophetic texts about our inevitable take over by robot animal-leading alien rock stars. Now he's going to have even less than the 47 friends he's got, since in addition to being clumsy with his comma usage and a jobless dweeb with entirely too much time to sit around drawing robot sharks and shit, he's obviously a racist with poorly articulated ideas. And just to show him that I'm not a self-loathing white faggot bitch, I took a picture of myself so he knows exactly who he is dealing with. In the interest of pity, I took it topless, because the last set of hot tits Dick Friar has probably seen were probably in the context of some illegally downloaded Hentai porn, so maybe he'd relax a little on the "YOU ARE THE POWER NOW, BUT NOT FOR LONG" nonsense if he can actually wank it to a real, extant woman. Enjoy...Dick:
I also sent him this e-mail in return:
Man, I live for this shit. So many stupid people, so little time!
From: rick friar (the-keepers@hotmail.com)Oh, I see. He took issue with my post ripping on the dumb bitch who got liquored up with her hick friends, painted themselves with mud to resemble blackface, and re-enacted the Jena 6 beatings while shouting "niggers, put the noose on" then made a bunch of bullshit excuses when there was an outcry about the video of this posted to her Facebook profile. First, I never said "how dare she do something edgy," since I not only avoid the word "edgy" like the plague unless I'm busting on Lower East Side hipsters, I would never characterize Kristy's drunken idiot racist tomfoolery as "edgy." So don't attribute shit to me that I didn't write...FAGGOT. And while you're at it, if that slur was just generic, then whatever, but if it had something to do with the fact that I'm bisexual, then I think the insult you're looking for is actually "DYKE," as I am female. "Faggot" refers to either a stick or a male homosexual, and if Rick wants some reference for what the latter are, all he probably needs is a mirror.
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: An end to you white-haters
You demonize this Kristy Smith, who cried and said she had just as many black friends as white ones, but you say "how dare she do something edgy!" Get a life faggot!
Anyway, I guess that Rick didn't get to fully elucidate what a faggoty self-loathing white person writing hypocritical made-up quotes about racism being "edgy," so before I had a chance to reply, he sent me another e-mail clarifying his position:
From: rick friar (the-keepers@hotmail.com)Now, by "lib," does Rick mean "liberal"? Because politically I'm more of a libertarian than a liberal. I think the government should be as small, deregulated, and out of people's business as possible. I guess he could also mean "libertine," which is a term that I could certainly qualify for, given my fondness for hedonism and gluttonous living.
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: You are the power now, but not for long
You libs are the ones in power. Blacks beat the shit out of a white kid, while the worst thing the whites did was display something that was offensive. I don't care what you say about historical shit, it was just a tied rope in a tree. There is a fundamental difference between a symbol and a brutal beating. Obviously no blacks were living in fear, or they wouldn't have knocked unconscious and stomped the head of a white boy. That's not fear. They in fact had no fear, as they should not, because the powers that be side with blacks who stomp white kids over white kids who piss off blacks. An end to your power will soon come, so revel in it now while it lasts..... BITCH!!!
Anyway, it seems Rick is pretty pissed off at the whole Jena Six business, but I'm thinking he kind of missed the point. Number one, given the context of "historical shit," the noose hanging from the tree in Jena makes it no less than a direct threat of lynching. Second, the problem is not that the black kids aren't being allowed to stomp white kids, it's that nothing was done in the way of disciplinary action against the white kids who hung A FUCKING NOOSE UP AT THE PUBLIC HIGH SCHOOL, and furthermore that the six who "stomped" the white kids in retaliation were charged with more serious crimes than they normally would have been. The Jena Six story illustrates the inherent racist discrepancies in our justice system, but I'm wasting my time trying to explain that to someone so moronic they describe a noose as "something offensive" and "just a tied rope in a tree." But the fact is, my blog post was not even about the Jena Six as much as it was about that dumb bitch who decided to do damage control for being a racist fucktard by saying "I have black friends" and blaming her poor choices on booze, thus sullying its good name. Rick doesn't have very good reading comprehension skills.
I decided to see who this racist was that was accusing me of being a "lib", a "bitch", and a "faggot," so I went to the intellectual toilet of the internets. There is no place more likely to collect the mentally deficient with blowhard opinions like a little social networking website the kiddies call MySpace. I quickly located his MySpace profile, and was not surprised to see what Rick Friar is all about: being the biggest loser imaginable.
Apparently, Mr. Friar is a 26-year-old aspiring science fiction writer currently living in his mom's basement in the Bay Area (explaining his resentment towards "libs"...I guess as long as he's unemployed and stuck at mommy's place in San Fagcisco he's surrounded by them) and self-publishing his own trilogy of craptastic novels called "The Keepers." (This reaffirms my belief that there's some secret rule mandating that sci-fi only comes in trilogies). The plot synopsis is as follows:
The Keepers: Part 1: WWIII," by Richard Friar, is a saga chronicling the tide of events leading the superpowers of 2039 into the Third World War and the catastrophe that ensues. It is fiction only in that it has yet to happen.Just to make sure he was sufficiently heavy-handed about characterizing his work as a dire prophecy that the world should heed NOW, he provides a disclaimer.
Synopsis for "The Keepers: Part 1: WWIII." Every generation has to face difficult challenges. Some must endure far more than others. Because of this, it was once said that those who lived during World War II were the greatest generation... But, humanity has yet to see its greatest generation, for those alive in 2039 will have to face the most difficult challenges of all time.
Global conflict, environmental destruction and corporate greed have driven the world to the brink of disaster. The lack of decisive change to bring Earth and humankind back into balance has created the most radical and terrifying movement ever. Ideologies clash, nations collide and the battle for transformation threatens the planet with annihilation. This science fiction epic, the first in a trilogy, tells the story of a Third World War fought against the mightiest foe of all time... the dreaded Apex Empire.
The story follows two main characters. A former rock star with celebrity status, Geiseric, the charismatic and oppressive leader of the Apex aspires to crush the governments of the world and bring them under one tyrannical head. Inspired by the natural and efficient forms of the animal kingdom and seizing hold of the science of biomimicry, the new and powerful empire creates the deadliest military ever known to mankind. Logan is a teenager who grew up on a tiny island in the Pacific Ocean. Here, a group of adults tried to raise their children in seclusion, apart from the heightening tensions leading up to the war. But nobody can hide from Geiseric and his regime. The occupants of the island are transported to Geiseric's bizarre training camps. Logan all too suddenly, learns about the horrors of the outside world he has been protected from.
This is fiction that comes with a warning. Should the world continue on its current political and social paths, everything within the plot, including the astonishing technology, the intricate political maneuvering, the major players and their ideologies, is not only possible, but probable. For until that day that humans embrace all living beings within their circle of compassion, they shall not themselves find peace.Oh, I see. Yeah, it does seem possible that in thirty-two years, the planet will be overrun by the most dreaded army led by an intergalactic celebrity rock star military tyrant who, like the Westside Connection, has designs on world domination. I guess that's why the nefarious "libs" will no longer be in power to further their agenda of blacks stomping white kids as faggot bitches are wont to do. Thanks to the dreaded science of "biomimicry" as practiced by the Apex Empire, who I am sure we would all fear if they existed and had a more impressive name (Apex sounds like they make ski parkas or help people manage their investment portfolios), we'll apparently have to cope with "astonishing technology" like "animalians."
I also sent him this e-mail in return:
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
To: rick friar (the-keepers@hotmail.com)
Subject: I Stand Corrected!
Dear Rick,
While I intended to respond via e-mail, once I checked out your MySpace and saw what an awesome writer you are, as well as heeded your dire words of caution about the fate of humanity thanks to the Machiavellian Apex Empire's impending invasion, I felt it was my duty to share with the world your powerful warning. Once we are senior citizens dodging Animalian lasers, I know that everyone will find your views on racial politics useful in thwarting our Apexian oppressors, and like me, everyone will experience an amazing "Rick Friar was RIGHT about that Jena Six business...and EVERYTHING ELSE!" epiphany. I was so, so wrong to bust on the stupidity of a drunken redneck who put a video of herself making racial slurs on her Facebook profile, and I realize that now.
So please forgive me, but given my disproportionately larger number of fans than yours, I figured that my blog would be the best media for reaching as many people as possible with your sage commentary on the matter.
http://www.razzy.org/RazzyBlog/razzyblog.html
Yours in the resistance against the tyrannical Geiseric,
Razzy
Man, I live for this shit. So many stupid people, so little time!
Labels: assholes, correspondence, intentional buffoonery, MySpace, nerd alert, Razzy Haters, retard rage, small penises
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Seal
Name: Seal Henry Olusegun Olumide Adeola Samuel
DOB: February 19, 1963
Occupation: singer, model-banger, scarred-up hotness
Hometown: Paddington, London, England
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I've always kind of liked Seal in spite of his fucked-up face and in spite of the fact that his music isn't exactly my favorite. I thought that "Kiss From a Rose" trash was just asinine. The lyrics make no sense, and the song overall has a generally soporific effect on me. I guess that "Crazy" song is alright, but overall, Seal's musical talents don't really do a whole lot for me.
However, Heidi Klum, AKA Mrs. Seal Samuel, recently told Oprah why she was attracted to Seal initially, and it has nothing to do with those strangely sexy scars all over his face (which, contrary to urban myth, were actually from lupus and not ritual scarification). Apparently, he had just walked into his hotel lobby in New York after a brisk workout at the gym, and Heidi's eyes went straight to the important stuff: his gigantic dick. She claims her response was, "Wow. I pretty much saw everything. The whole package."
I like Heidi Klum even more now, and she's really grown on me ever since she called out this retarded chick designer for making her model look like "a fat Minnie Mouse" on "Project Runway" once. The girl shares my interests, and my pragmatism when it comes to checking guys out. When I'm giving a dude the once-over, I go first to the left ring finger and then straight to the dick. Okay, I lie...I look at his dick first!
Anyway, I'm not shocked to hear that Seal is packing, only because he and Heidi pretty much started popping out kids immediately after commencing their relationship, and you know that was because they just threw caution to the winds and got right down to the deep dicking. I know why. I bet Seal is a hot lay; there's just something about the way he carries himself that says to me all it takes is one ride to permanently dickmatize a woman with that hotness. And he likes blondes. He really is the total package. I'd hit it and thank my lucky stars I got to do so.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, Project Runway, sex, weiners
Daily Douchebag: J. Alexander
DOB: ???-a lady never tells, I guess
Occupation: criticizing bitches on "America's Next Top Model," annoying the shit out of me via dumb horseplay with Tyra
Hometown: ???
Current residence: Los Angeles?
Douchebaggery: Okay, dudes, it's time for some speed blogging, because I was up until 2 last night and forgot to pick up a sugarfree Red Bull to help put the wind in my sails this morning. I was up so late because J-Sexy made me akee and salt fish, the Jamaican national dish, and codfish fritters, and underestimated the prep time. So we didn't eat until after "America's Next Top Model," and then I had to help her finish drinking all the beer in her fridge. Once I finally did get to bed, I slept fitfully, both due to nicotine patch dreams and a stinky Pug who snored noisily into my ear all night. As a result, I slept shamefully late (8 a.m.-normally I've been up 2-3 hours by now), and I have a lot of mice to send to their untimely deaths today. So I've got to make this fast.
As usual, J-Sexy and I erupted into howls of derision and irritation the second Miss J showed up on the screen with his already giant afro (it grows an inch with each passing week of this "cycle," because Miss J always does cutesy crap like this...in the past he'd add boutonnieres or garish ruffles to his shirt). Miss J is fucking irritating at judging panel on "America's Next Top Model." Actually, all the judges are somewhat irritating. Twiggy is nice and rarely says anything other than "'Allo, girls" to the assembled would-be "top models" (who seem to get uglier and less remarkable with each passing cycle), Nigel Barker is kind of hot but has a really skeezy look about him, Tyra acts like an obnoxious dumb ass, and Miss J is the catalyst for all of Tyra's loud, pointless, condescending hijinks, which usually take the form of some type of outlandish charade illustrating that the contestants are hos who lack Tyra's expertise at posing in a "fashiony" or "modely" way and may involve Tyra and/or Miss J lapsing into faux hood slang. Tyra does, after all, love to brag that she's from Inglewood, so she likes to flex her "authentic urban" accent muscles from time to time via chattering about modeling with the toughest drag twink in the hood.
Miss J has apparently modeled, but I'm not sure why, because he is ugly in or out of drag. I guess if a runway show needed a hollering, overexcitable queen, then Miss J is your she-man, but otherwise he needs to stick to his chosen profession of "runway coach." Furthermore, Miss J needs to explain how he has the chutzpah to criticize bitches for their clothes given the outfits that he is usually rocking. He usually looks like a florist's shop, a costume warehouse, and a Claire's Boutique store threw up all over him. Don't shriek, "You're dressed like a hoochie, GURRRL!" at some poor, fugly bitch just because she wore a skirt to judging panel, probably because the week before she wore pants and Miss J and/or Tyra didn't like that either.
I liked it a lot better when Janice Dickinson was on "Top Model" providing the bitchiness, primarily because she and Tyra obviously hated each other, Janice wouldn't hear a word of Miss J's foolishness, and she didn't need theatrics to tell the girls how they were failing miserably at achieving top model status. She'd just look the girls over and snap, "You're fat...go lose ten pounds." She was rough. Miss J pales in comparison, and I'm so sick of his not-funny hilarious antics. Keep him in the one runway-walking competition and replace him on the panel with someone who doesn't do shiteous improv judging with Tyra all day, because I've just HAD IT with that fucker.
Labels: America's Next Top Model, Daily Douchebag, intentional buffoonery, J-Sexy, vulgar display of faggotry
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Just say yes to space weapons
LL Cool Jew sent me the following article yesterday, because of my fascination with the winner of the most impish and spritely vegan Democratic presidential candidate award, Dennis Kucinich. As LL Cool Jew would say, "Kucinich is KRAZAY."
I always knew Kucinich was crazed and into all sorts of kooky space stuff, but I have a hard time believing that UFOs are cruising around Graham. Graham and the similar towns of Yelm and Roy are repositories for crazies. Shirley MacLaine lived in Graham in the first place not for the annual delight that is the Pierce County Fair at the Graham Fairgrounds (and which pales in comparison to doing the Puyallup), but because J.Z. Knight lived out in Yelm. J.Z. Knight is a now-passe psychic cult leader, who claims to channel Ramtha, a thirty-thousand year old warrior spirit from the sunken continent of Atlantis. Despite my mother performing an abdominal ultrasound on J.Z. Knight once and not seeing hide nor hair of Ramtha kicking it inside J.Z. Knight, a bunch of now largely forgotten celebrities were into this. Shirley MacLaine, along with Linda Evans AKA Joan Collins's preferred catfight opponent on the sublime "Dynasty" and her then-boyfriend Yanni, were all into this. Ramtha had all sorts of nutty ideas during his heyday in the 80s, but he never quite caught on like Scientology. It's surprising, because Ramtha's predictions aren't all that far removed from Scientology's. Ramtha has made all sorts of predictions about lizard aliens taking over the earth and turning us all into socialists or something. In order to understand more about this, you basically have to fork over your life savings to J.Z. Knight. Shirley MacLaine was into this, and so apparently was Dennis Kucinich! That explains a lot.
Well, Kucinich doesn't have my vote, only because I don't want Ramtha up in the White House. Also, I strongly suspect the odd smell that accompanied Kucinich's UFO encounter was probably just a gust of wind blowing his way over the county landfill next door or the facility where they process sewage into fertilizer down the street. "The smell of roses" was probaby just a euphemism for the stench of unincorporated Pierce County. Or maybe one of Shirley's neighbors' meth labs blew up. In any event, I am not voting for a dude who follows his nose, smells bullshit, and calls it ten sublime minutes with our extraplanetary communist brethren.
Furthermore, if Kucinich really did see an actual alien spaceship, then I don't want him for president based on his position concerning space weapons. Space weapons aren't exactly a hot-button issue for me in terms of favoring a candidate, but if he knows there are a bunch of asshole aliens flying around Graham at incomprehensible speed, maybe we should think about putting some defense measures in place in case they're not friendly. Granted, Dennis "Workers' White House" Kucinich would probably love if they landed on earth and forced us into some sort of intergalactic dystopian global government, but I for one think we should get some lasers or whatever up there in the interest of preserving democracy, freedom, and the American way. These aliens are showing up a little too close to the Taco Time on 160th and Meridian for my liking, and I'll be damned if some Ramtha-heralded space pinkos threaten my ability to get a crispy beef burrito and Mexi-Fries next time I'm home visiting my peeps in the P-N-Dub. Much as I love Kucinich's insanity, I'm casting my vote for a candidate with a pro-space weapon platform. U!S!A!
Shirley MacLaine claims Kucinich had UFO encounterTwo things caught my eye about this article. First, why the hell was Dennis Kucinich kicking it with Shirley MacLaine's lunatic, tree-whispering ass in the first place? I mean, did their long and storied friendship begin when they met at CrazyCon 1970 or something? Second, why were they checking out UFOs like FIVE MINUTES DOWN MERIDIAN/SR161 FROM MY PARENTS' HOUSE? Seriously, check the map...I've denoted important locations around the Graham/South Hill/Puyallup greater non-metropolitan region for your reference:
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Mark Naymik
Plain Dealer Politics Writer
Democratic presidential candidate Dennis Kucinich has claimed to have seen a UFO, according to Shirley MacLaine in her new book, "Sage-Ing While Age-Ing."
Kucinich "had a close sighting over my home in Graham, Washington, when I lived there," the actress, a close Kucinich friend, wrote. "Dennis found his encounter extremely moving. The smell of roses drew him out to my balcony where, when he looked up, he saw a gigantic triangular craft, silent, and observing him.
"It hovered, soundless, for 10 minutes or so, and sped away with a speed he couldn't comprehend. He said he felt a connection in his heart and heard directions in his mind."
Kucinich's campaign and congressional representatives did not return calls and e-mail asking whether the Cleveland Democrat, now in his sixth congressional term, in fact saw a UFO or if there was some other explanation for MacLaine's recollection.
MacLaine is a well-known believer of UFOs and reincarnation. And she has been close to Kucinich for decades. MacLaine is the godmother of Kucinich's daughter and attended Kucinich's 2005 Cleveland wedding to third wife, Elizabeth, who's often campaigning by his side.
MacLaine also recommended in the 1980s that Kucinich visit New Mexico spiritual adviser Chris Griscom, whom MacLaine featured in her then-best-selling book, "Dancing in the Light," describing how Griscom helped her communicate with trees. Kucinich has insisted that Griscom was not his spiritual adviser but a "teacher and a very good friend."
MacLaine, who shares Kucinich's opposition to using weapons in space, doesn't shed any more light in her book on Kucinich's close encounter, including when it happened. Her book goes on sale next month.
Well, Kucinich doesn't have my vote, only because I don't want Ramtha up in the White House. Also, I strongly suspect the odd smell that accompanied Kucinich's UFO encounter was probably just a gust of wind blowing his way over the county landfill next door or the facility where they process sewage into fertilizer down the street. "The smell of roses" was probaby just a euphemism for the stench of unincorporated Pierce County. Or maybe one of Shirley's neighbors' meth labs blew up. In any event, I am not voting for a dude who follows his nose, smells bullshit, and calls it ten sublime minutes with our extraplanetary communist brethren.
Furthermore, if Kucinich really did see an actual alien spaceship, then I don't want him for president based on his position concerning space weapons. Space weapons aren't exactly a hot-button issue for me in terms of favoring a candidate, but if he knows there are a bunch of asshole aliens flying around Graham at incomprehensible speed, maybe we should think about putting some defense measures in place in case they're not friendly. Granted, Dennis "Workers' White House" Kucinich would probably love if they landed on earth and forced us into some sort of intergalactic dystopian global government, but I for one think we should get some lasers or whatever up there in the interest of preserving democracy, freedom, and the American way. These aliens are showing up a little too close to the Taco Time on 160th and Meridian for my liking, and I'll be damned if some Ramtha-heralded space pinkos threaten my ability to get a crispy beef burrito and Mexi-Fries next time I'm home visiting my peeps in the P-N-Dub. Much as I love Kucinich's insanity, I'm casting my vote for a candidate with a pro-space weapon platform. U!S!A!
Labels: celebrities, crazies, intentional buffoonery, LL Cool Jew, P-N-Dub, politics, Razzification, United States of Asskickery
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Foxy Brown
DOB: September 6, 1978
Occupation: assault-and-batterer, rapper, criminal diva
Hometown: Flatbush, Brooklyn, New York
Current residence: Women's Correctional Facility, Rikers Island, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I should start by saying that historically my allegiance has been with Foxy Brown's rival lady Brooklyn rapper Kimberly "Lil' Kim" Jones. Lil' Kim has a better grasp of how to write hilarious lyrics about cunnilingus, and she blazed the trail to the penitentiary. However, from all accounts Lil' Kim was a model prisoner. The only things she did in jail was get one of her leaking breast implants repaired and get fat. Foxy, on the other hand, has pretty much climbed with astronomical speed to running shit at Rikers.
This isn't surprising, given the discrepancies in their criminal offenses. Lil' Kim perjured herself before a federal grand jury, which is bad, but not particularly frightening. Foxy Brown, on the other hand, has a criminal record indicating a long pattern of sociopathic behavior, particularly toward law enforcement officials and people involved in the aesthetics and cosmetology industries. According to her Wikipedia page:
* On January 25, 1997, the 20-year-old Brown spat on two hotel workers in Raleigh, North Carolina when they told her they didn't have an iron available. When she missed a court appearance, another arrest warrant was issued and she finally turned herself in on April 30, 1997. She eventually received a 30-day suspended sentence and was ordered to perform 80 hours of community service.Since Foxy put on her prison jumpsuit and got settled into Rikers, her behavior has been anything but good. She refused to get on a bus for a court appearance three times earlier this month because her hair, makeup, and nails weren't done. Then, yesterday, she was put in solitary for two and a half months for multiple violations. She exchanged shank jabs with some other inmate in the prison mess hall (or maybe it was just a fistfight...I added the shank for effect, and anyway, don't all prisoners carry shanks made out of sharpened toothbrushes or spoons? That's what rap music and that "Oz" show led me to believe). Then she refused to take mandatory drug tests. Finally, she threw a cup of urine at a guard and bitched her out. I'm sure the guard totally deserved it.
* On March 6, 2000, Brown crashed her Range Rover in Flatbush, Brooklyn. She was charged with driving without a license, since her license had been suspended for not paying two parking tickets. But she hasn't been arrested on that charge since.
* On July 26, 2002, Brown was arrested in Kingston, Jamaica for an altercation with a policewoman at Norman Manley International Airport. When she missed a court appearance two days later, Jamaican authorities announced that she would be arrested if she returned to the country.
* On August 29, 2004, Brown allegedly attacked two manicurists in Chelsea, Manhattan during a dispute over a $20 bill that she refused to pay. She was not charged for the incident until March 7, 2005. She has denied the charges and initially rejected misdemeanor plea deals on May 6 and August 9, 2005. On October 25, 2006, Brown was sentenced to three years probation and anger management counseling. Orders of protection were authorized by the court for the manicurists.
* On December 23, 2005, Brown was handcuffed in a Manhattan, New York courtroom after a verbal confrontation with the judge. Brown was in court to finalize a plea deal stemming from the August 2004 incident. Judge Melissa Jackson thought Brown was chewing gum and asked her to get rid of it. Brown responded by opening her mouth and sticking her tongue out, not as a sign of disrespect but to show, as she subsequently claimed, that she had no gum in her mouth. Judge Jackson ordered Brown cuffed to a bench for fifteen minutes, but when a female court officer attempted to handcuff her they got into a heated exchange over a bracelet the rapper was wearing. Judge Jackson alleged that Brown also struck the officer. When Brown refused to apologize, she was threatened with thirty days in jail. She eventually apologized to the court.
* On February 15, 2007, Brown was arrested for an incident in Broward County, Florida. According to the arrest report, Brown was applying beauty products in the bathroom of the Queen Beauty Supply store when an employee knocked on the door and told her the business was closed so it was time to leave. She refused and threw hair glue at the employee, the report said. Brown then spat on the man as he called 911, staining his shirt. A police officer found her in the shopping plaza and tried to get her to return to the store. When the officer placed a hand on her arm to escort her to the store, Brown swatted it away, then started swinging her arms and struggling with the officer, the report said. The officer had to "use a take-down maneuver to gain control" of Brown, according to the report. No one was injured.
* On March 1, 2007, Foxy Brown pleaded guilty to a probation violation for leaving New York state without permission.
* On March 22, 2007, Broward County Judge Joel Lazurus issued an arrest warrant for the arrest of Foxy Brown for her failure to appear in court for the February 2007 incident in Florida. The judge subsequently withdrew the arrest warrant, Brown appeared in court and pleaded not guilty.
* On May 7th, 2007, police were called in Brooklyn after a young mother claimed Foxy Brown, in a silver Range Rover, almost ran her down along with her baby in a stroller. No charges were filed.
* On August 14, 2007, Foxy Brown turned herself in for the felony assault charge resulting from hitting her neighbor with a Blackberry.
* On August 22, 2007, Judge Melissa Jackson ordered Foxy Brown jailed until a September 5 hearing for allegedly violating her probation after her arrest in the Blackberry incident. She was immediately taken into custody. Manhattan Criminal Court Judge Melissa Jackson said Brown's sentence will continue the six months' probation she is already serving. But Jackson warned that if there are any other probation infractions, "I'm reserving the right to resentence you to jail for one year."
* On September 7, 2007, New York Criminal Court Judge Melissa Jackson sentenced Foxy Brown to one year in jail for violating her probation that stemmed from the 2004 fight with two manicurists in a New York City nail salon. "I'm not going to give you any more chances," Judge Jackson told Brown. "I hope you turn your life around and never again have to stand in a court of law." With time off for good behavior for her detention that began in August 2007, Brown will be eligible for parole in May 2008.
Foxy is not the kind of woman you should trifle with. Not only has she probably already taken control of the black market cigarette and covert weapons trade at Rikers by now (even from solitary confinement), but I'm sure she has some kind of awesome, fear-inspiring prison nickname. You know the prisoners avert their eyes and shuffle submissively away in hopes that her wrath and fury will not focus on them. Foxy's situation reminds me of the Ja Rule "Down Ass Chick" video. In case you have mercifully blocked out the musical onslaught of Murder, Inc. records circa 2002, this video featured Ja Rule and Charli Baltimore pretending to be "the new Untouchables," which translates to safecracking jewel thieves or something. They get caught burgling his cauldron of diamonds (seriously). Ja Rule escapes the police, but Charli is sadly captured and arrested. Being a down ass chick, she tolerates a particularly tough police interrogation ("WHERE'S JA???"), doesn't snitch on Ja, and serves her time. Initially, as she walks into her cell block, all the other prisoners sneer, and some of the burly Berthas in there are licking their chops at the prospect of initiating Charli into prison life and try to intimidate her by beating on the bars of their cells and hollering, blowing smoke in her face, and smacking her upside the head. However, on account of her down assery (which apparently is demonstrated by looking thoughtful, gazing into a hand mirror through her cell bars, talking to Ja Rule on the phone, and occasionally beating some bitches' asses, the next time we see Charli she's rocking some crazy hard-ass cornrows in her Manic Panic hair and making the scary dyke lifers run errands related to her controlling the flow of illegal Newports and other contraband around the prison. It's no Sylvester Films production, but if you care to see this for yourself, here's the YouTube.
Anyway, I imagine Foxy Brown to be rocking prison just like that, except with far less mirror gazing and pining for Ja Rule. Trust, though, that big prison lezzies quail in terror at her presence and give her a wide berth in the lunchroom, approaching only to respectfully pass her library books with the insides cut out to store drugs, smokes, and prison scrip. Rikers Island is no joke, but neither is Foxy. When she gets out (IF she gets paroled next spring, which is looking less and less likely given her prison antics), I think that Foxy should call up Vince McMahon, because she would be the greatest WWE diva of all time. She could seriously fuck some bitches up, and I bet she'd be totally entertaining doing so. She should at least get a reality show. Bitch is crazy and I love her for it.
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot chicks, rap
Daily Douchebag: the White House Office of Management and Budget
DOB: January 2000
Occupation: denial
Douchebaggery: Yesterday, Dr. Julie Gerberding, director of the Centers for Disease Control, gave prepared testimony to the Senate Environmental and Public Works committee on the impact climate change could have on health. While I do not subscribe to the Al Gore imminent disaster theory of climate change because the scientific community doesn't, there's still been plenty of prognostication on the part of my geeked out colleagues about the impact climate change will have on disease and I don't think it's a bad idea to at least anticipate this and plan accordingly.
The Bush administration, it seems, does not agree. Because why plan for possible cholera, malaria, or hantavirus epidemics when we could just stick our heads in the sand and pretend everything is just hunky dory? The Office of Management and Budget received a draft copy of Dr. Gerberding's testimony and pared it down from 14 pages to a measly 4, redacting almost every credible scientific reference and specific discussion of diseases which would severely affect public health, including increases in heat stress, heart problems, respiratory problems, waterborne and vector-borne infectious diseases, and stress disorders. I went to the OMB's webpage to see about their qualifications to decide which medical and public health information is important enough to be shared with the Senate committee overseeing this matters, and not surprisingly, those qualifications were all non-existent. This is the Bush administration, after all, a bunch of bureaucratic hanger-ons and old Dubya/Rove cronies who thought it would be prudent to put the former Judges and Stewards Commissioner of the International Arabian Horse Association in charge of federal emergencies and thus post-Katrina shitshowery. Thus it's not surprising that Jim Nussle, the head of OMB above, is a lawyer and former congressman whose specialty is slashing budgets. Director Nussle is assisted by a lifetime political bureaucrat, a MBA and former business executive, and a former analyst for Lehmann Brothers. In other words, nobody who explain what the fuck hantavirus or cholera even are, much less whether or not the Senate should hear about them. Then again, these are the assholes who didn't put much cash in the NIH budget for research grants, which has made my life a living hell by ensuring that my stipend doesn't keep up with rent increases and the cost of living in general.
I think in the case of public health, it's not a bad idea to do a little extra planning for disasters. I resent these bean counters taking it upon themselves to decide that hantavirus isn't important enough for the Senate to know about. Hantavirus, AKA Sin Nombre or Four Corners virus, is a BL4 (translation: space suit lab--as in Ebola or smallpox) pathogen, is transmitted by inhaling the urine or particulate feces of infected mice who act as carriers, and causes complete respiratory failure and sometimes severe internal hemorrhaging. I say a resounding "no thanks" to more of that, and I'd like to hear what the fuck the CDC is planning to do about that should an epidemic occur. As a virologist, I'm accustomed to being around infectious shit, but hantavirus is one of the few viral diseases that scares me. I certainly don't want to see any outbreaks of it, and I especially don't want to see any letters to the editor of Nature crowing about how hantavirus outbreaks were the result of Bush administrators combining tyranny and complete incompetence (which at this point is business as usual in the White House). I don't want to get malaria or cholera either. Malaria drug resistance is emerging and still kills five million people annually worldwide, and cholera causes explosive chalky diarrhea so severe an adult can lose up to 15 liters of fluids every day. I'll PASS on those, too. The OMB needs to save its red pens for cutting social programs out of the budget, because if they have their way we'll have a public health situation to rival that of the third world.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, epidemic geekery, fuck the planet, politics, retard rage, science, tyrannical rulers, viruses rule
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Donna Martin is on fire!
I wasn't really paying that much attention to the fires raging in California because I can already hear Al Gore's voice in the back of my head giving some pompous PowerPoint about how they have something to do with climate change, until one of gossip internets informed me that Tori Spelling's B&B is in danger!
Tori lives at "Chateau LaRue" with her fug Lifetime movie villain husband and her fug baby and her fug Pug, the eponymous Mimi LaRue. She also shoots her reality show, "Tori and Dean: Inn Love" there, and that's actually reality trash that I don't watch. I loved her fake reality show "So NoTORIous" with Loni Andersen playing the role of Candy Spelling and the bad guy from "Heroes" playing her obnoxious flaming fag-along, but "Tori and Dean: Inn Love" is just gross. In the only episode I saw, Dean said something like "So we decided to open a bed and breakfast, and then we shagged, and then we made a baby." EWWW. And please..."shagged"? Last I checked, your name was Dean McDermott, not Austin Powers. The idea of these two "shagging" conjures up all sorts of nasty visuals that I could do without.
Anyway, I don't care one way or the other if "Tori and Dean: Inn Love" lasts or gets cancelled by the out of control fires raging through SoCal because I don't watch the Oxygen network or whatever that show is on (UNLESS "The Bad Girls Club" is on, because that was a fucking awesome show, as its plot focused primarily on drunk strippers and ex-cons fistfighting, trashing the house, revenging themselves upon their ex-hookups, and having lesbian sex in the bathtub). I'm also not concerned about the fate of Chateau LaRue, because as any "Beverly Hills, 90210" aficionado can tell you, Donna can deal with a little wildfire.
Bev Niner fans may recall an episode where David throws a party in the hills at a house that is directly in the path of a raging wildfire. For some reason, rather than evacuate, the gang decides to do a little amateur firefighting (even Kelly, who is still suffering post-traumatic stress disorder due to her recent escape from the flames of a housefire caused by Valerie and Steve overloading the circuits at a houseparty). Donna handles the wildlife rescue portion of the efforts, and sprains her ankle trying to rescue a baby deer. Luckily, a hunky firefighter named Cliff shows up to rescue Donna, who dates him later to show her gratitude (although it doesn't work out, presumably because David Silver had not yet blazed the trail into Donna's prudish and militantly guarded vagina yet, and thus Donna Martin wasn't giving it up).
Seemingly, Donna learned her lesson and the next time she was confronted by fire's destructive power (when Gina set fire to her menswear collection prior to the grand re-opening of "Now Wear This," Donna's hip Robertson Boulevard boutique), she handled it with a fire extinguisher like a pro. Presumably, Tori still has these firefighting skills under her belt and will thus keep Chateau LaRue safe and intact despite the encroachment of the raging inferno.
Tori lives at "Chateau LaRue" with her fug Lifetime movie villain husband and her fug baby and her fug Pug, the eponymous Mimi LaRue. She also shoots her reality show, "Tori and Dean: Inn Love" there, and that's actually reality trash that I don't watch. I loved her fake reality show "So NoTORIous" with Loni Andersen playing the role of Candy Spelling and the bad guy from "Heroes" playing her obnoxious flaming fag-along, but "Tori and Dean: Inn Love" is just gross. In the only episode I saw, Dean said something like "So we decided to open a bed and breakfast, and then we shagged, and then we made a baby." EWWW. And please..."shagged"? Last I checked, your name was Dean McDermott, not Austin Powers. The idea of these two "shagging" conjures up all sorts of nasty visuals that I could do without.
Bev Niner fans may recall an episode where David throws a party in the hills at a house that is directly in the path of a raging wildfire. For some reason, rather than evacuate, the gang decides to do a little amateur firefighting (even Kelly, who is still suffering post-traumatic stress disorder due to her recent escape from the flames of a housefire caused by Valerie and Steve overloading the circuits at a houseparty). Donna handles the wildlife rescue portion of the efforts, and sprains her ankle trying to rescue a baby deer. Luckily, a hunky firefighter named Cliff shows up to rescue Donna, who dates him later to show her gratitude (although it doesn't work out, presumably because David Silver had not yet blazed the trail into Donna's prudish and militantly guarded vagina yet, and thus Donna Martin wasn't giving it up).
Seemingly, Donna learned her lesson and the next time she was confronted by fire's destructive power (when Gina set fire to her menswear collection prior to the grand re-opening of "Now Wear This," Donna's hip Robertson Boulevard boutique), she handled it with a fire extinguisher like a pro. Presumably, Tori still has these firefighting skills under her belt and will thus keep Chateau LaRue safe and intact despite the encroachment of the raging inferno.
Labels: Bev Niner, celebrities, natural disaster, oh the horror, TV
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Adelfa Volpes
DOB: 1925
DOD: October 22, 2007
Occupation: December bride
Hometown: Santa Fe, Argentina
Current residence: the morgue in Santa Fe, Argentina
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Adelfa Volpes died yesterday at the ripe old age of 82, leaving behind her inconsolable 24-year-old husband Reinaldo Waveqche. Reinaldo moved in with Adelfa, a friend of the family, following his mother's death when he was 15. Naturally, Adelfa made like Mary Kay LeTourneau and promptly started banging his swarthy 58-years-her-junior ass.
Apparently it was love, because they got married last month and headed to Brazil for a sexed-up honeymoon which took its toll on Adelfa's ailing heart. She croaked, but not before establishing herself as the most accomplished horny old lady in the history of horny old ladies. Man, I hope I'm nailing dudes in their early twenties when I'm an octogenarian. Those are some seriously impressive man-landing skills. She's clearly a pimp and a player who was born to mack.
Reinaldo isn't that bad looking, either. Granted, his style needs a little work because he has a skeevy date rapist vibe, but I think that could be fixed with a shave and some new stunner shades. Overall, he's a pretty choice piece of ass for an 82-year-old woman to score. I bet that in her day, Adelfa gave one hell of a blow job or she's super rich, because I was expecting her to be with a troll. It's too bad the old girl didn't have a longer run with her marriage, but I salute her nonetheless. I hope she's up in heaven kicking it with a cadre of young studs catering to her every whim. What a hot bitch.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, gross, hot chicks, people who died, sluts
Daily Douchbag: Gwen Stefani
DOB: October 3, 1969
Occupation: contrived "punk" singer, celebrity spokeswhore
Hometown: Anaheim, California
Current residence: Los Angeles, California and London, England
Douchebaggery: I just saw a commercial in which Gwen Stefani endorsed Hewlett-Packard laptops, and it was fucking infuriating.
"Sometimes it's so hard to find what I'm trying to say," Gwen says, wearing her shirt that says "Kingston" in gangsta font.
While that is the type of sentiment I could normally relate to, Gwen takes it to the I-totally-hate-your-smug-annoying-ass level. Coming up with terms like "hollaback girl" is not fucking rocket science!
"People might think you can turn creativity on and off," says Gwen, strolling in a brightly colored hoodie through the brightly colored streets of Tokyo purposefully, even though she's probably not in Tokyo (she just likes those Harajuku girls for their CA-RAZAY outfit choices and color palette) but in front of a green screen. "But it's not like that."
Well, thanks, Gwen, for filling me on how the creative process works. Because I definitely and for sure would like to purchase a laptop from a company that stoops to inform me the innate details of how to resolve a quest to find what you are trying to say with "I'm feelin' hella good so I'm gonna keep on dancin" or "let me hear you say this shit is B-A-N-A-N-A-S." I mean, it takes a true genius to cook up lyrics so profound, so I appreciate the insight on what goes into achieving such lofty contributions to contemporary art.
The Gwen Stefani commercial continues to piss me off. As she prowls the streets of Tokyo on an embedded Flash player against a houndstooth background, she continues to explain how fucking brilliant and original she is. "It just kinda comes out," she says. As in, unless you are the fucking Einstein of fake feminist ska-turned-fake punk-turned insincere fashionista-turned extremely annoying celebrity baby mama of the lead singer of BUSH, you are not at the level where you can comprehend a more precise explanation of her brand marketing strategy. "A mash-up of all these things you collect in your brain," she explains.
So, okay, GOT IT, Gwen. You watched "America's Next Top Model" cycle three and you like wasabi and rugby shirts and this all somehow winds up turning into some sort of nightmare product you create on your HP laptop. NOTED! Shouldn't you be walking your demon spawn in a gold lame stroller rather than bothering me by explaining to me how fucking complicated it is coming up with the most annoying songs of all time? And yeah, I have no idea how to make them newfangled foreign accent marks, so I'm cool with the fact that my spelling of "lame" (as in shiny gold fabric) looks like I'm saying "lame" (as in paralyzed and/or shiteously fucked). Either applies.
This obnoxious Gwen Stefani ad campaign makes the Apple marketing material seem only barely pretentious and snotty. The people at Apple who came up with the term "genius bar" for their tech support seem down to earth compared to the assholes that decided Gwen Stefani should talk down to everyone on behalf of HP (which, by the way, in Cuban slang means "child of a whore"). Those overpaid motherfuckers should be summarily fired. Gwen Stefani can condescend to me once she stops using "woo-hoo" as a substantial lyric in her songs. T-Pain is a more accomplished lyricist. So shut the fuck up and get back to work rigorously maintaining your dark roots, you posing, ugly-dude-fucking, fashion snob, small-titted snot-twat. Gwen Stefani wishes she could eat me.
And on another note, WHY doesn't Robert Sylvester Kelly have a HP commercial of his own? Because I want to know about what goes into the genesis of mackadelic nightspot realness like "wake up with two chicks, wash our ass, and goin' straight to the mall" or "man, they so naughty, the way they took me down like a forty." Now that's a situation where I'd actually say, "How you doin' this, player?"
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, overcompensation, ranting, sluts
Monday, October 22, 2007
Briana Butterface
My favorite porn star is Briana Banks, and for good reason. This former insurance auditor-turned-professional nymphomaniac whore has graced the small and/or computer screens with some of the finest and most entertaining masturbatory fare ever produced. She is enthusiastic, is such a good performer that she makes violent anal jackhammering look fun, and is appealing in spite of her badly overstuffed boob job.
Briana hasn't made many new movies lately, because like many of her esteemed colleagues, she developed a serious drug problem and went through rehab, divorced her porn star husband, and sued a sex toy manufacturer for making unauthorized replicas of her genitals. I was wondering what happened to Briana...if she retired, or was dead in a ditch somewhere, or what. Well, it turns out she was taking a little time off to clean up her act, but Vivid stood by their contract girl and now she's making a triumphant return to pornography!
I was stoked about the possibility of having novel Briana Banks action to illegally download when I found some still shots from the set of her big comeback and suddenly changed my tune. Just to remind you all, prior to her departure, Briana was hot HOT HOT:
Briana was the kind of classy, upper crust woman who would stand around her house in a pair of checkered thigh-highs, a thong, and an extremely sophisticated shirt like the one above while contemplating whether or not she wanted to tickle the ivories on her grand piano. Except by "tickle the ivories" I mean "get anally reamed something serious." Like I said, Briana was hot.
Unfortunately, THIS is what Briana looks like now:
I'm positive Briana had some face work done, specifically cheek implants and lip injections, and possibly a nose job. WHY, BRIANA, WHY??? She was completely beautiful before. The only good change she's made is that she's packed on a couple pounds after kicking the cocaine, which is for the best as she was so skinny previously that she once starred in a film called Titsicle. However, the wonky visage is completely ruining her voluptuous new drug-free bod, and I am not down to rub one off to that butterface (especially not if she's doing scenes with Christian, the male porn star pictured above, since masturbating to Mr. Clean assfucking the new fug Briana isn't my thing).
I am concerned that Briana loved Jenna a little too much, because she obviously asked her to recommend a surgeon. That just goes to show that you should never ask for plastic surgery advice from a woman who transformed herself from one of the most fuckalicious pieces of ass in the history of pornography into some kind of low-budget zombie Posh Beckham wannabe. Bad move, Briana. Bad move.
Briana hasn't made many new movies lately, because like many of her esteemed colleagues, she developed a serious drug problem and went through rehab, divorced her porn star husband, and sued a sex toy manufacturer for making unauthorized replicas of her genitals. I was wondering what happened to Briana...if she retired, or was dead in a ditch somewhere, or what. Well, it turns out she was taking a little time off to clean up her act, but Vivid stood by their contract girl and now she's making a triumphant return to pornography!
I was stoked about the possibility of having novel Briana Banks action to illegally download when I found some still shots from the set of her big comeback and suddenly changed my tune. Just to remind you all, prior to her departure, Briana was hot HOT HOT:
Unfortunately, THIS is what Briana looks like now:
I am concerned that Briana loved Jenna a little too much, because she obviously asked her to recommend a surgeon. That just goes to show that you should never ask for plastic surgery advice from a woman who transformed herself from one of the most fuckalicious pieces of ass in the history of pornography into some kind of low-budget zombie Posh Beckham wannabe. Bad move, Briana. Bad move.
Labels: hot chicks, oh the horror, plastic surgery, porn, you're ugly
Daily Douchebag: the Boston Red Sox
DOB: 1901
Occupation: being the second most despicable team in Major League Baseball (after the most hateful loser bitches and their archnemeses, the New York Yankees)
Hometown: Fenway Park, Boston, Assachusetts
Current residence: Fenway Park, Boston, Assachusetts
Douchebaggery: Last week, HotLawyer e-mailed me to request that I bust on the BoSox, and I was more than happy to oblige his request. I was hoping to do it after the Cleveland Indians smote their ruin upon the side of Jacobs Field, but fortune ceased to smile upon the Tribe and the Sox came back to win the damn ALCS last night.
I don't hate the Red Sox with the vitriol I reserve for the New York Yankees, but the Red Sox have caused me nothing but trouble with the honeys throughout my life. My ex-boyfriend Benzo and I had a great relationship with each other...EXCEPT when the Red Sox would run into trouble. I would estimate that 90% of the domestic issues we had were somehow related to the Red Sox and their misfortunes. One time Benzo took me to see the Mariners play the Sox at Fenway Park, and the M's won, and Benzo was a total brat about it the entire way back to Northampton. He wasn't even cheered by the fact that "that guy who was the bad guy in Midnight Run" was sitting behind us. Another time, I talked some shit to him about how the Red Sox were eliminated by the Indians in the 1998 playoffs, and Benzo HUNG UP ON ME! That was the only time in three years he ever slammed the phone down on me, and it was particularly unfair, because the Indians had eliminated the Mariners prior to that and Benzo took great glee in rubbing in their loss. Benzo's mood was so directly related to the Red Sox and their fortunes that I was always SOOOOOO thankful when baseball season was over and we could return to our blissful domestic life together sans whining about the Sox's illustrious history of losing.
More recently, I fucked this dude who blew me off via text message for a "date" (ie: beers followed by sex) watching the damn Red Sox! I know full well that his excuse of eating "bad Thai food" was bullshit; he just wanted to pout about the Red Sox losing in peace, as is the habit of all obnoxious Boston fans. Not that I missed out on great sex or anything because of it (it was more than apropos that he went to UMass, as he was truly a Minuteman), but I still blame the Red Sox entirely for having to spend that Friday night being pissed off and not laid. The Red Sox are terrible losers, worse winners, and legendary cockblockers in my experience, and as far as I'm concerned, the world would be a better place without them.
LL Cool Jew and I have been spending the past week abusing the Sox for these and a variety of other transgressions, the number one being Manny Ramirez. Manny Ramirez is an asshole with terrible personal hygiene. He looks like a damn indigent.
Labels: Assachusetts, assholes, Benzo, Daily Douchebag, fuck the Yankees, sportsmen
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Kid Rock
DOB: January 17, 1971
Occupation: self-proclaimed rock and roll Jesus, brawler
Hometown: Romeo, Michigan
Current residence: Los Angeles, California and Detroit, Michigan
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I've always liked Kid Rock's white trash sensibilities. His music's not my favorite, although I did find that "Cowboy" song amusing. I like all that "I ain't straight outta Compton, I'm straight out the trailer" stuff. Granted, I didn't actually grow up in a trailer park myself, but I did grow up right down the street from one, as well as several "manufactured home" dealerships, and these dwellings are quite popular in my corner of the P-N-Dub. The entire town of Puyallup and surrounding unincorporated areas of the county (like South Hill, where I came up) could be considered one giant trailer park, as it has a bar called The Roadhouse (which, incidentally, has the greatest deep fried mushrooms and chicken and jos in the world), a nearly 1:1 person:truck ratio, ample meth labs, bastard children aplenty, and one of the county's largest landfills. Puyallup is the kind of place where you can find an IROC-Z for sale at any given used car lot, where the Vitamin R aka Rainier Beer is always cold as if it sprung forth from one of the glaciers on the mountain for which it was named, where you can play pai gow and video poker at the Emerald Queen 24/7, and where spiral perms aren't just a hairstyle, but a way of life. Because, even though I live in high-falutin' New York City now, a piece of my heart will always belong to Puyallup, I can appreciate Kid Rock's PWT style.
I also like Kid Rock because, in keeping with his trashtastic ways, he isn't above getting into a brawl. It doesn't matter if it's a strip club DJ giving him attitude at some shithole titty bar or Tommy Lee getting into his face at the VMAs, he'll straight up beat your ass and not give a fuck about it. I was pleased to see he was up to his old tricks when I read the following headline this morning at CNN.com:
Waffle House Brawl Lands Kid Rock in JailA fight in the Waffle House! A night in jail after brawling at the Waffle House has a certain awesomeness to it. Kid Rock has style and class. I suspect that this mystery woman provoking the fight may have been one of the TT twins doubling up with Kells and Usher, as her adoration of the greater Atlanta area's Waffle House restaurants is as fabled as her B.A. from Georgia Tech or her lucrative job tormenting America with "Everybody Loves Raymond" reruns over at Turner Broadcasting Station.
ATLANTA, Georgia (AP) -- Kid Rock was arrested early Sunday after a brawl at a restaurant and spent about 12 hours in jail before being released, police said.
Kid Rock, left, and his entourage were involved in a brawl at an Atlanta restaurant early Sunday morning.
The musician stopped at the Waffle House restaurant shortly after 5 a.m. after his performance at The Tabernacle in Atlanta, authorities said.
"He and five members of his entourage were involved in a fight with a male customer inside the Waffle House," said Mekka Parish, a spokeswoman for the DeKalb County Police Department.
The customer recognized a female with Kid Rock's party and exchanged words with her, Parish said.
"It escalated to a physical altercation between Kid Rock and that male customer and moved outside to the parking lot," she said. At some point the customer punched out a restaurant window, she said. Kid Rock left in his tour bus and was stopped by police about a mile from the restaurant, Parish said. The musician and five members of his entourage were taken into custody on a misdemeanor charge of simple battery.
The other customer was charged with criminal damage to property, a felony, Parish said. Kid Rock was released from the county jail on bond about 5 p.m. A telephone message left with Kid Rock's publicist was not immediately returned.
On an aside, I wonder if Kid Rock got to hang out with Clifford "T.I." Harris, who is being screwed by the haters at the Cobb County district attorney's office for a relatively minor transgression (being a convicted felon trying to purchase illegal machine guns and silencers). I hope Kid Rock got to swing by his cell and offer a few words of encouragement, like "hang in there, mane" or "don't let the haters get you down, you'll be back at the trap before you know it, little fella!"
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, P-N-Dub, PWT, rap
Sunday, October 21, 2007
I'm N Luv Wit T-Pain's observations
For whatever reason, I was taking a break from fretting over which Fantasy quarterback I should play...McNabb's playing against the Bears defense, and Steve McNair is playing against the shiteous Bills but he's got an ouchy back and groin and didn't play last week. And Joey Harrington isn't even an option; I frankly don't know why that bitch is even stinking up my roster. Anyway, I started dicking around on the internets, and somehow wound up on T-Pain's Wikipedia page.
If you are not familiar with Faheem "T-Pain" Najm, he is this portly fellow, an R&B thug hailing from Tallahassee, Florida who is famed for his large chains, his introduction into the lexicon of the term "snappin'" as a reference to the sexually appealing qualities of women who are thick as hell and generally working in some type of service job (stripper, bartender, etc.), and his use of production pitch correction tools on all his vocals which cause him to sound like he's singing while he's plugging his nose. Or as J-Sexy would describe him, "A ridicolos, ugly fat man with silly songs who always sings into a synthesizer and cannot spell."
I guess this happened back in May, but Wikipedia alerted me to some interview T-Pain gave to SOHH.com, a hiphop website, about Ray-J. In case you don't know who Willie "Ray-J" Norwood is, he's Brandy's little brother who sings R&B songs you've never heard and became famous for co-starring in Kim Kardashian's sex tape. He's also boned Lil' Kim, Karine "Superhead" Steffans, and Whitney Houston, and T-Pain shared his theory as to why the diminutive Ray-J is so popular with the extremely slutty, lawbreaking, possibly crazed set of women:
I'm even thinking that maybe I'll reconsider my policy regarding short guys (I generally don't fuck anyone shorter than 5'10"), because apparently even the little dudes sometimes "got a foot on" them. That means in theory, I could get with them and we could be in the bed like ooo! ooo! ooo! ooo!, despite my prior experience-based opinion that most short guys have pencil dicks and Napoleon complexes. Perhaps I need to test a larger data set in this area. T-Pain has put a lot of mental meat on my plate to work through. I hope he doesn't give another interview anytime soon, because I can only handle one extreme paradigm shift at a time. Who would have thought...T-Pain, the Tallahassee Hero, Sage, and Oracle.
If you are not familiar with Faheem "T-Pain" Najm, he is this portly fellow, an R&B thug hailing from Tallahassee, Florida who is famed for his large chains, his introduction into the lexicon of the term "snappin'" as a reference to the sexually appealing qualities of women who are thick as hell and generally working in some type of service job (stripper, bartender, etc.), and his use of production pitch correction tools on all his vocals which cause him to sound like he's singing while he's plugging his nose. Or as J-Sexy would describe him, "A ridicolos, ugly fat man with silly songs who always sings into a synthesizer and cannot spell."
Not too many guys can go after Ray J. The man got a huge meat, ok. He’s short, the man is packing. He’s got length on him. I got the width. Shit is wide. He got a foot on him. Man have a foot on him. Much respect to Ray. Man to man. No homo. Ya’ll seen that shit. Ya’ll know the man’s swanging.Fucking priceless. From now on, I'm going to be telling my honeys all about how much I love their "huge meat." Granted, I won't be able to brag about my sizable girth and won't have to provide a "no homo" disclaimer like T-Pain to ensure that my reputation as a virile heterosexual answering to "Teddy Bend Her Ass Down" remains intact, but I think that incorporating the descriptive term "swanging" into my pillow talk routine will be a big hit with the fellas who I take to my crib and show how I live (in impoverished squalor). I'll be the snappinest shawty in all of Manhattan with such awesome weiner-related banter.
I'm even thinking that maybe I'll reconsider my policy regarding short guys (I generally don't fuck anyone shorter than 5'10"), because apparently even the little dudes sometimes "got a foot on" them. That means in theory, I could get with them and we could be in the bed like ooo! ooo! ooo! ooo!, despite my prior experience-based opinion that most short guys have pencil dicks and Napoleon complexes. Perhaps I need to test a larger data set in this area. T-Pain has put a lot of mental meat on my plate to work through. I hope he doesn't give another interview anytime soon, because I can only handle one extreme paradigm shift at a time. Who would have thought...T-Pain, the Tallahassee Hero, Sage, and Oracle.
Labels: celebrities, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, rap, weiners
Friday, October 19, 2007
Let's DOUBLE UP!
It took a few minutes, but reality has finally sunk in. Imagine this: a crisp night in late November, and all the ingredients necessary for total, unmitigated, overwhelming, divine awesomeness...
Razzy
LL Cool Jew
Nassau Coliseum, Uniondale, Lawn Guyland, New York
Robert Sylvester Kelly
OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG!!!!!! LL Cool Jew and I are going to see Kells the day after Thanksgiving!!!! Talk about having something to be thankful for! This may be our equivalent of what going to Mecca would be for us if we were Muslim. I don't think I've ever been so excited to go to a concert, and that includes when I went to see New Kids on the Block in the fifth grade and was absolutely CONVINCED that my intended betrothed, Joey McIntyre, would spot my artfully sculpted high bangs and spiral perm swaying seductively to "Please Don't Go Girl" in the 200-level of the Kingdome and propose on the spot. Well, that didn't happen and I didn't get to be a child bride with a twink on my arm, and now I'm destined to be always the cum dumpster and never the bride. Alas. Anyway, I was pretty excited about that show before Joey McIntyre dashed my dreams of love and marriage by not noticing me, but that is nothing...and I mean NOTHING...compared to how I feel now, almost twenty years later, knowing that I will be seeing the magnificent, unmatched King/R-uh/Pied Piper of R&B live and in all his glory with the only person I know who can appreciate this just as much as I: LL Cool Jew.
All day long yesterday we were Google chatting each other with excitement. LL Cool Jew went to Kells's MySpace and found this gem, and for the remainder of the day, we discussed how R. Kelly would be blessing us with a live performance of his "mackadelic nightspot realness:"
So you can all expect me to talk about R. Kelly incessantly. I have a little over a month to figure out how I can get up in the VIP with Kells, so expect updates about my progress as far as that scheming is concerned.
KELLSKELLSKELLSKELLSKELLSKELLS...
Razzy
LL Cool Jew
Nassau Coliseum, Uniondale, Lawn Guyland, New York
Robert Sylvester Kelly
OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG!!!!!! LL Cool Jew and I are going to see Kells the day after Thanksgiving!!!! Talk about having something to be thankful for! This may be our equivalent of what going to Mecca would be for us if we were Muslim. I don't think I've ever been so excited to go to a concert, and that includes when I went to see New Kids on the Block in the fifth grade and was absolutely CONVINCED that my intended betrothed, Joey McIntyre, would spot my artfully sculpted high bangs and spiral perm swaying seductively to "Please Don't Go Girl" in the 200-level of the Kingdome and propose on the spot. Well, that didn't happen and I didn't get to be a child bride with a twink on my arm, and now I'm destined to be always the cum dumpster and never the bride. Alas. Anyway, I was pretty excited about that show before Joey McIntyre dashed my dreams of love and marriage by not noticing me, but that is nothing...and I mean NOTHING...compared to how I feel now, almost twenty years later, knowing that I will be seeing the magnificent, unmatched King/R-uh/Pied Piper of R&B live and in all his glory with the only person I know who can appreciate this just as much as I: LL Cool Jew.
All day long yesterday we were Google chatting each other with excitement. LL Cool Jew went to Kells's MySpace and found this gem, and for the remainder of the day, we discussed how R. Kelly would be blessing us with a live performance of his "mackadelic nightspot realness:"
As the undisputed king of R&B, R. Kelly never seems to be far from the current soul scene. Be it collaborating with his homeboy Snoop ("That's That") or trading verses with Ciara ("Promise Remix"), this Chicago soul man has displayed a consistent brilliance throughout his fifteen-year career.I'm amazed I actually got any work done yesterday, considering all day long I was sending and receiving Gchats consisting of random R. Kelly lyrics. LL Cool Jew and I have attained an advanced degree of learnedness with respect to Kells's lyrical repertoire, and thus she knows exactly what's up when we send one another messages saying things like "It's three's company, bitch, call me Jack Tripper", "Girl we off in this Jeep, foggin' windows up", or "You say you wanna take first class trips, well I want to work those first class hips, yes I do." We spent all day that we weren't doing this or just typing "KELLSKELLSKELLSKELLSKELLSKELLSKELLS!" at each other discussing truly important plans, like what we planned to wear and our chances of getting backstage. And we were just a little bit delusional about it:
Since 2002, R. Kelly has blessed his fans with a new album every year, and 2007 will be no different. While the rest of the music world slept, R. Kelly has been inside his famed studio the Chocolate Factory making countless beats, laying down mackadelic vocals and creating wonderful music.
Much like his musical forefathers Marvin Gaye, Curtis Mayfield and Donny Hathaway (the latter two also hailed from Chi-town), R. Kelly makes songs for ladies lounging in suites as well as homeboys b-balling in the streets. Aptly titled Double Up, Kelly's new disc features a wide ranch of songs that pushes the sonic envelope while staying true to his game.
"Everything I did in the past, I'm about to double up on it," says the windy city maestro. In other words, the listener will not be disappointed with the fierce production, superior lyricism and hyper collabos one has come to expect from a Kells project. Just in time for summer, with its whirlwind of backyard barbeques and beach parties, Double Up is filled with enough anthems to dominate the season.
Firing the soul shot heard around the world, "I'm A Flirt (Remix)" is the self-expletory title of the first single. Over a smooth mid-tempo groove, R. Kelly lays down a bit of nightspot realness. "Soon As I See Her Walk Up In The Club (I'm A Flirt)/ Winkin Her Eyes At Me, When I Roll Up On Them Dubs (I'm A Flirt)/ Sometimes When I'm With My Chick On The Low (I'm A Flirt)," he sings. Joining forces with his homies T.I and T-Pain, Kelly has constructed the perfect player's anthem.
Razzy: i'm telling you, dudeIt's probably for the best that we are in the super nosebleed section, because I think if I was actually standing in the same room as the genius who blessed us with incomparable nightspot realness like "I Like the Crotch on You," "Don't You Say No," and "Sex Planet," I might actually spontaneously combust. I can't remember the last time I was so fucking excited to see a concert. I'm going to see Morrissey at the Hammerstein Ballroom next week, but frankly, once I found out LL Cool Jew and I were fit to double up, I was like, "Morrissey who?"
Razzy: nobody appreciates kells like you and i
Razzy: it will be like going to church and actually meeting jesus
Razzy: or yahweh or whatevs at synagogue for you
LL Cool Jew: i know it will
Razzy:mogomgomgomgomg we're seeing kells
LL Cool Jew: DOOOOOOOOOD
LL Cool Jew: this is like, a huge moment for us!
LL Cool Jew: bigbagel said, you have to bring the digital camera
Razzy: umm, YEAH!
LL Cool Jew: i was sincerely bummed out, to be honest, at the very real prospect that Kells would be touring and we would not, in fact, be able to witness it juntos because i couldn't afford the extra flight
Razzy: and some hennessy
LL Cool Jew: BUT this is SUCH a blessing!
LL Cool Jew: I know, I was like, what kind of suggestion is that even to make???
Razzy: I KNOW!
Razzy: this is going to be on par with the signing of the magna carta, the erection of the great wall of china, the fucking great schism, jonas salk's development of an effective polio vaccine, the collapse of soviet russia, etc;.....
Razzy: KELLS!
LL Cool Jew: Seat location: section 301, row P, seats 1-2
LL Cool Jew: let's figure out where that is
Razzy: section 301
Razzy: probs third level
Razzy: YES
LL Cool Jew: YES
Razzy: YES
LL Cool Jew: YES
Razzy: KELLS
LL Cool Jew: KELLS
Razzy: KELLS
LL Cool Jew: KELLS
Razzy: Kells will probs tell Neyo and Keyshia Cole that he's going to perform their sets for them, because he's going to spot us in the audience and take it upon himself to perform the greatest concert ever to impress us
LL Cool Jew: who the hell sells 386,000 copies in the first week anymore?
LL Cool Jew: kells appeals to the spendy "tyler perry's why did i get married" crowd
Razzy: kells appeals to EVERYBODY
Razzy: the entire nation was calling the number on the screen when their man wasn't hitting it right
LL Cool Jew: it's true, he is finally, finally being recognized for the true pop culture icon he is
Razzy: i KNOW!
Razzy: it's like the world woke up and said, "why haven't i heard this awesomeness before?"
LL Cool Jew: bizarrely, thanks to "trapped in the closet"
Razzy: how could society have ignored the man who wrote "i promise it will be painless as we travel to uranus"?
Razzy: i know, everyone really got into TiTC
Razzy: and once it dropped on IFC
Razzy: it's like Kells got some hipster street cred
LL Cool Jew: fuck all the latecomers
Razzy: he's like the Harmony Korine of R&B
LL Cool Jew: i mean, i'm glad they're here to help kells replenish his legal coffers
LL Cool Jew: which is probz why he is touring in the first place
Razzy: we've been with kellz since he was asking us to "check out this freaky style" in 19 motherfuckin 93
LL Cool Jew: THEY AINT GOT NO EVIDENCE
Razzy: HE IS INNOCENT!
LL Cool Jew: you've been massaging his toes while i braid his hair
LL Cool Jew: i gotta figure out where the f row p, seats 1-2 are
LL Cool Jew: i hope we can see his face
Razzy:and he gets back with us, if he's not asleep, or smokin some trees, or havin a little sex, or if he's not faded, or making a baby
Razzy: we must be staring into the deep soulful eyes of robert sylvester kelly
Razzy: this is almost curing my hangover
Razzy: why you listening to them jealous, hatin, no man havin ass hoes anyway?
LL Cool Jew: i wish i'd brought my ipod today
Razzy: i can't believe you are not spending all day being blessed by kells's mackadelic nightspot realness
LL Cool Jew: isnt that awful?
Razzy: yes!
Razzy: dude what outfits do you think he's going to wear?
Razzy: you know he's going to change clothes a few times
Razzy: and how is his hair going to be braided?
LL Cool Jew: better than plaxicos (burress) that's for sure
LL Cool Jew: what are WE going to wear??
Razzy: i'm thinking some type of bodysuit
LL Cool Jew: oh yeah
Razzy: that looks like a bathing suit
Razzy: large earrings
Razzy: and instead of walking into nassau coliseum
Razzy: we'll crawl sexily
Razzy: like the playerette flirters in his videos
LL Cool Jew: yes!
LL Cool Jew: do you think there will be lots of moms there?
Razzy: i think there will be lots of PLAYAS
Razzy: and i don't mean spanish beaches
Razzy: and yes, it is natural for playerette flirters to have kids after all that sex
Razzy: we've got to figure out how to get backstage
Razzy: so we can get all up in kells's tour bus or something
Razzy: threaten him with a good time
So you can all expect me to talk about R. Kelly incessantly. I have a little over a month to figure out how I can get up in the VIP with Kells, so expect updates about my progress as far as that scheming is concerned.
KELLSKELLSKELLSKELLSKELLSKELLS...
Labels: BigBagel, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, LL Cool Jew, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Britney's "people"
DOB: early 80s or LATER
Occupation: blabbing to the tabloids in the interest of "damage control" when Britney fucks up royally per usual; ultimately doing far worse damage
Hometown: either Kentwood, Louisiana or some shithole corner of LA
Current residence: Malibu, California or whatever posh hotel Brit checks into for her meth binge this week
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Happy Britney Spears Friday, everyone! TGIBSF! I couldn't really ignore James Watson's asshole ways, so a Britney-related douchebag didn't happen (since I couldn't figure out a way to bring the legendary Ms. Britney Spears into my indictment of Dr. Watson as a racist, data-stealing dipshit), but I have made sure to celebrate the clusterfuck of PWT hotness that is Britney for the "Daily Dude I Want to Hit," and given that there is daily Brit updates on the internets, I have ample material.
Today, I'd like to salute those brave souls who spend their days and nights listening to Britney talk in her made-up crazy language, smelling her noxious aroma of old Taco Bell, Yorkie piss, and Marb Lights. Britney has no need for professional reputation management, for when she runs into trouble, she can just rely on her cadre of loyalists to both carry her coffee and deftly handle all public relations matters in the manner to which she is accustomed. In other words, he wannabe-famous cousin from Kentwood, Louisiana or some asshole she fucked in rehab call up Us Weekly and make lame excuses for her.
Take, for example, the recent stripping (yet again) of her parental visitation rights. Brit missed one of her random drug tests, in spite of the judge overseeing her family court case telling her that a missed test is the same as a failed test. While Brit didn't say a word on the subject, but donned a busted wig from her mop collection, took her dog London to Starbucks for her usual venti mocha Frap, mugged for the paps at a gas station, and probably went on a meth binge, her "friends" told the tabloids that she missed her drug test because her cell phone doesn't work in Malibu. While I realize that even in major cities, there are occasionally dead spots or places where one gets shitty reception (I once had to use a pay phone at 57th and Lexington because my phone just would not get a signal outside Bloomingdale's...it happens), come ON, Britney's friends! Either I'm supposed to believe that Britney has some piece of shit pre-paid phone with no voicemail or you're using the world's lamest excuse for your "friend" missing a drug test which determines her standing in a vicious custody battle. I love these morons who seem to think they are doing Britney a favor by offering this as a reasonable explanation for her behavior. They might as well just take some video of Brit smoking meth and send it to TMZ while they're at it.
We all know that Britney's phone rang (or rather, announced, "It's Britney, bitch!" like my phone and half the nation's phones do these days), she took one look at the caller ID, and was like, "Aw, hell, I don't wanna be takin' no drug test right now," sent that shit to voicemail, and went to Mickey D's for a celebratory #3 extra value meal. God bless Britney and all the parasitic fame whores who make Britney possible. This has made 2007 as awesome as it's possible for a year to be.
Labels: Britney Spears, celebrities, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, drugs, media whores, PWT
Daily Douchebag: James Watson
DOB: April 6, 1928
Occupation: former HGIC (head geek in charge) of Cold Spring Harbor, Nobel prize-winning scientist, white supremacist
Hometown: Chicago, Illinois
Current residence: Cold Spring Harbor, New York
Douchebaggery: Anyone who has suffered the misfortune of taking enough science classes to be almost finished with a doctorate in the accursed misery that is microbiology has been hearing about James Watson forever. In fact, chances are you've heard all about James Watson even if you aren't a professional geek, at least in the context of him and Francis Crick. Watson and Crick deduced the structure of DNA, ushering in the modern age of genetics, and were awarded the Nobel prize in 1962 for this achievement. At the time, solving the structure of DNA was the holy grail of biology, and everyone was working on it, so it was impressive that they managed to do this and crank out an overnight Nature paper without doing so much as a single experiment save some dicking around with a molecular modeling set.
At Smith, while Watson and Crick were certainly lauded for their puzzle-solving skills, my bitchcentric curriculum dictated that we also spent a lot of time learning about their shady work habits. Watson and Crick were able to deduce the structure of DNA because of several things. First, they remembered "Chargaff's rules," which was the observation by this biochemist named Erwin Chargaff that DNA was composed of four nitrogenous bases, namely adenine, thymine, cytosine, and guanine, and that A and T, and C and G were always found in equal proportions. In case your molecular biology is a little rusty, I'll remind you that this is because when two antiparallel strands of DNA are arranged into the double helix structure of DNA which looks kind of like a twisty staircase, the bases are the stairs, and A always pairs with T, and C always pairs with G. Like so:
Anyway, James Watson has spent his retirement writing more books about what a player he imagines himself to be, and also what a brilliant genius he is in the lab, and giving talks about the same. Unfortunately, now that he's pushing 80, either as a result of senility or eight decades of self-aggrandization, he's decided to start making pronouncements on social issues. In the past, he's given talks on the ethics of genetically engineering more beautiful women and bitches aborting children with a "gay gene." However, nothing he's said has been quite as bad as the interview he gave to the London Times this past weekend.
He decided to start chatting about his thoughts on Africa, and how he's depressed about its future prospects since "all our social policies are based on the fact that their intelligence is the same as ours - whereas all the testing says not really." Not content with simply implying that Africans, and thus black people, are inherently inequal to everyone else, he decided to outline this with some personal anecdotal evidence, saying, "people who have to deal with black employees find this (all human beings are equal regardless of skin color) is not true."
Memo to James Watson: Just because you're a hotshot who put a model together almost sixty years ago and have a fucking Nobel prize on your wall to show for it doesn't mean people are going to scratch their heads thoughtfully and say, "Hmmm, maybe racism IS the way to go" when you start championing the inferiority of people of African descent. Thank you, however, Dr. Watson, for reminding us that even great scientists capable of unraveling the biochemical nuances of the secret of fucking life can be hubristic assholes with intelligence limited strictly to science. You may be able to figure out which hydrogen bond goes where, but when it comes to social shit, your attitude is straight out of the antebellum South and certainly nobody educated enough to know or care who you even are want to hear your completely retarded, outdated, scientifically baseless, and totally fucking wack opinions.
James Watson is now saying that he's "mortified" that this has gotten out. Probably because nobody's buying the bullshit that just because you did something great for science when my parents were infants, it's okay for you to be a big racist asshole and have people give your views any more credence or respect that those of a sheet-wearing hick in Jena with a noose hanging out of the back of his pickup. Just die already, James Watson, you unscrupulous, crystallograph-stealing, eugenics-promoting, pompous, racist windbag asshole! Or if you won't die, then SHUT UP!
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, Daily Douchebag, oh the horror, overcompensation, science
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Sorry, Dudes, I've Got Nothin'
Okay, people, I am HUNG OVER. I'm pushing thirty and can no longer handle my cheap red wine like I could when I was nineteen and I'd drink Concha y Toro until my teeth were a deep shade of purple and just hop out of bed with a spring in my step and a twinkle in my eye the next day, ready to go jovially terrorize some dumb Smith bitches. This is no longer the situation for me. I am now feeling like death itself has taken a shit inside my cranium. Red wine is awful, awful, AWFUL stuff, especially when combined with scotch and beer. I am not even sure what happened last night, except that at some point, I was hauling CorporateCard out of J-Sexy's apartment while she moaned, "I'm going to throw up! I'm going to throw up!" Other than that, I vaguely remember talking to my friend CorporateCard's boyfriend on the phone, and taking about fifty pictures with J-Sexy in which I was deep-throating this crappy wooden penis sculpture she purchased in Belize. Because if there's a random penis lying around and I've had a few cocktails, it's only natural that I'm going to pick it up and stuff it in my mouth like the big, skankity slut that I am. In fact, for some reason J-Sexy and CorporateCard were so interested in seeing my expert head-giving techniques that the memory card on CorporateCard's camera is now filled with pictures of me fellating everything in J-Sexy's apartment, from empty wine bottles to her Belizean wood to her remote controls. It's a good thing we didn't have a video camera, because if we did, there would be footage of me strolling around, doing disgusting sexual things with J-Sexy's household objects, and telling the girls that from now on, they should address me as "Sophisticated Q. Classmussen." Because I'm so classy! DUH!
Anyway, I can't think of a dude I want to hit. Except maybe LL Cool Jew, who just called to inform me that she's buying tickets for us to double up and go see Robert Sylvester Kelly in concert at the Nassau County coliseum the day after Thanksgiving. However, that awesome reality has not yet sunk in, and I'm about to go insane because of the jackhammering outside my window, so there's nobody I'm hitting today. Except myself, in the head, for being so stupid as to drink that much red wine on a school night.
Anyway, I can't think of a dude I want to hit. Except maybe LL Cool Jew, who just called to inform me that she's buying tickets for us to double up and go see Robert Sylvester Kelly in concert at the Nassau County coliseum the day after Thanksgiving. However, that awesome reality has not yet sunk in, and I'm about to go insane because of the jackhammering outside my window, so there's nobody I'm hitting today. Except myself, in the head, for being so stupid as to drink that much red wine on a school night.
Labels: alcoholism, CorporateCard, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, J-Sexy, LL Cool Jew, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Daily Douchebag: Jackhammerers
Occupation: Grinding on my sanity
Douchebaggery: Longtime readers and friends know that I have a major problem with dudes whose fucking techniques involves just getting up in you and pounding repetitively away in the style of a jackhammer. However, that is not the variety of jackhammerer I'm talking about today. I'm talking about a literal, honest-to-God, motherfucker operating the jackhammer outside my apartment. Last night I watched "America's Next Top Model" with J-Sexy and CorporateCard, and proceeded to drink entirely too much red wine. In fact, we polished off a bottle of vino each, some scotch, and two sixers of Beck's, and I am paying the price. There's nothing worse than a red wine hangover, except maybe having one and waking to the sound of someone breaking up concrete outside your window.
To make matters worse, I tried to drown out the ringing sound of the jackhammering by turning on some music, thus causing the stringy creep of a hippie who lives upstairs from me to start stomping on the floor aggressively per usual. Already also probably rattled by the jackhammering, he is not in the mood for ANY of my music, whether Big Kuntry King or an Artur Rubinstein rendition of a Brahms concerto.
You know it's a bad day when you wake up and your first thought is, "I've got to get to lab or I'm going to go insane."
Labels: alcoholism, CorporateCard, Daily Douchebag, J-Sexy
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Hard dick and tricks
Alexyss K. Tylor is the shit! I love this bitch. I'm strongly considering moving to Hotlanta next year just so I can watch her on Public Access. Any woman who can sit there rattling off the specs on her dildo to her own damn mother is one who is a stand-up broad as far as I am concerned. I am all for encouraging women to ask men about their dicks, or as Alexyss puts it, "Do you got a damn six-shooter in there, or you got a damn Uzi?"
As amusing as she is, Alexyss really talks a lot of sense. More ladies need to hear the honest truth, and that is that when you sleep with a man who is married, has a girlfriend, or generally just regards you as a booty call, "You don't want to end the relationship when you never had one, other than him comin' over to give you some dick at night...THEY DON'T WANT YOU, and women don't want to hear this shit!"
It's true. A lot of men are getting free pussy from women that think they building up some kind of rep with him. This has to stop. Alexyss is the one to lead the revolution. She's like the Che Guevara of the vagina power movement. Except WAAAAAYYY hotter than that pinko. She's fighting the good fight against dickmatization and I salute her.
As amusing as she is, Alexyss really talks a lot of sense. More ladies need to hear the honest truth, and that is that when you sleep with a man who is married, has a girlfriend, or generally just regards you as a booty call, "You don't want to end the relationship when you never had one, other than him comin' over to give you some dick at night...THEY DON'T WANT YOU, and women don't want to hear this shit!"
It's true. A lot of men are getting free pussy from women that think they building up some kind of rep with him. This has to stop. Alexyss is the one to lead the revolution. She's like the Che Guevara of the vagina power movement. Except WAAAAAYYY hotter than that pinko. She's fighting the good fight against dickmatization and I salute her.
Labels: Alexyss K Tylor, hot chicks, I LOVE IT, perversion, sex, TV
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: the DSNY
DOB: ?-sometime in the 19th century, most likely
Occupation: ensuring that the great city in which I live is only kind of--as opposed to thoroughly--disgustingly stank, putting children in their rightful place
Hometown: New York, New York
Current residence: New York, New York, at the beck and call of those who call 311
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: According to the Brooklyn Paper, a publication which is exactly as fruity as you might imagine, some brat in Park Slope got a citation from the DSNY after one of her neighbors reported that the chalk drawings in front of her home were graffiti. "PLEASE REMOVE THE GRAFFITI FROM YOUR PROPERTY. FAILURE TO DO SO MAY RESULT IN ENFORCEMENT ACTION AGAINST YOU."
In fairness, I think I am prejudiced against chalkings as much as I am against children. When I went to Smith, chalking was the preferred medium of communication on campus. On Coming Out Day, which was like Carnaval by Smith standards, I'd wake up to the campus sidewalks blanketed in vaguely Georgia O'Keefe-looking labia flowers and dumb statements like, "Have you kissed a LESBIAN today?" or "10% is not enough...WE RECRUIT!" Indeed, the lesbian recruitment campaign for ugly, unremarkable bitches who would cut their hair, don a sports bra, join an acapella group, and tentatively fingerbang their roommates in Park House or wherever was highly successful. Coming Out Day--or week, since the festivities were drawn out to accommodate the high demand for pro-lezzie revelry--was like rush week for LUGs (lesbian until graduation). There was no better way to announce one's temporary acceptance of boobmashing than to crank the Melissa Ferrick and draw some pride rainbows with sidewalk chalk. Pussy power!
Chalking at Smith was not limited to Coming Out festivities, however. Virtually any event, especially if it was something no one in their right mind would attend and/or was a protest, was heralded in chalk all over campus. Fight the World Bank and/or the IMF and/or the WTO and/or NAFTA, free Mumia, pour out some liquor for the women of Afghanistan, save the fucking planet, or whatever other lame cause du jour was inspiring a candlelight vigil would be everywhere I looked. The only thing I found useful about it was that the chalking would advise me when a rally would be held in the Quad, and helped me plan for staying home and blasting "Ain't No Fun If the Homies Can't Have None" out my window at the outraged womynist feminazis. Otherwise, I prayed for rain every day because the ubiquitous chalkings irritated me so much.
So kudos to that little brat's neighbors in Park Slope for calling 311 and snitching on her chalkity ass, and special kudos to the DSNY for actually enforcing the city's no-graffiti laws. Zero tolerance for kids chalking up public spaces will keep the little runts off sidewalks, thus making Brooklyn slightly less detestable and making the city a more peaceful and tidy place. I say throw the book at this bitch, and by "throw the book" I mean "take her chalk away and fine the shit out of her mother." DSNY is clearly fighting the good fight, so hats off to them.
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, destroy all children, Dumb Smith bitches, NYC
Daily Douchebag: Tiki Barber
DOB: April 7, 1975
Occupation: Honorary non-threatening black person on NBC's 'Today' Show and Football Night in America/Sunday Night Football; retired, overrated running back for The New York Giants (AKA the holiest triumvir in my triple marriage)
Hometown: Roanoke, Virginia
Current residence: New York City
Douchebaggery: OK, disclaimer - I definitely don’t know very much about football (I just learned, for example, the definition of a “play-action pass” Monday night). But because I married BigBagel - a New Jersey native who bows his head toward East Rutherford five times daily - it’s important that I keep up on my news of The New York Giants. And since football involves a bunch of strategery I can’t follow (Blitz? Go for two? West Coast offense? Jigga wha?), it’s easier for me to just stick to the football gossips on the Internets. (RAZZY EDIT: Note that this is LL Cool Jew writing this...I know what "West Coast offense" means, and now, so does she, as I explained it to her last night.)
Seems the big news this week is that Tiki Barber has stooped to mouthing off about Eli “Fetal Alcohol Syndrome” Manning and what a “comical” leader he is – to which the FAS managed the surprisingly lucid, almost snappy comeback observation that at least he’s never tried to retire in the middle of a season. Oh, snap! Doesn’t Tiki Barber know better than to pick on retarded people? Sure, Eli is comical-looking with those long ears and that slack, glistening jaw. But cracking jokes at the expense of the mentally infirm is not such a good look for someone who is apparently better known for his fashion sense and non-threatening way with white people than for any truly distinguished athletic achievements.
First of all, Tiki Barber’s well manicured hands seem to be missing a Super Bowl ring. And according to BigBagel, he never set any NFL records, only Giants records (even douches like Jeremy Shockey have done THAT). In fact, Tiki's most recent award came from that clearinghouse of sporting news, Vanity Fair magazine, which named him one of the best-dressed men on the international scene, along with other football legends like effeminate German socialites and South African models. OK Tiki, so you’ve got a good tailor, but it seems like whenever I was paying attention to games in which you were playing, you spent most of your time running your much-ballyhooed back into a pile of dudes who were a lot bigger than you, dropping the ball, and making my husband cry like a girl.
Speaking of crying like a girl, it seems this latest round of public retard-bashing isn’t out of character for Tiki. He whined about Michael Strahan’s alleged greed during the latter’s 2002 contract negotiations (I’m sure Tiki appeared in those annoying Visa and Cadillac commercials out of a deeply held sense of enlightened public interest). Then, he repeatedly got his jock strap stuck up his mangina about Coach Tom Coughlin, whose coaching skills he questioned and who he claimed “demeaned and talked down to” him. Judging from the heated conversations about Coughlin in which BigBagel engages with Brother and Papa Bagel, this fella isn’t the league’s greatest coach. But those are observations to be made by five-figure-making fans like my family members, and not by the overpaid, underperforming, fumble-happy running back who sailed prematurely into a retirement that unfortunately exposes us all to his boring, self-satisfied airs with greater frequency than we were forced to endure when he was a football player.
As Tony Kornheiser so aptly put it, “Why is Tiki Barber in the fourth hour of the 'Today' show? Because there is no fifth hour.” And we’re supposed to also read your book about how great you are? Crack-smoker! Seems to this casual football observer that Tiki should stop talking so much shit and count his blessings, lest people begin to take honest stock of his just-slightly-above-average career and say to themselves, “Hey, wait a minute – just because this guy can speak white-people English doesn’t mean we necessarily have to endure his unfunny, uninteresting droning during our football games and our late-morning news shows!” Or, better yet, "Let's give all of Tiki's post-retirement perks to his twin brother Ronde, who aside from being able to keep his mouth shut, has also won a Super Bowl!"
Labels: assholes, BigBagel, Daily Douchebag, LL Cool Jew, media whores, NFL football
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Trapped in the Jeter
I was just idly cruising around on the sublime clusterfuck of awesomeness known as the New York Post's website while I was chuckling at the ineptitude of the Boston Red Sox's pitching staff when I came across this shocking headline:
Naturally, I initially scowled viciously as I am wont to do whenever I catch a glimpse of pinstripes and Jeter's effeminate countenance looking smug. I like to make fun of the Red Sox, mainly because I got used to doing so during the three years I dated my ex Benzo and dealing with all of his Sox-related mood disorders, but I HATE the Yankees. Every cell in my body is repulsed by the mere mention of those despicable bastards just a stone's throw across the river from my apartment. I read the article, certain that it would portray Jeter as the asshole I know him to be. I am certain that I'm not the only one who thinks, "Sleep with Jeter...? EWWWWW. Not in a million years, not even if I had the penis that he requires his partner to possess!" I was not disappointed:
And it's not like I'm ragging on Jeter because being gay is bad or anything like that. I am a fan of some occasional hot same-sex action myself, and I could care less if Jeter and Gay-Rod like to teabag each other or not. I just think that Jeter's closet status is like Samson's hair. Once he's out, he'll lose all strength. I mean, he'll lose it worse than getting unceremoniously bounced in the first round of the playoffs. It will expedite the Yankees as a whole organization facing what an overrated travesty of a sports team they are, and paying terribly for their years of bad karma earned just by being the New York Yankees. Come out, already, Jeter...that's the hard part, anyway. Just get it over with.
Naturally, I initially scowled viciously as I am wont to do whenever I catch a glimpse of pinstripes and Jeter's effeminate countenance looking smug. I like to make fun of the Red Sox, mainly because I got used to doing so during the three years I dated my ex Benzo and dealing with all of his Sox-related mood disorders, but I HATE the Yankees. Every cell in my body is repulsed by the mere mention of those despicable bastards just a stone's throw across the river from my apartment. I read the article, certain that it would portray Jeter as the asshole I know him to be. I am certain that I'm not the only one who thinks, "Sleep with Jeter...? EWWWWW. Not in a million years, not even if I had the penis that he requires his partner to possess!" I was not disappointed:
October 16, 2007 -- IF Bronx Bomber Derek Jeter wants to keep his sex life a secret, he should learn to tie up any post-tryst loose ends.Translation: settle your tab with the beard hookers you couldn't get it up for the previous evening. Or, I'm sorry, I mean "tie up any post-tryst loose ends."
Our spy in the lobby of the Shore Club in Miami early Sunday morning spotted "two scantily clad women screaming at the front desk because they had spent the night at Jeter's penthouse and were then charged for parking."
"The girls were wearing what looked like the same clothes they wore the night before - a tight cocktail dress and a mini-skirt. They were making a huge scene because they were asked to pay for parking.
"Obviously, they'd spent the night there," giggled the onlooker, who noted that one of the overnight guests was screaming into the phone, "After last night, he'd better [bleep]ing take care of it!"Yeah, so they'd keep their Restalyne-stuffed DSLs shut about how he asked them to peg him all night long, talk in a deep voice, and answer to "Alex".
After a bit of insistence, "they eventually left happy. I assume he paid for their parking after all," said our snitch.
Tongues in Miami are wagging over Jeter's stint in Miami, where he was spotted Friday night dining at Nobu, then partying it up with Timbaland at Skybar. "They took over the table in the back and drank Grey Goose all night," said a fellow reveler. "Five girls were dancing around him, but he didn't seem interested."Because he and Timbaland were probably planning a vigorous poker game later. Everyone knows Tim's rolling on the DL, big time. Have you ever heard music that screams "gay club jam" (and screams "I am barely literate") more than that "The Way I Are" song? Just ask Justin Timberlake, who is "dating" (wink) lesbian killing machine and Jeter ex-beard Jessica Biel.
Jeter was spotted acting equally detached later that night at Set, where he was "surrounded by throngs of women five rows deep. He was hanging with a guy friend, though, and didn't seem to take much interest in the hordes of ladies."BECAUSE HE IS GAY! GAY! GAY! GAY! HE IS NOT INTERESTED IN THE HORDES OF LADIES! DEREK JETER IS GAY! I've been saying this for years. Come on, Richard Johnson, just come right out and say it!
Evidently, the Yankee captain likes to keep his conquests behind closed doors, because there were no Jeter sightings Saturday night.More like getting cornholed up in his suite all night. Let me guess...a certain sexy third baseman and detestable former Seattle Mariner booked an adjoining Shore Club penthouse?
"I heard he was staying in the penthouse at the Shore Club," said one Miami source. "He checked in solo Friday, but nobody saw him Saturday night . . . and everyone down here talks when big names come to town. Maybe he was holed up in his suite all night?"
Jeter is notorious for his off-field plays - he's been linked to the likes of Jessica Alba, Jessica Biel, Jordana Brewster, Mariah Carey, Scarlett Johansson, Vanessa Minnillo and Gabrielle Union.Oh, you mean Jeter has dated Beard, Lesbian Beard, Lesbian Beard, Fat Beard, Bisexual Beard, Beard, and Beard? Big deal. Just because, like many closeted fellows before him, Derek Jeter likes to adorn himself with hot chicks doesn't mean that he's not waking with Gay-Rod santorum breath. As far as this chick-amassing strategies track record as a successful ruse, it didn't work for Rock Hudson, and it's not going to work for a big flaming twink like you either, Derek!
Shore Club reps had "no comment," and a Yankee rep did not return calls.
And it's not like I'm ragging on Jeter because being gay is bad or anything like that. I am a fan of some occasional hot same-sex action myself, and I could care less if Jeter and Gay-Rod like to teabag each other or not. I just think that Jeter's closet status is like Samson's hair. Once he's out, he'll lose all strength. I mean, he'll lose it worse than getting unceremoniously bounced in the first round of the playoffs. It will expedite the Yankees as a whole organization facing what an overrated travesty of a sports team they are, and paying terribly for their years of bad karma earned just by being the New York Yankees. Come out, already, Jeter...that's the hard part, anyway. Just get it over with.
Labels: fuck the Yankees, large exclamatory font, NYC, overcompensation, vulgar display of faggotry
I have seen a thousand graves opened...
...but whatever he saw in them, I bet Lord Byron never saw anything as chillingly, gruesomely, bone-freezingly horrible as this:
I know Jenna Jameson is semi-retired from porn, and we who have happily rubbed one off to her past performances should thank our lucky stars that she plans to stay behind the camera these days. I am also thankful that, if given the choice between attending a Heatherette runway show and sticking a scimitar in my vagina, I'd very seriously consider the scimitar. I'm not sure if death by vaginal cutlassing is preferable to sitting through 40 minutes of watching cracked-out club fags terrorize their audience with blaring house music and herpetic, coppery ghouls in outlandish, epilepsy-exacerbating prints, but it's a close call.
Every time I see Jenna as she is these days, I am shocked by her apparent continued commitment to being as frighteningly ugly as it is possible for a formerly hot Queen of Porn to be. She looks like a terrifying chimera of Bette Davis from Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? and a blow-up doll wearing some straight-up mothball-smelling polyester straight out of my late grandmother's 1970s tunic collection. And I know Jenna had her fake tits taken out, but dear God, do we have to see what her natural tits look like after the toll taken by three double D augs? That shit is all sorts of wrong. They look like deflated basketballs, right down to the fucking burnished orange color.
I don't know when I am going to die, but I imagine my last moments will be nigh when I see a figure like Jenna's above coming from beyond to retrieve me. Seriously, all this bitch needs is a sickle and a hooded cloak. Jenna, stop! PLEASE!
Every time I see Jenna as she is these days, I am shocked by her apparent continued commitment to being as frighteningly ugly as it is possible for a formerly hot Queen of Porn to be. She looks like a terrifying chimera of Bette Davis from Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? and a blow-up doll wearing some straight-up mothball-smelling polyester straight out of my late grandmother's 1970s tunic collection. And I know Jenna had her fake tits taken out, but dear God, do we have to see what her natural tits look like after the toll taken by three double D augs? That shit is all sorts of wrong. They look like deflated basketballs, right down to the fucking burnished orange color.
I don't know when I am going to die, but I imagine my last moments will be nigh when I see a figure like Jenna's above coming from beyond to retrieve me. Seriously, all this bitch needs is a sickle and a hooded cloak. Jenna, stop! PLEASE!
Labels: gross, oh the horror, porn, sluts, you're ugly
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Andre Birleanu
DOB: 1983?
Occupation: contestant on "America's Most Smartest Model," loyal Bolshevik
Hometown: Moscow, Russia
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I am always a sucker for the Russian contestants on reality modeling competitions. For example, I was all over Natasha, the mail-order bride, winning "America's Next Top Model" cycle eight. Every time the judges would criticize Natasha, she would respond as if she'd been given the greatest compliment in the world. Tyra would say something like, "You're lookin' a little too hoochie in that photo," (followed by Miss J chiming in with "uh-huh, girl, you are HOrrifying"), and Natasha would respond, "It is good to look zexy, I always try to look zexy for my husband." Unfortunately, Natasha's indomitable spirit lost to Jaslene, the tranny anorexic Janice Dickinson knockoff, and I wept bitter tears.
Andre, however, makes Natasha look like child's play in terms of Russian craziness. The first time Andre appeared on "America's Most Smartest Model" to tell the viewers a bit about himself, he sneered, "I am from Soviet Union." The Soviet Union?! Didn't that collapse in, oh, I don't know...1992? Andre seems to have not caught on that the U.S.S.R. is no more, though, because he's constantly running around talking all sorts of Cold War trash. He sounds like it's 1986 and he is VERY much opposed to glasnost and perestroika. Fuck Gorbachev...Andre wants the economy controlled by apparatchiks, suppression of speech and other subversive freedoms, unmanageable bureaucracies, and bread lines! He acts like he's rehearsing for a role as a Russian soldier from the (indisputably awesome) movie Red Dawn. This hasn't really endeared him to his fellow would-be models competing for the title of "America's Most Smartest Model," who hate him because he is arrogant, bossy, and, though competetive, doesn't put much stock in the other contestants' abilities.
"If I were (Judge) Mary Alice, I would get rid of all these people, except me, of course," Andre declared, after sizing up his opponents. "I am Soviet," he added. "Against 15 Americans, it is not a contest." Then again, Andre has lots of confidence. Upon moving into the house (used previously for "The Surreal Life", "Flavor of Love", "I Love New York," and "Flavor of Love Girls: Charm School"), he tells his female roommates that he doesn't snore, but he regularly masturbates. Such a charmer. Later that episode, he summed up what he considers his professional mantra: "I must break you." Ivan Drago couldn't have said it better himself.
Last episode, he had to team up with Lisa, this idiot who looks like a skinny Nicky Hilton knockoff. Lisa was going on about teamwork, and Andre was angry with her because she repeatedly failed to win him clothes for a photoshoot in a "Jeopardy"-like contest for model props and wardrobe. They went to discuss by their mansion fire pit, and Lisa mentioned that she was chilly. "You Americans," Andre sneered. "You are all so weak. It's pathetic."
Needless to say, Andre hasn't really made comrades with anyone with his superior Soviet attitude. However, I could watch him spit insults at the other would-be smartest models all day. Andre reminds me of what I miss about the Cold War. Russians then were funny as hell. I hope he brings the crown of "America's Most Smartest Model" back to the former Union of Soviet Socialist Republics with him. For one thing, that would really show us weak, pathetic Americans who is most smartest. It will be like payback for Rocky IV; instead of our personified symbol of national pride taking out his Russian counterpart on his home turf, Andre is going to do it the other way around. America's Most Smartest Model will serve only to glorify the great Soviet motherland! Nostrovia!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, international intrigue, TV, United States of Asskickery, Vh1
Daily Douchebag: Lindsay Roberts
DOB: probably in the 40s or 50s; although according to her she was "born again" when Jesus healed her ovaries at age 25, thus allowing her to produce a trio of
Occupation: First Lady of Oral Roberts University, televangelist, implied pedophile
Hometown: ??--but I bet it's somewheres in the Bible belt
Current residence: Tulsa, Oklahoma
Douchebaggery: Mrs. Lindsay Roberts is the wife of Richard Roberts, a fiery evangelical and the president of Oral Roberts University. She has her own ministry, frequently appearing on TV to host a Jesus-centered morning show featuring prayer, praise, cooking, and (her description, not mine) "fun." And in spite of loving the lord CHEESE-sauce Chrast, she has a taste for the finer things.
Currently, she is being accused of using the university's money for her personal expenses. One of her favorite preaching points involves living a "stress-free" lifestyle, thanks to the power of Jesus. During her sermons, however, she never mentions that in addition to prayer and devotion to the Lord and Savior, it also helps to spend money that isn't yours on a jet to take your daughter to the Bahamas for her senior trip, a Lexus SUV, a red Mercedes convertible, new tile for your bathroom, a fancy new kitchen, a stable filled with fine Arabians for your children's exclusive use, a wardrobe filled with the latest in Bible belt chic, and scores of non-academic scholarships for your friends' kids. Nothing keeps the fire of the Holy Spirit burning bright within one's soul like flossing in a fresh-out-the-showroom luxury whip and a closet full of Chico's. (And what a surprise she shops at Chico's; this only validates my belief that hideous print silk blouses are the mainstay of the corrupt televangelist wife style). So Jesus may have run around wearing robes and sandals, but all he had to worry about was those cranky Pharisees talking shit about him. How is Lindsay supposed to lure underage boys into the Oral Roberts guest house without the latest in linen shoulder-padded blazers and, as my boyfriend 50 Cent would put it, more whips than a runaway slave?
Although the lawsuit Lindsay and her husband are currently facing doesn't make any sexual accusations, it does say that Lindsay's university-issued phone was blowing up with text messages to a bunch of underage dudes, who she would meet for sordid trysts in the guest house. This resulted in her phone bill regularly exceeding $800 per month. $800 worth of text messages! Somehow I don't think she racked up these bills texting boys between 1 and 3 a.m. by exchanging prayer petitions with them. When she wasn't getting her swerve on with Tulsa's finest young gentlemen via text, she was entertaining them with cigarettes and her considerable experience at putting the "oral" in Oral Roberts. And, of course, $39,000 worth of fuck-me floral pattern button-up rayon frocks from Chico's! (**CHICO'S!** I can't get over it.) I'm pretty sure that's what Jesus would have been doing if he weren't so busy healing lepers, driving out demons, feeding the multitudes, and being persecuted, scourged, and crucified to save the sins of the world. If he weren't so involved with rejecting Satan and rising from the fucking dead, then I'm sure he would have been banging teenagers and living large off the donations of the faithful too.
I love it when these super sanctimonious evangelical types get their comeuppance. These people all invoke the name of Jesus with every breath, and spend most of their time damning everyone outside their fold in his name (see: my Aunt Jesus), and it's just so satisfying to see that they are not only terrible at living Christ's message because they're great big hypocrites, but that they're far more sinful and depraved than the average person. Lindsay spends her mornings telling her telecongregation that Jesus sent AIDS to kill the fags, that mothers should die in childbirth rather than terminate a hopelessly fucked pregnancy, and that they should open their hearts and their wallets to God (specifically, God as worshipped by Oral Roberts University), and her nights acting as some brazen combination of Casanova and Mary Kay LeTourneau. She's like the female equivalent of that minister in Colorado who was caught buying meth and getting massaged by a gay hooker.
Anyway, I hope God watched "Larry King Live" last night, where the beleaguered Mrs. Roberts claimed to "live (her) life in a morally upright manner" and that the accusations "sicken (her) to the soul." Yeah, it sickens her to her soul...that she got caught and publicly called on it! Because it's mighty embarrassing to be screwing around with underage kids when you've appointed yourself a pillar of piety and an example for the morally righteous everywhere. Embarrassing, and deserved. But Mrs. Roberts shouldn't worry, because I'm sure there are a lot of people praying for her right now. I know I am.
Labels: assholes, Aunt Jesus, comeuppance, crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, Dear God, perversion, sexual assault, sluts
Monday, October 15, 2007
Vh1 Programming Executives, are you listening...?
LL Cool Jew and I were bemoaning the return of lame-ass Bret Michaels to "Rock of Love" the other day via phone, and we wound up having a lengthy discussion about our favorite trashy reality shows. I was talking with her about the few moments of "Celebrity Rap Superstar" that I had seen and enjoyed, but expressed my concern that the show's moments of greatness were too few and far between.
"You know, in priniciple it should be trashtastic enough for me to like, but it just doesn't quite take it to the level of awesomeness I require," I explained.
"Yeah, I see your point. The hilarity of Sebastian Bach badly rapping 'Bust a Move' has long ceased to amuse," LL Cool Jew assented.
"The moments of greatness are basically limited to any time that a certain player-ass pimp named Todd Shaw makes an appearance."
"ABSOLUTELY," LL Cool Jew fervently agreed.
"In fact, why the hell doesn't $hort Dog have his own reality show?" I mused, then was gripped with what a fabulous idea that would be. "I mean...OH MY GOD...can you imagine how awesome--how FUCKING awesome--'Flavor of Too $hort' would be as a show??"
LL Cool Jew and I were both dumbstruck by such a mind-blowingly amazing concept. Flavor Flav is a crazy, zany character for sure, but his lack of success at finding love with the deceitful social-climbing Hoopz and the rear-endowed Deelishis may be on account of his lack of skills when it comes to running hos. Todd "Too $hort" Shaw, on the other hand, got all his game from Oakland, California, and that game involves managing a flock of top-notches and getting head. Instead of getting clocks, the contestants retained each week can get a pimp slap and called a "Beeyotch!", a great honor coming from this most lauded of pimps. And for anyone who thinks that Too $hort couldn't carry a show comprising of him running a houseful of hoes, I would direct them to the cover of his Shorty the Pimp album, which proves otherwise:
I doubt that the flavor of an East Oakland player would be good, and according to the fate of the unfortunate teenage prostitute named "Blowjob Betty," it can even be fatal, but I bet it would be ratings gold! Vh1 needs to quit recycling Da Brat and Warren G and Flavor Flav and get a real player who is only trying to fuck a bitch, fuck trying to charm her. When he's through fuckin', bitches leavin' with nothing, and that's because he's making bankrolls for-rilla...and he could be making those bankrolls for Vh1. This is exactly the kind of thing that cable TV reality dating competitions need to stay fresh. Seriously, e-mail Vh1 and DEMAND "Flavor of Too $hort!" It's the best idea ever.
"You know, in priniciple it should be trashtastic enough for me to like, but it just doesn't quite take it to the level of awesomeness I require," I explained.
"Yeah, I see your point. The hilarity of Sebastian Bach badly rapping 'Bust a Move' has long ceased to amuse," LL Cool Jew assented.
"The moments of greatness are basically limited to any time that a certain player-ass pimp named Todd Shaw makes an appearance."
"ABSOLUTELY," LL Cool Jew fervently agreed.
"In fact, why the hell doesn't $hort Dog have his own reality show?" I mused, then was gripped with what a fabulous idea that would be. "I mean...OH MY GOD...can you imagine how awesome--how FUCKING awesome--'Flavor of Too $hort' would be as a show??"
LL Cool Jew and I were both dumbstruck by such a mind-blowingly amazing concept. Flavor Flav is a crazy, zany character for sure, but his lack of success at finding love with the deceitful social-climbing Hoopz and the rear-endowed Deelishis may be on account of his lack of skills when it comes to running hos. Todd "Too $hort" Shaw, on the other hand, got all his game from Oakland, California, and that game involves managing a flock of top-notches and getting head. Instead of getting clocks, the contestants retained each week can get a pimp slap and called a "Beeyotch!", a great honor coming from this most lauded of pimps. And for anyone who thinks that Too $hort couldn't carry a show comprising of him running a houseful of hoes, I would direct them to the cover of his Shorty the Pimp album, which proves otherwise:
Labels: Flavor of Love, I LOVE IT, LL Cool Jew, rap, Rock of Love, Too $hort, TV, Vh1
T.I. back in his old cell
Yesterday I was just doing my morning internet news cruise when I saw this shocking (and by "shocking", I mean only mildly surprising) breaking story from CNN:
Also, T.I.'s lawyer is either really good or really bad, since he claims to be unaware T.I. is a convicted felon. He must have been too busy catching up on T.I.'s work in the cinema as a misunderstood trick roller skater from the wrong side of the tracks in ATL to do a Google search on T.I., which turns up lots of blurbs detailing his illustrious history with the law like him getting sentenced to three years at the expense of the Cobb County taxpayers for a 1998 drug conviction, getting extradited to Florida, and so on. T.I. filmed one of his videos IN PRISON, for God's sake! How does his own lawyer plead ignorance with regard to his client's notorious criminal record? Either this attorney is incompetent or is trying to pull a risky yet clever ruse, in which he argues that T.I.'s felony record is a figment of everyone else's imagination. Maybe such a trick is what he means to orchestrate when he says he is confident the legal system will work in T.I.'s favor.
He'd really better be, because from what I understand, federal gun charges usually mean lots of hard time, and T.I. might talk tough, but he's actually a little guy. I don't think he's going to hold up so well once he and his pretty little ass get shipped off to the federal penitentiary, especially if he gets stuck with guys who are devoted fans of Lil' Flip and the Clover G'z, T.I.'s longtime archnemeses. Lil' Flip and crew have made a number of assertions suggestive that T.I.'s heterosexuality is dubious at best. While this is probably untrue, as T.I. has fathered a veritable gaggle of illegitimate children, it's those kinds of reputations that can really hurt a diminuitive little fella like T.I. around the cell block.
Anyway, I wish T.I. the best, but I'm hopeful that he'll evade these charges to return to the studio and produce music discussing his self-appointed monarchical reign over the southeastern United States, his silly battles between his two alter egos T.I. and T.I.P., and how he leaves semen in women's pretty faces and makes them kiss they patnas with it in they faces. I'm sure this whole thing was a big misunderstanding, anyway. If you've ever heard T.I. in an interview, then you know he may be one of the most mumbling, unintelligible men ever to speak. His failure to properly enunciate every word coming out of his mouth almost guarantees the jury will be trying so hard to understand the bizarre, foreign-sounding dialect of English in which he communicates that they won't pay attention to any of the facts of the case. God willing, anyway.
ATLANTA, Georgia (CNN) -- Rapper T.I. was arrested on federal gun charges just hours before he was scheduled to perform at the BET Hip Hop Awards, according to federal authorities.This article is just hilarious to me for a couple reasons. For starters, I love how the person at CNN wrote this has obviously NEVER listened to a T.I. song. His music may be "built around the drug culture," and his second album might be called Trap Muzik, but I've never heard that term used to describe his music as a distinctive style. And kudos to CNN for doing some hard-hitting reporting over at urbandictionary.com and defining the term "trap" for those readers not in the know. I'd put money on the fact that the reporter who cranked out this report had no idea what "trap" meant prior to getting this assignment. Furthermore, anyone with enough knowledge of T.I.'s music knows that he's constantly talking about his "choppers." That doesn't mean motorcycles, kitchen accessories, or helicopters; in the context of a T.I. song, this refers to an automatic weapon. Therefore, it's not really a shocker that T.I. got nailed by ATF agents for doing what he brags about doing in almost every song aside from having Ecstasy-fueled orgies with multiethnic video hos and selling cocaine: purchasing illegal machine guns and silencers for them. Silencers? Really? Is he planning on moonlighting as a hit man or something? Why does T.I. need silencers? Whatever...unlike T.I., I don't know all about things like keys by the three and loaded fo-fos on the low, so I'll just wait until the trial to see how T.I. explains his purchases.
T.I., whose real name is Clifford Harris, was arrested without incident in midtown Atlanta.
The entertainer, whose real name is Clifford Harris, was arrested in a federal sting Saturday after his bodyguard-turned-informant delivered three machine guns and two silencers to the hip-hop star, according to a Justice Department statement.
Authorities said that Harris, 27, provided the bodyguard $12,000 to buy the weapons, which Harris is not allowed to own because he is a convicted felon. Court documents said Harris was convicted on felony drug charges in 1998, and a federal affidavit said he has been arrested on gun charges in the past.
However, one of his attorneys, Dwight Thomas, said he was not aware Harris was a convicted felon and that "a number of people" live in Harris' suburban Atlanta home. Thomas added there were "two sides to every story -- sometimes three" and he was confident the legal system would work in Harris' favor.
The entertainer was taken into custody about 2:30 p.m. ET Saturday in Atlanta, where the BET award show was filmed.
Harris, the show's top nominee, was up for nine awards, including CD of the year and lyricist of the year. He also was scheduled to perform, along with fellow rap stars Common, Nelly and Kanye West.
The show went on without the self-proclaimed "King of the South," whose car and College Park, Georgia, home were searched following his arrest.
Authorities said they found three more firearms in the car in which Harris drove to pick up the machine guns and silencers, "including one loaded gun tucked between the driver's seat where Harris had been sitting and the center console."
At his home, authorities found six other guns, five of them loaded, in his bedroom closet.
"Machine guns pose a serious danger to the community, which is why they are so carefully regulated," said David Nahmias, U.S. attorney for the Northern District of Georgia.
"The last place machine guns should be is in the hands of a convicted felon, who cannot legally possess any kind of firearm. This convicted felon allegedly was trying to add several machine guns to an already large and entirely illegal arsenal of guns."
The sting came after Harris' bodyguard was arrested purchasing the machine guns and silencers from an undercover Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives agent Wednesday, according to the Justice Department statement. The bodyguard then agreed to cooperate with the ATF, the statement said.
The guns were not registered on the National Firearms Registration and Transfer Record as required by law. The bodyguard -- who has worked for Harris since July -- told authorities he had bought about nine guns for the rap star in the past, the statement said.
On Wednesday, authorities said, Harris arranged for the bodyguard to pick up $12,000 in cash from a bank to buy the guns. After his arrest, the bodyguard made phone calls to Harris, which authorities recorded, the statement said.
Harris was supposed to pick up the guns after meeting the bodyguard in a shopping center parking lot in midtown Atlanta. Authorities arrested Harris there without incident, the Justice Department statement said.
Court documents in the case show Harris was convicted on felony drug charges in Cobb County, Georgia, in 1998 and sentenced to seven years' probation. "Harris has additional arrests and at least one probation violation for unlawfully possessing firearms," according to an affidavit.
Harris' music is built around the drug culture and is known as "trap musik," the name of Harris' second album. A "trap" is Southern slang for a drug house.
Harris will be held in federal custody over the weekend and will appear Monday before a magistrate judge, the Justice Department statement said.
Harris soon will appear in the movie "American Gangster," starring Denzel Washington and Russell Crowe. The film is set to open November 2.
Also, T.I.'s lawyer is either really good or really bad, since he claims to be unaware T.I. is a convicted felon. He must have been too busy catching up on T.I.'s work in the cinema as a misunderstood trick roller skater from the wrong side of the tracks in ATL to do a Google search on T.I., which turns up lots of blurbs detailing his illustrious history with the law like him getting sentenced to three years at the expense of the Cobb County taxpayers for a 1998 drug conviction, getting extradited to Florida, and so on. T.I. filmed one of his videos IN PRISON, for God's sake! How does his own lawyer plead ignorance with regard to his client's notorious criminal record? Either this attorney is incompetent or is trying to pull a risky yet clever ruse, in which he argues that T.I.'s felony record is a figment of everyone else's imagination. Maybe such a trick is what he means to orchestrate when he says he is confident the legal system will work in T.I.'s favor.
He'd really better be, because from what I understand, federal gun charges usually mean lots of hard time, and T.I. might talk tough, but he's actually a little guy. I don't think he's going to hold up so well once he and his pretty little ass get shipped off to the federal penitentiary, especially if he gets stuck with guys who are devoted fans of Lil' Flip and the Clover G'z, T.I.'s longtime archnemeses. Lil' Flip and crew have made a number of assertions suggestive that T.I.'s heterosexuality is dubious at best. While this is probably untrue, as T.I. has fathered a veritable gaggle of illegitimate children, it's those kinds of reputations that can really hurt a diminuitive little fella like T.I. around the cell block.
Anyway, I wish T.I. the best, but I'm hopeful that he'll evade these charges to return to the studio and produce music discussing his self-appointed monarchical reign over the southeastern United States, his silly battles between his two alter egos T.I. and T.I.P., and how he leaves semen in women's pretty faces and makes them kiss they patnas with it in they faces. I'm sure this whole thing was a big misunderstanding, anyway. If you've ever heard T.I. in an interview, then you know he may be one of the most mumbling, unintelligible men ever to speak. His failure to properly enunciate every word coming out of his mouth almost guarantees the jury will be trying so hard to understand the bizarre, foreign-sounding dialect of English in which he communicates that they won't pay attention to any of the facts of the case. God willing, anyway.
Labels: crime and punishment, guns, rap
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Cate Blanchett
DOB: May 14, 1969
Occupation: thespian, specializing in portraying virgin and/or elven queens
Hometown: Ivanhoe, Australia
Current residence: Sydney, Australia
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I really didn't pay much heed to poor critical reviews when I decided last week that seeing Elizabeth: The Golden Age on opening night was absolutely imperative. Any movie that involves Clive Owen looking all hot and unshaven, the epic struggle between Catholicism and Protestantism that had Europe all in a tizzy during the 16th century, naval battles, and fiery bitches riding around in full armor shouting things like, "Let them come with the armies of hell! They shall not pass!" pretty much falls into my must-see-ASAP category. So I went to see this movie with KatieScarlett on Friday night.
While the original Elizabeth was better, and while approximately 100% of the romantic scenes should have been replaced with scenes featuring Clive Owen sending kamikaze flame ships into the Spanish armada, I have to say that Cate Blanchett is the dope shit when it comes to acting with queenly authority. She's very good at marching around in crazy outfits and even crazier wigs with a regal bearing, and I would hate to be anyone incurring her displeasure. Being that I was PMSing, extremely sleep-deprived, unusually stressed, and hadn't had sex in over a week when I watched this movie, I was fully relating to Elizabeth's problems: overworked, underappreciated, and sexually frustrated. At one point I was getting a little misty-eyed because I could relate so seriously to Cate Blanchett's portrayal of the terrible burden borne by powerful, independent, intimidating, sexually frustrated women whose bitchy Catholic cousins are trying to assassinate them. Okay, none of my cousins have ever tried to pull a Mary Stuart and do me in, nor have I ever worried about charging them with treason and beheading them at the Tower of London, but still. It's as tough being a woman with a commanding presence now as it was in the 16th century. Dudes are threatened by you and thus it makes getting reliable, quality ass more difficult, and you end up with all sorts of responsibilities, and you have to look all hot and sexy while doing all of it. It can be completely exhausting. Then, just when you think that you chopped off your would-be throne-usurping cousin's head and everything is going to be back to normal, some effeminate, tyrannical religious zealot in Spain sends his army to blow your heretical Protestant asses into oblivion.
Cate Blanchett does a good job of getting her fucking act together and making lots of rousing speeches, reminding me that when faced with grave adversity, the true bitches don't run away with their tails between their legs. They execute their enemies, put on fly wigs, stand up straight, and rally their fighting seamen with oratory along the lines of, "Englishmen! That fleet bears in its bowels the horrors of the Inquisition! Stand and fight!" Then they hand the Spaniards a humiliating defeat, break out the mead and the mutton, and party like a rock star while establishing England as the world's greatest naval superpower for the next two centuries. That's some fierceness right there.
Anyway, Elizabeth: The Golden Age may not have achieved its potential for historical epic awesomeness, but I could still watch Cate Blanchett march around getting her order-barking on and having implied lesbian tension with her slutty lady-in-waiting Bess all day long. That is the royal hotness.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, epic geekery, History Channel, movies
Daily Douchebag: Condoms
DOB: ancient times, according to what "The History of Sex" on the History Channel tells me. That would make sense, considering that most condom brand names could be interpreted as shoutouts to the contraceptive practices of yestermillenia, or in other words, sticking a knotted stretch of camel, sheep, goat, or other cloven-hooved quadriped intestine on one's schlong.
Douchebaggery: I'd like to preface all of this by saying I strongly encourage every last single one of you to use a condom each and every time you have sex. Even if you've been married for seventy years to someone who is miraculously immune to every type of sexually transmitted disease, you should use a condom. Condoms are for responsible, smart people who don't want to get AIDS or worse, pregnant. Condoms are the mature thing to do, and as a virologist, a socially conscious (**snicker**) Smith College graduate, friend of gays and half-gay, a woman, a Catholic, and a whatever else, I urge you to use condoms all the time.
That said, condoms annoy the shit out of me. I've been going out of my way to use them because every time J-Sexy hears about one of my sexual misadventures that doesn't involve a condom, she shakes her head and says, "Mmm-mmm-mmm," in this maternal, "you-should-know-better" way of hers. I know I should use condoms, so I went off the pill for awhile to make SURE I would use condoms. However, condoms are fucking irritating and annoying and I hate almost everything about them.
I can never put condoms on right. Then, because I usually sleep with smartasses like myself, the dude who I'm trying to put the rubber on will say something along the lines of, "You're putting it on backwards! Haven't you ever used one of these things before?" Of COURSE I've used one before...I'm a big skankity slutbag! I'd probably sleep with Wilford Brimley just because it would be a funny story. Yes, asshole, I know how to use a condom!
However, Murphy's Law as it applies to my sex life, and my sexy here-baby-let-me-put-the-condom-on-your-cock-which-by-the-way-is-so-hot-and-impressive moves, usually dictates that I'll start unrolling that shit backwards. Then I look like an amateur, which in turn makes me get overcompensatory about my level of sexual experience, which in turn stresses me out. Then, when I finally get that shit firmly in place and distract Mr. Right Now with kisses or bites or whatever the situation calls for, I'm still having sex with a damn condom! I'm sorry, but that shit just isn't the same as a bare penis. "Raw-dogging" may be one of the most repulsive terms for unprotected sex I've ever heard, but the act itself is WAY better than using a condom!
I'd feel bad about saying this out loud on the internets, but I feel like most people agree with me. The majority of people I roll with will, when asked about AIDS or getting tested or safe sex, say that it's of the utmost importance to jimmy up before getting busy with some random stranger you've met in a bar. That sounds about as great as freeing Tibet, or saving the planet, or (insert noble cause that nobody would disagree with unless they were a super big asshole) here, but back in the bedroom, it's another story in my experience.
I can't even begin to enumerate the number of dudes who have said something like, "Let me just take it off for a second." I've had several guys ask me if they could take the condom off halfway through sex based on all sorts of ridiculous premises. "I feel so close to you," "I'm allergic to latex" (and you didn't mention this 15 minutes ago while you were criticizing my condom application techique?!), "I want to jizz in your face," etc. I've heard them all. One time, this dude took the condom off, fucked me for like thirty seconds without it, and then PUT IT BACK ON! Then, he resumed doing me, and when he was done, the condom was again missing.
"Uh...do you have some really sneaky technique for condom removal or something?" I asked.
"What?" he asked, clearly not in the mood for any prophylactic-related chit-chat while in his afterglow. However, with all the condom putting-on and taking-off, I was unsatisfied, and not in the least because after he was sexually useless I was still dealing with condom issues while he was chillaxing.
"The condom...where is it?" I didn't think this was an unreasonable question.
"Oh, I don't know where it went. I'm sure it's under the bed or something."
WRONG, asshole! I applied my science skills and realized this was not a plausible hypothesis. The condom was on his penis, then he held it for thirty seconds, then he put it back on, and then it vanished. As it was not visibly anywhere near us, the only logical place it could be was my vadge.
"Well, um, I kind of need to know," I said, starting to get really annoyed that this fool was so dumb about condoms in the first place. If you don't want to use condoms, then just don't use condoms. Don't put one back on! Last I checked, you could still get the clap and the HIV from thirty seconds of bareback banging, so what's the point of using the condom at all? And the number one thing they teach in sex ed--even sex ed in Catholic school--is that condoms are not to be reused. Once it's off, you toss that shit. Putting a used one back on is pointless, and probably worse for the girl who winds up with a wad of latex lodged up in a far crevice of her distal twat and a nonchalant fucker too busy to notice that his careless and idiotic sex practices have caused her to suffer a gynecological crisis.
"You want me to give you a pelvic exam?" he asked seriously. Which brings me to why this dude's condom practices were that much worse: this dude was a DOCTOR! And not a Ph.ake doctor like I'm going to be, but a real, honest-to-God physician. He could prescribe drugs and perform surgery. He was actually genuinely offering to give me a put-your-feet-in-the-stirrups-and-drape-this-sheet-across-your-thighs professional pelvic exam. But I don't like doubling up my orgasms with my reproductive medical care, and furthermore, why would I want a doctor so obviously incompetent as to think that putting a condom BACK ON is a smart move who I just fucked and blew staring analytically at my fucking cooze?! NO THANKS! I'm trying to get laid, not get a damn pap smear. If you're a doctor, you should know that if you're going to fuck for thirty seconds au naturel, then you might as well just go the full Monty for the duration. I declined, went to the bathroom, fished the condom out myself, and, to use some of R. Kelly's "Real Talk," got the fuck up outta Dodge.
However, while this was an unusual story because of what happened, dudes asking to fuck me sans rubber is not uncommon. This one dude I brought home, who wouldn't stop bitching about my housekeeping skills, kept whining about hating condoms when he wasn't bemoaning the cluttered state of my apartment. I said, "Look, pal, the only thing you need to worry about as far as cleanliness is that of my bedsheets and vagina. Since both of those are well-maintained, cease and desist with the complaints that I suck at being a goddamn maid. Are we going to fuck or what?" So I gave him a blow job to shut his ass up and proceeded to extract a fresh Trojan from my bedside table drawer. Upon the appearance of the condom, he gave a really dramatic eye roll and said, "Oh, do we HAVE to?"
"Yes, it's responsible!" I snapped, and went to put it on him, but because I was feeling annoyed, I started putting it on backwards per usual. What happened next brings me to the final thing I hate about condoms: as soon as I started unrolling that shit improperly, his dick just collapsed.
In my epic history of hopping from one penis to another, condoms have ruined many quality erections, especially in situations where foreplay consisted of heavy alcohol consumption. The quickest way to deflate a drunk dick is to stick a condom on it. This is particularly frustrating when, in the quest for a hard penis, I've just spent twenty minutes fellating Mr. Right Now and my jaw feels akin to how I imagine a boa constictor's jaw feels after swallowing a whole pig over the course of twelve hours. After putting in all that mandibularly aching effort, it's like a slap on the face when the condom makes it all for naught. I almost wonder if I should start packing Viagra around in my purse for just these situations, as I've notice that this happens more often with men my age (around thirty). I can only imagine this is going to get more frequent as I and my sex partners get older.
Anyway, condoms suck. I still use them so, like Lil' Kim, I can happily proclaim that I am a disease-free bitch. It would be pretty embarrassing to show up at virology events and tell people I got the HIV by stupidly having unprotected sex, as well. However, just because being a big, responsible grown-up dictates that I have to use them doesn't mean I have to like it. And I don't. Condoms blow.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, oh the horror, ranting, Razzification, sex, weiners
Friday, October 12, 2007
Nobel peace prize=BULLSHIT
Usually I give a shout-out to the nerds who win the Nobel prize in medicine every year, because I am compelled to help these loser trolls boost their insufferably large egos even more than they already are. I work a couple floors up from Richard Axel, who got his intellectual dick sucked by the Swedes in 2004 for his work on the olfactory nerves in flies, and he struts around generally behaving like he's the hottest asshole on the planet, when in reality he looks like the Crypt Keeper with Marfan's syndrome and a bow tie. He spends his spare time making genetically fucked-with transgendered flies, checking out bitches' racks (including mine) in the elevator, chain-chewing Nicorette gum, and banging this busted crone of a C. elegans developmental geneticist at Rockefeller. I like to facilitate this behavior, because these guys are the rock stars of science, and I'll do anything to make my chosen profession more interesting. I mean, more interesting than the infinitely intriguing ins and outs of rhinovirus pathogenesis in mice!
Anyway, speaking of mice, these dudes Mario Capecchi, Martin Evans, and Oliver Smithies got the Nobel prize in medicine for inventing gene targeting in mice. Thanks to them, I can make murine embryonic fibroblasts from mice with a bi-allelic neomycin insertion cassette in their type 1 interferon receptor alpha gene, or from any other knock-out mouse that's not early embryonic lethal. I also get to sit through countless immunology seminars in which the speaker drones on and on about crossing mice with floxed genes I've never heard of crossed with mice containing Cre under control of a promoter I've never heard of, and then get to struggle to remain consciousness through the interminable parade of unlabeled FACS dotplots that generally follow. In other words, thanks a lot, you assholes Capecchi, Evans, and Smithies. Okay, gene targeting in mice is most informative and was a major innovation and blah blah blah. I didn't get around to blogging about it, because as you can see, it's talking about gene targeting is as boring as watching most of the seminars which employ this technology.
What I'm all fired up about as far as the Nobel Prizes are concerned is that THIS douchebag was just given the big prize for PEACE!
FUCK AL GORE! I hate him so much, and all he's done is falsely claimed to have invented the internets, bored everyone to death with one of the least inspired presidential campaigns in recent memory (topped only by his Democratic successor John Kerry's failed White House bid), and blathered on pedantically about his retarded, scientastic, disputably validated theories on global warming. Al Gore makes me want to horribly pollute the planet just to spite him. I don't see how someone can be lauded for "peace" when their primary contribution to that lofty goal has been annoying everyone with completely uninformative pie charts, movies attracting hipsters like messenger bag-toting moths to a bug zapper, and recruiting metrosexual celebrity assholes like Leonardo DiCaprio to lecture me about my "carbon footprint." Just to show Al Gore and crew how much I detest their pursuit of "peace," I'm going to ensure that my carbon footprint looks like it was made by a damn Sasquatch! If I ever get out of grad school, get a real job, and become the baron of industry I was meant to be, I'm driving nothing but Hummers. I swear.
Apparently, I'm not the only one who pissed themselves with shock when this news about Gore getting recognized for his critical role in furthering the globalpeace sanctimonious lecture process. As I was writing this very post, I got an email from LL Cool Jew with her perspective on how the Karolinska Institute fucked up BIG TIME in dropping their prestige on this shithead and how it will ensure that Al Gore gets to help the Democrats crush yet another election into splintered debris like a non-global warming-caused hurricane does to the Gulf Coast every 50 years or so:
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@trostkyitepropagandists.org)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: oooh...on the Al Gore tip
Hey Raz,
OK, so Al Gore is totz annoying, and I don't really care for the fact that "An Inconvenient Truth" implied strongly that Hurricane Katrina was caused by global warming when throughout my brief career as a reportadora in the post-storm Gulf South I had to endure numerous conference calls with meteorologists from NOAA and the NWS and various esteemed universities explaining in their fastidious, snore-inducing sciencey style that in fact big hurricane seasons come on a roughly 50-year cycle (see Hurricanes Betsy and Camille in the late 1960s), and that while global warming could one day strengthen otherwise harmless storms, Katrina, Rita and the 2004 storms in Florida were pretty much right on schedule. I didn't see "An Inconvenient Truth," because while I really love documentaries about wars, murderers, pirates, plagues, etc., I don't really want to watch movies based on Chicken-Little-type PowerPoint presentations, and besides, the only thing that interrupted my drooling with boredom during Al Gore's run for president in 2000 was the presence of a sprightly, hilarious pre-9/11 George W. Bush piping up about "strategery" in the debates. But somehow I'm super excited that Al Gore won the Nobel Peace Prize today because it's really going to stick in the craw of the far-right. The president is probably bitterly sucking down a lowfat hot dog as we speak.
The fun has begun! ch ch ch ch ch ch check it out:
http://uk.news.yahoo.com/rtrs/20071012/tts-uk-nobel-peace-gore-bush-ca02f96.html
of course, Hannity and Limbaugh are still snoozing on sheets made from the skins of tiny children, but I'll def be keeping track of their take on the matter as the day progresses. Matt Drudge has already linked to like five stories speculating on whether this means Gore will get into the race again. It would be like a Shakespearian showdown btw Clinton and Gore...
Let's all just remember for a moment that LL Cool Jew was an English major and things like "Shakespearean showdown" probably sound compelling to her. She loves that Olde English crap, and can rattle off like half the Canterbury Tales if prompted to do so. However, since in my view Olde English is something that comes in a 40-ounce bottle and is the primary item stocking Dr. Dre's fridge, and I only care about the Shakespearean years as far as the history of battles between warring lords and nation-states, exploration, conquest, seafaring, smallpox, and other adventurous historical gems are concerned, I'm not getting excited about it until Al Gore turns into Cate Blanchett, puts on a really complicated dress and a wig of red ringlets, and starts saying shit along the lines of "By God, England shall not fall whilst I am queen!" Instead, you know his pompous ass is going to be running around exhorting us all to drive hybrids and bragging about his Nobel prize. That monotonous drag of a man is never going to shut up now. Thanks a lot, Karolinska Institute. You've created a monster. A really soporific, long-winded, toneless monster. This year's Nobel prizes SUCK!
Anyway, speaking of mice, these dudes Mario Capecchi, Martin Evans, and Oliver Smithies got the Nobel prize in medicine for inventing gene targeting in mice. Thanks to them, I can make murine embryonic fibroblasts from mice with a bi-allelic neomycin insertion cassette in their type 1 interferon receptor alpha gene, or from any other knock-out mouse that's not early embryonic lethal. I also get to sit through countless immunology seminars in which the speaker drones on and on about crossing mice with floxed genes I've never heard of crossed with mice containing Cre under control of a promoter I've never heard of, and then get to struggle to remain consciousness through the interminable parade of unlabeled FACS dotplots that generally follow. In other words, thanks a lot, you assholes Capecchi, Evans, and Smithies. Okay, gene targeting in mice is most informative and was a major innovation and blah blah blah. I didn't get around to blogging about it, because as you can see, it's talking about gene targeting is as boring as watching most of the seminars which employ this technology.
What I'm all fired up about as far as the Nobel Prizes are concerned is that THIS douchebag was just given the big prize for PEACE!
Apparently, I'm not the only one who pissed themselves with shock when this news about Gore getting recognized for his critical role in furthering the global
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@trostkyitepropagandists.org)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: oooh...on the Al Gore tip
Hey Raz,
OK, so Al Gore is totz annoying, and I don't really care for the fact that "An Inconvenient Truth" implied strongly that Hurricane Katrina was caused by global warming when throughout my brief career as a reportadora in the post-storm Gulf South I had to endure numerous conference calls with meteorologists from NOAA and the NWS and various esteemed universities explaining in their fastidious, snore-inducing sciencey style that in fact big hurricane seasons come on a roughly 50-year cycle (see Hurricanes Betsy and Camille in the late 1960s), and that while global warming could one day strengthen otherwise harmless storms, Katrina, Rita and the 2004 storms in Florida were pretty much right on schedule. I didn't see "An Inconvenient Truth," because while I really love documentaries about wars, murderers, pirates, plagues, etc., I don't really want to watch movies based on Chicken-Little-type PowerPoint presentations, and besides, the only thing that interrupted my drooling with boredom during Al Gore's run for president in 2000 was the presence of a sprightly, hilarious pre-9/11 George W. Bush piping up about "strategery" in the debates. But somehow I'm super excited that Al Gore won the Nobel Peace Prize today because it's really going to stick in the craw of the far-right. The president is probably bitterly sucking down a lowfat hot dog as we speak.
The fun has begun! ch ch ch ch ch ch check it out:
http://uk.news.yahoo.com/rtrs/20071012/tts-uk-nobel-peace-gore-bush-ca02f96.html
of course, Hannity and Limbaugh are still snoozing on sheets made from the skins of tiny children, but I'll def be keeping track of their take on the matter as the day progresses. Matt Drudge has already linked to like five stories speculating on whether this means Gore will get into the race again. It would be like a Shakespearian showdown btw Clinton and Gore...
Let's all just remember for a moment that LL Cool Jew was an English major and things like "Shakespearean showdown" probably sound compelling to her. She loves that Olde English crap, and can rattle off like half the Canterbury Tales if prompted to do so. However, since in my view Olde English is something that comes in a 40-ounce bottle and is the primary item stocking Dr. Dre's fridge, and I only care about the Shakespearean years as far as the history of battles between warring lords and nation-states, exploration, conquest, seafaring, smallpox, and other adventurous historical gems are concerned, I'm not getting excited about it until Al Gore turns into Cate Blanchett, puts on a really complicated dress and a wig of red ringlets, and starts saying shit along the lines of "By God, England shall not fall whilst I am queen!" Instead, you know his pompous ass is going to be running around exhorting us all to drive hybrids and bragging about his Nobel prize. That monotonous drag of a man is never going to shut up now. Thanks a lot, Karolinska Institute. You've created a monster. A really soporific, long-winded, toneless monster. This year's Nobel prizes SUCK!
Labels: assholes, correspondence, fuck the planet, LL Cool Jew, nerd alert, oh the horror, politics, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, science
Daily Douchebag: Sean Preston and Jayden James Federline
DOB: September 14, 2005 (SPF) and September 12, 2006 (JJ)
Occupation: toddlers, so in other words, assholes
Hometown: Malibu, California
Current residence: K-Fed's crib in Tarzana, California
Douchebaggery: Apart from simply existing as children and perpetrating all the loathsome behavior that those creatures are wont to do (shitting, pissing, snotting, screaming, eating messily, nose-wiping, crying, tantrum-throwing, stinking, lacking hygiene, etc.), I can't really think of any egregious thing SPF and JJ have done lately besides springing forth from one of humanity's shallowest and most stagnant gene pools.
However, what SPF and JJ will do is another story. These two are going to have the most fucked-up childhood imaginable, bandied about as negotiating points in the epic divorce between their father--a vindictive back-up dancer, failed rapper, and all-around assclown--and their legendary mother, whose resume is common knowledge but bears repeating: a fallen Lolita with a penchant for meth, Red Bull, snack foods, fast foods, bisexual orgies, tattoos, fake-me-out Kabbalah, letting it all hang out (hang being the operative term), and bad weaves. I guarantee that once they hit puberty, after formative years spent guzzling Pepsi out of baby bottles, getting their teeth whitened, subsisting almost entirely on Happy Meals, and being tugged back and forth between Bad and Worse, they are going to be two of the fattest, brattiest celebrity offspring in all of Hollywood. Between SPF and JJ and the Jolie-Pitt brood, there is going to be some serious doings on the gossip internets in about sixteen years. SPF will knock up Zahara Jolie-Pitt or something and then run off to Vegas for a cocaine-heroin speedballing bender, prompting Maddox and Pax Thien to show up and beat his ass. Maddox and Pax were both the biological sons of junkie hookers, and hail from countries famous for brutal communism and/or genocidal regimes orchestrating places called Killing Fields, plus they are being raised by Angelina Jolie, one of the craziest, most despicable bitches on all of planet Earth, so you know they can bring it. It will be interesting to see if SPF and JJ's trailer park scrappin' sensibilities can match them. Man, that shit is going to be so entertaining. Just you wait.
Labels: Britney Spears, celebrities, Daily Douchebag, destroy all children
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Jamie-Lynn Spears
DOB: April 4, 1991
Occupation: star of Nickelodeon's "Zoey 101," kid sis to the legendary Ms. Britney Spears, sworn mortal enemy of the paparazzi and assorted Britney hecklers
Hometown: Kentwood, Louisiana
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Since it's kind of hard for the tireless staff (ie: me, Caesar, and Chingy!) to do casual Fridays, as dogs are always casual and I usual dress for blogging by rolling out of bed and sitting at my computer in my ever-so-professional birthday suit, I have decided instead that every Friday is Britney Spears Friday. Well, this week it is anyway. So the Dailies today are 100% Brit-Brit, because like much of the rest of the western world, I am completely transfixed by this woman's meteoric fall to the bottom of the celebrity hog trough and her subsequent wallow in it. I've been craving whole milk venti mocha Frappuccinos and Marlboro Lights, and which is a big departure from my usual sugarless drip coffee from the cart and
Anyway, today I decided to give praise to the proto-Britney, her younger sister Jamie-Lynn. As a testament to their PWT roots, Jamie-Lynn's name is a contraction of her parents' monikers, and her interests range from doing some light attention whoring, visiting Starbucks, wearing seizure-inducing floral-and-leopard print monstrosities such as the one above, and consuming culinary delicacies from world-renowned fine dining restaurants like Sonic and Taco Bell. Jamie-Lynn is only sixteen and had been flying below the radar unless you care about things like Nickelodeon Kids Choice Awards (and since I hate kids, I don't), but lately I've seen some sparks from her that indicate dormant media whore greatness just waiting for the right moment to blossom spectacularly.
I think Britney got everyone's attention tramping it up in that schoolgirl outfit in the "Baby One More Time" video, and I expect Jamie-Lynn is just biding her time before she does something similar. She's practically identical to Brit-Brit, so I expect her to follow that well-trodden path to infamy. Like Britney, she has a fondness for hideous boots and carrying small puppy mill dogs with her everywhere she goes, so I expect her to take the reins of the Spears entertainment dynasty at any time now, like when Britney goes to prison and/or rehab. Jamie-Lynn also ain't a-skeered to do a little hollerin' when need be. The other day some woman started harassing Britney as she walked down Robertson Boulevard emanating clouds of her signature fragrance, (eau de gas station bathroom and Seven Layer Burrito), and Jamie-Lynn wasn't having any of it. She went off on the bitch like a crazy old woman with a rusting single-wide, a .12 gauge loaded with grapeshot, and a burning commitment to protectin' her propitty:
I have no idea what "Kentwood-style" is, but I imagine it would involve an empty hooch jug with XXX on it like in cartoons, a pair of ugly boots, a terrified Yorkshire terrier, and a large greasy bag of chicken fingers slathered in honey mustard dippin' sauce. Yes, I think Jamie-Lynn Spears is going to bring it and bring it hard, providing us fantastically trainwreckity entertainment for years to come. I suggest giving her a reality show to really get the ball rolling. Clan Spears takin' over this bitch!
Labels: Britney Spears, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, media whores, PWT, sluts
Thursday, October 11, 2007
I'm doublin' up with them
J-Sexy is always going off about how "silly" R. Kelly has become since the good old days (AKA "1993...check out this freaky style").
"I like 'Sex Me' and the origonal Twelve Play," she'll say. "But this sex in the kitchen...sex in his jeep...sex in outor space...it's all too ridicolos for me."
I would argue that Kells has grown like a majestic oak tree in terms of his artistic genius, and like a fine wine, continues to improve with each passing season. To prove this, I showed her some recent R. Kelly videos. After I got her to stop laughing at T-Pain for being a "fat, silly man" in the "I'm a Flirt" video and to quiet her praises for the excellent tightness and technical execution of R. Kelly's cornrows, I showed her the brilliant masterpiece of a video known as Sylvester Films' production of "Same Girl."
Since some of you might not watch the YouTubes I embed up here, I'm going to just walk those of you who are Robert Sylvester Kelly amateurs through this. You can't really just jump right into R. Kelly as a virgin. That's like a Pop Warner wannabe trying to start at blocking fullback in the NFL...it's just asking for trouble. If you are just waking up to the phenomenal human being that is Robert Sylvester Kelly, you need a true scholar, who has spent years attempting to master the knowledge that the Pied Piper of R&B has blessed us mere mortals with, to guide you through it. Behold, I present to you..."Same Girl." Seriously, this shit is better than an episode of "Melrose Place" circa season four.
The video begins with Kells in his tony Chicago condominium, gazing out his floor-to-ceiling windows at the Sears Tower and hollering at his manager about his busy schedule. R. Kelly didn't become the R-uh in R&B for nothing; he has a lot of yelling at flunkies to do on the phone:
Meanwhile, at his posh mansion in the Atlanta suburbs, Usher Raymond IV is doing the same thing. He has an album coming out, and a tranny wife who hates his mom giving birth soon, and he was inexplicably supposed to be in Cleveland yesterday, and he is BUSY. So he's pretty much regulating on the assistant tip as well:
Anyway, to relax, Usher and R. Kelly both take a step back and consider their options for chilling out. Since Kells doesn't have any time to twist trees and Usher doesn't have NEARLY the time to go unwind with a high colonic, they do the next best thing...call fellow R&B thugs to dish about their love lives, of course!
Kells reaches for his phone, in which Usher is in his top five, along with "Twon" (as in the recent ex-con, nearly bulletproof brother-in-law from "Trapped in the Closet"???) and the "Studio" (natch), and dials his favorite confidant:
Usher, exasperated, is pleased to see that even though he can't properly punctuate entries in his cell phone address book, "Kell's" is calling to give his ATL BFF the 411 on his new piece of ass:
Kells: Yo Ush!
Usher: What up, Kells?
Kells: Wanna introduce ya to this girl, I think I really love this girl.
Usher: Yeah?
Kells: Man, she's so fine.
Usher: Straight up, dog?!
Kells: She stands about 5'4"...Coca-Cola redbone...
R. Kelly, despite the fact that Usher presumably isn't having a webcam chat with him, manually demonstrates the silhouette of said love interest's voluptuous body.
Usher is impressed.
Usher: Damn.
Kells: She drives a black Durango...license plate say "ANGEL." Plus she makin' pesos, got a crib on Peach Street, right on 17th Street, and I call her "TT"...
No offense, Kells, but by your own standards, if she's driving a fucking DODGE DURANGO, then mere pesos is exactly what she's making. I'm sure a Durango is a fine mid-sized utility vehicle, but it's not exactly the world's most impressive whip. I guess it's pragmatic for the single mom, though.
Usher is suspicious. Apparently, he's heard these curriculum vitae bullet points before.
Usher: Wait a minute, hold on, dog...
Usher: Do she got a kid?
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Love some Waffle House?
Who doesn't? But this is getting to be too much of a coincidence, and Kells is now on guard as well. After all, he didn't just wake up and start pissing on teenagers yesterday.
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Do she got a beauty mark on the left side of her mouth?
Forensic evidence!
Kells: Man...?
Usher: Went to Georgia Tech?
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Works for TBS?
On an aside, I'd like to know if this "Angel" AKA "TT" is responsible for all those "Everybody Loves Raymond" episodes they always show on TBS, because that shit SUCKS! I don't know ANYBODY who loves Raymond. That show is one of the most irritating, repugnant sitcoms of all time. If "TT" is behind that, then I hope she's not "makin' pesos" for long, because scheduling four reruns of that show a day should be a straight-up career killer. But I digress.
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Man, I can't believe this shit...damn.
Kells, in spite of his curiosity, hasn't quite grasped the bigger picture yet. His intellect revolves around crafting absurd metaphors about sex, not detective work, after all.
Kells: Tell me, what's wrong, dog? What the hell you talkin' bout?
To reassure Usher, Robert Sylvester reminds him of their dear and treasured relationship, and their commitment to communication and honesty.
Kells: I'm your homie, so just say what's on your mind.
Usher: Man, I didn't know that you was talkin' bout her
Kells: So man, you're tellin' me you know her?
Usher: Like a pastor know his word.
HOLY SHIT! EUREKA! As the infinitely wise counselor, spiritual leader, and Thug Misses Khia would say, "somethin' in the milk ain't clean," and he's got enough of a whiff of some untoward shit going on to hop on his private jet and frustratedly toy with a rubber band while he and Usher continue to slog through their concerns:
Kells and Usher: We messin' with the same girl, same girl, same girl
Usher: How could the apple of my eye...
Kells: ...and my potential wife be the same girl, same girl, same girl?
Usher: Man I can't believe we been messin' with the same girl, same girl, same girl
Kells: Thought she was someone I can trust, and she's been doubling up with us
Well, buck up Kells. At least you managed to work in a brand reference to the title of the album that this song is on. And give props to this chick for not only realizing Lil' Kim's dream of fucking some R&B dick, but being astronomically successful at doing so. This bitch isn't juggling Eric Benet and Avant or some other low-ren shit like that. She's totally playing the King and Queen of R&B, and that's impressive. Then again, I'd expect no less from such a Tera Patrick-looking cable network employee with an ankle tat, a personalized license plate, and a passion for smothered chicken and waffles:
After Usher picks up Kells at the airstrip in his Bentley, they get to comparing war stories about how this flighty temptress crossed paths with them. It is a heated discussion.
Usher: See, I met her at this party in Atlanta.
Kells: Well, I met her at this party in Chicago.
Usher: She came right up to me, givin' me conversation...
Usher fondly recalls how his first impression was of a woman who would peg him with such ferocity that he wouldn't shit right for a week.
Usher: I said, "Do you got a man?" She said "no," with no hesitation.
And so it was on. But apparently, this two-timing slut had a great video ho scoring average batting with this strategy, because Kells has his own variation.
Kells: Well it must be a music thing, cause she said the same to me. She had her body all in my face, while I’m laughin' and buyin' her drinks.
Or, more specifically, some type of rose-colored liqueur best enjoyed by a pool wearing $400 sunglasses at night:
Usher: She whispered in my ear and said, "Can you take me home?"
Kells: Me too. Man, she was in the Chi singin' the same tune.
Usher (alarmed): Is that true!?
Kells: Man, it was true confessions when she said, "I love ya."
Not to leave his beloved homie's shoutout to his infamous hit "Confessions" hanging, Usher proceeded to work the name of a classic Kells jam into his analogous tale:
Usher: Man, I thought her body was calling when she said, "I want you."
Distracted for a moment by the memory that he ACTUALLY thought her strap-on was calling when she said that, Usher covers up nicely with a segue into the portion of the conversation where he breaks out the visual evidence.
Usher: See, I even got some pictures on my phone...
Not to be outdone, Kells whips out his Sidekick.
Kells: Look there, man, she is with some boy shorts on:
I think that solves this mystery. Why is this bitch still shuffling papers and setting up programming schedules or whatever for TBS while in her spare time she's juggling interstate relationships with Robert Sylvester Kelly and Raymond Usher IV? This bitch is a pro ho at multitasking. Hats off to her. Seriously.
Anyway, after Kells and Ush together melodiously lament what a small world it is, and so full of loose, faithless women, they continue to process. In fact, they go to Usher's plush, dark cigar lounge for a snifter of fine cognac and a Macanudo to finalize their therapy sesh and tie up all the lose factual ends. We're being cuckolded by the same woman...CHEERS!
Kells: She said she got me on her ringtone
Usher: Are you talking about the pink phone?
Kells: Uh-huh, the blue one.
I don't know how pink is blue, and I actually thought those colors were totally different, but maybe they're color-blind. That would explain a lot of both men's sometimes questionable and garish fashion choices. It seems, though, at the point where one sings with an echo for emphasis, the difference between pink and blue is a moot point. In fact, more important is demonstrating their prowess at hoops:
Kells: Man, she told me that was turned off. It's obvious that she's been playing us, playing us.
Usher: Cause constantly she’s been lyin' to us, lyin' to us.
By the way, that was a fast yet exhausting game of HORSE. Usher is sweating so much it looks like Kells gave HIM a golden shower (you know Usher wants it!). It's time to take a seat and rehydrate.
Kells: Don’t like the way that she’s been goin bout it, goin' bout it.
Usher: Kells, what you think that we should do about it, do about it?
Good thing you asked, because Kells is a master at scheming. He is, after all, a flirt...and if a man who is Teflon to child porn charges and a twink who married and impregnated a M2F tranny can't come up with a clever solution to this dilemma, who can? Tricksy R&B singers, these two.
Kells: Call her up at her home, she won’t know I'm on the phone...
Usher: Yeah, man, that’s a plan.
The old listen-silently-in-on-the-phone-conversation sting operation is a classic but effective plan, indeed. How could this not work in wreaking vengeance on adulterous whores? Usher likes:
Seriously, put R. Kelly and Usher in charge of the war in Iraq, because these two managed to solve a very serious problem in a matter of mere minutes. They are commendably efficient, managing to investigate, crack the case, and plot revenge without breaking a sweat. Well, okay, Usher broke a sweat trying to defend against R. Kelly's mad penetration skills on the court, but that doesn't really count. They've figured this shit out. Don't double up on a flirt and a closeted teen idol. They'll school you every time with their competence.
Kells: Homie, we about to bust this trick
Usher: Man, just tell her to meet up with you and I'm gonna show up too...
Kells: And she won't know what to do!
Usher: We'll be standing there singing...
They decide that Usher's panic room would be the best place to film their final, most triumphant chorus summarizing their trials and tribulations with this clever and unscrupulous same girl:
Kells and Usher once again sum up the bullet points of how this bitch has wronged them. Same girl, apple of eye and potential wife, doubling up, etc. They'd be upset, but they are too smug and excited at the prospect of really sticking it to this prostitute publicly:
Unfortunately, life is full of surprises, and, much like an episode of "Law and Order" a shocking plot twist turns the whole story upside down! Rather than toying adulterously with the affections of two multi-platinum-selling R&B artists, this "same girl" was actually TWINS! Didn't see that one coming, now, did you? Again...R. Kelly=EINSTEIN/PICASSO/HEMINGWAY/INSERT GREAT CONTRIBUTOR TO THE ANNALS OF COLOSSALLY IMPORTANT CULTURAL ACHIEVEMENT HERE.
HEY GUYS, the jokes on you! High five, TT squared!
This is certainly surprising. Good thing R. Kelly has mastered ridiculousness, and will somehow succeed in making this less awkward once his obvious astonishment has worn off:
Okay, so they may be twins with identical cars sporting the same custom plate, an identical tattoo on the same body part, and an aggressive seduction technique who both answer to the same playful "TT" nickname, but they're still separate people. Honest and virtuous people. So they can go back to being the apple of Usher's eye (apple="BEARD," because unless she's the Adam's apple of his eye, Usher probably isn't concerned for any reason other than appearance's sake) or R. Kelly's potential wife (once he finalizes his divorce from his current wife). Everyone lives happily ever after. Usher is thrilled he has a new chick to offset the pesky gay rumors that circulate about him on the internets, and Kells, being a consummate businessman, is thinking about how this might make for a great song...
And so it does. And if this hasn't sold you, then just watch the damn thing! More people are jumping on the speeding freighter of awesomeness that is the Robert Sylvester Kelly bandwagon every day, and I'm certain that by now you're probably one of them, and will watch "Same Girl" followed by every Sylvester Films joint on YouTube.
R. Kelly is the shit. He is the greatest artist of our time. NO JOKE!
"I like 'Sex Me' and the origonal Twelve Play," she'll say. "But this sex in the kitchen...sex in his jeep...sex in outor space...it's all too ridicolos for me."
I would argue that Kells has grown like a majestic oak tree in terms of his artistic genius, and like a fine wine, continues to improve with each passing season. To prove this, I showed her some recent R. Kelly videos. After I got her to stop laughing at T-Pain for being a "fat, silly man" in the "I'm a Flirt" video and to quiet her praises for the excellent tightness and technical execution of R. Kelly's cornrows, I showed her the brilliant masterpiece of a video known as Sylvester Films' production of "Same Girl."
Since some of you might not watch the YouTubes I embed up here, I'm going to just walk those of you who are Robert Sylvester Kelly amateurs through this. You can't really just jump right into R. Kelly as a virgin. That's like a Pop Warner wannabe trying to start at blocking fullback in the NFL...it's just asking for trouble. If you are just waking up to the phenomenal human being that is Robert Sylvester Kelly, you need a true scholar, who has spent years attempting to master the knowledge that the Pied Piper of R&B has blessed us mere mortals with, to guide you through it. Behold, I present to you..."Same Girl." Seriously, this shit is better than an episode of "Melrose Place" circa season four.
The video begins with Kells in his tony Chicago condominium, gazing out his floor-to-ceiling windows at the Sears Tower and hollering at his manager about his busy schedule. R. Kelly didn't become the R-uh in R&B for nothing; he has a lot of yelling at flunkies to do on the phone:
Kells reaches for his phone, in which Usher is in his top five, along with "Twon" (as in the recent ex-con, nearly bulletproof brother-in-law from "Trapped in the Closet"???) and the "Studio" (natch), and dials his favorite confidant:
Usher, exasperated, is pleased to see that even though he can't properly punctuate entries in his cell phone address book, "Kell's" is calling to give his ATL BFF the 411 on his new piece of ass:
Kells: Yo Ush!
Usher: What up, Kells?
Usher: Yeah?
Kells: Man, she's so fine.
Usher: Straight up, dog?!
Kells: She stands about 5'4"...Coca-Cola redbone...
R. Kelly, despite the fact that Usher presumably isn't having a webcam chat with him, manually demonstrates the silhouette of said love interest's voluptuous body.
Usher is impressed.
Usher: Damn.
Kells: She drives a black Durango...license plate say "ANGEL." Plus she makin' pesos, got a crib on Peach Street, right on 17th Street, and I call her "TT"...
Usher is suspicious. Apparently, he's heard these curriculum vitae bullet points before.
Usher: Wait a minute, hold on, dog...
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Love some Waffle House?
Who doesn't? But this is getting to be too much of a coincidence, and Kells is now on guard as well. After all, he didn't just wake up and start pissing on teenagers yesterday.
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Do she got a beauty mark on the left side of her mouth?
Kells: Man...?
Usher: Went to Georgia Tech?
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Works for TBS?
On an aside, I'd like to know if this "Angel" AKA "TT" is responsible for all those "Everybody Loves Raymond" episodes they always show on TBS, because that shit SUCKS! I don't know ANYBODY who loves Raymond. That show is one of the most irritating, repugnant sitcoms of all time. If "TT" is behind that, then I hope she's not "makin' pesos" for long, because scheduling four reruns of that show a day should be a straight-up career killer. But I digress.
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Man, I can't believe this shit...damn.
Kells, in spite of his curiosity, hasn't quite grasped the bigger picture yet. His intellect revolves around crafting absurd metaphors about sex, not detective work, after all.
Kells: Tell me, what's wrong, dog? What the hell you talkin' bout?
To reassure Usher, Robert Sylvester reminds him of their dear and treasured relationship, and their commitment to communication and honesty.
Kells: I'm your homie, so just say what's on your mind.
Usher: Man, I didn't know that you was talkin' bout her
Kells: So man, you're tellin' me you know her?
Usher: Like a pastor know his word.
HOLY SHIT! EUREKA! As the infinitely wise counselor, spiritual leader, and Thug Misses Khia would say, "somethin' in the milk ain't clean," and he's got enough of a whiff of some untoward shit going on to hop on his private jet and frustratedly toy with a rubber band while he and Usher continue to slog through their concerns:
Usher: How could the apple of my eye...
Kells: ...and my potential wife be the same girl, same girl, same girl?
Usher: Man I can't believe we been messin' with the same girl, same girl, same girl
Kells: Thought she was someone I can trust, and she's been doubling up with us
Well, buck up Kells. At least you managed to work in a brand reference to the title of the album that this song is on. And give props to this chick for not only realizing Lil' Kim's dream of fucking some R&B dick, but being astronomically successful at doing so. This bitch isn't juggling Eric Benet and Avant or some other low-ren shit like that. She's totally playing the King and Queen of R&B, and that's impressive. Then again, I'd expect no less from such a Tera Patrick-looking cable network employee with an ankle tat, a personalized license plate, and a passion for smothered chicken and waffles:
After Usher picks up Kells at the airstrip in his Bentley, they get to comparing war stories about how this flighty temptress crossed paths with them. It is a heated discussion.
Kells: Well, I met her at this party in Chicago.
Usher: She came right up to me, givin' me conversation...
Usher fondly recalls how his first impression was of a woman who would peg him with such ferocity that he wouldn't shit right for a week.
And so it was on. But apparently, this two-timing slut had a great video ho scoring average batting with this strategy, because Kells has his own variation.
Kells: Well it must be a music thing, cause she said the same to me. She had her body all in my face, while I’m laughin' and buyin' her drinks.
Or, more specifically, some type of rose-colored liqueur best enjoyed by a pool wearing $400 sunglasses at night:
Kells: Me too. Man, she was in the Chi singin' the same tune.
Usher (alarmed): Is that true!?
Kells: Man, it was true confessions when she said, "I love ya."
Not to leave his beloved homie's shoutout to his infamous hit "Confessions" hanging, Usher proceeded to work the name of a classic Kells jam into his analogous tale:
Distracted for a moment by the memory that he ACTUALLY thought her strap-on was calling when she said that, Usher covers up nicely with a segue into the portion of the conversation where he breaks out the visual evidence.
Usher: See, I even got some pictures on my phone...
Not to be outdone, Kells whips out his Sidekick.
Kells: Look there, man, she is with some boy shorts on:
Anyway, after Kells and Ush together melodiously lament what a small world it is, and so full of loose, faithless women, they continue to process. In fact, they go to Usher's plush, dark cigar lounge for a snifter of fine cognac and a Macanudo to finalize their therapy sesh and tie up all the lose factual ends. We're being cuckolded by the same woman...CHEERS!
Usher: Are you talking about the pink phone?
Kells: Uh-huh, the blue one.
I don't know how pink is blue, and I actually thought those colors were totally different, but maybe they're color-blind. That would explain a lot of both men's sometimes questionable and garish fashion choices. It seems, though, at the point where one sings with an echo for emphasis, the difference between pink and blue is a moot point. In fact, more important is demonstrating their prowess at hoops:
Usher: Cause constantly she’s been lyin' to us, lyin' to us.
By the way, that was a fast yet exhausting game of HORSE. Usher is sweating so much it looks like Kells gave HIM a golden shower (you know Usher wants it!). It's time to take a seat and rehydrate.
Usher: Kells, what you think that we should do about it, do about it?
Good thing you asked, because Kells is a master at scheming. He is, after all, a flirt...and if a man who is Teflon to child porn charges and a twink who married and impregnated a M2F tranny can't come up with a clever solution to this dilemma, who can? Tricksy R&B singers, these two.
Kells: Call her up at her home, she won’t know I'm on the phone...
Usher: Yeah, man, that’s a plan.
The old listen-silently-in-on-the-phone-conversation sting operation is a classic but effective plan, indeed. How could this not work in wreaking vengeance on adulterous whores? Usher likes:
Kells: Homie, we about to bust this trick
Usher: Man, just tell her to meet up with you and I'm gonna show up too...
Kells: And she won't know what to do!
Usher: We'll be standing there singing...
They decide that Usher's panic room would be the best place to film their final, most triumphant chorus summarizing their trials and tribulations with this clever and unscrupulous same girl:
Kells and Usher once again sum up the bullet points of how this bitch has wronged them. Same girl, apple of eye and potential wife, doubling up, etc. They'd be upset, but they are too smug and excited at the prospect of really sticking it to this prostitute publicly:
Unfortunately, life is full of surprises, and, much like an episode of "Law and Order" a shocking plot twist turns the whole story upside down! Rather than toying adulterously with the affections of two multi-platinum-selling R&B artists, this "same girl" was actually TWINS! Didn't see that one coming, now, did you? Again...R. Kelly=EINSTEIN/PICASSO/HEMINGWAY/INSERT GREAT CONTRIBUTOR TO THE ANNALS OF COLOSSALLY IMPORTANT CULTURAL ACHIEVEMENT HERE.
This is certainly surprising. Good thing R. Kelly has mastered ridiculousness, and will somehow succeed in making this less awkward once his obvious astonishment has worn off:
R. Kelly is the shit. He is the greatest artist of our time. NO JOKE!
Labels: boyfriends, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, J-Sexy, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly, sluts
Go see Dossier: Ronald Akkerman
Last Saturday, I got together with my girlfriends KatieScarlett and Miss Corbutt and ventured down to Nolita to see a fun little one-act play called Dossier: Ronald Akkerman, about a gay Dutch journalist dying of AIDS who decides to rock it on the physician-assisted suicide tip and the hospice nurse who changes his diapers. Basically, Ronald gets AIDS, "Nightingale" the nurse (my friend from high school, BroadwayAnnie, AKA the talent juggernaut taking the off-off Broadway circuit by storm AKA Annie Branson) shows up to bicker with him, and hilarity ensues. Actually, there's not a whole lot of hilarity, but nonetheless, it was alright. For a play no nudity and/or sex and no explosions and did not have any midgets or characters named Sylvester, I actually didn't think it was half bad. In fact, it was kind of good!
See, here I am enjoying it. Or enjoying the bar down the street prior to the show. I think, however, that rapidly pounding a succession of draft Stellas made me that much more of a theater critic.
Anyway, here is the lovely painting of BroadwayAnnie that the devastatingly sexy Miss Corbutt did for the show (which, by the way, is being sold at a silent auction associated with the play for AIDS charities), and that's pretty awesome too.
And here I am embracing BroadwayAnnie to let her know that I enjoyed it and to thank her for serving complimentary hooch after the show. And more than likely exposing my ass crack, because I'm one of the classiest broads making the rounds (by "rounds" I mean going to one play that my friend was in) of the theaterfag circuit.
Have you ever seen bitches having more fun at a play about AIDS and euthanasia? I don't think so. It was so good that KatieScarlett was actually turned on...look at her deftly copping a feel on that random theatergoer next to her! She's a true player for real to pull off brazenly grabbing a honey's thigh during a play about disease, homophobia, and the ethics of medical suicide. Sadly, there weren't a lot of single, slutted-out lipstick lezzies or swarthy, roguish straight men at the play for me to mack it to, but I think any observer can agree that between my titty shirt and KatieScarlett's Sapphic grabby-hands, we really keep things sophisticated:
In all seriousness, though, I was touched by the play. Both Annie and her co-star Peter are convincing actors and I actually felt a little lump in my throat. I think I may have been moved. Not moved like Old Yeller or White Fang moved, but nonetheless, I actually thought it was well done and performed with a lot of heart. Annie and Peter have spent a year translating the play from Dutch, producing it, and perfecting their performances, and you can tell they've put a lot of heart, soul, and dedication into it. I usually hate shit like this, and the fact that not only did it evoke some emotion from me, but that said emotion was not the blinding rage usually inspired by severe stupidity testify to this play's impact and quality. Plus it's cheap...AND did I mention there's free booze afterward? AND hot artwork! AND there's no singing, dancing, or otherwise musical nonsense going on in it! AND hot, talented, really approachable, affable actors! Since this weekend is your last chance to see it, you should make sure to check it out if you live anywhere near New York City. DO IT!
See, here I am enjoying it. Or enjoying the bar down the street prior to the show. I think, however, that rapidly pounding a succession of draft Stellas made me that much more of a theater critic.
Labels: artfaggotry, Broadway Annie, KatieScarlett, Miss Corbutt, NYC
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: John Graziano
DOB: 1985
Occupation: former Marine, current vegetable
Hometown: Clearwater, Florida
Current residence: Critical care and soon to be a nursing home
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: John Graziano is a U.S. Marine from Florida, who likes to "surfboard skateboard wakeboard you name it with my girlfriend Ashley" per his MySpace, recently returned from a tour in Iraq. What better way to celebrate one's homecoming than to get into an overcompensatory souped-up banana yellow Toyota Supra than co-pilot a drag race with Nick, the douchebag sixteen-year-old son of Terry "Hulk Hogan" Bollea. Hulkamania didn't run wild, but Nick's crotch rocket did. In fact, it ran straight into a palm tree. Nick got a few scratches, but John wasn't so lucky.
At the scene of the crash, Graziano suffered a seizure, and as closed head traumas are wont to do, the injury caused irreversible brain damage. Basically, he's now picked up where Terry Schiavo left off, and is off to spend the rest of his life in a nursing home being rotated every four hours to stave off the bedsores. Obviously I'm not really into banging comatose vegetables, but I have to admire Graziano's tactics. His recent prognosis of no forseeable recovery should ensure that Nick Bollea is going to pay, and by "pay" I mean his overcompensating towheaded ass is going to make a great prison bitch. Therefore, I applaud Graziano for his determination to not recover, thus ensuring that Nick experiences the maximum penalty possible.
You know the Clearwater DA is currently clipping out old interviews Nick gave to Rides magazine in which he bragged about his history of reckless driving and preparing an opening about how Graziano bravely served his country for eighteen months in Ramadi yet was cut down in his prime by Nick Bollea's spoiled brat ass trying to overcompensate for his insufficient penis by driving his rice-burner really, really fast. God, that's depressing. That's not how I'd want to go, so props to Graziano for taking life's vegetables and making Bloody Marys with them. He might be permanently brain damaged, but that doesn't mean Nick is going to get away with a slap on the wrist for making him so. So way to not recover, John. Semper fi!
Labels: comeuppance, crime and punishment, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, overcompensation, small penises, vengeance is sweet, Vh1
Daily Douchebag: Lily Allen
DOB: May 2, 1985
Occupation: singer/songwriter, annoyingly whiny drunk
Hometown: London, England
Current residence: London, England
Douchebaggery: I don't like anything about this bitch. I don't like her look, her music, her much-discussed taste in flouncy dress/sneakers combinations, or her opinion on anything. I don't like people who talk about how much they love her music, because they usually do so in that patronizing, hipster snob fashion which implies not only that they have superior taste, but that this makes them so unique compared to those of us who don't wear kitschy $40 t-shirts and drink soy lattes. There's this dumb girl in my lab, Sohard, who is your typical indie rock snob: she hails from Buttfuck, Flyover Country somewhere in Iowa, she has a tongue ring, and she's always blabbing about the various concerts she's planning to attend and buy more ill-fitting t-shirts at. Overall, she has this infuriating air of obnoxious self-satisfaction at being so goddamned edgy, like she's the only one in the world who ever heard of Modest Mouse before. Like her contemporaries, Sohard thinks she has the market cornered on originality, when in reality bitches like her are a dime a dozen, roughly the same cost as items from the thrift store bin where they unearth fugly wool grandpa cardigans for draping over their "Ithaca is GORGES" shirts. Sohard annoys me with Lily Allen on the regular. It's good that due to some work-related incidences involving she and I, my relationship with Sohard has depreciated into a sort of professional form of open hostility. We're perfectly polite to one another, but even the most casual observer can discern that we hate each other's guts and would be fighting like two rabid tomcats in a sack if we didn't have to behave ourselves in the workplace. Anyway, since the pivotal fight that led to this state of active mutual dislike, an altercation which culminated in me telling her that I didn't respect her as a scientist or as a human being, she has been slinking around with her iPod on rather than subject me to the insult of hearing this fat Lily Allen pig cheerfully harping on about revenge against her ex-boyfriend or whatever.
In theory, I should like Lily Allen, because she runs around drunk and smoking and talking smack about whatever she feels like. Generally, I admire outspoken alcoholics, being that I am one myself. However, I don't like people who spend most of their forthcoming energy bitching and moaning about their weight or their appearance. Lily Allen is constantly engaging in this passive-aggressive search for validation. One time she got on her MySpace and posted that she was "fat, ugly and shitter (SIC) than amy winehouse." Well, she's assuredly fatter than the crackhead soul singer who says no, no, no to rehab, but I'd say that trying to decide which of these irritating souses is uglier or "shitter" is one hell of an evenly matched contest. Amy Winehouse looks some kind of white trash 1960s Flamenco dancer on acid and meth, and Lily Allen looks like a pig in a prom dress and a pair of Chuck Taylors. Anyway, the next day, after tons of supportive blog comments came in from her moronic legions of fans about how her porcine self is sexy and talented and blah blah blah, Lily Allen thought better of her self-pity and switched to passing blame. Apparently some pop star skank in the UK had called her a "chick with a dick" (which is hilarious and likely true) and this had made her feel insecure, which in turn led to some irresponsible MySpace blogging.
Lily went on to elaborate on exactly why this other bitch is to blame for her running off at the blog, because she's not an anorexic model and she has talent rather than looks, or something: "I think I was just having a hard time last week . After reading Cheryl Tweedy’s comments branding me a 'chick with a dick'. I was feeling pretty low and as well as that, some of you might know I launched my clothing line for new look last Tuesday , and seeing my picture in so many newspapers next to Kate Moss', made me feel grotesque momentarily. Cheryl if you're reading this , I may not be as pretty as you but at least I write and SING my own songs without the aid of autotune . I must say taking your clothes off , doing sexy dancing and marrying a rich footballer must be very gratifying , your mother must be so proud , stupid bitch ." Whatever. That still sounds like sour grapes about getting hit with the ugly-and-porcine stick to me, Lily. Shut the fuck up and just go somewhere and die(t) so we can all go on leading our lives in peace. That would make me smile. Stupid bitch.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, fat fucks, grad school bullshit, MySpace, overcompensation, sluts, you're ugly
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Rock of Snore
Well, the great "Rock of Love 2" mystery has been solved. Vh1 announced that Bret Michaels is threatening us with a good time, and by "good time" I mean a whole new arsenal of gaudy flame-embossed cowboy hats, giant bandanas, and other male pattern baldness-disguising devices of a millinery persuasion. Yes, instead of getting Nikki Sixx or the awesomeness that would be Axl Rose's crazy and unruly ass, loyal devotees of Vh1 contrived dating trainwrecks like "Rock of Love" will be getting more of Bret boring us to death with his crappy new songs, bitching about his diabetes, and droning on about his passion for motocross or whatever. Of course, if Vh1 casts another bevy of strippers, amateur internet porn stars, and insane single mothers, then there will undoubtedly be plenty of entertaining moments.
There will be the odd implied orgy with Bret, vodka-fueled bitch fights, and drunken fishnet-rocking whores with pleather skirts and an Aqua Net addiction toppling off stripper poles to the tune of "Nothing But a Good Time." The prospect of having Bret around for another season, however, makes me want to make like my girl Brandi M. in the photo below and mime vomiting:
Bret sucks. Vh1 better not disappoint and bring in some crazy bitches to keep things entertaining, because if the increasingly bare-pated Mr. Michaels is the focus, I won't be able to stay awake through it. On the upside, however, at least they didn't cast Mark McGrath. I'd probably commit some type of terrorist-style suicide bombing if I had to spend my Sunday nights listening to clips from that madness-inducing "Fly" song that Sugar Ray unleashed upon the world like AIDS in a San Francisco bathhouse circa 1981.
And on that note, here's a memo to the production staff at Vh1: I've already heard enough "Every Rose Has its Thorn" to last a lifetime. STOP PLAYING THAT EVERY TIME BRET GETS A BLOW JOB FROM ONE OF THESE GONORRHEIC SLAGS! You don't play "Fight the Power" or "Don't Believe the Hype" every time a beclocked Flavor Flav walks out to greet his harem of skanks on "Flavor of Love," so lay off the Poison. I haven't heard "Unskinny Bop" so many times consecutively since I was nine years old. Come up with something fresh and no, I do NOT mean one of Bret's solo pieces. Just play some classic Def Leppard or something. It's practically the same thing, anyway.
There will be the odd implied orgy with Bret, vodka-fueled bitch fights, and drunken fishnet-rocking whores with pleather skirts and an Aqua Net addiction toppling off stripper poles to the tune of "Nothing But a Good Time." The prospect of having Bret around for another season, however, makes me want to make like my girl Brandi M. in the photo below and mime vomiting:
And on that note, here's a memo to the production staff at Vh1: I've already heard enough "Every Rose Has its Thorn" to last a lifetime. STOP PLAYING THAT EVERY TIME BRET GETS A BLOW JOB FROM ONE OF THESE GONORRHEIC SLAGS! You don't play "Fight the Power" or "Don't Believe the Hype" every time a beclocked Flavor Flav walks out to greet his harem of skanks on "Flavor of Love," so lay off the Poison. I haven't heard "Unskinny Bop" so many times consecutively since I was nine years old. Come up with something fresh and no, I do NOT mean one of Bret's solo pieces. Just play some classic Def Leppard or something. It's practically the same thing, anyway.
Labels: buttrock, Rock of Love, sluts, TV, Vh1
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Some film lab in Munich
Location: Munich, Germany
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Some film-processing lab in Munich totally fucked up a key scene from Tom Cruise's new movie Valkyrie about a would-be Hitler assassin, and now Tom is complaining that he has to reshoot. While normally this would be disappointing because I love movies with Nazis, as Nazis are always so easy to wholeheartedly despise, I can't fucking stand Tom Cruise and any time his visage is wiped from existence is a good day for me.
Tom Cruise was my childhood crush. Even before Joey McIntyre, Tom Cruise's poster occupied a place of honor in my bedroom. I took one look at Lieutenant Pete "Maverick" Mitchell when I was eight and decided that he was the man for me. I was going to be the future Mrs. Angela Cruise and have lots of petite children with million-dollar smiles with him. However, then I got older, realized that he was both gay and shorter than me, and became aware of exactly what a weird creep Tom Cruise is. My love and desire turned to hate and contempt. Now every time I see his elevator shoe-wearing ass, I think of him controlling his fembot wife by eating her placenta, having Asian robot babies, and doing whatever type of strange, sci-fi shit OT-7s do when they get together to dish about Xenu. Catching a glimpse of him contaminating my favorite gossip pages on the internets is enough to make me irreversibly annoyed. Therefore, kudos to whatever German film processing lab botched all that heinous footage of Tom standing around in his eyepatch and SS uniform. You have done my blood pressure a service. Well played.
Labels: celebrities, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, movies
Daily Douchebag: Nellie McKay
DOB: April 13, 1982
Occupation: introspective singer/songwriter, failed stand-up comedian, obnoxious PETA slag
Hometown: London, England
Current residence: New York, New York
Douchebaggery: Nellie is some retarded "anti-folk" singer who has decided to parlay her "fame" (used loosely because I'd never heard of this twat until a link atop my Gmail said "Nellie McKay explains why she despises Columbia University") into being an ignorant, self-righteous asshole. She wrote some song called "Columbia is Bleeding" about animal research going on at my hallowed institution of graduate study, and made this video featuring her in a cage trying to fire up college students about the fact that there are animals being "tortured" at Columbia. As much as I hate to publicize the video, I'm putting it here just so you can all see what a dumb bitch this cunt is:
If you paid attention to the lyrics, it's all about how Nellie thinks all the kids at Columbia are a bunch of ignorant, self-involved dicks too busy drinking their Teas Tea and playing sports to pay heed to the animals being "tortured" there. If this dumb bitch had any clue, she'd realize she filmed her video at the wrong campus. Most of the monkeys and shit are a little further uptown at the Medical Center campus where I work, not the Morningside campus where her ass crawled into a cage at the gate.
The people at PETA, who I hold in roughly the same esteem that I hold the Ku Klux Klan or the Church of Scientology, have decided to feature Nellie McKay as their new "celebrity" spokeswhore and released this typically condescending, overtly deceptive blurb about her activism:
We love Nellie McKay. How could we not? The girl is smart, she’s funny, and she’s a walking contradiction: The rave reviews thrown her way say that her music belongs in the smoky jazz clubs of the ’40s, but Nellie is only 19-years-old. She’s been a vegetarian since she was 8, but she hates vegetables. This tiny young woman with strawberry-blonde hair might seem pretty harmless, but she shows no remorse when attacking Columbia University officials for their abuse of primates.Since PETA apparently stretches the truth about her age (ho is 25, unless there's been some new math invented that makes the difference between 1982 and 2007 equal 19), I have no doubt they're stretching the truth about the "obscene cruelties" going on at Columbia. I bet this bitch can't even tell you what the purpose of the research is that subjects the poor chimps to the "abuses against humanity." I'd rather lock myself into a cage and let the apes perform unethical "heinous" experiments on me than suffer through a concert with not only her, but Alanis Morrissette and the Barenaked Ladies. That's a trifecta of misery and despair.
When asked about the cruel animal tests that Columbia routinely performs, Nellie quickly declares that the tests are “heinous” and an “assault against humanity.” Nellie also called Columbia’s animal laboratories “torture chambers” during the April 20 protest that she led for PETA in New York.
The hot new artist is so passionate about stopping the obscene cruelties that go on at Columbia University that she wrote a song about it. You can hear “Columbia is Bleeding” and see the music video right here at peta2.com. Then you can catch Nellie on tour with Alanis Morissette and Barenaked Ladies this summer.
I get really annoyed at these people who claim that routine animal research is torture. I don't work on primates, but I do animal studies at Columbia University, and there is just no way around it. All the protocols I follow have been rigorously critiqued and approved by a panel called the Institutional Animal Care and Use Committee (IACUC), which is comprised of scientists and members of the community. They ensure that I use procedures which are humane to my laboratory mice, and I personally ensure that in the course of my work, I treat the animals who give their lives for my doctoral thesis with compassion and care. I anesthetize them before I so much as give them a simple injection, and after I humanely sacrifice them by carbon dioxide asphyxiation, I dislocate their cervical vertebrae (AKA break their necks) them before I cut them open just to make sure they're dead and I'm not vivisecting them.
If you don't believe in animal research and you want to run around harping on ignorantly about your moral superiority over people who practice legitimate and beneficial scientific research for the benefit of humanity, then don't ever seek medical treatment ever again. No more antibiotics for that slut's urinary tract infections, no more Advil for her apparently chronic PMS, and no more Neosporin for minor cuts, because ALL OF THAT has been tested on animals, including primates. Drugs cannot be evaluated in human clinical trials without sufficient data in animals to indicate a certain measure of safety and efficacy, so if you are so staunchly against these egregious activities, then really you should abstain from reaping the medical benefits, lest you be a FUCKING HYPOCRITE. Or as PETA describes it, "a walking contradiction."
I'd also like to know why Columbia is always getting singled out as PETA's preferred target of outrage. It's not like NYU, Mount Sinai, Cornell, and Rockefeller aren't also conducting primate research in New York City. I assume that because Columbia is in the fabled Ivy League, it's more sexy from a media whoring perspective to accuse it of being a hotbed of cruelty. However, if Nellie really wanted to stop these flagrant wrongs against animal rights, she could spread her protesting around a little. In fact, I would suggest she start at the school she dropped out of before pursuing a failed career in stand-up comedy: the Manhattan School of Music. While they aren't conducting any scientific research on animals there to my knowledge, I can personally attest that they are constantly engaging in "abuse of primates": namely myself and LL Cool Jew and anyone else living around Broadway and LaSalle streets. Between the bacchanals of "Rent" showtune sing-alongs and the endless trill of operatic sopranos practicing their do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-dos at all hours of the day and night, LL Cool Jew and I were often in severe aural distress thanks to the nefarious activities of that sinister institution. It got to the point where, pleading, I'd stick my head out the window and shout, "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" while LL Cool Jew would wail, "GO DO THAT AT YOUR SCHOOL, NOT INTO MY WINDOW!" It's a good thing Nellie McKay dropped out before we moved there, because I probably would have gone into a Michael Douglas in Falling Down-esque violent rampage if I had to listen to that bitch practicing the vocals to "Columbia is Bleeding" at all hours of the day and night.
I don't appreciate some snatch who lies about her age and quit music school only to suck monstrously on the open mic comedy circuit melodiously lecturing me about the quality or importance of my work, or that of any other scientist at my institution. She might have found the rigors of academic life boring (translation: bad grades, probably achieved via skipping music theory class to be a mouthy, haughty, patronizing cow), but I have devoted the better part of my life to it, and I'll be the first to call her out for not knowing what the fuck she is talking about. I find her chosen career just as loathsome as she does mine, but as much as I'd like to spend my time railing zealously about idiot indie musicians acting as preachy, self-appointed bossy know-it-alls, I have mice to kill as part of my job to advance medicine and benefit our society. PETA might characterize this bitch as "smart" because she parrots their inconsistent, sanctimonious, and unreasonable beliefs, but I'd be the first to say I'm smarter, and I invite Nellie McKay or any other fuckhead claiming they've cornered the market on ethics to personally face off with me. I've got a stack of degrees, a passion FOR animal research, and an exceptional command of the English language, which I use most deftly in situations of intellectual combat. Bring it, skank.
Oh, and just for fun, how's about some vintage photos of yours truly getting my animal torture on at Columbia?
Lick my mouse-killing ass, Nellie.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, LL Cool Jew, ranting, science, sexy delicious animals, sluts
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Party in the Ada County Jail men's room!
Just because Morrissey'sHair is on the bankruptcy hustle doesn't mean he isn't keeping track of breaking news in his brother HotLawyer's field of criminal law. Yesterday I received the following news alert via text message from Morrissey'sHair:
Tha Carter arrested in Idaho!
In case you don't know who "Tha Carter" refers to, it is this fine gentleman, Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter, alias Weezy F Baby, Cash Money rapper, adopted son of Birdman/Baby, and frequent guest of the state:
Man, Lil' Wayne gives some great mugshot. He always seems so nonplussed, and I've seen enough of his mugshots to know that at this point, a night in the pokey really ain't no thang to him. He gets arrested on a near-weekly basis, usually for combo drug and gun charges. In this case, he was arrested on a felony fugitive charge related to a 2006 arrest for possessing marijuana and over 100 Xanax and Vicodin pills. His fondness for those controlled substances certainly suggests a compelling explanation for his perpetually calm demeanor.
I also like this mugshot because you can see his face tattoos up close. His teardrops always crack me up, because EVERYONE knows Lil' Wayne hasn't killed three people. In fact, the last time anyone checked on his three known enemies, Terius "Juvenile" Gray, Byron "Mannie Fresh" Thomas, and Christopher "B.G." Dorsey, they were alive, well, and growing ever more corpulent on a seemingly endless supply of fish and shrimp po' boys. And what is that thing between his eyebrows? It looks either like an electron micrograph of an Ebola virion or a sketch of a dick-and-nuts. Given that I have questioned in the past whether or not his assertion that he is "stuntin' like his daddy" Birdman refers to some type of homosexual relationship based on homoerotic XXL magazine covers and photographic evidence of them making out, I wouldn't be surprised if it were the latter.
I thought that Idaho, a state known previously for its white supremacist survivalists and potatoes, would never be known as the place for closeted dudes to be getting their cruisy freak on. However, I can only imagine what transpired when Senator Larry Craig went to visit Weezy F Baby in the Ada County lockup after his induction into the Idahoan Hall of Fame. You know there was some hardcore foot-tapping and soap dropping going on. It may seem like an unlikely pairing, but if there's anything this conservative Republican senator and this player from the 'Nolia have in common, it's a secret desire for other men and a sense of ease behind bars. There's nothing that can bring two fellas from opposite walks of life together like a game of slammer soggy crackers in the cozy comfort of a county jail shower room.
P.S. to all you people who keep arguing with me about Tha Carter's sexual orientation: I'm not backing down on this one. I know gay when I see it, and concerning his alleged relationship with Da Baddest Bitch Trina...she's a classic beard. That's my story and I'm sticking to it like Lil' Wayne's dick to Senator Craig's ass.
Tha Carter arrested in Idaho!
In case you don't know who "Tha Carter" refers to, it is this fine gentleman, Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter, alias Weezy F Baby, Cash Money rapper, adopted son of Birdman/Baby, and frequent guest of the state:
Man, Lil' Wayne gives some great mugshot. He always seems so nonplussed, and I've seen enough of his mugshots to know that at this point, a night in the pokey really ain't no thang to him. He gets arrested on a near-weekly basis, usually for combo drug and gun charges. In this case, he was arrested on a felony fugitive charge related to a 2006 arrest for possessing marijuana and over 100 Xanax and Vicodin pills. His fondness for those controlled substances certainly suggests a compelling explanation for his perpetually calm demeanor.
I also like this mugshot because you can see his face tattoos up close. His teardrops always crack me up, because EVERYONE knows Lil' Wayne hasn't killed three people. In fact, the last time anyone checked on his three known enemies, Terius "Juvenile" Gray, Byron "Mannie Fresh" Thomas, and Christopher "B.G." Dorsey, they were alive, well, and growing ever more corpulent on a seemingly endless supply of fish and shrimp po' boys. And what is that thing between his eyebrows? It looks either like an electron micrograph of an Ebola virion or a sketch of a dick-and-nuts. Given that I have questioned in the past whether or not his assertion that he is "stuntin' like his daddy" Birdman refers to some type of homosexual relationship based on homoerotic XXL magazine covers and photographic evidence of them making out, I wouldn't be surprised if it were the latter.
I thought that Idaho, a state known previously for its white supremacist survivalists and potatoes, would never be known as the place for closeted dudes to be getting their cruisy freak on. However, I can only imagine what transpired when Senator Larry Craig went to visit Weezy F Baby in the Ada County lockup after his induction into the Idahoan Hall of Fame. You know there was some hardcore foot-tapping and soap dropping going on. It may seem like an unlikely pairing, but if there's anything this conservative Republican senator and this player from the 'Nolia have in common, it's a secret desire for other men and a sense of ease behind bars. There's nothing that can bring two fellas from opposite walks of life together like a game of slammer soggy crackers in the cozy comfort of a county jail shower room.
P.S. to all you people who keep arguing with me about Tha Carter's sexual orientation: I'm not backing down on this one. I know gay when I see it, and concerning his alleged relationship with Da Baddest Bitch Trina...she's a classic beard. That's my story and I'm sticking to it like Lil' Wayne's dick to Senator Craig's ass.
Labels: Cash Money, crime and punishment, Lil' Wayne, Morrissey'sHair, rap, vulgar display of faggotry
Twelve months of hot hooters
I am a fan of breasts, and I applaud incorporating more breast-related imagery into everyday items, like mugs, screensavers, and calendars. I have breasts and I could look at them all day. Breasts rule.
This weekend, I was reminded of the downside to breasts when I noticed Mike "The Walrus" Holmgren wearing a pink ribbon to support the fight against titty cancer during the Seahawks-Steelers game (which on a separate but equally grave note, nobody should ever speak to me of again without risking serious bodily injury and/or a mental breakdown). I was like, "It's great that The Walrus is so concerned with women's health. Thanks, Coach Holmgren!" Then another thought occurred to me. He's worried about breast cancer because HE is at risk, as are many, MANY other NFL head coaches. Then I thought of a genius way for the NFL to raise money for this important cause...a calendar! Who wouldn't plop down some money to support the fight for maintaining intact cans on hot women and gruff head coaches alike. I've even got the lineup set:
Coach January: Marvin Lewis, Cincinnati Bengals
Marvin Lewis knows what I've practiced for many years now: nothing makes a set of boobies look hotter than a V-neck. Granted, I don't usually rock the long-sleeved crew neck underneath, but I guess "business slutty" attire isn't sanctioned by the Bengals' front office. Plus, his gorgeous cleavage has the tendency to distract Chad Johnson, and he's already having a disappointing enough season.
Coach February: Bill Belichick, New England Patriots
Not only famed for his beautifully sculpted man-breasts, Belichick is a fashion icon as well. He shows off his voluptuous figure seductively draped in his trademark, the half-length cutoff-sleeved Pats logo sweatshirt. That's the sexiness one expects from a three-time hoister of the Lombardi trophy. Watch out, Gisele, because you're not the only statuesque beauty on Tom Brady's mind.
Coach March: Lovie Smith, Chicago Bears
Coach Smith: Oh, Devin Hester, that was such a sexy punt return for a touchdown. You're so hot.
Devin Hester: No, coach, YOU'VE got all the sexy in this locker room. Let me tell you, "lovie" is exactly what I'm going to do to that bangin' bod of yours after you finish telling the press corps how hard I rock the returning unit. I'm so lucky to be on your "special teams," if you know what I mean, and I think you do, sugar-tits.
Coach April: Eric Mangini, New York Jets
The Patriots weren't videotaping the Jets' defensive signal callers in week 1; they were taping action shots of Mangini's hot sweatshirt puppies bouncing enticingly as he paced back and forth on the sidelines crooning words of encouragement for Chad Pennington into his headset. Belichick misses seeing that shit every day around the Pats' office water cooler. Seriously, can you blame these fellas for taking one look at Mangini and immediately spreading 'em?
Coach May: Andy Reid, Philadelphia Eagles
Sometimes confused with the hottest of the hot, Coach Mike Holmgren, Andy Reid knows how to do the NFL sideline equivalent of Pamela Anderson running toward the surf on "Baywatch." He's got the slow-mo jiggle down. Well, in his case they don't have to use slow-mo because he's just fat and slow, but the effect is the same.
Coach June: Romeo Crennel, Cleveland Browns
Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou and thine stacked body, Romeo?
Coach July: Ken Whisenhunt, Arizona Cardinals
I think everyone can agree that Whisenhunt's jugs are so blazingly hot that Phoenix seems downright cool in comparison.
Coach August: Mike Holmgren, Seattle Seahawks
Who else is a natural for the hottest month of the year but the Walrus? God, with that come-hither stare of seduction, I (for the first time ever) wish I was Shaun Alexander demonstrating his technique for giving a coach a reach-around. The Walrus is a flirt.
Coach September: Jeff Fisher, Tennessee Titans
Jeff Fisher has a couple meager mouthfuls, but they're perfectly balanced by his full and manly beard. I'd hit that.
Coach October: Jon Gruden, Tampa Bay Buccaneers
Chucky seems svelte and trim, but he still manages to bring it in the chest department. His little bumps are kind of cute. They're perky and go well with his constant glowering, enraged demeanor.
Coach November: Mike Tomlin, Shitsburgh Stealers
Although I hate to admit this because I will hate and despise and wish death and ruin and Biblical destruction upon anything with a Steelers logo anywhere near it until I go to my grave, Mike Tomlin is actually the hottest coach in the NFL. He has a really handsome face, and you can tell that he's a suave dude. So it's no surprise that he's got a sexy, curvaceous figure to go along with that cherubic face of his.
Coach December: Joe Gibbs, Washington Redskins
Joe Gibbs not only has the distinction of owning a NASCAR team and coaching the only team in the NFL named after an offensive racial slur, but he is the only coach who keeps the twins rocking even during those cold-weather NFC East matchups. Not even a bulky Redskins down parka can keep his sexy rack from catching attention. It's like Joe Gibbs's Christmas gift to the football-watching world.
So that's the 2008 edition, but you could probably add a bonus six months with other non-coach NFL personalities. I'd think John Madden and Bill Parcells both would warrant an entire page-long photospread with their legendary busts. I'm telling you, if NFLShop.com started selling this, it would be a fucking gold mine for breast cancer research. Seriously.
This weekend, I was reminded of the downside to breasts when I noticed Mike "The Walrus" Holmgren wearing a pink ribbon to support the fight against titty cancer during the Seahawks-Steelers game (which on a separate but equally grave note, nobody should ever speak to me of again without risking serious bodily injury and/or a mental breakdown). I was like, "It's great that The Walrus is so concerned with women's health. Thanks, Coach Holmgren!" Then another thought occurred to me. He's worried about breast cancer because HE is at risk, as are many, MANY other NFL head coaches. Then I thought of a genius way for the NFL to raise money for this important cause...a calendar! Who wouldn't plop down some money to support the fight for maintaining intact cans on hot women and gruff head coaches alike. I've even got the lineup set:
Coach January: Marvin Lewis, Cincinnati Bengals
Marvin Lewis knows what I've practiced for many years now: nothing makes a set of boobies look hotter than a V-neck. Granted, I don't usually rock the long-sleeved crew neck underneath, but I guess "business slutty" attire isn't sanctioned by the Bengals' front office. Plus, his gorgeous cleavage has the tendency to distract Chad Johnson, and he's already having a disappointing enough season.
Coach February: Bill Belichick, New England Patriots
Not only famed for his beautifully sculpted man-breasts, Belichick is a fashion icon as well. He shows off his voluptuous figure seductively draped in his trademark, the half-length cutoff-sleeved Pats logo sweatshirt. That's the sexiness one expects from a three-time hoister of the Lombardi trophy. Watch out, Gisele, because you're not the only statuesque beauty on Tom Brady's mind.
Coach March: Lovie Smith, Chicago Bears
Coach Smith: Oh, Devin Hester, that was such a sexy punt return for a touchdown. You're so hot.
Devin Hester: No, coach, YOU'VE got all the sexy in this locker room. Let me tell you, "lovie" is exactly what I'm going to do to that bangin' bod of yours after you finish telling the press corps how hard I rock the returning unit. I'm so lucky to be on your "special teams," if you know what I mean, and I think you do, sugar-tits.
Coach April: Eric Mangini, New York Jets
The Patriots weren't videotaping the Jets' defensive signal callers in week 1; they were taping action shots of Mangini's hot sweatshirt puppies bouncing enticingly as he paced back and forth on the sidelines crooning words of encouragement for Chad Pennington into his headset. Belichick misses seeing that shit every day around the Pats' office water cooler. Seriously, can you blame these fellas for taking one look at Mangini and immediately spreading 'em?
Coach May: Andy Reid, Philadelphia Eagles
Sometimes confused with the hottest of the hot, Coach Mike Holmgren, Andy Reid knows how to do the NFL sideline equivalent of Pamela Anderson running toward the surf on "Baywatch." He's got the slow-mo jiggle down. Well, in his case they don't have to use slow-mo because he's just fat and slow, but the effect is the same.
Coach June: Romeo Crennel, Cleveland Browns
Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou and thine stacked body, Romeo?
Coach July: Ken Whisenhunt, Arizona Cardinals
I think everyone can agree that Whisenhunt's jugs are so blazingly hot that Phoenix seems downright cool in comparison.
Coach August: Mike Holmgren, Seattle Seahawks
Who else is a natural for the hottest month of the year but the Walrus? God, with that come-hither stare of seduction, I (for the first time ever) wish I was Shaun Alexander demonstrating his technique for giving a coach a reach-around. The Walrus is a flirt.
Coach September: Jeff Fisher, Tennessee Titans
Jeff Fisher has a couple meager mouthfuls, but they're perfectly balanced by his full and manly beard. I'd hit that.
Coach October: Jon Gruden, Tampa Bay Buccaneers
Chucky seems svelte and trim, but he still manages to bring it in the chest department. His little bumps are kind of cute. They're perky and go well with his constant glowering, enraged demeanor.
Coach November: Mike Tomlin, Shitsburgh Stealers
Although I hate to admit this because I will hate and despise and wish death and ruin and Biblical destruction upon anything with a Steelers logo anywhere near it until I go to my grave, Mike Tomlin is actually the hottest coach in the NFL. He has a really handsome face, and you can tell that he's a suave dude. So it's no surprise that he's got a sexy, curvaceous figure to go along with that cherubic face of his.
Coach December: Joe Gibbs, Washington Redskins
Joe Gibbs not only has the distinction of owning a NASCAR team and coaching the only team in the NFL named after an offensive racial slur, but he is the only coach who keeps the twins rocking even during those cold-weather NFC East matchups. Not even a bulky Redskins down parka can keep his sexy rack from catching attention. It's like Joe Gibbs's Christmas gift to the football-watching world.
So that's the 2008 edition, but you could probably add a bonus six months with other non-coach NFL personalities. I'd think John Madden and Bill Parcells both would warrant an entire page-long photospread with their legendary busts. I'm telling you, if NFLShop.com started selling this, it would be a fucking gold mine for breast cancer research. Seriously.
Labels: hot dudes, NFL football, Seahawks, sportsmen
Robert, you did this, Kells, I heard you did that
Every time I think R. Kelly has set the new benchmark for ridiculous absurdity, he goes and breaks his own record with another offering of awesomeness. I'm so glad that FINALLY the world seems to have taken notice of Robert Sylvester's genius and waits eagerly for his latest blessing in the form of brilliant lyrics, heavily dramatic musical soap operas, or inspired and award-worthy videos.
His latest achievement is the video for "Real Talk," a song in which the listener hears Kells engaging in some domestic hostility with his significant other. Because the R-uh in R&B is on the phone, we don't get to hear her side of the story, but we can infer that she's being unreasonable. Then again, I don't blame his woman for being pissed about him gallivanting about, getting blasted off that Hennessy, being a dog on the prowl when he's walking through the mall on account of being a flirt, steadily tossing that cash flow at various Chicago-area strippers, and assorted other infidelity-related behaviors.
Regardless of whose side you take, it's clear that once again R. Kelly has succeeded in creating a dramatic and supremely entertaining exploration of the complex dynamics of a relationship. I'm also pleased that once again, much like in his classic "Feelin' On Yo Booty" video, Kells has embraced a wacky asymmetrical hairstyle, a look which he alone can rock due to his unique ability to marry the awe-inspiring and the hilarious. Brace yourself, because he's going to get a drink and "do this shit for y'all on YouTube," because God knows we fans all need Robert Sylvester to take a break from his volatile, potentially violent poker game to deliver some real talk for us:
I particularly applaud Robert Sylvester's passionate defense of his Constitutional right to use profanity for emphasis and realism, or as he puts it, "Profanity represents just how real shit gets when you're arguing with your girl and shit." Because as an avid user of profanity myself, I think it's necessary when your woman is spending too much time fucking with old, jealous, no-man-havin' hoes, considering that what they eat don't make him shit, and accusing you unjustly of some old bullshit he's gotten into at the club in the VIP. Not to mention that I can't even begin to count the number of times I've told a smart-mouthed ho who was getting out of line, "Bitch, I wish you would burn my motherfuckin' clothes, with your triflin' ass, and that's real talk." That's totally how I dumped my last boyfriend. I told him the next time he gets horny, he can go fuck one of his funky-ass friends. Isn't that the kind of "real talk" most people engage in during particularly stressful domestic spats?
And yes, I is tweekin'. I love Robert Sylvester Kelly SO MUCH. My love just continues to grow and grow and grow. And that right there is some real talk.
His latest achievement is the video for "Real Talk," a song in which the listener hears Kells engaging in some domestic hostility with his significant other. Because the R-uh in R&B is on the phone, we don't get to hear her side of the story, but we can infer that she's being unreasonable. Then again, I don't blame his woman for being pissed about him gallivanting about, getting blasted off that Hennessy, being a dog on the prowl when he's walking through the mall on account of being a flirt, steadily tossing that cash flow at various Chicago-area strippers, and assorted other infidelity-related behaviors.
Regardless of whose side you take, it's clear that once again R. Kelly has succeeded in creating a dramatic and supremely entertaining exploration of the complex dynamics of a relationship. I'm also pleased that once again, much like in his classic "Feelin' On Yo Booty" video, Kells has embraced a wacky asymmetrical hairstyle, a look which he alone can rock due to his unique ability to marry the awe-inspiring and the hilarious. Brace yourself, because he's going to get a drink and "do this shit for y'all on YouTube," because God knows we fans all need Robert Sylvester to take a break from his volatile, potentially violent poker game to deliver some real talk for us:
I particularly applaud Robert Sylvester's passionate defense of his Constitutional right to use profanity for emphasis and realism, or as he puts it, "Profanity represents just how real shit gets when you're arguing with your girl and shit." Because as an avid user of profanity myself, I think it's necessary when your woman is spending too much time fucking with old, jealous, no-man-havin' hoes, considering that what they eat don't make him shit, and accusing you unjustly of some old bullshit he's gotten into at the club in the VIP. Not to mention that I can't even begin to count the number of times I've told a smart-mouthed ho who was getting out of line, "Bitch, I wish you would burn my motherfuckin' clothes, with your triflin' ass, and that's real talk." That's totally how I dumped my last boyfriend. I told him the next time he gets horny, he can go fuck one of his funky-ass friends. Isn't that the kind of "real talk" most people engage in during particularly stressful domestic spats?
And yes, I is tweekin'. I love Robert Sylvester Kelly SO MUCH. My love just continues to grow and grow and grow. And that right there is some real talk.
Labels: boyfriends, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Poppin' bottles with Top Models
One thing I love like Heineken, dogs, NFL football, and having my ass smacked during sex what is "America's Next Top Model," so I was most excited to get this e-mail from LL Cool Jew yesterday:
Well, now she's determined to expand her career from "Top Model"-ing (translation: not employed save the odd appearance on an E! "Most Starlicious Trashtastic Completely Forgettable Reality TV Moments" countdown) into the music industry, re-inventing herself as what I imagine Kevin Federline and Fergie's bastard child would look like:
I'm not at all embarrassed to say that I kind of like "Ace of Spades." I think it's actually even more entertaining to watch Lisa, adorned with a giant dollar sign pendant, threatening to "pistol-whip you in the ass, dog" (like she has a pistol, and who pistol-whips anyone in the ass?) and talking about how she gets the club crunk. My favorite line of all time is Lisa's pre-emptive strike against potential haters: "If you don't like my shit you can lick my twat." I couldn't say it better myself. This song needs to become a hit, at least on the internets.
And speaking of twat-licking, after watching this video one thing is absolutely certain: Kim of "one down, eleven to go" girl-kissing fame was not the only lezzie up on her Tyra Mail during cycle five. Lisa also likes to swim in the tuna tank. Trust.
(RAZZY UPDATE: Arrgh, for some reason the complete video which contains the seminal "if you don't like my shit, you can lick my twat" line has been set to private on YouTube, so I had to post the partial video instead. Damn!)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)She then provided a link to the YouTube of the video in question. I definitely remember Lisa. Not only was she the "old one" of cycle five, she was also a crazy loon who would run around absolutely wasted on white wine, get naked, and tell everyone else how to model. She had done some mall fashion show once or something, and at the wizened old age of 24, she was more than willing to dispense unsolicited advice to the other girls ad nauseum until she got booted.
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@trotskyitepropagandists.org)
Subject: making sure you saw this
zomg, can you believe it? Lisa, the "old one" from ANTM, is a white rapper!
Well, now she's determined to expand her career from "Top Model"-ing (translation: not employed save the odd appearance on an E! "Most Starlicious Trashtastic Completely Forgettable Reality TV Moments" countdown) into the music industry, re-inventing herself as what I imagine Kevin Federline and Fergie's bastard child would look like:
I'm not at all embarrassed to say that I kind of like "Ace of Spades." I think it's actually even more entertaining to watch Lisa, adorned with a giant dollar sign pendant, threatening to "pistol-whip you in the ass, dog" (like she has a pistol, and who pistol-whips anyone in the ass?) and talking about how she gets the club crunk. My favorite line of all time is Lisa's pre-emptive strike against potential haters: "If you don't like my shit you can lick my twat." I couldn't say it better myself. This song needs to become a hit, at least on the internets.
And speaking of twat-licking, after watching this video one thing is absolutely certain: Kim of "one down, eleven to go" girl-kissing fame was not the only lezzie up on her Tyra Mail during cycle five. Lisa also likes to swim in the tuna tank. Trust.
(RAZZY UPDATE: Arrgh, for some reason the complete video which contains the seminal "if you don't like my shit, you can lick my twat" line has been set to private on YouTube, so I had to post the partial video instead. Damn!)
Labels: America's Next Top Model, hilarious shit, lezbollah, LL Cool Jew, rap, sluts
Daily Douchebag: Google
DOB: September 7, 1998
Occupation: ruling the internet with an iron fist, and in a cheating, tyrannical, not-good way
Hometown: Mountain View, California
Current residence: the toolbar on your browser and epidemic on the internets
Douchebaggery: You hear a lot of song and dance about how great Google is. Their employees enjoy working in an idyllic paradise where they get to play Galaga and take naps and dick around doing nothing all day, their search technology is so much better than Yahoo!'s or whoever's, and their corporate image is generally cute and quirky, like a likable nerd. Everyone loves Gmail, and the maps and satellite pages, and all their widgets or whatever, and they've basically taken over the internets as a result. I certainly can't complain about this:
However, Google considering my site to be the ultimate source for all things Razzy over the Razzie awards, random cell phone accessory stores, and some bar in Assachusetts is probably about the only thing I like about them (besides their "Talk" gadget, which occupies hours of mine and LL Cool Jew's days). They've been on my shit list ever since I received this e-mail:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)I removed their ad codes from my offending review of Ice-T's Pimpin' 101: The XXX Guide to Working a Ho, because I was making SO much money showing text ads for Lil' Kim ringtones, Canadian erectile dysfunction drugs, and directories of New York metropolitan-area shrinks, and I wanted to keep their bullshit ads on my site. Actually, I just didn't want to end up on Google's shit list, since they can singlehandedly rule my internet prowess, sending me into search oblivion if they felt so inclined. I e-mailed them to inform them that I had removed the ad code from the review they didn't like, and requested that they re-enable ad serving. I checked their policy, and figured I could at least open negotiations about which site content in particular violates this somewhat vaguely worded policy:
From: Adsense Support (adsense-support@google.com)
Subject: Google Adsense
Hello,
While reviewing your account, we noticed that you are currently displaying Google ads in a manner that is not compliant with our policies. For instance, we found violations of AdSense policies on pages such as http://www.razzy.org/RazzyFiles/pimpin101.html.
As stated in our program policies, AdSense publishers are not permitted to place Google ads on pages with adult or mature content.
As a result, we have disabled ad serving to the site.
Your AdSense account remains active. However, we strongly suggest that you take the time to review our program policies (https://www.google.com/adsense/policies ) to ensure that all of your remaining pages are in compliance.
Please note that we may disable your account if further violations are found in the future.
Sincerely,
The Google AdSense Team
Sites displaying Google ads may not include:Okay, so virtually EVERY page of my site violates the whole "no excessive profanity" and "no promoting beer or hard alcohol" rule, and I guess there's also enough pictures of random penises and my boobs to warrant a violation of the clause forbidding "pornography, adult, or mature content," but I'm certainly not selling designer good knockoffs or illegal weapons! It's not like people come to site looking to buy ninja stars or tax-free cigarettes or term papers about The Sound and the Fury. And they're certainly not following that "sales of prescription drugs" thing themselves since half the Google ads on my site linked to overseas pharmacies hawking illegal Viagra and Ambien. Still, I got no response to my e-mail, in spite of the polite and professional "I look forward to your reply" I closed my letter with. Not a "no, your site is still in violation of our policy, you filthy whore" or even a form letter advising me that I was persona non grata at the AdSense department due to my despicable website content. I said, "Well, fuck you, Google, I don't need you or your fascist site content policies, either!" and moved to AdBrite, who don't give a flying fuck about my content and whose ads make me a tidy $10 per month. However, now I'm even more incensed because instead of writing me back to tell me why I don't meet the lofty moral standards of their advertising policy, apparently they were busy SWINDLING INNOCENT INTERNET USERS!
* Violent content, racial intolerance, or advocacy against any individual, group, or organization
* Pornography, adult, or mature content
* Hacking/cracking content
* Illicit drugs and drug paraphernalia
* Excessive profanity
* Gambling or casino-related content
* Content regarding programs which compensate users for clicking on ads or offers, performing searches, surfing websites, or reading emails
* Excessive, repetitive, or irrelevant keywords in the content or code of web pages
* Deceptive or manipulative content or construction to improve your site's search engine ranking, e.g., your site's PageRank
* Sales or promotion of weapons or ammunition (e.g., firearms, fighting knives, stun guns)
* Sales or promotion of beer or hard alcohol
* Sales or promotion of tobacco or tobacco-related products
* Sales or promotion of prescription drugs
* Sales or promotion of products that are replicas or imitations of designer goods
* Sales or distribution of term papers or student essays
* Any other content that is illegal, promotes illegal activity, or infringes on the legal rights of others
According to an investigation of FTC complaints by the San Francisco Chronicle, Google offered a $10 credit as incentive to sign up for its version of PayPal, a service called Checkout. However, being a bunch of assholes with no concept of customer service and a general fuck-you-we're-Google attitude, they never planned to pony up the $10. As expected, e-mails and queries to Google support staff went ignored and unanswered. I guess I should consider myself lucky, because people also complained that Google AdSense would confiscate their earnings arbitrarily for unsubstantiated policy violations, for no other reason than that Google is populated by unscrupulous, greedy tyrants who apparently regard the entire internet as their personal fiefdom. Google sucks, and I'm going straight to the FTC to throw in my two cents about just how much. That'll learn 'em. I'll be back displaying worthless AdSense text links in no time.
Labels: capitalism, Daily Douchebag, internet domination, Razzification, tyrannical rulers
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Midget Mac
DOB:????
Occupation: suitor of Tiffany "New York" Pollard, hype man for Young Cash
Hometown: everywhere there's a naval base (he's probably been to Bremerton, WA)
Current residence: Florida
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Anyone who reads this blog knows that I harbor a particular love for the "Flavor of Love" family of shows on Vh1. While I enjoyed watching a cadre of strippers and cam whores vie for the affections of Bret Michaels, and while I can't wait to see what harem of ridiculous women they've procured for the next iteration of "Flavor of Love," I was especially excited to watch this awesomeness premiering last night, because you KNOW I love New York:
Last night I went over to my buddy JerseyGirl's crib to drink what she calls "brew dogs" and watch this hour of ridiculous awesomeness (followed by the sweet, sweet joy of watching the detestable Yankees get eliminated from the ALDS), and she and I were both immediately entranced by the badassery that Midget Mac brought to the show. Upon hearing the forceful, "It's Midget Mac up in this motherfucker, BITCHES!", we were both shocked momentarily into silence, which was the calm before a storm of hysterical, pealing laughter.
Following an impressive "one on one" in which Midget Mac managed to capture the curiosity and intrigue of the tempestuous New York, an amazing scene occurred in which Midget Mac confronted New York's mother, Sister Patterson, for shrieking when she saw him. He was giving her this amazing accusatory, indicting look for basically acting as though he were a cockroach or some other loathsome vermin, and for the first time ever, Sister Patterson looked as though she was actually experiencing some contrition for being a crazy cunt. Then she gave a ridiculous, half-assed explanation about how she had never seen a little person before, and implied that midgets were like unicorns to her: prior to meeting Midget Mac, she thought they existed only in fairy tales. In fact, she even stated her fears that Midget Mac was a "leprechaun" who might perform some type of nefarious magic on her.
Needless to say, the producers would be crazy not to keep Midget Mac around for the duration of the show, since he already is squaring off with Sister Patterson and when he already noted that other women have expressed shock that "someone so small can have a dick so big." He's a single father of two daughters, so clearly his stature is not a measure of his virility. Anyway, judging by the scenes from episodes to come, "I Love New York 2" is going to live up to JerseyGirl's estimation of it as "the best show on television." New York is bringing Chance from season 1 back much like Flavor Flav brought New York back in "Flavor of Love 2," and considering that Chance made a name for himself pointing out the resemblance of season 1 winner Tango to a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle and coining the term "water dogs" to describe dolphins, this season is going to completely kick ass. Plus there's going to be an episode in which lesbian boxers beat the shit out of the contestants, an episode in which Midget Mac apparently almost drowns, and a federal prison yard-esque bitch-making implied beating laid on Tailor Made (who distinguished himself by paying the other contestants $100 to leave him alone with New York) by allegedly "undefeated" boxer Knock Out. Man, I love this trash. Good times.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, I LOVE IT, I Love New York, JerseyGirl, TV, Vh1
Monday, October 08, 2007
Happy Colonization Day!
In honor of Samantha Stanton and Samantha Barron, two fugly, mustachioed undergrads from Columbia and Barnard who (undoubtedly without showering first), threw on their favorite Che Guevara shirts and are currently hacky-sacking their way to the toppling of global imperialism somewhere on Columbia's Morningside campus, I decided to celebrate Columbus Day my way. By supporting how hard exploration and colonization ruled!
I'm going to start by finally going out and getting a custom shirt made that has the following logo on it to support the original founders of the former colony where I reside, Nieuw Amsterdam:
Yes, bitches, fuck Columbus. The Vereenigde Oostindische Compagnie, AKA The Dutch East India Company, was the hot shit in world exploration and domination in the 17th century, and the hot sluts better known as the Gentlemen XVII (aka the seventeen rich old dudes running the VOC) were the assholes to beat when it came to running spice and silks around Asia. They were basically running the Indian Ocean, and they were the first multinational company to offer publicly traded stock. They also took a break from getting yellow fever in Batavia to send a few Merchantmen across the Atlantic, and set up shop on a certain quaint little island between the Hudson, East, and Harlem Rivers where yours truly currently resides, which they secured zoning and development rights to with twenty-six Dutch guilders, a jug of hooch, and a stack of beaver. Pelts, you pervs...I meant beaver PELTS!
If it weren't for those brave descendents of VOC explorers, these whiny bitches complaining about colonization wouldn't have a fancy Ivy League school to attend here on the Isle of Mannahattas, because it might not have been inhabited by Europeans and eventually acquired by the Duke of York from Peter Stuyvesant, thus becoming the New York City we know and love today. So maybe these dumb cows can take a break deconstructing the non-mythical "myth" of colonization or whatever and give a shoutout to the pimped-out Dutch dudes who showed up and made this place awesome. And who named "Harlem!" Long live colonization!
I'm going to start by finally going out and getting a custom shirt made that has the following logo on it to support the original founders of the former colony where I reside, Nieuw Amsterdam:
If it weren't for those brave descendents of VOC explorers, these whiny bitches complaining about colonization wouldn't have a fancy Ivy League school to attend here on the Isle of Mannahattas, because it might not have been inhabited by Europeans and eventually acquired by the Duke of York from Peter Stuyvesant, thus becoming the New York City we know and love today. So maybe these dumb cows can take a break deconstructing the non-mythical "myth" of colonization or whatever and give a shoutout to the pimped-out Dutch dudes who showed up and made this place awesome. And who named "Harlem!" Long live colonization!
Labels: Dumb Smith bitches, grad school bullshit, sluts
Daily Dude I Want to Hit DOG OF AWESOMENESS: Caesar
Name: Caesar Gaius Octavian Augustus Rasmussen
DOB: October 8, 2001
Occupation: squirrel chaser, people herder, accomplished barker, boy lover, pizza aficionado, bone and edible garbage scavenger, stick fetching devotee
Hometown: Tacoma, Washington
Current residence: Sugar Hill, Harlem, New York, New York
Why He's The Best Dog In the World: Caesar is a smart, roguishly handsome, helpful, sweet, generally great dog, and today is his birthday! I can't believe my sweet little (giant) doggers is six! Caesar is 42 in dog years, so right about now is the time when he should start fucking his secretary and buying sportscars. I actually wonder if he isn't having a little bit of a midlife crisis. This morning I was trying to get him to pose for handsome birthday pictures, and he was being a real diva about it. Every time I'd go, "Caese!" in my excited-dog voice designed to inspire him to jump up and start investigating everything with his monstrous tail wagging incessantly, he'd groan, make some doggy noises that I took to mean, "Leave me alone, I'm trying to sleep here", and go back to sleep with a big, exasperated sigh. I think he's starting to get paranoid about his age.
No matter how many times I tell him he looks great and he still has the attitude and energy of a puppy, he's still giving lots of grouchy dog face about his old age. So if you see him at the park today, throw a stick for him and tell him that he looks fantastic for a six-year-old, because he does.
Labels: aging, Caese Doggy Dogg, Daily Dude I Want to Hit
Daily Douchebag: Mayor Murphy R. McMillin
DOB: judging by his wizened appearance, I would wager this fella came into the world sometime during the antebellum period, in a land of Cavaliers and Cotton Fields called the Old South. Here in this pretty world, Gallantry took its last bow. Here was the last ever to be seen of Knights and their Ladies Fair, of Master and of Slave. Look for it only in books, for it is no more than a dream remembered, a Civilization gone with the wind... (Cue surging Gone With the Wind overture/theme and cut to the front porch of Tara where Scarlett is entertaining the Tarleton boys with lemonade and gossip about the barbecue over at Twelve Oaks tomorrow...)
Occupation: mayor of Jena, Louisiana; white supremacist sympathizer
Hometown: why, Jena, Louisiana, a-course
Current residence: you got it...Jena, Louisiana
Douchebaggery: As one would expect from the at the reins of Jena when all the hijinx surrounding this Jena Six business unfolded, Mayor Murphy McMillin has been demonstrating all the political deftness and diplomatic savvy one might expect from a man elected by folks whose favorite form of self-expression involves adorning local flora, vehicles, and private property with nooses. First, in an interview with Richard Barrett, a blogger, professional protestor, and general counsel for the "Nationalist Movement," which from what I can tell, means "white supremacist movement," Barrett assured McMillin that "just like the British occupying Boston, they'll be gone" (they=people protesting and arguing for the release of the Jena Six). Then he requested that the mayor "arrange to set aside some place for those opposing the colored folks or find out if you have such a place in mind."
Apparently, this got out on NPR, and McMillin realized that trying to coordinate a place for people to "oppose the colored folks" didn't do much for easing racial tensions in Jena, and asked for it to be retracted by Richard Barrett's blog (it has not been). However, rather than learn his lesson about exacerbating the already volatile situation in Jena by not embracing things that appear to be pro-white and bigoted, he decided to shoot his mouth off again. This time, he held a press conference and trashed John Mellencamp for singing "Jena, take your nooses down" in some song he did
"The town of Jena has for months been mischaracterized in the media and portrayed as the epicenter of hatred, racism and a place where justice is denied," and that he had kept his piehole shut until now, but "the Mellencamp video is so inflammatory, so defamatory, that a line has been crossed and enough is enough."
Okay, so let me get this straight, Mayor McMillin. In Jena, white students responded to a black student's request that he be allowed to sit under a big tree by hanging nooses from it. Nothing was done to those responsible for basically committing a hate crime in the way of discipline, be it academic, legal, or otherwise. A few months later, some black kids beat the noose-hanging asshole unconscious, were charged with attempted murder, and locked up. Now, I'm not saying it was a good idea to beat up noose boy, but his ass would PROBABLY have been left untouched if the folks of Jena had done something about the noose in the first place. In fact what do you call a place where white kids can threaten lynching and get away with it, and where this ultimately erupts in violence and vicious legal retribution against the people who were discrimated against in the first place besides an "epicenter of hatred, racism, and a place where justice is denied"? Because that description sounds about right to me.
Granted, I probably won't go buy the new Mellencamp song because I don't like to hear news being sung to me. I can get down to "Jack and Diane", "Small Town", and "Hurts So Good," but I don't really need to hear John formerly Cougar Mellencamp yammering on about racism. However, for the mayor of Jena to get his knickers in a bunch over a John Mellencamp video is unreasonable and NOT an example of realpolitik in action. I guess the video has a bunch of vintage Civil Rights movement footage juxtaposed with the "Jena take your nooses down" line, like Klansmen burning crosses, dudes getting sprayed with fire hoses and attacked by German shepherds, pro-segregationist marches, etc., and the mayor decided to bitch about this, as well. I guess he doesn't like being reminded of why the Civil Rights movement was necessary in the first place, because THERE ARE NO RACIAL PROBLEMS IN JENA!
"To put the incident in Jena in the same league as those who were murdered in the 1960s cheapens their sacrifice and insults their memory," said Mayor McMillin. Actually, not so much, Mayor. What cheapens their sacrifice and insults their memory MORE is the fact that over forty years later, nooses are still being hung from trees in public schools IN YOUR TOWN and nobody does anything about it, you asshole! In fact, the only people who do anything about it are teenagers who then get charged as adults for attempted murder. He needs to not hate on John Mellencamp for pointing out what is patently obvious to almost everyone else in the country who has heard about this and shut the fuck up, because he's not doing Jena any favors in terms of boosting its stock with the general public. I'd ask how the people of Jena managed to elect such a moron for mayor, but again, this is a town where nooses are common forms of public expression, so that question answers itself. It's hardly a surprise that such an oaf is running this shitshow.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, for serious people, politics
Saturday, October 06, 2007
Fun, hilarious off-Broadway show!!!
My friend Broadway Annie is a theaterfag and has spent the last year working her ass off to translate this play from Dutch, stage and produce it, star in it, and coordinate an art show to complement it. Said art show also includes a painting by my friend Miss Corbutt. The whole artfag-stravaganza opens this weekend and I'm going to see it tonight with KatieScarlett. After we prepare for the theater (translation: drink scotch).
Everyone I've talked to who saw the performance last night described it as "side-splittingly hilarious" and a "rollicking good time at the off-off-broadway theater," so I'm expecting to go see it tonight and laugh until my stomach hurts. Well, as much as I can watching the riveting tale of a nurse (Broadway Annie) and her dying AIDS patient chit-chatting about AIDS and euthanasia. It's going to be fun!
So you should all go and support my friends. All jokes aside, Miss Corbutt is a terrific painter and Broadway Annie has put her heart and soul in this, so I'm sure it's going to be great. Besides, I've known her since high school and she's always been bringing the drama, so trust that she's a dope actress. And it's cheap! And it's not a musical! And it was written up in New York Magazine! Well, I don't know about that, but it's the kind of thing that would be. Go see it! GO! GO! GO! Dossier: Ronald Akkerman! HELLS YEAH!
Everyone I've talked to who saw the performance last night described it as "side-splittingly hilarious" and a "rollicking good time at the off-off-broadway theater," so I'm expecting to go see it tonight and laugh until my stomach hurts. Well, as much as I can watching the riveting tale of a nurse (Broadway Annie) and her dying AIDS patient chit-chatting about AIDS and euthanasia. It's going to be fun!So you should all go and support my friends. All jokes aside, Miss Corbutt is a terrific painter and Broadway Annie has put her heart and soul in this, so I'm sure it's going to be great. Besides, I've known her since high school and she's always been bringing the drama, so trust that she's a dope actress. And it's cheap! And it's not a musical! And it was written up in New York Magazine! Well, I don't know about that, but it's the kind of thing that would be. Go see it! GO! GO! GO! Dossier: Ronald Akkerman! HELLS YEAH!
Labels: artfaggotry, Broadway Annie, Miss Corbutt, musicals suck, NYC
Friday, October 05, 2007
She just wants to go that extra mile for you
So the long-awaited video for "Gimme More" by the legendary Ms. Britney Spears has finally dropped and it's every bit as awesome as you might imagine. I'm not embarrassed to say, well...gimme more. I fucking love Britney. I've been hearing a lot of "this song isn't inspired" or "this song is really not up to par" about this masterpiece. Correct me if I'm wrong, but jams like "I'm a Slave 4 U," "Toxic," and "Oops! I Did it Again" weren't exactly on par with a Wagner opera to begin with. "Gimme More" might even be more awesome than its predecessors because of it's complete absurdity, which the video showcases to great effect.
I love Britney's clearly inebriated self trying to get sexy with the stripper pole, and the fuck-me eyes she starts giving the lens whenever she loses track of her dance steps. I also love her terrible lip-synching, especially that contrived giggle at the beginning of the song. She can't even get it right on video! It's the worst fake laugh in the history of fake laughing in pop songs, and that's why it rules. As Tyra would tell her Top Model wannabes, the flaws are what make it unique and beautiful. Plus I laugh out loud at the part where the song goes "DANJADANJADANJADANJA" a little after the midpoint to introduce the part where "the unstoppable Danja" threatens that we'll have to remove him before he stops giving us trashtastic awesomeness like this, and I could listen to the "It's Britney, bitch!" entrance all day long. I wonder if I can get that as a cell phone ringtone? I can't get enough.
Anyway, it looks like someone took a crappy camcorder to the Mos Isley spaceport bar where Luke and Obi-Wan Kenobi met hot-ass Han Solo and filmed the strippers on amateur night, and it's basically awesome. You can almost smell Britney's intoxicating KFC and Marlboro Light-scented pheromones radiating from beneath her excessively small pleather bustier as she gives her blonde alter ego her best drunken tweeker fully clothed striptease. It's a work of art, and fuck y'all haters:
I've got her in a crazy position, and I'm on a mission, so it's good that I have her permission. Britney, gimme more! Gimme gimme MORE! Make good on your promise that if I want more, then that's what she'll give me! Gimme gimme!
I love Britney's clearly inebriated self trying to get sexy with the stripper pole, and the fuck-me eyes she starts giving the lens whenever she loses track of her dance steps. I also love her terrible lip-synching, especially that contrived giggle at the beginning of the song. She can't even get it right on video! It's the worst fake laugh in the history of fake laughing in pop songs, and that's why it rules. As Tyra would tell her Top Model wannabes, the flaws are what make it unique and beautiful. Plus I laugh out loud at the part where the song goes "DANJADANJADANJADANJA" a little after the midpoint to introduce the part where "the unstoppable Danja" threatens that we'll have to remove him before he stops giving us trashtastic awesomeness like this, and I could listen to the "It's Britney, bitch!" entrance all day long. I wonder if I can get that as a cell phone ringtone? I can't get enough.
Anyway, it looks like someone took a crappy camcorder to the Mos Isley spaceport bar where Luke and Obi-Wan Kenobi met hot-ass Han Solo and filmed the strippers on amateur night, and it's basically awesome. You can almost smell Britney's intoxicating KFC and Marlboro Light-scented pheromones radiating from beneath her excessively small pleather bustier as she gives her blonde alter ego her best drunken tweeker fully clothed striptease. It's a work of art, and fuck y'all haters:
I've got her in a crazy position, and I'm on a mission, so it's good that I have her permission. Britney, gimme more! Gimme gimme MORE! Make good on your promise that if I want more, then that's what she'll give me! Gimme gimme!
Labels: Britney Spears, celebrities, fat fucks, I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, PWT, TV
Jenna does Arlen Specter
Senator Arlen Specter (R-PA) may have been born at a time when the great woolly mammoth still roamed free and the wheel hadn't yet been invented, but that doesn't mean he's not a man of the modern era. His moderate stands on issues--like his questioning of whether Clinton's infamous blow job was really impeachment-worthy and his support of Senator Larry Craig's game of gay footsie with an undercover vice cop in the Minneapolis airport men's room--show that he's not your average hating-on-modern-sexual-values type of Republican.
He demonstrated this forward-thinking attitude when Jenna Jameson showed up at the Capitol last week. Once it was established that she was Jenna Jameson the famous Queen of Porn and not Gollum nee Smeagol looking to steal the Precious from nasty hobbitses, she was introduced to an intern from Senator Specter's office, who the Washington Post reports graciously gave her a tour of our hallowed halls of Congress.
Whether or not she actually got some face time with the senator is anyone's guess, but an intrepid reporter named Paul Kane from the Post did ask. The Senator apparently hasn't seen classics like Vajenna, Cherry Pie, and Lickety Slit. He was confused and thought this had something to do with the military.
But alas, Jenna's since had her tits ripped out and recycled the silicone for some of the most heinous facial prosthetics imaginable, and concomitantly developed a rip-roaring case of anorexia. Senator Specter, at his age, should not have to cope with the cardiovascular consequences of coming face to face with a distorted succubus escaped from whichever level of hell the busted trannies live on:
The sad thing is, I think that Jenna could probably do a better job in Iraq than the current jackasses running that shitshow. She could just show her rearranged face, collapsing tits, and prominent scapulae and frighten the insurgents into submission without firing a shot. I would certainly approve of her as a military leader more than her current post-porn job of runway modeling. In fact, that sounds like a win-win. The troops will withdraw (and/or run screaming) from Iraq and Gollum will no longer be uglying up Fashion Week. Fire Petraeus and bring in General Jameson!
He demonstrated this forward-thinking attitude when Jenna Jameson showed up at the Capitol last week. Once it was established that she was Jenna Jameson the famous Queen of Porn and not Gollum nee Smeagol looking to steal the Precious from nasty hobbitses, she was introduced to an intern from Senator Specter's office, who the Washington Post reports graciously gave her a tour of our hallowed halls of Congress.
Whether or not she actually got some face time with the senator is anyone's guess, but an intrepid reporter named Paul Kane from the Post did ask. The Senator apparently hasn't seen classics like Vajenna, Cherry Pie, and Lickety Slit. He was confused and thought this had something to do with the military.
"I don't recognize that name. Who? General Jameson?" Specter asked.That just shows that with Specter's great age comes great wisdom. Most people think Jenna Jameson and fondly recall her glory days:
"No, sir, Jenna. She's, well, she's kind of an actress, in, well, uh, the adult film industry," Kane explained.
"Paul, do you mean pornos?" Specter chuckled.
"Yes, senator, that's what we'd call it."
"I don't think I'm meeting her," Specter said.
Labels: gender bending, media whores, oh the horror, politics, porn, you're ugly
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Alex Rodriguez
DOB: July 27, 1975
Occupation: third baseman for the accursed New York Yankees (but the picture above is of a younger Gay-Rod, back when he was still noble and uncorrupted by his pinstripes and greed)
Hometown: Washington Heights, New York, New York, the DR, and Miami, Florida
Current residence: New York, New York and the south, south Bronx
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I know that every last Razzyphile is reading this and thinking, "What the hell...? I thought she hated the Yankees and especially hated Gay-Rod. Did she mislabel this post?" No, I did not, and I still hate the Yankees, and I still have a black, necrotic corner of my heart where my feelings for Gay-Rod dwell. However, I have to recognize the one positive thing that the most valuable poker player on the American League DL circuit does every year besides get Jeter off with his extraordinary felching technique: CHOKE BIG TIME IN THE PLAYOFFS!
Last night, I was watching the CW11 local news for some reason, and Lolita the lesbian sportscaster informed viewers that "things weren't looking so good for the Bronx Bombers," which put me in great spirits. I knew that even if I woke sleep-deprived and grouchy as usual, I'd at least see headlines like this in the esteemed New York Post, and that to me is like Christmas:
I know it's only the first game of the postseason, but I praise Alex Rodriguez's shitty performance (okay, it wasn't that bad...he was walked twice...but STILL, no homers or even hits) and encourage him to keep up the good work. Last year, he batted .071 in the playoffs, and so far, it looks like he might even do better than that (and by better, I mean worse). Aim low, Gay-Rod!
I'd also like to give an honorable mention to the Indians fans, who were screaming chants of "OVERRATED!" every time this dipshit went up to bat. With any luck, this series will be akin to the one in Major League, where the Yankees are beat spectacularly when the grizzled veteran catcher Jake Taylor calls his shot and then bunts, allowing Willie Mays Hayes to score and win the game. C.C. Sabathia is no Rick "Wild Thing" Vaughn, but I still have faith that the Tribe can follow in the footsteps of their fictional predecessors, and yes, that includes offering prayers to Joe Boo if any of them are having trouble hitting curve balls. Go Indians! You're contenders now!
Labels: assholes, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, fuck the Yankees, sportsmen
Daily Douchebag: Nicoderm CQ
DOB:N/A
Occupation: maintaining my tenuous grasp of sanity
Douchebaggery: It goes without saying that after fifteen years of hardcore smoking (thirteen of smoking a pack a day), I need to quit. I've quit so many times that people roll their eyes when I say I'm quitting because everyone thinks I'll just fail again as always. Some of my friends understand how important this is to me (also probably because they don't want me to get sick or die), but generally people have this attitude that quitting smoking is a fucking joke. Because it's hilarious that I'm woefully addicted to something that will fucking kill me to the point where I'll likely relapse. It's fucking side-splitting that I sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night barely able to breathe, but that I have this burning, intrinsic, insatiable desire to light up almost constantly anyway. And nothing takes the edge off like hearing assholes guffaw about how I'll be back on the P-funks by the end of the week.
Well, this shit is not remotely funny to me, and if I weren't on nicotine replacement therapy while I go through the painful process of weaning myself off, some bitches would be sorely regretting making light of what I consider to be a very grave situation. I'd be either crying or screaming at them, two behaviors of mine that are usually very occasional but nonetheless terrible to behold. In order to not have people think I'm insane as well as humorously prone to relapse, I have to use something to stabilize my mood while I become accustomed to the daily habits of a non-smoker.
Unfortunately, while it keeps me sane and able to juggle the many tasks I am charged with, nicotine patches have a lot of unpleasant side effects. For one thing, they irritate the shit out of my skin. I only wear them on my legs so they won't be visible. Those clear nicotine patches are worthless, because they only provide a window to see how red and inflamed the skin underneath is getting. I guess it's not unforeseeable that nicotine, which is otherwise used as an insecticide and rat poison, would cause some dermatological issues when delivered transdermally, but they don't mention this on the commercials. I get up everyday and apply a thick layer of cortisone cream to my legs, but that doesn't stop the maddening, torturous itching, and I sometimes scratch without thinking about it. As a result, my legs look like I just finished jogging through a blackberry patch.
The other bad thing about the nicotine patch is that it causes me to have extremely vivid dreams. Most of the times these dreams are just weird and not scary, but they are so realistic no matter how farfetched the premise that I wake in a state of distress because I think the dream has actually happened. For example, the other night I dreamed that I hiked cross-country (see...completely absurd) and left Caesar alone on the West Coast. Right before I woke, I was calling and searching frantically for him. I awoke in tears, thinking I had foolishly and irresponsibly lost my beloved Caese Doggy Dogg and hoping against all hope that he'd make like Homeward Bound and somehow find me in New York without getting hit by a car or distracted by a squirrel on the way. I calmed down when Caesar in real life, who was sleeping on my bed with his giant head on one of my feet, woke up, gave a gigantic, loud doggy yawn (dog owners know what kind of noisy yawn I'm talking about), stretched luxuriantly, thumped his massive tail, and went back to sleep.
Last night was a particularly bad night. First I dreamed that my parents were getting a divorce and decided to settle their differences with a game of chicken on tractors a la Footloose, and then were both killed in a fiery head-on John Deere collision with subsequent explosion. I woke up from that one sobbing. When I finally got back to sleep, I then dreamed that I was kicked out of graduate school by a tribunal of my entire department. My PI (advisor/boss/mentor) told me that I was the worst scientist he'd ever been so unlucky as to train, my program director said he was going to go back and retroactively change my all my course grades to Fs and that he wanted to come to my house so he could rip up my master's degrees, and then my department head said it was time to have a "group laugh" at my misfortune. I was then advised that I could keep one master's degree if I agreed to a gangbang with all the faculty members, because being a dirty slut is the only thing I'm good at. When I woke up from that one, I was much more stressed than one should be while catching up on their beauty sleep. After reminding myself that this was just a patch dream dredging up my deeply rooted fear of intellectual failure, and that I should be glad I have such insight into my own psychology, I tried to go back to sleep. My next dream started off with me having hot sex with my old flame the R-uh. So far, so good...until we were attacked by an army of Transformers. The R-uh and I were hiding under the bed from the invading Decepticons, but the R-uh wasn't very good at hiding, apparently, because he kept trying to call his son. Since his son isn't even two, this was probably pretty pointless, but it gave away our position and we were just about to be incinerated when my alarm went off.
I woke up from that one pissed, both because I was annoyed that the R-uh was so lax about taking proper anti-vaporization by invading robots in diguise security measures in my dream and because I felt like I hadn't slept a fucking wink. One more reason not to start smoking, apart from all the diseases, side effects, and financial problems cigarettes cause, is to never have to quit, because as bad as it is, nicotine patches are the best of a bunch of bad options. Zyban keeps you up all night, Nicorette gum makes your mouth burn, and the Commit lozenge tastes like chalk and makes me want to vomit every time I start sucking on one. My best option involves mutilated legs and disturbed, not-restful sleep. Tell me that doesn't blow like a Tijuana hooker.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, smoking, the R-uh
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Memo to Kendra: he's only out to fuck a bitch, fuck tryin' to charm her
I don't know how I've failed to watch "Celebrity Rap Superstar." I saw part of it once and immediately was annoyed by the garish tornado of fat fuckery that is Perez Hilton, and flipped back to the rerun of "Top Chef" or "Rock of Love" or whatever the hell it was I was watching. However, tonight I flipped idly to it and was instantly shocked to attention when I saw THIS:
Holy shit! Why is Kendra, the mentally retarded prostitute famous for being Girl Next Door #3, standing with with world famous East Oakland player, the motherfucking host with the most dick, Todd "Too $hort" Shaw! What the hell...?!?!?!
After calming down at seeing Too $hort's chubby, Chingy!-esque presence coming straight from Oakland to provide droll commentary about the "explicit exercises" he employed to "help Kendra warm up her tongue" (!!!) for the speed rapping challenge, I realized that this is actually a perfect match. Too $hort is, after all, a player-ass pimp who was born to mack, and Kendra makes her living goin' hoin'. Too $hort knows how to make money off dumb hookers like Kendra, and his sole motive in dealing with women is to just fuck them and cut and treat them like a trampy slut. His method is based on treating fine-ass bitches like dirt, on account of the fact that a fuck is all they're worth. He tells a bitch that he ain't no Tootsie Roll, and all she's good for is some head, and some pussy, ho. If Kendra were to give him some unintelligible smartass lip back, then well, he'll pretty much explain that everyone knows she fucks like an old-ass tired bitch, but the word is out she sucks some good-ass dick, and then he'll pretty much just stick his dick in her mouth. That is the Too $hort way. And if Kendra continues to fuck around and not rap/work her sexuality properly, there's always $hort Dog's method of delivering a five-finger hand plant straight across the face, to make sure all you bitches understand it. Too $hort is probably highly effective at motivating her. However, Kendra should tread carefully, because typically when he's through fuckin', bitches leavin' with nothing.
Anyway, Kendra proceeded to perform an appalling rendition of Ludacris's "What's Your Fantasy", that involved her rapping into a lollipop and was completely lost after the "lick ya thigh and call me the Pac Man" line. She tried to compensate for the poor quality of her lyrical flow by slurping on her confectionary faux mic suggestively to the crowd's wild approval, and I have no doubt that Too $hort's aforementioned "explicit exercises" contributed to the successful execution of that move. All the judges gave her a glowing review in spite of the shoddy performance because she worked the super dick-sucking ho angle as well as one would expect on of $hort Dog's flock of top notches to do, especially including Da Brat who everyone knows likes the ladies (as, I suspect, does Kendra).
Against my better judgment, I am rooting for Kendra strictly on the basis that it will keep Too $hort on the mack and on MTV. I might even call in and vote for her. I mean, I already have the number memorized so I might just offhand dial 1-866-541-6502 to vote for Too $hort, I mean Kendra. Or I might just text "Rap2" to 23882. About ten thousand times. To vote for Too $hort. I mean Kendra!
After calming down at seeing Too $hort's chubby, Chingy!-esque presence coming straight from Oakland to provide droll commentary about the "explicit exercises" he employed to "help Kendra warm up her tongue" (!!!) for the speed rapping challenge, I realized that this is actually a perfect match. Too $hort is, after all, a player-ass pimp who was born to mack, and Kendra makes her living goin' hoin'. Too $hort knows how to make money off dumb hookers like Kendra, and his sole motive in dealing with women is to just fuck them and cut and treat them like a trampy slut. His method is based on treating fine-ass bitches like dirt, on account of the fact that a fuck is all they're worth. He tells a bitch that he ain't no Tootsie Roll, and all she's good for is some head, and some pussy, ho. If Kendra were to give him some unintelligible smartass lip back, then well, he'll pretty much explain that everyone knows she fucks like an old-ass tired bitch, but the word is out she sucks some good-ass dick, and then he'll pretty much just stick his dick in her mouth. That is the Too $hort way. And if Kendra continues to fuck around and not rap/work her sexuality properly, there's always $hort Dog's method of delivering a five-finger hand plant straight across the face, to make sure all you bitches understand it. Too $hort is probably highly effective at motivating her. However, Kendra should tread carefully, because typically when he's through fuckin', bitches leavin' with nothing.
Anyway, Kendra proceeded to perform an appalling rendition of Ludacris's "What's Your Fantasy", that involved her rapping into a lollipop and was completely lost after the "lick ya thigh and call me the Pac Man" line. She tried to compensate for the poor quality of her lyrical flow by slurping on her confectionary faux mic suggestively to the crowd's wild approval, and I have no doubt that Too $hort's aforementioned "explicit exercises" contributed to the successful execution of that move. All the judges gave her a glowing review in spite of the shoddy performance because she worked the super dick-sucking ho angle as well as one would expect on of $hort Dog's flock of top notches to do, especially including Da Brat who everyone knows likes the ladies (as, I suspect, does Kendra).
Against my better judgment, I am rooting for Kendra strictly on the basis that it will keep Too $hort on the mack and on MTV. I might even call in and vote for her. I mean, I already have the number memorized so I might just offhand dial 1-866-541-6502 to vote for Too $hort, I mean Kendra. Or I might just text "Rap2" to 23882. About ten thousand times. To vote for Too $hort. I mean Kendra!
Labels: hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, rap, sluts, TV
And the Halloween costume contest winner is...
I'd like to thank all the Razzyphiles who stepped up to the plate in trying to help me plan a Halloween costume that would combine cleverness with nudity. You guys kick ass at both creativity and time-taking, and I would like to express my most sincere gratitude for your helping me out. After going through all the suggestions sent to me via e-mail or comments by all you totally awesome, sexy, attractive, incredibly smart, undisputedly badass Razzyphiles, I still wasn't truly feeling anything (and yes, bitches, I did seriously consider going as Nomi from Showgirls...I love Jessie Spano the bisexual slut stripper--I mean, DANCER--as much as anyone else). Much like Lil' Kim, I wanted to wear something truly iconic, and while the Janet Jackson suggestions were good, I felt like that was too similar to the Lil' Kim number (requiring a wig, with one boob hanging out, etc.). Then, an anonymous but truly generous, wonderful someone left a comment suggesting the winner, and I was like, YES! That's IT! It's timely, it involves minimal amounts of clothing, it's funny, and it complements my white trash style and sensibilities magnificently.
Behold, my Halloween costume inspiration:
Guided by this fair muse to the $3 clip-on extensions section of my local Rite-Aid and the trashy slut lingerie section of the Strawberry store on 125th Street (which I am already intimately acquainted with), I plan to prepare for this role by sitting on my ass eating $1 tacos, drinking Red Bull, and chain-smoking. Well, not that last one because I quit smoking (cigarettes), but everything else. This is a role I was born to play, y'all! It's Razzy, bitch!
Behold, my Halloween costume inspiration:
Labels: Britney Spears, Razzification