Friday, November 30, 2007
Next Halloween I'm going to scare the shit out of everyone
I have the perfect scary costume. Children will flee from me in terror. Men will feel their nuts shrivel in horror as I pass by. Women will burst into tears. The world will cry out in fear. I will set new standards for hideousness. Who will I be going as, you ask? This terrifying succubus:
Jenna Jameson has gone from being merely a cautionary tale about the dangers of excessive plastic surgery to looking like she should be leading hobbits up the Winding Staircase to the dread pass of Cirith Ungol while muttering, "We wants the precious, we wants it!" The only good surgery she had was getting her fake tits ripped out, but that's completely negated by the deforming hack job she's done to her face. Even worse, it seems she used Richie Rich, the ugly club kid twink above, as the model for all the work she had done. She must be seriously self-loathing to bring a picture of that asshole, who always looks like he just got done having a coked-up fairy puke sequins and santorum all over him, to her surgeon and be like, "make me in his image."
I know Jenna has "retired" from starring in porn, but quietly going in a different direction careerwise is one thing, and deforming yourself so severely that you exclude the possibility of ever working in an image-conscious business is another thing entirely. Eat some cheeseburgers and lay of the Restalyne, Jenna, because if, as you and Richie Rich are threatening, you open up a clothing store in Chinatown looking like that, people are going to think some type of monster is about to lay waste to the city. Stop the insanity, Jenna! Inspire masturbation, not Gollum quotes from Lord of the Rings!
I know Jenna has "retired" from starring in porn, but quietly going in a different direction careerwise is one thing, and deforming yourself so severely that you exclude the possibility of ever working in an image-conscious business is another thing entirely. Eat some cheeseburgers and lay of the Restalyne, Jenna, because if, as you and Richie Rich are threatening, you open up a clothing store in Chinatown looking like that, people are going to think some type of monster is about to lay waste to the city. Stop the insanity, Jenna! Inspire masturbation, not Gollum quotes from Lord of the Rings!
Labels: gross, Halloween, nerd alert, oh the horror, overcompensation, plastic surgery, porn, sluts, you're ugly
The wit and wisdom of Lil' Wayne
A site that LL Cool Jew got me reading, Bossip.com, has some choice quotes from Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter's interview with Complex magazine. The cover of the magazine itself has a choice quote ("I'm a Martian, and if you understand me, then you're Jesus") that seems to answer the question asked by the cover: Is Lil' Wayne crazy?
The answer would seem to be yes, especially when reading some of the other sound bites Weezy Fuckin' Baby spouts in the article. For starters, his conversations with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. about how to handle beef personally:
Then again, has Lil' Wayne actually killed anyone? I don't know anyone he has issues with besides the dudes who defected from Cash Money ages ago, and last time anyone checked, Terius "Juvenile" Gray was still eating fish and shrimp po' boys while checking out the finest corpulent asses strolling by on St. James. Who is that teardrop for if not the enemy that Martin Luther King condones him offing?
Also, I know Dr. King also didn't make any mention of how being arrested multiple times for possession of weed and/or enough vicodin to knock out an army and being one's adopted father's (a pigeon-call spouting cocaine dealer prior to taking the helm of Cash Money records) down-low sloppy bottom fits into his dream of a harmonious society, but I guess we can thank Lil' Wayne, fresh off planet Mars, for his brilliant modern interpretation of Dr. King's civil rights goals. Tha Carter continues to serve mankind most admirably, and this I understand. Does that now make me Jesus?
You’d expect me to pay somebody to do it? You supposed to be able to do anything in this world. That’s what Martin Luther King told me. He ain’t never put a specific on what to [do]. He said you can do anything. "Kill" falls under that.Ah, yes, Tha Carter is surely living in a nation where he is judged not by the color of his skin, but by the content of his character. I'm sure that if he hadn't been murdered himself, MLK would surely suggest that Lil' Wayne's tattoo teardrops were representative of how the civil rights movement has achieved its goals. Lucky for Lil' Wayne there wasn't a specific clause against murdering those who talk shit about you in their rap songs in the "I Have a Dream" speech, because the lack therof has allowed Weezy to do his part to ensure the realization of Dr. King's dream.
Then again, has Lil' Wayne actually killed anyone? I don't know anyone he has issues with besides the dudes who defected from Cash Money ages ago, and last time anyone checked, Terius "Juvenile" Gray was still eating fish and shrimp po' boys while checking out the finest corpulent asses strolling by on St. James. Who is that teardrop for if not the enemy that Martin Luther King condones him offing?
Also, I know Dr. King also didn't make any mention of how being arrested multiple times for possession of weed and/or enough vicodin to knock out an army and being one's adopted father's (a pigeon-call spouting cocaine dealer prior to taking the helm of Cash Money records) down-low sloppy bottom fits into his dream of a harmonious society, but I guess we can thank Lil' Wayne, fresh off planet Mars, for his brilliant modern interpretation of Dr. King's civil rights goals. Tha Carter continues to serve mankind most admirably, and this I understand. Does that now make me Jesus?
Labels: Birdman, crazies, down with OPB (other people's blogs), hilarous shit, Lil' Wayne, ridiculous absurdity
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Raunie Amadon
DOB: 1983
Occupation: white trash, loyal smoker, matricidal lunatic
Hometown: Laconia, New Hampshire
Current residence: the Laconia jail
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I don't think I need a man as unstable as Raunie in my life, but I have to shake my head at criminal ridiculousness beyond that which is normal. Raunie decided that he was jonesing for a ciggie butt, and like all men in their early twenties with no job, he went right to his dear old mom to ask for some pocket money to buy a pack (of GPCs or Basics, no doubt). When his mom refused, either because she didn't want to or she couldn't afford a pack, he flew into a rage, grabbed a double-sided axe, and threatened to chop her ass up! That would be no small feat, considering that this is Raunie's mother:
I just can't believe this didn't go down in Puyallup. I bet HotLawyer has had clients who've pulled this sort of nonsense before. He's had clients burn down their common law spouse's Dale Earnhardt shrines for revenge, so I wouldn't be shocked to learn that he's got clients who have threatened murder when deprived of nicotine. As he'd say, that's as American as methamphetamine. However, I bet HotLawyer does a better job of keeping his clients quiet during arraignment. Raunie here thought the charges were bullshit, and had to be dragged from the courtroom screaming AFTER the judge set a low bail at the prosecution's request. Raunie is crazy like a fox. He's going to plead insanity and walk. Trust.
And if you want to watch Raunie's hot ass in action, along with his bold mother's brave waddle from the courthouse, please enjoy the local New Hampshirean news coverage:
Now that's what I call a criminal mastermind.
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, HotLawyer, PWT, smoking
Daily Douchebag: Dudes who just won't take a fucking hint
DOB: mid-late 70s (the fact that all these dudes are in their 30s makes it that much more inexcusable)
Occupation: pseudo-stalking me, pestering me via phone, text message, and e-mail
Hometown: varied
Current residence: New York, New York or Brooklyn, New York
Douchebaggery: I have had it with dudes who think that because they had one drunken roll in the hay with me, we're kindred spirits and I owe them my time and attention. WRONG! I owe them NOTHING, and I don't appreciate being put on the spot about it. Be glad you got a piece of ass, fucktard. Sometimes, when a dude who is insecure or has other problems feeds me a few scotches or a few dozen beers, I might overlook his issues and fuck him. This does not mean I want to be his girlfriend or his confidant or his therapist or his mom or anything else. Unfortunately, sometimes this isn't clear to the guy and he persists in annoying me with repeated requests to hang out. Even worse, sometimes the guy in question is linked to me via some other type of relationship--professional, friend-of-a-friend, related to a friend or colleague, etc.--and I can't just bluntly tell them to fuck off as I would be naturally inclined to do because of the risk of damaging fallout in other areas of my life.
These dudes persistently sent these plaintive, desperate-sounding e-mails. One guy just sent me an e-mail complaining that "it's been forever since we hung out." Specifically, it's been since I slept with him months ago! On that occasion, he pissed me off royally by deciding that he should hang around my apartment until two in the afternoon the next day, unload literal TONS of personal baggage on me (because...WHY?), refuse to fuck me in my favorite position (doggystyle) because it was "degrading," and drink all my beer! Even when I hinted that he should make like a library and book he didn't catch on, such as when I said, "well, I've got stuff to do, I better hop in the shower" and he responded, "oooh, let's shower together." GET A FUCKING CLUE, ASSHOLE. That's nice-girl for "GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY APARTMENT, YOUR TIME IS UP!" As I hated this motherfucker so much at this point that tolerating a group shower was not an option for me, I finally had to call J-Sexy and stage a phone conversation that made it sound like I was late to some very important team labwork date, which is one of the most preposterous stories I've ever made up. Thank God J-Sexy played along and I was able to finally shake off this sexual lamprey and promptly demand that we go to Dinosaur BBQ and get drunk commiserating over ribs and tales of honeys who just won't leave.
Somehow, it was lost on this guy that I have mysteriously been so busy for the past SIX MONTHS every time he's wanted to hang out, except for situations in which there are a lot of other people there. Nonetheless, every time I talk to him for reasons having to do with our pre-existing non-sexual relationship, he immediately starts gabbing about his personal life and bitching about how we need to hang out. Why do we need to hang out? Our relationship outside of the one time we had sex is not a friendship, I definitely don't consider him a friend, I don't care about his life, and I have zero desire to tell him about mine. In fact, his desperation and insistence makes my skin crawl, I hate his personal style, I absolutely don't give a rat's ass about his insecurities, his psychosexual issues, or his relationship with his ex, I think he's really obnoxious to make so many demands on my time (and then act bitchy when I make yet another excuse to not hang out with him), and I would rather have sex with a fat homeless serial killer than deign to fuck him ever again. I actually am fairly busy, and I don't have enough time to see my friends as regularly as I would like, or get enough sleep, or get laid with guys I actually do like, so why would I spend a precious evening having drinks and listening to this asshole ramble on self-importantly and then try to convince me to fuck him again? I FUCKING WOULD NOT!
However, no matter how many times I make vague excuses to not hang out or to cancel hanging out, how many times I ignore his obvious hints to invite him to various functions (my birthday party, Thanksgiving, etc.), he doesn't get the fucking picture. When I finally managed to get him out of my apartment after fucking him months ago, he said, "I hope things aren't weird between us."
"I'm sure they won't be," I said. I assumed that he'd finally gotten the message that I was uncomfortable with what had happened, and I was not up for having it again. Surely I thought that months of me not being available or ever initiating a hangout session myself would help reiterate that point. Sadly it did not, and now he's angling to hang out with me in 2008 since I told him I was basically booked through the holidays. Guess what? Put it together, dude: if I wanted to hang out with you so bad, I would make time to do so. I DON'T WANT TO MAKE TIME FOR YOU. In fact, if I could, I'd tell you that I think you are pathetic and desperate and socially dysfunctional and it's insulting that you think I would want anything to do with juvenile ploys to make your ex jealous, lengthy analysis of all your many personal problems, or sitting around alternately fucking you and listening to you process about all your myriad issues. NO. So quit asking before I have to make up a lie about seeing someone else just to shut you up, because I hate lying and that probably wouldn't be an effective deterrent anyway. Seriously, LEAVE ME ALONE!
The sad thing is that even though I'm almost positive the aforementioned dude reads this from time to time like a good pseudostalker should, the likelihood that he'll recognize himself and adjust his behavior accordingly is slim. In fact, even if he does recognize himself, he'll probably want to process like a couple of damn Smith lesbians about my feelings for him, and that will create still more opportunities for him to torment me with queries about when we can hang out again, and make the entire situation that much more uncomfortable when I have to see him for reasons pertaining to our other relationship. Dude, do us both a favor and just quietly go find some other chick to misplace all your drama on and who likes fucking in the closed-leg missionary position so that we can coexist in peace. I'm never hanging out with you. Deal.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, overcompensation, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sex, sluts
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: In Touch Weekly magazine
DOB: ??
Occupation: keeping frivolous bitches (ie: yours truly) up to speed on breaking celebrity gossip
Hometown: Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey
Current residence: newsstands everywhere
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Here at RAZZY.org, we're all about printing totally unsubstantiated, insufficiently researched, one-sided blowhard opinions and rumors. We--and by "we" I mean "I"--pride ourselves on our poor fact-checking and revel in the fact that as everything here is entirely our own opinion and does not purport to be a news report, we can write whatever the hell we want. The useless bullshit business is a great one to be in.
Anyway, that's why I have to recognize In Touch Weekly for doing the same thing this week. They not only published the above report detailing how the legendary Ms. Britney Spears is knocked up with J.R. Rotem's bastard, but that she's been emailing the ultrasound pics around to her friends (Brit-Brit knows how to use email? GET OUT) and is really excited about being three times a negligent mommy. I don't know why I'd be so excited about the prospect of having this stank guido's love child, but whatever. Seriously, K-Fed looks like Adonis in comparison to this pig-eyed, Dumbo-eared asshole. He's wearing a PAGER clipped to his pants, for God's sake! Is it 1997 again or something? A PAGER!
J.R. Rotem reminds me of something, and it's not my jeep, sound, car, or bank account. At best, he's reminiscent of some dude who should be featured on guidofistpump.com, and at worst he invokes memories of that dude who got caught fucking the 92-year-old woman's corpse in New Jersey about a month ago. I bet that his house is filled with taped-up pictures of bitches in bikinis ripped out of FHM. One time long ago in Tacoma I slept with a dude who had scantily clad bitches all over his bathroom walls, as well as a stack of men's mags and Victoria's Secret catalogs next to the toilet. I was amused, as well as impressed at his lack of shyness about making his guest bathroom into a shameless shrine to beating off. He was the sort of pothead, slightly hippiefied type of guido (lesbish Celtic armband tat on his bulging bicep, hemp fimo-bead necklace, just a smidge of gel in the hair) you find in the P-N-Dub, but then he moved to Florida, so I'm sure it was only a matter of time before he embraced the hair grease, the gold chains, the too-small wife beater, and a pair of Oakleys. Can I get a fist pump?
Anyway, apparently J.R. Rotem does have some shame, unlike the guido-in-training dude I banged all those years back. He is summarily denouncing that he ever confirmed Brit's pregnancy to In Touch, while Britney's people are not only saying that this is a lie, but they are planning to sue. That's no fun. However, I give props to In Touch for not really caring whether or not Brit is knocked up with a baby or just developing an abdominal mass of rancid Frappuccino and partially digested grilled "stuft" burritoes from Taco Bell. Either way, there's just one thing that can describe it: NAST! Props to In Touch for speculating and portraying that speculation as fact. Way to keep my kiosk exciting, at least on a day when the sublime awesomeness known as the New York Post has some boring headline about the Broadway stagehand strike ending (SO don't care.) Keep printing those fabricated stories, In Touch!
Labels: Britney Spears, celebrities, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, gross, media whores, oh the horror
Daily Douchebag: Acne Vulgaris
DOB: Puberty
Occupation: Fucking bitches' faces up
Hometown: clogged pores
Current residence: my face
Douchebaggery: I am twenty-nine years old. ALMOST THIRTY. So why am I still getting zits like a damn teenager fifteen years my junior? Granted, right now I have one solitary blemish (that picture above is NOT my face, by the way...I'm just too vain to even stick a picture of myself with even one unsightly pimple up on the internets so I looked up some grossness on the internets to illustrate my point). However, one blemish is one too many. Besides, it's huge.
Last night, I was bitching to J-Sexy about this and she said, "Oh, please, I didn't even notice it until you pointed it out." Well, maybe it's not that noticeable to everyone else, but every time I look in a mirror, I feel like I'm witnessing the eruption of Mount Saint Helens on my right cheek. It might be only one (giant, obvious, disgusting) zit, but I still feel like Pizza the Hut from Spaceballs nonetheless:
Even worse is the fact that I am not big into makeup. I suck at aesthetic girl stuff, like fixing hair (I can't even French braid) and applying cosmetics. Therefore, I don't have the skills to cover up this zit without having what my friend MillerTime calls "Krissy Grant face." Krissy Grant was this girl we went to high school with who had bad skin and always laid the foundation on thick, even though it didn't match her skin tone. Therefore, she'd always have a noticeable line where the foundation left off and her real skin began. Even worse, because the pancake was so thick, it would cake up on "problem areas," thus drawing even more attention to her dermatological imperfections rather than disguising them. I'd have felt sorry for her if the dumb whore hadn't sucker punched me (actually, it was more like a sucker bitch-slap) in the student center during our senior year for making a snide comment about how she was already a mother with a crackhead baby daddy at the ripe old age of 16. I just remember feeling a jarring blow to the back of my head and a glimpse of a retreating orange face that screamed, "Don't talk shit about my kid, you fucking bitch!" Maybe I would have been more sympathetic if she hadn't slapped me with my back turned and run away like a damn coward. Needless to say, I didn't hit her back or tattle on her, but I didn't stop talking shit, either...as I am obviously doing so over a decade later. Her MySpace tells me that she had another couple bastard kids and lives on a military base somewhere; I clearly won the game of Life. But I digress.
The point is that I am not skilled enough with a makeup sponge to disguise my unsightly zit without giving myself a serious case of Krissy Grant face, so I just have to suck it up and face the world with this damn thing uglying me up. I'd rather go au naturel and hope that, as J-Sexy said, it is less noticeable to other people than it is to me. What I want to know, however, is when will this stop? I wash my face, I try to drink enough water, and I don't eat fast food. Why am I still getting freaking zits now that I am pushing senior citizenship? I better not be getting pimples along with my AARP newsletters, because I thought that one of the perks of aging was not having to put up with teenager crap like acne anymore. I don't want to be using Proactiv when I'm thirty! It's time for my skin to start acting its age. Why can't I have some wrinkles instead? At least those would make me seem distinguished and mature.
Labels: aging, Daily Douchebag, overcompensation, vanity, you're ugly
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Ingrid Marie Rivera AGAIN
DOB: October 8, 1983
Occupation: manipulative skank, Miss Puerto Rico
Hometown: Luquilla, Puerto Rico
Current residence: Ignonimy
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Earlier this week, I was impressed that the newly crowned Miss Puerto Rico managed to compete and win the Miss Puerto Rico pageant after her clothes and makeup were tainted with pepper spray. Now, investigators think that rather than being a victim of sabotage, she faked the whole thing! Holy crap!
Apparently, suspicions were raised when it was revealed that she was able to stop crying on stage. Initially everyone thought this was just her being fierce, but then someone pointed out that pepper spray causes your eyes to tear uncontrollably. That is some seriously "Melrose Place" shit right there. Really, is Dr. Michael Mancini somehow involved in this? Because I am expecting her to next pull some convoluted scheme involving psychotropic drugs that can induce a fake stroke and hiring actors to drive her competitors insane. If indeed she faked it, I think she should keep her crown just for being a crazy prostitute with creativity in spades. Who would cook up such a diabolical plot to take the Miss Puerto Rico crown besides an evil genius? I want to see what kind of soap opera ploy she uses to advance in the Miss Universe pageant. Watch out, Nha Trang, Vietnam, because a ruthless Puerto Rican pageant queen is heading your way to poison all her competitors' pho or something. This bitch could blow repentant drunken lesbo cokeheads like Tara Conner straight the fuck away. She is no joke.
Labels: beauty queens, crime and punishment, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, international intrigue, sluts
Daily Douchebag: Details magazine
DOB: ??
Occupation: giving men some bullshit ideas
Douchebaggery: I take back what I said a while back about Details being a useful men's magazine after seeing the above cover of their "Power and Influence" issue. While I certainly agree with a polemic against fake tits and I think all parents should ask themselves whether they are raising douchebag children, I simply cannot fathom why KEVIN FUCKING FEDERLINE is the poster boy for the world's 50 most influential men under 45. WHAT?
Okay, K-Fed looks like parent of the year compared to his ex-wife, but the kid-eating witch from "Hansel and Gretel" could probably seem more competent at child-rearing than the legendary Ms. Britney Spears. I wouldn't call that "influential," unless somehow men are all being influenced to not procreate wildly with meth-smoking, club-hopping, vadge-flashing, nappily beweaved trainwrecks. Even worse, K-Fed tied with Anna Nicole's twink baby daddy for number SEVEN on the list, right between fools defaulting on their mortgages and Muqtada al-Sadr! Granted, the whole list reads like it was put together by some thirteen-year-old asshole who decided to get high and pick bullshit names out of a hat. The top ten include:
1. Zac Efron, Shia LeBouef, and the Disney kids
2. The Surge (as in Iraq war troop surge)
3. Mark Zuckerberg (inventor of Facebook...I guess Tom from MySpace is obsolete)
4. The Bible Beaters (because they're all turning out to be homo-ass hypocrites, probably)
5. Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold (even after EIGHT FUCKING YEARS, the Trenchcoat Mafia influences countless Details readers...to shoot up their schools)
6. The Subprime Sucker/Mortgage Defaulter (WHAT?!)
7. Kevin Federline and Larry Birkhead
8. Muqtada al-Sadr
9. The word "faggot" (I'm not kidding...Details declares this word "forever young")
10. Howard Wolfson, polical consultant for Hillary Clinton (wait, Hill's consultant makes the list but no Barack Obama? I thought he would be #1! Details is apparently endorsing the Efron-LeBouef presidential ticket. High School Musical in the White House!)
Details should be taken out of print immediately for having such asinine ideas about "power and influence." The only dudes up there who seem to be in the right spot on the list are the Facebook guy and the neo-con Jesus freaks. The solitary thing I can think of in praise of this magazine is that they put K-Fed on the cover rather than Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold getting ready to shoot the fuck out of Columbine High School. Otherwise, this list is just mystifying. How are K-Fed and Larry Birkhead more influential than the head Shiite cleric in charge over in Iraq? Sorry, but I think that commanding an armed militia of religious warriors constitutes greater power and influence than dudes who hit the jackpot by knocking up rich white trash. Details just lost all credibility with me in spite of their campaigns against fake tits and douchebag children. The devil's in the Details!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, intentional buffoonery, oh the horror, overcompensation, ridiculous absurdity
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Billy Dee Williams
Real Name: William December Williams, Jr. (!)
DOB: April 6, 1937
Occupation: smooth-ass actor
Hometown: Harlem, New York, New York
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Ever since I was a little kid, I've heard my mom go on and on about how she thinks Billy Dee Williams is the sexiest piece of ass on the planet. Whenever we watch The Empire Strikes Back and Lando first strolls out to flash his lady-killing grin at Princess Leia in the Cloud City, my mother without fail falls into a state of giggly, rapturous praise. "Oh, that Billy Dee! He's so charming! He's so handsome!" In fact, in Return of the Jedi, my mother shows no interest whatsoever in the goings on at Jabba's palace until Lando shows up as part of the effort to break Han Solo out of his carbonite prison to atone for selling his ass out in the previous movie.
While I never achieved my mother's level of Billy Dee adoration, I saw the above picture of him picking up Thanksgiving dinner this year and have to give the man his due. He is pretty fucking hot for a SEVENTY YEAR OLD. Normally I don't think dirty thoughts about the elderly, but I would be lying if I said I didn't contemplate what it would be like hitting that hot geriatric piece. This is also encouraging, because it proves that alcohol--or at least Colt 45--does a body good. As I'm on the Billy Dee health plan, I'm fixing to be one hot old bitch in another forty years.
Speaking of Colt 45, I managed to dig up an old TV ad in which the hotness known as William December Williams, Jr. talks about his favorite beverage. "There are two rules to remember if you want to have a good time. Rule number one: never run out of Colt 45. Rule number two: never forget rule number one." If that's not hot, I don't know what is.
Billy Dee truly cornered the market on smooth, and he hasn't given that shit up now, even in his twilight years. While I certainly had fun fingerbanging the turkey with my platonic life partner this Thanksgiving, I have to confess that part of me wishes I was enjoying some delicious, frosty-cold cans of malt liquor with Lando Calrissian. What a foxy old man.
Labels: aging, alcoholism, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, movies
Daily Douchebag: P.D. O'Hurley's
DOB: Established ???--whenevs
Occupation: enabling drunk-ass bitches on a school night
Location: 72nd between Amsterdam and Columbus
Douchebaggery: Normally I sing the praises of any place that serves hooch and gets me drunk. However, thanks to this establishment, I wound up getting home at 3 a.m. Last night, I was supposed to just have a quiet night teaching JerseyGirl how to make tacos (seriously...I had to teach this bitch how to make grilled cheese a couple weeks ago) and watching "I Love New York 2" and "The Hills" with her, HillsYes, and Senioritis. HillsYes was smart, only drank two beers, and bailed after we watched the vacant sack of blinding veneers known as Audrina Partridge finally show a slight glimmer of intelligence (emphasis on SLIGHT...I swear we only watch this show to revel in how astoundingly stupid and vacant these hookers are) in dumping Justin Bobby. That quiet night turned into drinking an entire twelve-pack of Amstel Light, a bottle of chardonnay that Laurie Dhue had given JerseyGirl for Christmas last year when she worked for America's favorite freedom-loving news channel, a sixer of Heineken, and then a 2:00 a.m. visit to P.D. O'Hurley's. I was DRUNK, and frankly, I still might be.
"COME ON!" said Senioritis, when I feebly protested the idea of going to a bar on a Monday night. "Are you Razzy, or what?"
Obviously, that strategy of persuading me to continue drinking regardless of the consequences works every time. I vaguely remember drinking a Bud Light at P.D. O'Hurley's and then turning down some random dude on the street's offer to buy me a hot dog at Gray's Papaya. When I got home, I tripped in my lobby and then dropped my contact lens case in the toilet.
The truth is, I have nobody but myself to blame for my current condition of half-drunk, half-hung over. However, since I like to misplace culpability and dodge responsibility for my own drunken mistakes, it's all P.D. O'Hurley's fault for being there and offering our dumb asses brew dogs in the wee hours on a Monday night. On the bright side, the bartender there who is jocking Senioritis was off that night, so we didn't get free drinks. If free drinks had been in the mix, I can only imagine the considerably graver state I'd be in now. So if you're disappointed because I'm a little duller than normal, you know who to point an accusatory finger at: P.D. O'HURLEY'S!
Labels: alcoholism, Daily Douchebag, JerseyGirl, NYC, Senioritis
Monday, November 26, 2007
Razzy: Homemaker of the Year
I'm sure you're all wondering how my Thanksgiving went, because you were likely spending the holiday weekend agonizing about my lack of bloggery, as you all undoubtedly spend approximately 99.999999999% of your time thinking Razzy-filled thoughts. I know. But sorry, dudes, even beloved internet icons ("beloved internet icon"=loser with nothing better to do than live vicariously through her own blog) like myself need to take a couple days off from the grueling useless bullshit business sometimes. I actually had a lot of work. My buddy G-Cat and my newest labmate SisterChristian and I decided to host all the grad students who were away from their families for Thanksgiving. G-Cat provided his apartment, SisterChristian provided assistance, and I provided my vast culinary expertise. It was no small feat, as we ended up feeding around 20 people. I made two turkeys in two ovens in two different apartments, stuffing, five quarts of gravy, mashed potatoes, baked macaroni and cheese, three pies, yams, guacamole, and a turkey sculpture out of cheese logs.
Okay, I had some help with everything (except the work of art that is that turkey cheese sculpture, which I lovingly handcrafted myself), but I was basically the head chef and in charge of everything. I pulled it off, garnering rave reviews for my culinary skills.
"Razzy, I didn't think you were this domestic," said one of the orphan grad students attending our soiree.
"As far as wife skills go, I can fuck and I can cook, but I'm shit at cleaning," I explained.
"Two out of three ain't bad," he said (failing to credit Meat Loaf for the quote). I agree, and I think cleaning is the one thing you can get away with sucking at. You can always hire a maid, but men definitely like it better if you can bang the daylights out of them and then feed them a delicious meal. Too bad I'm not in the market for a MRS degree, because I'd be one hell of a capable wifey.
The one area, however, where my homemaking skills fall short is the fact that I do all this cooking looking like a hot trashtastic dyke, with my practical knotted hair, my wife-beater, and my toned upper arms. The fact that before G-Cat could come carve the turkey like the man of the house should, I decided to teach J-Sexy and SisterChristian how to do lesbian sex to it doesn't exactly paint me as a virtuous keeper of home and hearth:
Looks like I just shot to hell my chances of being declared the heir apparent to June Cleaver. Somehow I suspect the people who give out awards based on homemaking skills might frown on teaching bitches how to find a roasted piece of poultry's G-spot. Oh well. At least the turkey tasted good. Better than some snatches I've licked, that's for sure (just kidding, special girlfriends). Plenty to be thankful for anyway!
"Razzy, I didn't think you were this domestic," said one of the orphan grad students attending our soiree.
"As far as wife skills go, I can fuck and I can cook, but I'm shit at cleaning," I explained.
"Two out of three ain't bad," he said (failing to credit Meat Loaf for the quote). I agree, and I think cleaning is the one thing you can get away with sucking at. You can always hire a maid, but men definitely like it better if you can bang the daylights out of them and then feed them a delicious meal. Too bad I'm not in the market for a MRS degree, because I'd be one hell of a capable wifey.
The one area, however, where my homemaking skills fall short is the fact that I do all this cooking looking like a hot trashtastic dyke, with my practical knotted hair, my wife-beater, and my toned upper arms. The fact that before G-Cat could come carve the turkey like the man of the house should, I decided to teach J-Sexy and SisterChristian how to do lesbian sex to it doesn't exactly paint me as a virtuous keeper of home and hearth:
Labels: bestiality, gluttony, grad school bullshit, intentional buffoonery, J-Sexy, lezbollah, perversion, Razzification, SisterChristian
50 speaks the international language
People (ie: J-Sexy) often wonder why I like my boyfriend Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson so much. He's a ridiculous, unreasonable, combative, violent, skeezy, bullet-riddled, possibly gay criminal, but I wouldn't have it any other way. I love his problem attitude, and the fact that he doesn't seem to take himself very seriously, but just says whatever the fuck he wants. I get the feeling that Fitty knows how funny most of the shit he spouts off with a poker face sounds, and as he admits in his song, is laughing straight to the bank about it. The latest news story about him is a case in point.
Being the consummate businessman, Fitty has decided to expand into new markets, and thus spent his Thanksgiving performing for an audience of rabid G-g-g-g-Unit fans in Mumbai, India. To promote this show, Curtis gave an interview to a website called desihits.com. The interviewer decided to teach Fitty a few things about Indian culture. After teaching him some Bhangra dances and offering him some delicacies from the local dessert cart, he decided to give him some tips on how to sweet talk the ladies. Specifically, he attempted to instruct him on how to say "beautiful girl" in Hindi. Apparently sick of language and culture lessons, Curtis stood up, unzipped his fly (causing hilarity to ensue in the form of the interviewer cowering in terror behind his shirt), and responded, "Everyone in the world knows sign language."
Ah, indeed. Everyone understands "suck my cock, ho" in international sign language. Fitty claims that his experience bears this out. "I am looking forward to coming to India. Every country I have been to, even if I don't speak the language, people know what I mean when I do this."
What I can't believe is that Fitty wasn't arrested and hauled off by India's morality police. Richard Gere and Shilpa Shetty earned arrest warrants for a tame peck on the cheek at an AIDS rally in India, so I find it hard to believe that when Fitty went to whip out his pecker there weren't some incensed conservatives demanding justice. It just reiterates Curtis Jackson's inherent invincibility. He can get shot nine times and offend the sexually conservative sensibilities of certain factions of Indian society, and still make $400 million hawking Vitamin Water and banging hot Bollywood actresses. God, I love my boyfriend.
And if you want to see about 45 seconds worth of hilarity, watch the video promoting 50's interview with D-d-d-d-desihits.com. Watch 50 Bhangra dance! Find out which Bollywood babe he thinks is hot! Watch 50 eat Indian desserts! Watch 50 speak Hindi! See 50 wearing an Indian cricket top! And reveal what lies beneath...
Those are desihits.com's words, not mine. But it's awesome, all the same. Enjoy:
Being the consummate businessman, Fitty has decided to expand into new markets, and thus spent his Thanksgiving performing for an audience of rabid G-g-g-g-Unit fans in Mumbai, India. To promote this show, Curtis gave an interview to a website called desihits.com. The interviewer decided to teach Fitty a few things about Indian culture. After teaching him some Bhangra dances and offering him some delicacies from the local dessert cart, he decided to give him some tips on how to sweet talk the ladies. Specifically, he attempted to instruct him on how to say "beautiful girl" in Hindi. Apparently sick of language and culture lessons, Curtis stood up, unzipped his fly (causing hilarity to ensue in the form of the interviewer cowering in terror behind his shirt), and responded, "Everyone in the world knows sign language."
What I can't believe is that Fitty wasn't arrested and hauled off by India's morality police. Richard Gere and Shilpa Shetty earned arrest warrants for a tame peck on the cheek at an AIDS rally in India, so I find it hard to believe that when Fitty went to whip out his pecker there weren't some incensed conservatives demanding justice. It just reiterates Curtis Jackson's inherent invincibility. He can get shot nine times and offend the sexually conservative sensibilities of certain factions of Indian society, and still make $400 million hawking Vitamin Water and banging hot Bollywood actresses. God, I love my boyfriend.
And if you want to see about 45 seconds worth of hilarity, watch the video promoting 50's interview with D-d-d-d-desihits.com. Watch 50 Bhangra dance! Find out which Bollywood babe he thinks is hot! Watch 50 eat Indian desserts! Watch 50 speak Hindi! See 50 wearing an Indian cricket top! And reveal what lies beneath...
Those are desihits.com's words, not mine. But it's awesome, all the same. Enjoy:
Labels: 50 cent, boyfriends, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, international intrigue, overcompensation, weiners
Internets to Chingy!: BA FAN!
Last year, LL Cool Jew and I tried to find a term that would serve as a Cantonese rebuke for my asshole Pug Chingy! since English reprimands didn't work. Chingy!'s original owners spoke Cantonese at home, so we thought this might work. Unfortunately, neither of us speak Cantonese. So I went to the internets and found that "ba fan" means "to disgustedly beat, row, or be rampant in defiance of authority." I felt that suited Chingy! and tried it out. It didn't work, and I've realized that being rampant in defiance of authority is Chingy!'s inherent nature. He's just an asshole, and there's nothing that can be done about that, so I might as well accept a lifetime of receiving contemptuous sneezes and exceedingly arrogant attitude from him.
It seems the internets have caught on, because while I was looking for some trash about Kanye West, I stumbled on this page. It seems to be one of those weird placeholder webpages that sometimes pop up in a Google search. They don't really have any content besides ads that make no sense, although this one made a hell of a lot of sense to me:
Since nobody has cared about Chingy the rapper since 2003, I can only assume that my dog's bad reputation has become so prevalent on the internets that even weird placeholder ad websites are taking a stand and saying "ba fan" to his rank fat ass.
I asked Chingy! for comment. Specifically, I said, "How does it feel to have websites describing their subject matter as 'against Chingy'? Even the internets think you're an asshole." His response?
Chingy! proceeded to snore loudly and kick me for disturbing his beauty sleep, or more aptly, his ugly as sin sleep.
CHONGAY CHONG, anti-Chingy! websites!
I asked Chingy! for comment. Specifically, I said, "How does it feel to have websites describing their subject matter as 'against Chingy'? Even the internets think you're an asshole." His response?
CHONGAY CHONG, anti-Chingy! websites!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, comeuppance, defiance, doggity style, fat fucks, gross, intentional buffoonery, LL Cool Jew
Daily Douchebag: Dr. Donda West
DOB: 1949
DOD: November 10, 2007
Occupation: former English professor, Kanye West's manager
Hometown: Atlanta, Georgia
Current residence: a cemetery somewhere--Chi-town?
Douchebaggery: As much as I hate Kanye West for being an insufferable, obnoxious asshole, I did feel bad when his mother died. I would be devastated if my mother passed long before her time, and I don't wish family tragedy on anyone, even an annoying egomaniacal sell-out like Kanye. That said, however, the media should SHUT UP about Donda West.
Donda is being discussed in the same way that people discuss those who died in the Holocaust. She's being portrayed as the innocent victim of some nefarious evil force, and her departure from this mortal coil is the most tragic untimely death since Martin Luther King or John F. Kennedy. While from what I've read, it seems like Donda was a brilliant scholar, a loving mother, and an all-around good person, I had no idea who the fuck Donda West was until she croaked. The bitch was busy doing things like getting Kanye airmailed $4000 worth of transatlantic Indian food and marketing Kanye merchandise. She might have been a good person, but it's not like she was Mother Teresa, and I am tired of hearing her described as though she was. In my view, if it weren't for her, we wouldn't be listening to Kanye's asinine demagoguery about everything from conflict diamonds to Jesus, and that would make the world a better fucking place. Thanks a lot for giving birth to that asshole, Donda, and even worse, thanks for ENCOURAGING him to be a blowhard.
Furthermore, Donda didn't die from an assassin's bullet or some other martyr-type death. She died having plastic surgery from a doctor whose credentials she didn't check after a different doctor told her that she wasn't a candidate for a tummy tuck or tumescent lipo or whatever. Basically, she went against medical advice for the sake of vanity. I'm not saying that anyone who wants plastic surgery deserves to die, but it shouldn't be so fucking unexpected when a doctor refuses to operate on you because you're such a high-risk patient, and you instead turn to some unscrupulous quack without board certification. Donda decided to risk her life for her looks, and paid the price. That sucks, but it's not like she died rescuing puppies from a burning building, and if I hear one more entertainment news report portraying her death as some type of horrible unforeseen tragedy from which the world is paralyzed with grief, I'm going to swear off watching "Access Hollywood" and "The Insider" forever. Whatever will I do now that Donda West is dead? As challenging as it will be for me, I'll probably keep slanging rhinovirus, pounding Heinekens, watching reruns of "I Love New York 2," and hating on her son. In other words, BUSINESS AS USUAL.
Kid Rock had it right at the AMAs when he took the stage and asked everyone who was busy with the clusterfuck of public lamentation about Donda West's death to remember the thousands of U.S. soldiers who died in Iraq and Afghanistan, as well. It's true that all those soldiers have done as much if not more for the world than Donda West, and who gave their lives serving their country rather than their own narcissistic desire for smaller saddlebags, and they're not getting shit besides the odd "here's who died in Iraq today" cable news segment. Donda West's death has served only to showcase how completely skewed our priorities as a society are, as we care more about Kanye's stupid mother than the fucking WAR that's destroying our economy, ruining our credit with the world, and killing our citizens and soldiers. So fuck Donda West. She's dead. Move on.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, media whores, people who died, plastic surgery, rap, vanity
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Ingrid Marie Rivera
DOB: October 8, 1983
Occupation: former Miss Mundo de Puerto Rico and Miss Caribbean in the Miss World pageant, current Miss Puerto Rico in the Miss Universe pageant, and newly crowned Razzy.org Miss Hardcore Pageant Bitch
Hometown: Luquillo, Puerto Rico
Current residence: San Juan, Puerto Rico
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Yesterday, Ingrid beat 29 other bitches to take the crown of Miss Puerto Rico and win a trip to the Miss Universe pageant in Nha Trang, Vietnam. While I normally could give a shit about what goes on with pageant bitches unless they are getting coked up and licking snatch, falling on their asses to the tune of Sean Paul's "Give It Up to Me," and otherwise embarrassing themselves during competition, or confusing "retrospect" with "respect," I have to step back and take a look at the odds Ingrid overcame and give the bitch her due.
Apparently, the competition this year for the title of Miss Puerto Rico was so fierce that some contestants decided to resort to dirty tricks. One of these hookers fancied herself Medea, and decided to poison Ingrid's evening gowns and makeup. Fortunately, Ingrid did not catch fire when she threw on the tainted garments and MAC Studio Fix, although she did break out in hives. At first, the pageant people thought she was having an allergic reaction, but after multiple outfit changes all resulting in exacerbated symptoms, it was clear that she was the victim of sabotage. Unlike Medea, this malevolent cheater laid low after spiking Ingrid's clothes and face pancake with pepper spray rather than riding away in a chariot pulled by flying dragons, and thus the powers that govern the Miss Puerto Rico contest are on the hunt for the culprit.
In spite of the sabotage, however, Ingrid said "fuck you" to all the haters and proceeded to win the damn crown! I knew these pageant bitches were serious, but that is no joke. Once, in high school, my friend G-Boner and I sprayed some pepper spray into the air and walked through it, because we wanted to see exactly how painful it was, and being
The Miss Puerto Rico pageant officials are conducting an investigation, and woe betide the guilty person. I believe that this pageant is a part of Donald Trump's Miss Universe organization, and I would hate to be the sorry excuse for a Miss Puerto Rico wannabe who has to face the wrath of the Donald. He's probably already selecting the choicest juvenile insults for the inevitable appearance on Larry King where he will detail how he plans to summarily ruin this hooker's life. When he booted Miss Nevada from the Miss USA pageant last year for being a drunk exhibitionist, he called her disgusting and depraved. The fate of hookers--excepting Tara Conner, who got to go to rehab and star on a MTV reality show--who cast aspersions on the good name of Miss Universe is generally grave. Whoever poisoned Ingrid's clothes and makeup can expect a lot more miserable bullshit than merely coping with the sting of losing. They should have watched that "Melrose Place" episode where Dr. Michael Mancini was judging a pageant, and slept with Denise Richards (one of the contestants) because Michael Mancini was a total slave to his cock. It was a damn miracle that man could actually practice medicine competently, since he spent 90% of his time either having ill-advised sex with crazy women or plotting how to drive those crazy women even crazier. I don't remember exactly what happened, but Denise Richard's mother tried to extort him after he boned her, Michael realized that he'd been set up, and then Denise lost the pageant anyway (I think the hotness known as Dr. Peter Burns intervened). Denise was lucky Michael didn't try to have her lobotomized or go to elaborate lengths to make her think she was schizophrenic like he did with Dr. Kimberly Shaw. The moral of the story here is that cheating in beauty pageants is a dangerous game, and one in which the cheaters rarely, if ever, prosper. So next year, it would be in bitches' best interests to keep the Miss Puerto Rico pageant clean.
Labels: beauty queens, comeuppance, crime and punishment, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot chicks, sluts
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Happy Kellsgiving!
Here in the glorious United States of Asskickery, the day after Thanksgiving is known as "Black Friday." From now on, for LL Cool Jew and myself anyway, it will be known as "Black, Handsome, Sings, Plus is Rich, and Is a Flirt Friday." Because that's the day we saw the mind-blowing awesomeness that is Robert Sylvester Kelly LIVE IN CONCERT ON LONG ISLAND!!!!!!!!--hold on, this isn't accurately conveying how I feel about this experience--!!!!!!!!!!****!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!****
The R. Kelly concert was every bit as unbelievable as you might imagine. Or maybe you wouldn't imagine it to be so eventful, since it's come to my attention that in spite of Kells attracting a new audience of despicable hipsters thanks to the IFC's embracing of "Trapped in the Closet," a lot of people still don't appreciate the genius of Robert Sylvester Kelly. However, as Kelefah Sanneh of the New York Times promised, it is indeed two and a half hours of "nothing but climax" and the incomparable King of R&B being "thrilling, hilarious, and downright mystifying, often all at once."
Even the trip to Long Island was thrilling, hilarious, and downright mystifying, because the dumbass morons who built the Nassau Veterans Memorial Coliseum DIDN'T BUILD IT ON THE LIRR. Who the fuck builds a stadium in a place where it is as difficult to reach by public transportation as possible? To get there, we had to take the LIRR to some godforsaken stop an hour from the city and then take a Nassau County bus. We made the train at the last minute and proceeded to get down to business acting like a couple of dumb kids, taking pictures of ourselves with what LL Cool Jew refers to as her "teenager phone" (due to its garish orange color and fancy pop-out texting keyboard and windows):
As we neared the Hempstead stop, it became apparent that all the other passengers were also going there for one reason: KELLS. Why the hell else would anyone go to Hempstead? I guess Hofstra is right by there, but our train was devoid of college kids. Instead there was this cute Haitian couple on a date to the Kells show with what seemed like one of their little brothers tagging along, all conversing excitedly in rapid French, and a drunk guy who offered us all pre-Kells swigs from his brown-bagged bottle of Remy.
Upon our arrival in Hempstead, we were relieved to see that the bus stop was indoors, since the N70 bus we had to take wasn't there. When it did arrive, everyone piled on, including a group of very excited women led by a gold-toothed vixen named Keyshia. After listening to her discuss with her friends who the hottest Keyshia would be at the show (her or Keyshia Cole), they proceeded to get everyone on the bus worked up. "The RRRRRRRRRRRRRR!" she was shouting with her friends, which prompted the unnaturally friendly bus driver to get on his intercom and say, "Who here is going to see the RRRRRRRRRR?" When that got a favorable reaction from the bus riders, he added, "Who is going home with the RRRRRRRRRR?"
Keyshia and her crew went berserk. "He's the R in R&B!" one of them exclaimed.
"I think you mean the R-uh in R&B," I corrected her.
"The R-uh! Hell yes!" they crowed, pouring more liquor into their coffee cups. They then proceeded to tell us about all the times they've seen R. Kelly live, and explained that the reason he was playing at such a bitch-to-get-to venue rather than Madison Square Garden was on account of a lawsuit relating to the collapse of the R. Kelly/Jay-Z Best of Both Worlds tour, when Kells cut a set short after seeing someone with a gun in the audience and was maced in the face by some of Jay-Z's people. Alas, it would have been much easier to take the A train a few stops from my crib to the Garden, but then we probably never would have met Keyshia et al and been so remarkably entertained.
When we arrived at the Coliseum stop, we realized we had to cross the Hempstead Turnpike and a gargantuan parking lot. There was no crosswalk, so we were hesitant to race across a six-lane highway, particularly LL Cool Jew, who was wearing one of her standard pairs of cripplingly high stiletto heels. However, Keyshia once again took charge, and announced, "Bus people! Follow me!" before barging right into the road. Luckily we all made it across, and LL Cool Jew was able to snap a picture of me behind a line of the aforementioned "bus people."
After getting to the coliseum and getting through the metal detectors which preceded the ticket takers ("they didn't have these when I came here to see J.T. and Christina Aguilera," noted LL Cool Jew dryly), we proceeded to get situated with Bud Lights in our nosebleed section seats and ignore J. Holiday's opening set. To pass the time until Robert Sylvester Kelly's grand entrance, we speculated on what type of awesomeness could happen. I mentioned that earlier in lab that day, J-Sexy had said to me, "What if you got to meet R. Kelly? Oh my GOD, how ridicolos would it be if you got to DO R. Kelly, Razzy?!?!" LL Cool Jew and I decided to explore that fantastic notion.
"So, if Kells wanted to double up with us, would BigBagel give you a pass?" I asked LL Cool Jew. Her married status generally eliminates the possibility of her having groupie sex, but you never know. Some couples have arrangements. Or so I've heard.
"No WAY," said LL Cool Jew. "You'd have to take it for the team. But just so you know, I'd HAVE TO WATCH." Wouldn't be the first time I've had sex with an audience, but that's another story.
"You'd be the one in the chair, then," I said. This is a reference to the lyric "one in the bed, one in the chair, one massage my toes while one braid my hair" from the R-uh in R&B's album moniker and ode to threesomes "Double Up."
"Yeah, you'd have to be the one on the bed. I'd be in the chair, on braiding detail," agreed LL Cool Jew.
Shortly thereafter, Keyshia Cole came on stage, and after LL Cool Jew and I agreed that she's got a banging body and a great voice but is nonetheless not Mary J. Blige, we were getting impatient for Kells. Both of us were relieved that Ne-yo had dropped out of the tour and thus our Kells-related gratification wouldn't be further delayed by live renditions of "Sexy Love."
Then, after Keyshia went off and there was some hurried stage rearrangement, the moment we waited for arrived. Kells! LL Cool Jew was clever enough to write down his TWO AND A HALF HOUR LONG SET LIST, to augment this very blog posting.
The Champ: For the opening song, Kells ran out in an entirely bedazzled hooded robe saying "The Champ" on the back, with a pair of matching disco ball sneaks. Kells's grand entrance was augmented by an impressive pyrotechnical display. This was followed by a medley of R. Kelly's contributions to his many great collaborations:
That's That Shit: If you're lookin' for some good sex, holler at a player.
Fuckin' You Tonight: Although Kells didn't sing my favorite song in the "I spend money on you, now time to put out" vein, "Don't You Say No," this hook from his collaboration with the legendary Notorious B.I.G. was nonetheless well-received.
Hotel: We in our throwbacks, this is for the ladies, we got room keys. Isn't everything for the ladies? Sadly, Kells did not don a Bears throwback jersey during the show, nor did he offer us a room key. Oh well. Next time.
Wonderful: Kells is at the top of the world and life's a pussy buffet.
So Sexy: Isn't he, though? Twista, however, is NOT, and fortunately, his corpulent ass was not around to
We Thuggin': Take my relief at Twista's absence and multiply it by ten thousand, and you have my feelings about Fat Joe not showing up to duet this one with Kells.
Gigolo: If only Kells were a male prostitute, I know where my next paycheck would be going.
Snake: Nothing--and I mean NOTHING--compares to hearing "I like the way you move your cho-cha, it makes me wanna get to know ya" sung live.
Thoia Thoing: Kells from Chi-town live is even better than Kells "Japan via satellite," whatever the hell that means. I told LL Cool Jew about how I sang this song once at a karaoke bar to great effect, because nothing spices up a lesbian birthday party like me attempting to do the "Thoia Thoing" dance while singing about being "butt-naked with sweat socks and house shoes." What are "house shoes," anyway? Slippers?
Double Up: It's like routine, player.
Tryin' To Get a Number: I somehow suspect that neither Kells nor Nelly have to try that hard.
Hook It Up: Anytime.
An old school rap song that I'm pretty sure was Big Daddy Kane's "Brooklyn Style": Unnecessary, but who knew Kells could rap?
TP-2: Imagine thousands of overweight people singing "I'm horny as hell" and "It's about to get real kinky." Yikes.
Strip For You: When R. Kelly followed "three knocks at the door, now, baby...trenchcoat hits the floor, now baby," with a simulated cunnilingus move with his tongue, all the ladies (translation: 80-90% of the audience) went insane.
"The Loneliest Tongue": I don't know if this is just something Kells made up for this concert, but nothing follows up a silhouetted striptease designed to keep the audience busy during a wardrobe change like an acapella ode to licking snatch. "I'm just a lonely tongue," crooned a close-up of Kells's mouth on the big screens, "Looking for some BODY to lick, looking for some BODY to nibble on." LL Cool Jew and I were speechless. For the rest of the night I preceded everything with, "Well, as I'm just a lonely tongue..."
Seems Like You're Ready: This song ushered in the moment we had anticipated from the Times review. Namely, when R. Kells describes how he won't keep things tame because the audience is ready in the form of having their hair done, nails done, toes done, car washed, and...SIX! HUN! DRED! DOLLAR! WEAVE! Granted, I suspect that most of the weaves I saw went for considerably less than $600, but nonetheless, the ladies in the audience rocking fake hair clearly touched it up in preparation for the hotness that is Kells.
Down Low (Remix): I wonder if Kells and Ronald "Mr. Biggs" Isley regret the title of this song given what being on the down low means these days in the modern urban lexicon.
When a Woman's Fed Up: Not a single one in the audience was fed up from what I could see, but at least one must have been, because she sent her date up by our section to smoke blunts in peace, well away from her. Blunt Guy spent the rest of the concert blowing trees, at least until he fell asleep. Lightweight.
Your Body's Callin': I could hear it calling me.
R&B Thug: YES! YES! YES! I actually got to hear Kells sing, "And when you leave up out my room, you'll be walkin' bow-legged" and "ooh, Kelly, you make me holla, keep on jumpin' like an Impala" LIVE. I can die now. Also, I should add that this was prefaced by Kells noting that "every woman wants a thug with some church in him." True that.
Feelin' On Yo Booty: Yet another classic. The only thing that would be better is if he took out half his impeccably-braided cornrows like in the hotness that is the video for this song.
Ignition (Remix): And not a single bitch in the audience was singing Dave Chapelle's "Piss on You" lyrics to this classic Kells jam.
Fiesta: It was, with my homie from the Midwest-a.
I Wish: LL Cool Jew went nuts, since this is her favorite Kells "serious" song. Mine is "The World's Greatest," which sadly was omitted from this performance.
Real Talk: Kells said, "You're not going to believe this, but I just got a phone call. Hold on just one second while I take care of this." He whips out a cell phone and before he even started in on the "I was at a club with who? GET THE FUCK OUT," LL Cool Jew and I turned to each other and said, "REAL TALK. See, girl."
Make It Rain: As noted before, Fat Joe mercifully did not show up to sing along and to get sexy alongside my beloved Robert Sylvester. Even more mercifully, R. Kelly did not start a riot by pulling a Pac Man Jones and actually "making it rain" on the hoes in the front row. Shit would have gotten crazy had he actually started chucking $100 bills around. However, LL Cool Jew and I did discuss how much more this could have kicked ass had Dwayne Carter, AKA Lil' Wayne AKA Weezy Fuckin' Baby AKA Tha Carter, showed up to do his "yeeeah, I'm in this bitch with the Terror" hook to the song. Sadly, he's probably in jail somewhere and thus indisposed.
I'm a Flirt: While this was awesome, LL Cool Jew and I were seriously lamenting the fact that T-Pain was absent on this tour. I think that if T-Pain and R. Kelly were to tour together, my head might explode with excitement.
The big screens then showed footage of all Kells's entertainer friends wishing him luck on tour, including T-Pain, Common, Fat Joe, Kanye West, Ciara, and Snoop Dogg.
N Luv Wit a Stripper (Remix): "I'm gonna go down on my knees and ask that ass to marry me." Exactly the type of proposal every stripper wants, especially when they have so much in common, as Kells points out ("she's a stripper, I'm a freak"). What woman could say no to a sexy man with lines like "you keep my donk on swole" and "I wanna stick it, I wanna kiss it, if I could I'd stick my whole damn head in it." That's being n luv wit a stripper, trust.
Kells then showed a hilarious segment intended to appease the dudes who had been dragged along to his show on their dates, about all the silly antics he gets up to while he's on tour. "Don't fall asleep, that's the rule," he explained, before showing the consequences of doing so, which primarily involve sticking objects (pen, tissue paper, paper clips) up the slumberer's nose. If he's feeling creative, he might squirt mustard on you, too. That Kells is such a zany prankster!
Go Getta: When I first heard Kells sing "Young Jeeeeeezzzzzzy" I was like, "WHERE THE HELL IS THE SNOWMAN?" I was so hoping he would jiggle out on stage to augment Kells with some ad libs. For all I know, he could have been backstage with his alleged (ex-?) girlfriend Keyshia Cole. Alas, it seems Young Jeezy was back at his Hotlanta trap or whatever, but Kells still sang about coming up out the club with a shitload-a women, so I was happy.
"Make It Purple Rain": I'm unclear as to whether Kells was lauding or mocking Prince or not, but in any event he better watch out. Prince is suing everyone who uses anything that even hints at being about Prince. He's been suing dumbasses putting their YouTube vlogs to the tune of "1999" and "I Feel For You" right and left, and while I would die of happiness and delight if Prince secured an injunction forbidding Smith College acapella groups from ever butchering "When Doves Cry" again, it would be truly sad if he shut down the "Double Up" tour for copyright infringement. Hopefully Kells's tour managers worked out a licensing deal beforehand.
Next to You: Snore. I totally forgot about this song that Kells did with Ciara, but this would have been better spent singing either "The World's Greatest," "Sex Me," or "Leave your Name," all sad omissions from the setlist.
Same Girl: Since Usher is off getting pegged by his tranny man-wife, Kells asked our side of the auditorium to sing Usher's part to this song. Luckily, LL Cool Jew, myself, and every other bitch there knew the words to this song by heart, and were only too happy to oblige by singing "did she go to Georgia Tech?", "does she work for TBS?," and "does she love some Waffle House?" at the proper time.
Put My T-Shirt On: This song was accompanied by a cadre of dudes carrying those t-shirt shooting guns that they used to have at Sonics games. During halftime, when the Squatch was doing a variety of gymnastically impressive, springboard-assisted dunks, dudes in Sonics sweatsuits would shoot team logo shirts into the stands at Key Arena. Apparently, Kells thought this would be a nice touch to augment a song about how he wants to bang his woman because she looks so hot in his t-shirt.
Freaky In the Club: Does Kells get anything else besides freaky in the club? I think not.
Kells's next wardrobe change was augmented by a video tribute to his musical idols: Marvin Gaye, Bob Marley, Tupac Shakur, Biggie, his kids, and HIMSELF. God, I love this man. LOVE HIM!
Let's Get it On: As we just learned, Marvin Gaye is one of Kells's idols, so we were unsurprised that he was singing this. In fact, Marvin Gaye's influence is pretty obvious, considering that with the exception of the odd serious or religious song, almost every song Kells has ever sung
I Wanna Sex You Up: No WAY! Shout out to Color Me Badd? REALLY?! I wonder if Kells really loves this song (thematically it's consistent with his repertoire) or if he just decided to sing it because he pre-funked for his concert by watching the seminal "Beverly Hills, 90210" episode where Donna catches her mom having an affair at the Bel Age Hotel while she's trying to meet Color Me Badd, who end up meeting Kelly, who convinces them to end the episode by cheering up Donna singing "I Adore Mi Amor" acapella to her at the Peach Pit over megaburgers with the gang. I'd be lying if I didn't say that the idea of Robert Sylvester Kelly preparing to bless us with his mackadelic nightspot realness by watching classic episodes of Bev Niner doesn't make me more than just a little bit wet.
Bump 'n' Grind (Old School Remix): Yes! I just heard Kells sing "show me some ID, before I get too deep" LIVE!
You Remind Me of Something: Morrissey'sHair told me that this is the official Razzy ringtone when I call him. It's because I remind him of his jeep, his sound, his car, and his bank account. OBVIOUSLY.
Bump 'n' Grind (Original): Like Tasti-D-Lite or multiple orgasms, you can never really have too much "Bump 'n' Grind." My mind's telling me no...actually no it's not. My mind is saying YES, YES, YES! KELLS!
Charlie Chaplin vaudeville sequence: Part of the show that falls under the heading of "downright mystifying." I don't know if Kells secretly loves silent film slapstick, but this was bizarre. It was even more bizarre in the context of a segue to what came next:
Beethoven's Fifth Symphony/laser light show: Ummm...I don't know if Kells was inspired by a trip to the Philharmonic or something, but I knew it was about to get real when Kells grabbed an oversized conductor's baton and the first dramatic chords of Beethoven's Fifth began echoing through the venue.
The Zoo: And thus began the beginning of the "extended jungle fantasia" that I was so eagerly anticipating. On an aside, LL Cool Jew does the funniest impression of the "ooo ooo ooo ooo aaa aaa aaa aaa" monkey noises from this song. I could listen to her do this all day.
Slow Wind: Finishing off the smoke machine-heavy, Kells-taken-prisoner-by-a-tribe-of-horny-video-vixen-Amazons jungle segment of the performance was J-Sexy's favorite song ever, topped off by a lengthy "You're a Jamaican queen...I'm an American king..." chorus. Beautiful. When I told J-Sexy that she hasn't lived until she's been exhorted by Kells to "put your voodoo on me, babe, kiss my lips and curse me, babe," she agreed that next time his tour comes around, she's getting a ticket.
Step In the Name of Love: An excuse to pull bitches out of the audience and force them to do the stepping dance in unison with R. Kelly. Steppin' is not just a dance, it's a culture, it's the way we live. As there were some big girls dragged up on stage, this was not only highly amusing, it's assured that indeed steppin' is what they eat, think, and breathe.
Happy People featuring extended TV theme medley: I don't know what the "Welcome Back, Kotter" theme song has to do with doubling up or happy people, but I'm not questioning Kells. It was a tremendous finale to a spectacular night. Actually, the most tremendous finale was when he announced that next year, he's blessing us with a new album, TP Fourth Quarter. Trust that I'm preordering that shit!
And speaking of happy people, here are two:
I don't even care that I look fat (because I'm American and I showed my patriotism by being gluttonous as hell on Thanksgiving...U!S!A! U!S!A!). All I know is that LL Cool Jew and I are sipping on the sizzurp (AKA $7 stadium plastic bottle Bud Light) and standing in front of a six-foot high airbrushed image of Kells chomping on a toothpick and looking hot as hell, because he's a player, homie, and that's a well-known factor.
The R. Kelly concert was every bit as unbelievable as you might imagine. Or maybe you wouldn't imagine it to be so eventful, since it's come to my attention that in spite of Kells attracting a new audience of despicable hipsters thanks to the IFC's embracing of "Trapped in the Closet," a lot of people still don't appreciate the genius of Robert Sylvester Kelly. However, as Kelefah Sanneh of the New York Times promised, it is indeed two and a half hours of "nothing but climax" and the incomparable King of R&B being "thrilling, hilarious, and downright mystifying, often all at once."
Even the trip to Long Island was thrilling, hilarious, and downright mystifying, because the dumbass morons who built the Nassau Veterans Memorial Coliseum DIDN'T BUILD IT ON THE LIRR. Who the fuck builds a stadium in a place where it is as difficult to reach by public transportation as possible? To get there, we had to take the LIRR to some godforsaken stop an hour from the city and then take a Nassau County bus. We made the train at the last minute and proceeded to get down to business acting like a couple of dumb kids, taking pictures of ourselves with what LL Cool Jew refers to as her "teenager phone" (due to its garish orange color and fancy pop-out texting keyboard and windows):
Upon our arrival in Hempstead, we were relieved to see that the bus stop was indoors, since the N70 bus we had to take wasn't there. When it did arrive, everyone piled on, including a group of very excited women led by a gold-toothed vixen named Keyshia. After listening to her discuss with her friends who the hottest Keyshia would be at the show (her or Keyshia Cole), they proceeded to get everyone on the bus worked up. "The RRRRRRRRRRRRRR!" she was shouting with her friends, which prompted the unnaturally friendly bus driver to get on his intercom and say, "Who here is going to see the RRRRRRRRRR?" When that got a favorable reaction from the bus riders, he added, "Who is going home with the RRRRRRRRRR?"
Keyshia and her crew went berserk. "He's the R in R&B!" one of them exclaimed.
"I think you mean the R-uh in R&B," I corrected her.
"The R-uh! Hell yes!" they crowed, pouring more liquor into their coffee cups. They then proceeded to tell us about all the times they've seen R. Kelly live, and explained that the reason he was playing at such a bitch-to-get-to venue rather than Madison Square Garden was on account of a lawsuit relating to the collapse of the R. Kelly/Jay-Z Best of Both Worlds tour, when Kells cut a set short after seeing someone with a gun in the audience and was maced in the face by some of Jay-Z's people. Alas, it would have been much easier to take the A train a few stops from my crib to the Garden, but then we probably never would have met Keyshia et al and been so remarkably entertained.
When we arrived at the Coliseum stop, we realized we had to cross the Hempstead Turnpike and a gargantuan parking lot. There was no crosswalk, so we were hesitant to race across a six-lane highway, particularly LL Cool Jew, who was wearing one of her standard pairs of cripplingly high stiletto heels. However, Keyshia once again took charge, and announced, "Bus people! Follow me!" before barging right into the road. Luckily we all made it across, and LL Cool Jew was able to snap a picture of me behind a line of the aforementioned "bus people."
"So, if Kells wanted to double up with us, would BigBagel give you a pass?" I asked LL Cool Jew. Her married status generally eliminates the possibility of her having groupie sex, but you never know. Some couples have arrangements. Or so I've heard.
"No WAY," said LL Cool Jew. "You'd have to take it for the team. But just so you know, I'd HAVE TO WATCH." Wouldn't be the first time I've had sex with an audience, but that's another story.
"You'd be the one in the chair, then," I said. This is a reference to the lyric "one in the bed, one in the chair, one massage my toes while one braid my hair" from the R-uh in R&B's album moniker and ode to threesomes "Double Up."
"Yeah, you'd have to be the one on the bed. I'd be in the chair, on braiding detail," agreed LL Cool Jew.
Shortly thereafter, Keyshia Cole came on stage, and after LL Cool Jew and I agreed that she's got a banging body and a great voice but is nonetheless not Mary J. Blige, we were getting impatient for Kells. Both of us were relieved that Ne-yo had dropped out of the tour and thus our Kells-related gratification wouldn't be further delayed by live renditions of "Sexy Love."
Then, after Keyshia went off and there was some hurried stage rearrangement, the moment we waited for arrived. Kells! LL Cool Jew was clever enough to write down his TWO AND A HALF HOUR LONG SET LIST, to augment this very blog posting.
The Champ: For the opening song, Kells ran out in an entirely bedazzled hooded robe saying "The Champ" on the back, with a pair of matching disco ball sneaks. Kells's grand entrance was augmented by an impressive pyrotechnical display. This was followed by a medley of R. Kelly's contributions to his many great collaborations:
That's That Shit: If you're lookin' for some good sex, holler at a player.
Fuckin' You Tonight: Although Kells didn't sing my favorite song in the "I spend money on you, now time to put out" vein, "Don't You Say No," this hook from his collaboration with the legendary Notorious B.I.G. was nonetheless well-received.
Hotel: We in our throwbacks, this is for the ladies, we got room keys. Isn't everything for the ladies? Sadly, Kells did not don a Bears throwback jersey during the show, nor did he offer us a room key. Oh well. Next time.
Wonderful: Kells is at the top of the world and life's a pussy buffet.
So Sexy: Isn't he, though? Twista, however, is NOT, and fortunately, his corpulent ass was not around to
We Thuggin': Take my relief at Twista's absence and multiply it by ten thousand, and you have my feelings about Fat Joe not showing up to duet this one with Kells.
Gigolo: If only Kells were a male prostitute, I know where my next paycheck would be going.
Snake: Nothing--and I mean NOTHING--compares to hearing "I like the way you move your cho-cha, it makes me wanna get to know ya" sung live.
Thoia Thoing: Kells from Chi-town live is even better than Kells "Japan via satellite," whatever the hell that means. I told LL Cool Jew about how I sang this song once at a karaoke bar to great effect, because nothing spices up a lesbian birthday party like me attempting to do the "Thoia Thoing" dance while singing about being "butt-naked with sweat socks and house shoes." What are "house shoes," anyway? Slippers?
Double Up: It's like routine, player.
Tryin' To Get a Number: I somehow suspect that neither Kells nor Nelly have to try that hard.
Hook It Up: Anytime.
An old school rap song that I'm pretty sure was Big Daddy Kane's "Brooklyn Style": Unnecessary, but who knew Kells could rap?
TP-2: Imagine thousands of overweight people singing "I'm horny as hell" and "It's about to get real kinky." Yikes.
Strip For You: When R. Kelly followed "three knocks at the door, now, baby...trenchcoat hits the floor, now baby," with a simulated cunnilingus move with his tongue, all the ladies (translation: 80-90% of the audience) went insane.
"The Loneliest Tongue": I don't know if this is just something Kells made up for this concert, but nothing follows up a silhouetted striptease designed to keep the audience busy during a wardrobe change like an acapella ode to licking snatch. "I'm just a lonely tongue," crooned a close-up of Kells's mouth on the big screens, "Looking for some BODY to lick, looking for some BODY to nibble on." LL Cool Jew and I were speechless. For the rest of the night I preceded everything with, "Well, as I'm just a lonely tongue..."
Seems Like You're Ready: This song ushered in the moment we had anticipated from the Times review. Namely, when R. Kells describes how he won't keep things tame because the audience is ready in the form of having their hair done, nails done, toes done, car washed, and...SIX! HUN! DRED! DOLLAR! WEAVE! Granted, I suspect that most of the weaves I saw went for considerably less than $600, but nonetheless, the ladies in the audience rocking fake hair clearly touched it up in preparation for the hotness that is Kells.
Down Low (Remix): I wonder if Kells and Ronald "Mr. Biggs" Isley regret the title of this song given what being on the down low means these days in the modern urban lexicon.
When a Woman's Fed Up: Not a single one in the audience was fed up from what I could see, but at least one must have been, because she sent her date up by our section to smoke blunts in peace, well away from her. Blunt Guy spent the rest of the concert blowing trees, at least until he fell asleep. Lightweight.
Your Body's Callin': I could hear it calling me.
R&B Thug: YES! YES! YES! I actually got to hear Kells sing, "And when you leave up out my room, you'll be walkin' bow-legged" and "ooh, Kelly, you make me holla, keep on jumpin' like an Impala" LIVE. I can die now. Also, I should add that this was prefaced by Kells noting that "every woman wants a thug with some church in him." True that.
Feelin' On Yo Booty: Yet another classic. The only thing that would be better is if he took out half his impeccably-braided cornrows like in the hotness that is the video for this song.
Ignition (Remix): And not a single bitch in the audience was singing Dave Chapelle's "Piss on You" lyrics to this classic Kells jam.
Fiesta: It was, with my homie from the Midwest-a.
I Wish: LL Cool Jew went nuts, since this is her favorite Kells "serious" song. Mine is "The World's Greatest," which sadly was omitted from this performance.
Real Talk: Kells said, "You're not going to believe this, but I just got a phone call. Hold on just one second while I take care of this." He whips out a cell phone and before he even started in on the "I was at a club with who? GET THE FUCK OUT," LL Cool Jew and I turned to each other and said, "REAL TALK. See, girl."
Make It Rain: As noted before, Fat Joe mercifully did not show up to sing along and to get sexy alongside my beloved Robert Sylvester. Even more mercifully, R. Kelly did not start a riot by pulling a Pac Man Jones and actually "making it rain" on the hoes in the front row. Shit would have gotten crazy had he actually started chucking $100 bills around. However, LL Cool Jew and I did discuss how much more this could have kicked ass had Dwayne Carter, AKA Lil' Wayne AKA Weezy Fuckin' Baby AKA Tha Carter, showed up to do his "yeeeah, I'm in this bitch with the Terror" hook to the song. Sadly, he's probably in jail somewhere and thus indisposed.
I'm a Flirt: While this was awesome, LL Cool Jew and I were seriously lamenting the fact that T-Pain was absent on this tour. I think that if T-Pain and R. Kelly were to tour together, my head might explode with excitement.
The big screens then showed footage of all Kells's entertainer friends wishing him luck on tour, including T-Pain, Common, Fat Joe, Kanye West, Ciara, and Snoop Dogg.
N Luv Wit a Stripper (Remix): "I'm gonna go down on my knees and ask that ass to marry me." Exactly the type of proposal every stripper wants, especially when they have so much in common, as Kells points out ("she's a stripper, I'm a freak"). What woman could say no to a sexy man with lines like "you keep my donk on swole" and "I wanna stick it, I wanna kiss it, if I could I'd stick my whole damn head in it." That's being n luv wit a stripper, trust.
Kells then showed a hilarious segment intended to appease the dudes who had been dragged along to his show on their dates, about all the silly antics he gets up to while he's on tour. "Don't fall asleep, that's the rule," he explained, before showing the consequences of doing so, which primarily involve sticking objects (pen, tissue paper, paper clips) up the slumberer's nose. If he's feeling creative, he might squirt mustard on you, too. That Kells is such a zany prankster!
Go Getta: When I first heard Kells sing "Young Jeeeeeezzzzzzy" I was like, "WHERE THE HELL IS THE SNOWMAN?" I was so hoping he would jiggle out on stage to augment Kells with some ad libs. For all I know, he could have been backstage with his alleged (ex-?) girlfriend Keyshia Cole. Alas, it seems Young Jeezy was back at his Hotlanta trap or whatever, but Kells still sang about coming up out the club with a shitload-a women, so I was happy.
"Make It Purple Rain": I'm unclear as to whether Kells was lauding or mocking Prince or not, but in any event he better watch out. Prince is suing everyone who uses anything that even hints at being about Prince. He's been suing dumbasses putting their YouTube vlogs to the tune of "1999" and "I Feel For You" right and left, and while I would die of happiness and delight if Prince secured an injunction forbidding Smith College acapella groups from ever butchering "When Doves Cry" again, it would be truly sad if he shut down the "Double Up" tour for copyright infringement. Hopefully Kells's tour managers worked out a licensing deal beforehand.
Next to You: Snore. I totally forgot about this song that Kells did with Ciara, but this would have been better spent singing either "The World's Greatest," "Sex Me," or "Leave your Name," all sad omissions from the setlist.
Same Girl: Since Usher is off getting pegged by his tranny man-wife, Kells asked our side of the auditorium to sing Usher's part to this song. Luckily, LL Cool Jew, myself, and every other bitch there knew the words to this song by heart, and were only too happy to oblige by singing "did she go to Georgia Tech?", "does she work for TBS?," and "does she love some Waffle House?" at the proper time.
Put My T-Shirt On: This song was accompanied by a cadre of dudes carrying those t-shirt shooting guns that they used to have at Sonics games. During halftime, when the Squatch was doing a variety of gymnastically impressive, springboard-assisted dunks, dudes in Sonics sweatsuits would shoot team logo shirts into the stands at Key Arena. Apparently, Kells thought this would be a nice touch to augment a song about how he wants to bang his woman because she looks so hot in his t-shirt.
Freaky In the Club: Does Kells get anything else besides freaky in the club? I think not.
Kells's next wardrobe change was augmented by a video tribute to his musical idols: Marvin Gaye, Bob Marley, Tupac Shakur, Biggie, his kids, and HIMSELF. God, I love this man. LOVE HIM!
Let's Get it On: As we just learned, Marvin Gaye is one of Kells's idols, so we were unsurprised that he was singing this. In fact, Marvin Gaye's influence is pretty obvious, considering that with the exception of the odd serious or religious song, almost every song Kells has ever sung
I Wanna Sex You Up: No WAY! Shout out to Color Me Badd? REALLY?! I wonder if Kells really loves this song (thematically it's consistent with his repertoire) or if he just decided to sing it because he pre-funked for his concert by watching the seminal "Beverly Hills, 90210" episode where Donna catches her mom having an affair at the Bel Age Hotel while she's trying to meet Color Me Badd, who end up meeting Kelly, who convinces them to end the episode by cheering up Donna singing "I Adore Mi Amor" acapella to her at the Peach Pit over megaburgers with the gang. I'd be lying if I didn't say that the idea of Robert Sylvester Kelly preparing to bless us with his mackadelic nightspot realness by watching classic episodes of Bev Niner doesn't make me more than just a little bit wet.
Bump 'n' Grind (Old School Remix): Yes! I just heard Kells sing "show me some ID, before I get too deep" LIVE!
You Remind Me of Something: Morrissey'sHair told me that this is the official Razzy ringtone when I call him. It's because I remind him of his jeep, his sound, his car, and his bank account. OBVIOUSLY.
Bump 'n' Grind (Original): Like Tasti-D-Lite or multiple orgasms, you can never really have too much "Bump 'n' Grind." My mind's telling me no...actually no it's not. My mind is saying YES, YES, YES! KELLS!
Charlie Chaplin vaudeville sequence: Part of the show that falls under the heading of "downright mystifying." I don't know if Kells secretly loves silent film slapstick, but this was bizarre. It was even more bizarre in the context of a segue to what came next:
Beethoven's Fifth Symphony/laser light show: Ummm...I don't know if Kells was inspired by a trip to the Philharmonic or something, but I knew it was about to get real when Kells grabbed an oversized conductor's baton and the first dramatic chords of Beethoven's Fifth began echoing through the venue.
The Zoo: And thus began the beginning of the "extended jungle fantasia" that I was so eagerly anticipating. On an aside, LL Cool Jew does the funniest impression of the "ooo ooo ooo ooo aaa aaa aaa aaa" monkey noises from this song. I could listen to her do this all day.
Slow Wind: Finishing off the smoke machine-heavy, Kells-taken-prisoner-by-a-tribe-of-horny-video-vixen-Amazons jungle segment of the performance was J-Sexy's favorite song ever, topped off by a lengthy "You're a Jamaican queen...I'm an American king..." chorus. Beautiful. When I told J-Sexy that she hasn't lived until she's been exhorted by Kells to "put your voodoo on me, babe, kiss my lips and curse me, babe," she agreed that next time his tour comes around, she's getting a ticket.
Step In the Name of Love: An excuse to pull bitches out of the audience and force them to do the stepping dance in unison with R. Kelly. Steppin' is not just a dance, it's a culture, it's the way we live. As there were some big girls dragged up on stage, this was not only highly amusing, it's assured that indeed steppin' is what they eat, think, and breathe.
Happy People featuring extended TV theme medley: I don't know what the "Welcome Back, Kotter" theme song has to do with doubling up or happy people, but I'm not questioning Kells. It was a tremendous finale to a spectacular night. Actually, the most tremendous finale was when he announced that next year, he's blessing us with a new album, TP Fourth Quarter. Trust that I'm preordering that shit!
And speaking of happy people, here are two:
Labels: hilarious shit, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, LL Cool Jew, rap, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Two Halloween costumes making beautiful music
Well, I wasn't going to do much blogging, but this is something I can't ignore. The internets have informed me that my last year's costume remixed a hit song with this year's costume, and it's smoking. Basically, you can't get much trashtastically hotter-assed than these two hot-ass bitches in their VMA outfits!
Well, those two hot-ass bitches are actually both me. What I meant is these two hot-ass bitches in their VMA outfits:
It starts off with "It's Britney, bitch...and Lil' Kim, ho!" All I need to hear after that is "It's 50 AKA Ferrari" and/or "It's Kells from Chi-town, Japan via satellite" and my life is pretty much complete. In the meantime, I'll settle for the "Gimme More" Lil' Kim remix. Trust that when you get the Queen Bee collaborating with the legendary Ms. Britney Spears, there's some lyrics about cunnilingus, being "such a dirty whore," and "dancin' like a slut."
Hells yeah! Go to STR8UPHIPHOP to take a listen. Everyone on the internets seems to think it sucks, but that just goes to show you that the average person has no taste. I smell Grammy!
Hells yeah! Go to STR8UPHIPHOP to take a listen. Everyone on the internets seems to think it sucks, but that just goes to show you that the average person has no taste. I smell Grammy!
Labels: Britney Spears, Halloween, hot chicks, I LOVE IT, Lil' Kim, sluts
Giving thanks
Okay, Razzyphiles, I'm sorry to say that I'm going to be all quiet on the blog front the next day or so on account of the holiday weekend. I'm sure you'll all be with yo