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 your families stuffing your faces with turkey and whatnot, so it's not like you'll care, but I just thought I'd let you know. I mean, there's foreigners who read my site who are presumably spending this American holiday laughing at how there's going to be even more morbidly obese Yanks come Friday thanks to our annual tradition of unabashed gluttony. So sorry to all those who enjoy my useless bullshit from abroad; you'll just have to live without any awesome Razzification for a couple days this week so I can get my fat girl on along with my fellow freedom-loving patriots here in the Estados Unidos.
In case anyone is wondering, though, this is what my weird little family is thankful for this holiday:
Caesar thanks the many squirrels and sticks in St. Nicholas Park that have provided him with ample chasing substrates for the past two years:
"Hey, thanks, you guys, I really like chasing stuff, it's like my favorite thing ever!"
Chingy! thanks nobody, because he feels entitled to everything:
"CHONGAY CHONG! **SNOOOOOOOOOOORE**"
And I thank all you awesome Razzyphiles for making my website traffic what it is today:
So here's some Thanksgiving tits to say gracias!
You guys all rock! Happy Thanksgiving! Travel safe and don't overeat (too much).
In case anyone is wondering, though, this is what my weird little family is thankful for this holiday:
Caesar thanks the many squirrels and sticks in St. Nicholas Park that have provided him with ample chasing substrates for the past two years:
Chingy! thanks nobody, because he feels entitled to everything:
And I thank all you awesome Razzyphiles for making my website traffic what it is today:
So here's some Thanksgiving tits to say gracias!
You guys all rock! Happy Thanksgiving! Travel safe and don't overeat (too much).
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, internet domination, nudity, Razzification, Razzyphiles
Daily Douchebag: my apartment
Name: Razzy's apartment
DOB: ???, Leased August 2005
Occupation: repository for my crap; vermin-infested domicile
Current residence: Sugar Hill, New York, New York
Douchebaggery: Actually, the real douchebag here is me, since I am probably the world's least competent housekeeper. That's why instead of putting a picture above of my apartment, I put a picture instead of post-Katrina Gulfport, Mississippi, because they are basically equivalent. I am just fucking appallingly terrible at cleaning. Every time one of my friends comes over--even when I have cleaned in preparation--they just sigh and redo the job because I'm so bad. During MillerTime's last visit, she actually delayed going to dinner after getting off a cross-country flight so she could pick up around my place. Miss Corbutt always scrubs my bathroom to a shiny gloss when she stops in. Last time J-Sexy actually braved my dogs to stop by, after giving me a disapproving "mmm mmm mmm," she spent a good amount of time sweeping and the rest of the time lamenting the condition of my broom.
"But it's the miracle One-Sweep, as seen on TV!" I protested. LL Cool Jew bought this broom when we were roommates, and there's probably a reason she didn't take it with her when she moved. Also, I have yet to use the squeegy side of the One-Sweep which is one of the most high-tech features of this fabulous-sounding yet apparently inadequate broom. J-Sexy merely repeated another "mmm mmm mmm," and went back to aggressively sweeping while glaring at the One-Sweep.
Anyway, today, since LL Cool Jew is bringing her Chihuahua, the infamous Dulcinea AKA Diesel AKA Deezers AKA the D! over to visit her bestest friends Caese and Chingy! while LL Cool Jew and I hit the R. Kelly concert on Friday, I decided to take today off work to clean my apartment in preparation. I also have to make pies and get the turkeys ready (yes, I'm making dinner for like 15 grad students tomorrow, and we had to get not one but TWO turkeys), so it's a day of domesticity for me. While I am surprisingly adept at cooking, however, cleaning my shitshow of an apartment is another story. Add to it that I HATE cleaning more than anything in the entire world and suck at it royally, and this is not shaping up to be a fun day. Not having a maid is something I'm definitely NOT thankful for this holiday.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, Harlem world, oh the horror
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Daily Dude I Want To Hit: Hot Young Iraq War Correspondents of Ambiguous Ethnic Origin
DOB: Arwa was born in 1976, Jamie in 1975
Occupation: Reporting live from the Baghdad shitstorm for CNN and NPR, respectively
Hometown: Syrian-American Arwa is from Wayland, Mass., but graduated from a high school in Istanbul; Jamie, who is Australian-Lebanese, grew up in Sydney and Berlin
Current residence: Undisclosed location a short rickshaw drive from the site of the latest truck bombing
Why I Want to Hit That Hotness: I should have known my fatal combination of laziness, affection for indoor plumbing, and distaste for confrontation would doom my reporting career from the start. Thank goodness I can live vicariously through the exploits of stone-balled bitches like Arwa Damon and Jamie Tarabay, who manage to bring a little sex appeal to coverage of coordinated suicide attacks, burly troupes of Marines-turned-diplomats, a paralyzed political scene and civilian death tolls. Which is a lot more than can be said for these guys:
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot chicks, international intrigue, LL Cool Jew
Bill Nye the Surprisingly-Razzy-Like Guy
Bill Nye, better known as "The Science Guy" managed to secure a temporary restraining order against his estranged oboist of a sham wife, Blair Tindall.
She's way sexier than I would expect a big nerd like Bill Nye the Science Guy to bag, but it just goes to show you that everything has its price. Undoubtedly fearing that he would lose out on this hot piece if he didn't marry her promptly (as she had been carrying on a torrid affair with the conductor of the Boston Pops), he went ahead and did so. However, by the time he realized the marriage license was invalid, he also presumably realized she was out of her fucking mind and dumped that bitch. He told her to take her sorry ass back to the orchestra pit, and went about his business making vinegar-and-baking soda volcanoes, soda bottle rockets, and otherwise exploiting the miracle of acid-base reactions for educational and entertainment purposes.
Blair didn't much appreciate this, and decided to take out her aggressions on Bill's vegetable garden. Late at night, she crept into his garden and tried to spray weed killer all over it, but fled when he caught her. Like a total dumbass, she started running as soon as he said, "Blair?", essentially confirming her identity. So he went to court and got a restraining order to prevent further threats against his "food produce" and his eyesight from her deadly toxic solvents/herbicides.
I've always liked Bill Nye because not only are science nerds cool (a notion validated every time I look in a mirror), he's from the P-N-Dub and got his start on a local sketch comedy show called "Almost Live" that I used to watch all the time. That show was fucking hilarious. Just thinking about those skits on "Almost Live" (especially the fake Kent and Ballard episodes of "COPS", the TV ad for the "Lynnwood Beauty Academy," and the "Dale Chihuly: world-famous glass artist and vigilante crimefighter" sketch) is cracking me up as we speak. But I digress. Bill Nye was one of the most successful "Almost Live" alums, and I love that his whole game is science-related. He really has geek chic down to the polka-dotted bow tie. It sucks to be just going about your pimptastic business only to have some honey go nuts and disrupt your life with stalking.
Stalking is just not fucking cool. I've been stalked a few times in my life, mostly by harmless dudes who would leave shit on my porch or write me inappropriately lengthy notes or blow up my phone. They would annoy me, but not really scare me. When I lived with Miss Corbutt in Tacoma, our exploits about town ensured that we got stalker gifts at least once a week. We used to joke about it. However, there is NOTHING funny about a stalker who comes ready to kill--even if the intended victims are Bill's tomato plants. I had a stalker this past year who was of that scary stalking variety.
The Ja-Fake-An who wouldn't eat pussy--who henceforth shall be called Rxxx Sxxxxxx, because that's his name and I don't feel any reason whatsoever why I should protect his fucking identity--didn't like what I wrote about him on my blog. I only wrote about him because I was furious that he seemed to feel like constantly sexually harassing me was acceptable, and I wanted to get all my anger out of my system constructively. He did not respond well to this, and came to my lab raising hell and threatening me, menacing me at my lab meeting, and trying to get my PI (ie: boss) to agree that I was a stupid bitch who needed to be put in her place. My PI said he was concerned for my safety, because Rxxx was obviously crazed. Rxxx was told by our department chair to stay the hell away from me, but after getting kicked out of his SECOND lab at Columbia for behavioral issues (he got kicked out of the first for sexual harassment), he decided that he wasn't going to abide by that anymore. He started showing up on my floor, showing up at Free Friday (grad student happy hour), where on one memorable occasion he took two beers out of my hands. This was after I was assured he would ESPECIALLY stay away from me when he was drinking.
Now he has a formal disciplinary letter advising him that any contact with me will result in serious disciplinary action, and I have informed the deans, my department, and Columbia public safety that I will not fuck around should he bother me again. I will go straight to the courthouse and get my own damn TRO, because malevolent stalkers are not to be trifled with. Therefore, I applaud Bill Nye for exercising his legal right to not have solvent sprayed on his veggies or into his eyes by a scorned ex-not-wife with abysmally bad coping skills. The Blair Tindalls and the Rxxx Sxxxxxx need to just get served. Served with legal papers saying that they are ordered by a judge to stay the fuck away!
I feel Bill Nye. It's hard to be a not-really-that-attractive-but-still-possessing-a-certain-something type of sexy geek. I've got basically the same thing going on, but I'm more stacked.
It's hard out here for a science pimp. Dodging stalkers who want to either fuck with your garden or fuck with your rotation student's presentation by glowering into the conference room during her scintillating presentation on mouse dendritic cells and poliovirus infection is not a small task and is very stressful. From one stalked scientist to another, Bill, keep your chin up and don't let the stalker bitches get you down!
Blair didn't much appreciate this, and decided to take out her aggressions on Bill's vegetable garden. Late at night, she crept into his garden and tried to spray weed killer all over it, but fled when he caught her. Like a total dumbass, she started running as soon as he said, "Blair?", essentially confirming her identity. So he went to court and got a restraining order to prevent further threats against his "food produce" and his eyesight from her deadly toxic solvents/herbicides.
I've always liked Bill Nye because not only are science nerds cool (a notion validated every time I look in a mirror), he's from the P-N-Dub and got his start on a local sketch comedy show called "Almost Live" that I used to watch all the time. That show was fucking hilarious. Just thinking about those skits on "Almost Live" (especially the fake Kent and Ballard episodes of "COPS", the TV ad for the "Lynnwood Beauty Academy," and the "Dale Chihuly: world-famous glass artist and vigilante crimefighter" sketch) is cracking me up as we speak. But I digress. Bill Nye was one of the most successful "Almost Live" alums, and I love that his whole game is science-related. He really has geek chic down to the polka-dotted bow tie. It sucks to be just going about your pimptastic business only to have some honey go nuts and disrupt your life with stalking.
Stalking is just not fucking cool. I've been stalked a few times in my life, mostly by harmless dudes who would leave shit on my porch or write me inappropriately lengthy notes or blow up my phone. They would annoy me, but not really scare me. When I lived with Miss Corbutt in Tacoma, our exploits about town ensured that we got stalker gifts at least once a week. We used to joke about it. However, there is NOTHING funny about a stalker who comes ready to kill--even if the intended victims are Bill's tomato plants. I had a stalker this past year who was of that scary stalking variety.
The Ja-Fake-An who wouldn't eat pussy--who henceforth shall be called Rxxx Sxxxxxx, because that's his name and I don't feel any reason whatsoever why I should protect his fucking identity--didn't like what I wrote about him on my blog. I only wrote about him because I was furious that he seemed to feel like constantly sexually harassing me was acceptable, and I wanted to get all my anger out of my system constructively. He did not respond well to this, and came to my lab raising hell and threatening me, menacing me at my lab meeting, and trying to get my PI (ie: boss) to agree that I was a stupid bitch who needed to be put in her place. My PI said he was concerned for my safety, because Rxxx was obviously crazed. Rxxx was told by our department chair to stay the hell away from me, but after getting kicked out of his SECOND lab at Columbia for behavioral issues (he got kicked out of the first for sexual harassment), he decided that he wasn't going to abide by that anymore. He started showing up on my floor, showing up at Free Friday (grad student happy hour), where on one memorable occasion he took two beers out of my hands. This was after I was assured he would ESPECIALLY stay away from me when he was drinking.
Now he has a formal disciplinary letter advising him that any contact with me will result in serious disciplinary action, and I have informed the deans, my department, and Columbia public safety that I will not fuck around should he bother me again. I will go straight to the courthouse and get my own damn TRO, because malevolent stalkers are not to be trifled with. Therefore, I applaud Bill Nye for exercising his legal right to not have solvent sprayed on his veggies or into his eyes by a scorned ex-not-wife with abysmally bad coping skills. The Blair Tindalls and the Rxxx Sxxxxxx need to just get served. Served with legal papers saying that they are ordered by a judge to stay the fuck away!
I feel Bill Nye. It's hard to be a not-really-that-attractive-but-still-possessing-a-certain-something type of sexy geek. I've got basically the same thing going on, but I'm more stacked.
Labels: assholes, crazies, crime and punishment, grad school bullshit, oh the horror, P-N-Dub, Rxxx Sxxxxxx, science, sexual assault
Daily Douchebag: Earl Paulk
DOB: May 30, 1927
Occupation: archbishop of self-made pentecostal church; illegitimate baby daddy
Hometown: Cleveland, Tennessee
Current residence: Decatur, Georgia
Douchebaggery: Rev. Paulk may be a man of God with a passion for fiery sermons, but that doesn't mean he lost his magic touch with the ladies. Over the past twenty years, since his church got famous enough to be on the Trinity Broadcasting Network, Paulk spent his time not soliciting donations from the good couch potato Christians of the world banging any hot broads that might have crossed his path. Instead of just keeping it in his pants, Paulk preferred to settle his dirty secrets out of court.
Unfortunately for him, it's a little hard to settle out of court when your nephew and the new Senior Pastor at your sprawling megachurch turns out to be your illegitimate son conceived during a wild night of hot sex with your brother's wife. The poor bastard, D.E. Paulk, also is now stuck 'splaining his own embarrassing paternity situation to what's left of the flock. It's too bad, really, because he's pretty hot for a Bible-thumping firebrand, and this is the kind of drama that can age you decades in mere weeks.
I love it when preachy Christians fuck up so royally in the salacious sinning department. It reminds me that I shouldn't burden myself too much with guilt about my own spiritual transgressions, as even the people speaking on behalf of Christ are a bunch of lewd pervs and hypocrites. If I were Jesus, I'd be a lot more pissed at them than I would at me, since I don't pretend to be anything but a drunk-ass switch-hitting slut with a foul mouth, an unladylike demeanor, and an antagonistic attitude toward almost everything. Jesus totally liked honest hookers and hated two-faced religious zealots. With so many bad Christians, I still have a shot at getting hooked up with one of the many mansions in my Father's house. So thank you, Earl, for possibly saving my soul by comparison. Peace be with your sister-in-law-fucking ass.
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, Daily Douchebag, Dear God, perversion, sex, sluts
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: King Juan Carlos I
DOB: January 5, 1938
Occupation: reigning king of Spain
Hometown: Rome, Italy
Current residence: Madrid, Spain
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: King Juan Carlos, who ascended to the throne of Spain upon the death of Generalissimo Franco, then-Spanish dictator-for-life, was basically a pimp from day one. Expected to rule with the same authoritarian means as Franco, Juan Carlos decided to take it upon himself to transition Spain to a constitutional monarchy. While that's all well and good and I say kudos to anyone who willingly gives up power in favor of a more democratic government, that's actually not why I'm recognizing King Juan Carlos today, or why I would consider sitting on that shriveled weiner. Spanish men don't really do it for me in spite of their usual swarthiness. When I went to Spain, deodorant didn't seem like a custom that had caught on there. In fact, LL Cool Jew forgot her Secret or whatever back in the States, and we were shocked to see that the Spanish drugstores did not carry any anti-perspirant whatsoever. We attributed this as causing the unpleasant body odor emanating from most of the Spaniards we met on that vacation. Body odor was apparently not one of the customs Juan Carlos decided to progressive about following the death of Franco.
Anyway, King Juan Carlos is still hot in spite of his probable stank armpits, and that is because of the performance he gave at the Ibero-American summit in Chile last week. After Chavez called Spain's previous prime minister a "fascist" and "less human than snakes," continued to interrupt Spain's current prime minister's attempts at chiding Chavez for being an asshole, Juan Carlos got fed up and decided to supercede standard diplomatic protocols. He leaned over, and said "Por que no te callas?" For those of you who don't hablar the espanol, that basically means "Why don't you shut the eff up?" Okay, I added the "the eff" part for emphasis, but you get the idea. Put a sock in it, pinko.
While this may not have been the smoothest move for solving issues between Spain and the Bolivarian Great Revolutionary People's Republic of Venezuela, it's something the entire world has wanted to say to Hugo Chavez. Businesses in Spain and Venezuela have made over $2.2 million selling ringtones of their king being totally hot. "Por que no te callas?" is like the "It's Britney, bitch" of Ibero-Latin political circles.
This is the kind of shit I would be pulling if I was the king of somewhere. It's not like any of the Habsburgs or Bourbons from whom Juan Carlos descended are in charge of starting wars, deciding policy, or anything really that important these days, so they might as well have fun with renegade diplomacy. If I were dicking around with no Spanish armada to manage, no Inquisition to conduct, and no bastard English Protestant queens to fuck up in the name of Catholicism, I'd probably amuse myself by telling off self-styled revolutionary autocrats to the delight of an international audience, as well.
Chavez would do well to heed Juan Carlos's advice. Not only is Juan Carlos a direct descendant of the fine folks that brought Spain the Inquisition, but he himself was personally named successor to Franco due to the Generalissimo's mistaken belief that Juan Carlos would continue to singlehandedly rule with an iron fist. Juan Carlos knows his way around dictatorship and political tyranny to the point where he basically convinced Franco that he would continue his glorious regime, then promptly went about a ton of democratic reforms. Juan Carlos is clever, and Chavez should recognize what 500,000 Spaniards and Venezuelans already know from their cell ringtones: that he really should shut up.
I should also add that Juan Carlos reminds me of the part in the "Kelly Likes Shoes" video where the dude says "I think you have too many shoes," and Kelly responds, "SHUT UP! Stupid boy." It would be totally awesome if Juan Carlos next said, "Oh, and by the way, betch...FUCK YOU!" Can't have everything, I guess.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, international intrigue, politics, tyrannical rulers
Monday, November 19, 2007
I like the concert on you
LL Cool Jew, reading her favorite trove of literary snobbery, the New York Times, found a review of the kickoff show to the greatest concert tour of all time: Robert Sylvester Kelly's "Double Up" tour!!!! We are prepared to be blessed with his mackadelic nightspot realness.
Some highlights that we have to look forward to:
On the scene:
On Kells playing the classics:
On Kells's epic career:
On the haters saying "how you doin' this, player?":
On the thematic elements of the Kells show:
On the climax (of the climax-heavy concert):
the animal-noise-filled song in which R-dot infamously says, "It's like Jurassic Park, and I'm your sexasaurus, babe." Holy shit, this concert is going to blow my mind. Nothing but climax, baby! I would expect nothing less than that from the R-uh in R&B. I am preparing to be thrilled and bewildered.
Some highlights that we have to look forward to:
On the scene:
Radio D.J.’s were shouting themselves hoarse in the parking lot, crowing about one of the biggest concerts this town has ever seen. Cars were crawling down Veterans Parkway, trunk speakers abuzz. The local clergy were not amused.NOTHING BUT CLIMAX. Oh my God, I cannot wait. It's going to be TOTALLY thrilling, hilarious, and downright mystifying.
Such was the scene when R. Kelly came to the Columbus Civic Center, here on the western edge of Georgia, across the Chattahoochee River from Alabama. Some concerts might seem anticlimactic after a buildup like that, but an R. Kelly concert consists of almost nothing but climax, one way and another. And for more than two hours he was thrilling, hilarious and downright mystifying, often all at once.
On Kells playing the classics:
During an extended version of “Bump ’n’ Grind,” an old slow jam, he sang one of his most famous lines — “Seems like you’re ready to go all the way” — and then paused, claiming that people backstage were asking him to keep things tame. This inspired a memorable digression, a fanfare for the common ticketholder.Man, I wish I had $600 burning a hole in my pocketses so I could get my hair did properly for this monumental event.
Waxing operatic, he sang: “We paid. To see. You go. All the. Way!” Then he got specific: “Hair done! Nails done! Toes done! Car washed!” He paused, steeling himself, then roared: “Six! Hun! Dred! Dollar! Weave!” Then he issued a warning, using his own first name to amplify the threat: “Somebody say: ‘Robert. If you. Don’t go. All. The way. We want. Our money. Back!’”
On Kells's epic career:
Mr. Kelly sees no reason that an R&B hero can’t also be an eccentric visionary; no reason that a sex symbol can’t also be, in some (or every) sense, a freak. Even in the early 1990s, when he was building his reputation with a series of aching love and lust songs, he found ways to let listeners know he wasn’t like the other guys. In retrospect, “I Like the Crotch on You,” an infamous song from his classic 1993 album “12 Play,” seems like a mission statement: fair warning that he planned to push bedroom music past its logical conclusion.And there really is no more admirable mission statement than "I Like the Crotch on You."
On the haters saying "how you doin' this, player?":
On the day of the concert here, the local newspaper The Ledger-Enquirer printed a skeptical front-page article that portrayed the concert as controversial. The article seemed to endorse the view of one detractor, the Rev. Johnny Flakes III, an assistant pastor at the Fourth Street Missionary Baptist Church here, saying of the pastor, “He opposes the overall derogatory message that will be inherent in many songs performed at tonight’s concert.”The Reverend Johnny Flakes III is just jealous that, in spite of his hilarious name, he doesn't begin to approach Kells in terms of being a player, homie, and that's a well-known factor.
This low hum of outrage scarcely hurts Mr. Kelly; it makes his whimsical sex songs seem all the more daring, while making his tributes to the fans seem all the more heartfelt.
On the thematic elements of the Kells show:
We are barely a year removed from Mr. Kelly’s last traveling show, which he called “Mr. Show Biz Presents: The Light It Up Tour.” While that production suggested that Mr. Kelly was gravitating further toward musical comedy, this one is more scrambled, more bewildering, and the concert became weirder as it went on.YES! We get to witness a live performance of "Real Talk" (see, girl)! Milton!
Singing (when it counted) and lip-synching (when it didn’t), he barreled through the old hits and really came alive during the parts that felt like ad-libs, even if they were rehearsed. He performed “Real Talk,” an angry musical monologue, with a memorable prop: a cellphone. And he turned “Your Body’s Calling” into a quiet, moving tribute to his own history, murmuring, “Somebody’s still calling me, after 17 years, damn.” When he used a word that Pastor Flakes probably disapproves of, he paused to ask if he should censor himself, then evidently decided not to, embarking on a loopy but elegant one-word solo.
On the climax (of the climax-heavy concert):
He saved most of the strangest moments for near the end: a tribute to Prince (or was it a parody?); an extended jungle fantasia; a conductor skit that had Mr. Kelly orchestrating a light show. And the next morning on the radio the hosts seemed puzzled about why he closed the show with a medley of television theme songs.EXTENDED JUNGLE FANTASIA! Undoubtedly that will be a performance of "The Zoo,"
the animal-noise-filled song in which R-dot infamously says, "It's like Jurassic Park, and I'm your sexasaurus, babe." Holy shit, this concert is going to blow my mind. Nothing but climax, baby! I would expect nothing less than that from the R-uh in R&B. I am preparing to be thrilled and bewildered.
Labels: hilarious shit, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, LL Cool Jew, Robert Sylvester Kelly, sex
Rack on!
I got a lot of thoughtful gifts from my friends for my birthday, which was so unnecessary since I would have been satisfied with just having dinner and going drinking with them. Miss Corbutt gave me a lovely cashmere scarf and, appropriately, a new wallet, since I lost my old one that very same night. Neo gave me a bracelet that is covered with Catholic icons of JC and the BV. CorporateCard gave me a set of breast-shaped stress balls. Seriously, they have nipples on them. MultipleScorgasms gave me a certificate of recognition for "Best 29-year-old bod", a kit to play doctor with (unfortunately it's just fake stethoscopes and no sex toys...damn), and a sword which was advertised as being able to render the wielder "hero inapproachable." Sadly, the sword was broken almost immediately and, not having a cadre of elven smiths at my disposal, it could not be reforged like the shards of Narsil. I loved all those presents, but I have to bestow the title of BEST PRESENT EVER on what Rack gave me.
Rack is a fashion designer, and she's always working on creative projects. She always is bedazzling shirts and making elaborate jewelry and making funny things with Illustrator and Photoshop. She's one of the most crafty and creative people I know. Lucky for myself, she turned her ideas and skill with Sculpey modeling clay to the fashioning of my birthday gift. Apparently, I wrote some blog a while back about wanting my own action figure. I actually don't remember that, but Rack is a committed Razzyphile so I believe her. Anyway, she decided to oblige my desire for an action figure and went all out.
ARE YOU KIDDING? Razzy merchandise! Rack pretty much covered all the essentials of Razzy: my d-o-double g's, my sexuality, and my penchant for boozing. Who wouldn't want to collect "Manhattan's favorite dog-owning bisexual alcoholic"? It just keeps getting better:
While Rack encourages people to "collect all 12," the only other ones she made so far are her own and FalloniusMonk's, who unwrapped hers at the same time as I unwrapped mine. Although Rack titled her My Bitches figurine "Mac" which is her real-life nickname, I was thrilled to see that she gave mine and FalloniusMonk's our Razzy names! RAZZY.org, forever the hotness!
And knowing us, Rack had to leave the disclaimer that we couldn't get fucked up by ingesting our likenesses. We're a bunch of substance abusing, kid-hating, irresponsible fuckers, for sure.
Anyway, here's a close-up of the Razzy My Bitches figurine. Pay special note to the fact that, in addition to doing a great job with my "striking Nordic features," Rack managed to capture both of my dogs PERFECTLY. Caesar has the appropriate amount of goofy dog earnestness, and Chingy! is just a collapsing blob of nastiness like he is in real life, right down to the crescent of stank pink tongue that usually pokes out of his weird, repugnant little mouth. And I totally own the exact shirt that Rack fashioned to showcase my "fantastic boobs."
Now I just have to figure out how to convince Rack to mass-produce these, because you know you all want one! I need her to make me a new "Sugar Hill, NYC" street sign too since unfortunately that aspect of my My Bitches figurine somehow vanished during the course of the party. Good times. I'm still hung over from this weekend's festivities, but looking at my sweet My Bitches figurine is taking the edge off. SO AWESOME!
Rack is a fashion designer, and she's always working on creative projects. She always is bedazzling shirts and making elaborate jewelry and making funny things with Illustrator and Photoshop. She's one of the most crafty and creative people I know. Lucky for myself, she turned her ideas and skill with Sculpey modeling clay to the fashioning of my birthday gift. Apparently, I wrote some blog a while back about wanting my own action figure. I actually don't remember that, but Rack is a committed Razzyphile so I believe her. Anyway, she decided to oblige my desire for an action figure and went all out.
While Rack encourages people to "collect all 12," the only other ones she made so far are her own and FalloniusMonk's, who unwrapped hers at the same time as I unwrapped mine. Although Rack titled her My Bitches figurine "Mac" which is her real-life nickname, I was thrilled to see that she gave mine and FalloniusMonk's our Razzy names! RAZZY.org, forever the hotness!
And knowing us, Rack had to leave the disclaimer that we couldn't get fucked up by ingesting our likenesses. We're a bunch of substance abusing, kid-hating, irresponsible fuckers, for sure.
Anyway, here's a close-up of the Razzy My Bitches figurine. Pay special note to the fact that, in addition to doing a great job with my "striking Nordic features," Rack managed to capture both of my dogs PERFECTLY. Caesar has the appropriate amount of goofy dog earnestness, and Chingy! is just a collapsing blob of nastiness like he is in real life, right down to the crescent of stank pink tongue that usually pokes out of his weird, repugnant little mouth. And I totally own the exact shirt that Rack fashioned to showcase my "fantastic boobs."
Labels: creative projects, I LOVE IT, Rack, Razzification, Razzyphiles
Daily Douchebag: my wallet
Douchebaggery: While my birthday party on Saturday was a smashing success, one aspect of it totally SUCKED. I LOST MY FUCKING WALLET! I had to pay for a Metrocard with dimes--like a damn homeless person--to get to Josie Woods yesterday for birthday weekend football. Then the boys had to buy my beers and nachos, and NeisMan lent me twenty bucks for use until I can get to the bank and get a new debit card. Losing your wallet SUCKS.
Luckily, I didn't lose the new driver's license that I have yet to get, but I lost my damn monthly Metrocard, all my credit cards, my social security card, $50, a vintage Razzy business card from my old job slanging T cells, my scuba diving certification card, some free movie tickets that I had, and some of my favorite Catholic medals, including the old one that said "I am Catholic; In Case of an Accident, Please Call a Priest" and the medal of St. Anthony, who ironically is the patron saint of lost items. I am understandably pissed about this. I don't know if my wallet was stolen or just fell out of my purse, but I am not pleased that I have to replace some crap and other stuff is probably gone for good. I'm holding on to the slim hope that it fell out and the bar manager has it locked in their office, which is where the bartender on duty last night told me it would be if it had been found. Say a prayer to St. Anthony for me.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, Razzification, tragedy
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Josie Woods Pub
DOB: Established 1999
Occupation: dopest Sunday football bar EVER
Hometown/current residence: 11 Waverly Place at Mercer Street, Greenwich Village, NYC
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Every Sunday, I watch football all day at Josie Woods, usually with my boys Js and Ps, NeisMan, and Unicorn Dick. NeisMan treats us to his excellent impersonation of John Madden extolling his man-love for Brett Favre, Js and Ps waxes poetic about the mighty Lions, and Unicorn Dick makes a lot of smartass comments about everything. Then we eat nachos, cheeseburgers, and wings, and get day-drunk on their Sunday football discounted Bud Light pitchers. Our waiter, Alex, has been taking care of us every week for the past three years, and always gives us some free beers and turns on the Seahawks on whichever TV I ask him to. I've even seen him go to bat for my Seahawks game against a table full of loud, obnoxious Giants fans. He always ensures that myself and any other 12th Men who happen to be around don't have to strain our eyes while we watch Hawks fans on TV holding up their Sea-Fence signs.
Labels: alcoholism, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Fantasia, NFL football, NYC
Friday, November 16, 2007
Best. Strategy. For Catching Cheaters. Ever.
Thanks to Dlisted, I came upon this YouTube by this hot Floridian piece named Riskay. Yes, I know, Riskay is basically the awesomest name of all time. Self-proclaimed "drama queen" Riskay lives up to the hotness of her name and title by singing a song that is at once catchy and filled with practical advice for ladies who suspect their man might be getting his creep on.
Why you comin' home
At five in the morn?
Something's going on.
Can I smell yo dick?
Don't play me like a fool
Cuz that ain't cool
What you need to do is
Let me smell yo dick!
Riskay is a damned sensible woman. While many might think the genitalia smell test is vulgar or uncivilized, you can't argue with its efficacy. The dick-smelling approach to catching a cheater gets results. And Riskay phrases it so eloquently! I'm telling you, Robert Sylvester Kelly has some competition for mindblowingly awesome songwriting skills at the next Grammys. He'd better bring it with more than a Lone Ranger mask now that Riskay is in the lyrics game. And speaking of, I totally just found my Hilarious Hip-Hop/R&B Lyric of the Month for December (and thank God, because T-Pain can't have a funny song every month of the year, can he?).
Why you comin' home
At five in the morn?
Something's going on.
Can I smell yo dick?
Don't play me like a fool
Cuz that ain't cool
What you need to do is
Let me smell yo dick!
Riskay is a damned sensible woman. While many might think the genitalia smell test is vulgar or uncivilized, you can't argue with its efficacy. The dick-smelling approach to catching a cheater gets results. And Riskay phrases it so eloquently! I'm telling you, Robert Sylvester Kelly has some competition for mindblowingly awesome songwriting skills at the next Grammys. He'd better bring it with more than a Lone Ranger mask now that Riskay is in the lyrics game. And speaking of, I totally just found my Hilarious Hip-Hop/R&B Lyric of the Month for December (and thank God, because T-Pain can't have a funny song every month of the year, can he?).
Labels: hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, rap, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Saturday night special
Attention all you Razzyphiles in the New York City area who have always desired to meet me and buy me a cocktail! Tomorrow is my 29th birthday, and there's a big huge party for me and FalloniusMonk (who turned 29 on November 11th)!
And FalloniusMonk wanted to wear some sweater vest she bought so she demanded the party be golf-themed. I don't do golf or sweater vests, so I told my guests the party would be tit-themed. FalloniusMonk doesn't do tits (well, she does because she's a big old lezzie, but she doesn't do them like me...in other words, she keeps them stowed within her shirt like a dignified lady unlike me), so at least we can agree on scotch being the official drink of "The 29th Hole."
And you should come, with money you will use to purchase me or FalloniusMonk or both of us Johnnie Walker Blacks on the rocks. All the NYC-located RAZZY.org characters you've always wanted to meet will be there (JerseyGirl, Miss Corbutt, KatieScarlett, Rack, J-Sexy, Neo, and all les bitches), and I will be drunk, wearing a crown, and undoubtedly on the prowl. It will be fun. I especially encourage attendance of hot, swarthy dudes with big dicks and stacked blonde bitches who like snatch. And who will respect me and be nice to me in the morning when I kick them out on my way to the bar where I watch football!
We'll see you at:
THE BLACK DOOR
127 West 26th Street
(Betwixt 6th and 7th Avenues)
On the fair isle of Mannahattas in the colony of Nieuw Amsterdam
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 17th, 2007
TEN P.M. UNTIL WHENEVS!
See you there, Razzyphiles!
And FalloniusMonk wanted to wear some sweater vest she bought so she demanded the party be golf-themed. I don't do golf or sweater vests, so I told my guests the party would be tit-themed. FalloniusMonk doesn't do tits (well, she does because she's a big old lezzie, but she doesn't do them like me...in other words, she keeps them stowed within her shirt like a dignified lady unlike me), so at least we can agree on scotch being the official drink of "The 29th Hole."
And you should come, with money you will use to purchase me or FalloniusMonk or both of us Johnnie Walker Blacks on the rocks. All the NYC-located RAZZY.org characters you've always wanted to meet will be there (JerseyGirl, Miss Corbutt, KatieScarlett, Rack, J-Sexy, Neo, and all les bitches), and I will be drunk, wearing a crown, and undoubtedly on the prowl. It will be fun. I especially encourage attendance of hot, swarthy dudes with big dicks and stacked blonde bitches who like snatch. And who will respect me and be nice to me in the morning when I kick them out on my way to the bar where I watch football!
We'll see you at:
THE BLACK DOOR
127 West 26th Street
(Betwixt 6th and 7th Avenues)
On the fair isle of Mannahattas in the colony of Nieuw Amsterdam
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 17th, 2007
TEN P.M. UNTIL WHENEVS!
See you there, Razzyphiles!
Labels: aging, alcoholism, FalloniusMonk, NYC, Razzification
Hey dudes: a question
And I really mean "dudes." I have a question for the fellas, but before I can ask it, I need to tell a story which is neither remarkable nor something I'm particularly proud of or excited about sharing. However, it is what compels me to do such a tremendously personal outreach type of query.
I randomly ran into a dude I slept with on the street yesterday. Our sex wasn't particularly remarkable. It wasn't bad, and it wasn't good. He got a blow job, I had an orgasm, and we both have nothing to complain about, even if it wasn't exactly the most mind-blowingly passionate experience of either of our lives. He has a nice penis and is a charming, smart, interesting guy...or WAS, anyway. Apparently, now that we've known one another Biblically, courtesy is a thing of the past between us.
Yesterday when I ran into him, I greeted him casually. It was not shocking that we ran into each other, since we work in the same building. I was under the impression that he was a little weirded out, but we saw each other the other day at a grad school function and everything seemed fine. Apparently, good graces only apply to group situations, because today, when I said a friendly "hey, what's up?" (what's up=used as a greeting rather than an actual question where I expect a detailed response about "what's up"), he wouldn't make eye contact with me, and when he did, the look he gave me can be described only as contemptuous. His expression toward me was so disdainful that I walked away feeling like I'd been punched in the stomach. It was the kind of look I would give to a table full of vegan hippies trying to get people to sign a pro-children anti-Razzy petition. He looked at me with an expression of unadulterated scorn. I was taken aback by his obvious and emphatic quality of his aversion to me.
I can't figure out what I did to deserve this seemingly active dislike. I did write about him on this blog, but I told him before we fucked that I was going to do that, and I even e-mailed him the link after along with an offer to edit or redact anything he was uncomfortable with, on the grounds that I was fond of him and wanted to be respectful. He responded that "it's all good" and he'd see me around. Since he didn't take the opportunity to express his concern or disdain for my blog-mediated sexual braggadocio, I took that to mean that everything is indeed all good. However, he must have SOME kind of problem if his initial reaction to seeing me is to look at me the way people used to look at lepers and Samaritans in Biblical times. Unfortunately, whatever that problem is completely escapes me.
Of course, this is not the first time this has happened to me. I'm a big slut, so obviously I've had guys treat me disrespectfully after I gave it up, but I've always wondered WHY exactly they don't respect me in the morning. It seems silly that a dude will absolve himself from all responsibility involved in the seduction and sex process, and squarely blame me for being so eager to fuck him. Furthermore, why is that something even meriting BLAME? I am grateful to people who are kind enough to fuck me. I think it's nice of them to do, and as a result am friendly and gracious to them afterward. Unless they do something that I think is mean or insulting to me, I have no ill will toward any dude who deigns to stick his dick in my vagina. However, this seems to be a disturbingly common reaction men have to their female partners.
A little secret about me that astute readers will recognize is that I may posture like I'm some kind of big badass who spends all day mocking everything and reveling in my invincibility, but at my core, I'm a highly sensitive poetry-writing lesbian who went to the same college as Sylvia Plath. I have an indomitable spirit in that I refuse to let things like this damage me permanently, but that doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt my feelings rather terribly in the short term. It's not like this dude needs to go out of his way to treat me like some kind of fairy tale princess, but he could at least surmise that it would be mean to treat me like an inferior class of human being because I had the gall to sleep with him. Even loudmouthed, shit-talking, casual sex-having drunks like myself experience pain when they are treated shabbily by someone with no clear cause to do so. I am aware that people see me as intimidating and seemingly very strong, but that makes experiencing emotional pain even more difficult for me, because I don't know how to get help dealing with it and because nobody expects a tough broad like me to be burdened by feelings of self-doubt, loneliness, and inadequacy. So I self-medicate with booze, spit a lot of slut machismo, and convince myself that I don't care, which really means I just repress everything and have consequent unexpected nervous breakdowns when it is most inconvenient for me to do so (ie: when other people are around and I am horribly embarrassed).
Since clearly I need more healthy coping mechanisms, I decided to put the energy going into feeling spurned and hurt by a random honey into figuring out why the hell some guys do this. I think I have a pretty good grasp of what men like in the bedroom and the office (results), but what goes on in their heads elsewhere is an utter mystery to me sometimes. Women do not have the market cornered on being complex and hard to figure out. The psychology of men--particularly when it comes to sexual politics--continues to confound me. Which brings me to my question.
WHY do you dislike women after they fuck you? Not all of you do, but I bet you all UNDERSTAND why it happens. Why does a guy sleep with a woman like me, and get what we all think guys want (sex from a smart, blonde, C-cup-equipped, reasonably fit, if-not-hot-then-at-least-not-ugly chick who can commandingly carry a conversation, drink scotch without vomiting or blacking out, and sucks a mean dick), and then treat that woman like a disposable ho barely meriting acknowledgement.? Am I supposed to pretend I don't like sex and act like I won't have it, and be dishonest with someone I like and respect, and generally act like I am ashamed of the brash and sexual person I am in order to deserve the basic respect a decent person shows a stranger and a colleague? It's not like I'm trying to be this dude's girlfriend, or have been otherwise bothering or stalking him. I haven't been on his jock in any way, so it's not very likely that he's freaked out because we had differing views of the long-term consequences of our having sex. We were both drunk, both presumably mutually attracted, and both horny, and that's it. It's not like I fucked him and started planning our wedding. I haven't communicated with him at all excepting the one e-mail I sent him, to which he responded that things were "all good." So why am I being hated rather than congratulated? Why do guys sometimes act like they hate you because you had the audacity to fuck them? Any insight the fellas can offer on this matter would be appreciated by me, and probably every other girl who has had this happen (in other words, every other girl.) This is why I allow anonymous comments, dudes, so feel free to be brutally honest.
I randomly ran into a dude I slept with on the street yesterday. Our sex wasn't particularly remarkable. It wasn't bad, and it wasn't good. He got a blow job, I had an orgasm, and we both have nothing to complain about, even if it wasn't exactly the most mind-blowingly passionate experience of either of our lives. He has a nice penis and is a charming, smart, interesting guy...or WAS, anyway. Apparently, now that we've known one another Biblically, courtesy is a thing of the past between us.
Yesterday when I ran into him, I greeted him casually. It was not shocking that we ran into each other, since we work in the same building. I was under the impression that he was a little weirded out, but we saw each other the other day at a grad school function and everything seemed fine. Apparently, good graces only apply to group situations, because today, when I said a friendly "hey, what's up?" (what's up=used as a greeting rather than an actual question where I expect a detailed response about "what's up"), he wouldn't make eye contact with me, and when he did, the look he gave me can be described only as contemptuous. His expression toward me was so disdainful that I walked away feeling like I'd been punched in the stomach. It was the kind of look I would give to a table full of vegan hippies trying to get people to sign a pro-children anti-Razzy petition. He looked at me with an expression of unadulterated scorn. I was taken aback by his obvious and emphatic quality of his aversion to me.
I can't figure out what I did to deserve this seemingly active dislike. I did write about him on this blog, but I told him before we fucked that I was going to do that, and I even e-mailed him the link after along with an offer to edit or redact anything he was uncomfortable with, on the grounds that I was fond of him and wanted to be respectful. He responded that "it's all good" and he'd see me around. Since he didn't take the opportunity to express his concern or disdain for my blog-mediated sexual braggadocio, I took that to mean that everything is indeed all good. However, he must have SOME kind of problem if his initial reaction to seeing me is to look at me the way people used to look at lepers and Samaritans in Biblical times. Unfortunately, whatever that problem is completely escapes me.
Of course, this is not the first time this has happened to me. I'm a big slut, so obviously I've had guys treat me disrespectfully after I gave it up, but I've always wondered WHY exactly they don't respect me in the morning. It seems silly that a dude will absolve himself from all responsibility involved in the seduction and sex process, and squarely blame me for being so eager to fuck him. Furthermore, why is that something even meriting BLAME? I am grateful to people who are kind enough to fuck me. I think it's nice of them to do, and as a result am friendly and gracious to them afterward. Unless they do something that I think is mean or insulting to me, I have no ill will toward any dude who deigns to stick his dick in my vagina. However, this seems to be a disturbingly common reaction men have to their female partners.
A little secret about me that astute readers will recognize is that I may posture like I'm some kind of big badass who spends all day mocking everything and reveling in my invincibility, but at my core, I'm a highly sensitive poetry-writing lesbian who went to the same college as Sylvia Plath. I have an indomitable spirit in that I refuse to let things like this damage me permanently, but that doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt my feelings rather terribly in the short term. It's not like this dude needs to go out of his way to treat me like some kind of fairy tale princess, but he could at least surmise that it would be mean to treat me like an inferior class of human being because I had the gall to sleep with him. Even loudmouthed, shit-talking, casual sex-having drunks like myself experience pain when they are treated shabbily by someone with no clear cause to do so. I am aware that people see me as intimidating and seemingly very strong, but that makes experiencing emotional pain even more difficult for me, because I don't know how to get help dealing with it and because nobody expects a tough broad like me to be burdened by feelings of self-doubt, loneliness, and inadequacy. So I self-medicate with booze, spit a lot of slut machismo, and convince myself that I don't care, which really means I just repress everything and have consequent unexpected nervous breakdowns when it is most inconvenient for me to do so (ie: when other people are around and I am horribly embarrassed).
Since clearly I need more healthy coping mechanisms, I decided to put the energy going into feeling spurned and hurt by a random honey into figuring out why the hell some guys do this. I think I have a pretty good grasp of what men like in the bedroom and the office (results), but what goes on in their heads elsewhere is an utter mystery to me sometimes. Women do not have the market cornered on being complex and hard to figure out. The psychology of men--particularly when it comes to sexual politics--continues to confound me. Which brings me to my question.
WHY do you dislike women after they fuck you? Not all of you do, but I bet you all UNDERSTAND why it happens. Why does a guy sleep with a woman like me, and get what we all think guys want (sex from a smart, blonde, C-cup-equipped, reasonably fit, if-not-hot-then-at-least-not-ugly chick who can commandingly carry a conversation, drink scotch without vomiting or blacking out, and sucks a mean dick), and then treat that woman like a disposable ho barely meriting acknowledgement.? Am I supposed to pretend I don't like sex and act like I won't have it, and be dishonest with someone I like and respect, and generally act like I am ashamed of the brash and sexual person I am in order to deserve the basic respect a decent person shows a stranger and a colleague? It's not like I'm trying to be this dude's girlfriend, or have been otherwise bothering or stalking him. I haven't been on his jock in any way, so it's not very likely that he's freaked out because we had differing views of the long-term consequences of our having sex. We were both drunk, both presumably mutually attracted, and both horny, and that's it. It's not like I fucked him and started planning our wedding. I haven't communicated with him at all excepting the one e-mail I sent him, to which he responded that things were "all good." So why am I being hated rather than congratulated? Why do guys sometimes act like they hate you because you had the audacity to fuck them? Any insight the fellas can offer on this matter would be appreciated by me, and probably every other girl who has had this happen (in other words, every other girl.) This is why I allow anonymous comments, dudes, so feel free to be brutally honest.
Labels: for serious people, Razzification, sex, sluts
Daily Douchebag: Katie Cassidy
DOB: November 25, 1986
Occupation: "Hollywood actress," minor in possession, NOT a mathematician
Hometown: Los Angeles, California
Current residence: West Hollywood, California
Douchebaggery: It's hard for me to think of anything I'm more pissed about than the fact that today is my last day of being 28. I really don't care that much about aging--being that thirty is the new twenty, or something--but for some reason just hearing that I'm 29 bugs me a little bit. It's my last year in my twenties, and I feel like I should have accomplished more by now. I should be halfway to buying my NFL team, not still stuck in grad school toiling away at the shitshow that is my thesis project. However, my failings at being a fully qualified Ph.ake Doctor so far are a pretty good problem to have compared to some. I could be 20, and monumentally stupid.
Enter Katie Cassidy, daughter of 70s teen idol David Cassidy and some skank model, and, judging from her pictures, the proud owner of a brand new set of Chiclet-esque dental veneers. Katie and her chewing gum teeth were doing a little underage drinking in Tucson, Arizona, when the cops stopped a car she was riding in. Dude driving the car was doing so erratically, and whether this was because he was drunk or receiving some good old-fashioned drunk bitch road head from his passenger Katie is up for debate. Wanting to avoid the M.I.P. citation so dreaded and feared by partying high school students everywhere, she told the cops that she was a Canadian, gave the name of a 23-year-old actress, and then said "I'm 21" after giving her birthdate as "4-29-84." The cop was like, "Uh, doesn't that mean you're 23?" Then she was like, "Okay, Sherlock, you caught me," and fessed up. Upon hearing her confession, the cop promptly arrested her for lying to him. After her arrest, the cop called her mom, who wanted to know how to fix this up without any trouble on account of Katie being a "high-profile" actress without time in her busy schedule to make court appearances.
So, let me get this straight. This bitch, whose major screen credits basically consist of making the rounds at the CW (portraying variations on the earnest slut theme on "7th Heaven," "Summerland," and "Supernatural"), is so fucking busy making out with Jared Padalecki or whatever for the camera that she can't be bothered to explain to a judge why she was running around getting shitfaced on Cape Cods a couple weeks prior to her 21st birthday. Furthermore, the people of Tucson should accommodate this, because somehow this bitch's inability to subtract 21 from 2007 isn't her fault. Fuck that. Somehow I suspect Katie will be able to haul her sorry "high-profile" ass off the Z-list long enough to show up in a goddamned Tucson courtroom. Maybe while she's en route to court from California she can brush up on her second grade math skills, too.
Like I said, I might be practically menopausal and approaching the ripe old age of almost-thirty, but on the bright side, I'm not completely fucking retarded. Granted, I'm sure that senility is right around the corner for me in my advanced years (I was born in the SEVENTIES), but for the time being, I am at least clever enough not to bet that my drunken arithmetic is superior to a sober police officer's. Until my mind succumbs to the ravages of age, I can at least take comfort in knowing that even on my worst day, I'm smarter than Katie Cassidy's busted, entitled, dumb blonde ass on her best. The sad thing is that the cops probably would have let her slide if she hadn't fucked up on the birthdate, because she definitely looks 21 or older. Girlfriend already is looking a little mature, so she can expect that "high-profile" career as a "Hollywood actress" to be short, at least if she's going to specialize in skanks young enough to fuck leading men of Jensen Ackles's ilk. Her looks are going to go and then what will she do with herself? Certainly it looks like being a mechanical engineer or a theoretical physicist or a CPA are all out as a career plan B. At least now that my looks have gone, I can blind you all with science. It's a lot better being Old Razzy than Young Katie Cassidy.
Labels: aging, assholes, crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, retard rage, sluts
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: the grand jury that indicted Barry Bonds
Occupation: sticking it to lying assholes
Current residence: San Francisco, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I've had plenty of hatred for Barry Bonds for a while now, which is why I did a jig yesterday when I heard that a federal grand jury is calling him on being a liar and a steroid-using cheater. He was indicted on five counts of obstruction of justice and perjury for lying to a different grand jury in 2003 that he never knowingly took steroids. Too bad for Barry the prosecution managed to dig up a stack of lab reports showing him testing positive for steroids. Also, too bad for Barry that his former "trainer" Greg Anderson--who did a year in the pokey for refusing to cooperate with prosecutors in this case--is alleged to have injected his ass with steroids. I don't know what kind of proof they have of this, but I would say that it's a lot harder to say that an intramuscular shot of a mystery substance delivered by a man known for his ability to synthesize novel growth hormone formulations isn't steroids than an innocent rubdown with "the cream" or "the clear." Good for the John Q. Publics serving on this grand jury for not buying Bonds's bullshit and giving the Feds a crack at him in court.
Also, I have to say that whoever came up with today's cover of the New York Post, AKA the greatest paper in the history of print journalism, deserves a Pulitzer. That may be the greatest use of the asterisk I've ever seen.
Labels: assholes, crime and punishment, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, large exclamatory font, sportsmen
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Michael Kors
Real Name: Karl Anderson, Jr.
DOB: August 9, 1959
Occupation: Per Heidi Klum, a "noted American fashion designer," hot-ass judge and uberbitch on "Project Runway"
Hometown: somewhere on Strong Island, New York
Current residence: New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Unfortunately for my hitting-it prospects, Michael Kors is about as gay as they get. However, after watching last night's long-awaited return of "Project Runway," I remember exactly what I love so much about the show, and that is Michael Kors being a catty super-fag about almost everything, even stuff he likes. In seasons of "Project Runway" past, Michael Kors has dispensed memorable critiques like "it's as if Comme des Garcons went to the Amish country," "it looks like a Thanksgiving pageant exploded all over her ass," and "oh yeah, you're alluring, wearing your grandma's panties." On the rare occasion when he likes something (ie: Michael Knight from "Project Runway 3"'s Pam Grier-inspired hot pants), he just gives some serious fuck-me eyes and says, "Those are great shorts." Most of the time, he's hating on everything, and I love it. There's really nothing more satisfying than watching some arrogant design school graduate go on for forty-five minutes about how fucking brilliant and innovative their ruching technique is only to have Michael show up and declare that it looks "farty."
All the time off between "Project Runway" seasons has done little to mellow out Michael Kors. Yesterday there was one dress that all the judges liked, even Nina Garcia, who usually hates everything. Nonetheless, Michael zeroed in on the fabric rosette that adorned the shoulder strap and goes, "You know, that flower is a little M.O.B. for my taste."
The designer was like, "Huh?" but didn't want to look like an idiot in front of Michael Kors. Michael Kors was not impressed because he thought the dude was an idiot anyway. He rolled his eyes.
"Mother of the bride, the flower is too mother of the bride!" I was surprised he didn't add a "dumbass" for good measure. Then he realized that it actually was a lovely dress, so he couldn't overhate. Not this early in the season anyway. "I guess the rest of the dress is chic," he conceded.
Damn, there are like 14 more weeks of fabulously bitchy Michael Kors judging panels to watch. SWEET! Good thing I don't think I can get enough of this nasally-voiced asshole. Bravo, Bravo!
Labels: assholes, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, oh the horror, Project Runway, TV, vulgar display of faggotry
Daily Douchebag: the DMV
Occupation: making one's life miserable every few years
Current residence: that clusterfuck of post offices and overpriced Irish pubs across from Madison Square Garden
Douchebaggery: Being that it is my birthday on Saturday, I now have to take care of an errand I've dreaded ever since moving to the fair isle of Mannahattas...exchanging my beloved Washington state driver's license which lists my address as 1007 North K St, Tacoma AKA the City of Destiny, WA for a New York license. My license expires on Saturday as my last year in my twenties commences, so unless I want to take another driving test at some later date (I DO NOT!), I've got to schlep my sorry ass over to the DMV and cough up a dollar or eighty for my official government issued ID. On the bright side, this means I'll have an ID that has a shot at being marginally okay-looking. Not that I really mind TOO much that my Washington state ID really makes me look like a true Tacoma girl. The kind of girl who likes spiral perms, NASCAR, banana clips, and breast-feeding while a stolen Costco-sized shipment of pseudoephedrine dissolves in a heating bucket of anhydrous ammonia:
Hopefully I'll look all sophisticated and shit on my new ID, which will list my address as the sexy-sounding New York, New York. Chances are, however, that with my track record of non-photogenic ID pictures, I'll probably just look like a slightly more urban meth cookin' PWT hooker. Oh well. It's better than my passport photo (taken my senior year of college), in which I look like I should be on the cover of a Smith admissions brochure engaging in spirited intellectual conversation about gender politics with all my smart Smithie friends under some lovely blazing New England fall foliage beneath the caption "SMITH COLLEGE: Where Women's Minds Matter":
Labels: Daily Douchebag, driving, NYC, oh the horror, Razzification, vanity, you're ugly
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
But George W. Bush IS a...
Not that I give a flying underwater scissor-style fuck about what Whoopi Goldberg says or does, because she annoys me and because Hell will look like the vast and tempestuous Bering Sea halfway to freaking Kamchatka in January before I pay much attention to anyone affiliated with the travesty known as "The View," but apparently she's in trouble because last year she called George W. Bush a cunt. Well she actually didn't even drop the big "C-word" that everyone seems to find so offensive. She just made the obvious vagina joke about Bush's last name and said something like "keep Bush where it belongs and out of the White House." This was all in support of John (LOSER) Kerry's pathetic attempt at obfuscating his way into 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. For some reason, Whoopi is now getting heat for calling President Bush a cunt, and she's quick to remind everyone that she just made a play on his last name, and never uttered the dreaded "C U Next Tuesday."
Girls go crazy when you say "cunt"...except me, that is. I don't think "cunt" is all that bad of a word. It's just a synonym for vagina, so why is it any worse than "cooze" or "poon"? I actually think it has more zing old standbys like "pussy" and "twat," and I'll use it any day over lame cutesy euphemisms like "vajayjay." Frankly, there's other words (ie: "gash") that I think conjure up much grosser and more repugnant associations. But for some reason, it's been universally accepted that "cunt" is probably the worst thing you can call a woman. If you're a little pissed, you call a woman a bitch. If you're furious and want to establish that your ire is NO JOKE, you drop a c-bomb on that ho. That's like declaring a fucking blood feud. On those grounds, I don't understand why an avowed Bush-hater like Whoopi is saying, "Oh, I didn't call him a CUNT. I pointed out to the mentally slow, self-righteous rich assholes attending some lame Murder, DNC (what some of my wonk friends called their employer, the Democratic National Committee, circa 2003) $1000-a-plate fundraising dinner for Kerry that his name doubles as a coarse slang term for vagina. THAT'S VERY DIFFERENT! Calling the president a cunt would be SOOOOO INAPPROPRIATE. That would mean business. You know it's a joke because I just called him a Bush! Which he is! LOL! Watch more pointless discussion about my not using the c-word on 'The View.'"
Well, he's also a cunt. And if Whoopi doesn't have the stones to go there, lucky for everyone I do.
GEORGE W. BUSH IS A CUNT.
That said, vote libertarian.
Girls go crazy when you say "cunt"...except me, that is. I don't think "cunt" is all that bad of a word. It's just a synonym for vagina, so why is it any worse than "cooze" or "poon"? I actually think it has more zing old standbys like "pussy" and "twat," and I'll use it any day over lame cutesy euphemisms like "vajayjay." Frankly, there's other words (ie: "gash") that I think conjure up much grosser and more repugnant associations. But for some reason, it's been universally accepted that "cunt" is probably the worst thing you can call a woman. If you're a little pissed, you call a woman a bitch. If you're furious and want to establish that your ire is NO JOKE, you drop a c-bomb on that ho. That's like declaring a fucking blood feud. On those grounds, I don't understand why an avowed Bush-hater like Whoopi is saying, "Oh, I didn't call him a CUNT. I pointed out to the mentally slow, self-righteous rich assholes attending some lame Murder, DNC (what some of my wonk friends called their employer, the Democratic National Committee, circa 2003) $1000-a-plate fundraising dinner for Kerry that his name doubles as a coarse slang term for vagina. THAT'S VERY DIFFERENT! Calling the president a cunt would be SOOOOO INAPPROPRIATE. That would mean business. You know it's a joke because I just called him a Bush! Which he is! LOL! Watch more pointless discussion about my not using the c-word on 'The View.'"
Well, he's also a cunt. And if Whoopi doesn't have the stones to go there, lucky for everyone I do.
GEORGE W. BUSH IS A CUNT.
That said, vote libertarian.
Labels: celebrities, free fucking speech, intentional buffoonery, libertarians rule, overcompensation, politics, stank vaginas
Jesus would have sanctioned the sale of strap-ons
Yesterday, I received two e-mail requests about the same news story from LL Cool Jew ("I think this merits your attention--and ire") and El Cyd "please blog. please, please, please blog. oh, and as an aside: the penalty for selling a firearm to a minor? $500 and zero jail time"). Well, I can't say no to my Razzyphiles in need, and indeed I was appalled by the injustices that continue to be perpetrated by the state of Alabama. First they don't want to integrate the schools and now this. Hey, at least the Supreme Court had the decency to get on the whole civil rights thing. The sexual revolution is getting the shaft, or more appropriately, it's NOT getting the shaft in Alabama. This is bullshit!
What the hell is up with these Southern states? They aren't into anything fun at all. No "sodomy" AKA any kind of hot same-sex action, no sex toys, no FUN! I don't get why these Bible belt people make things so difficult for themselves. All these Jesus people are secretly such big freaks that their private antics would make me blush, so I don't know why they go to the trouble of passing laws that make their secret dirty sex lives more difficult. They all are ranting and raving from the pulpit about how CHEESE-sauce Chrast hates them hommasekshuls and stuff like that, but behind closed doors they're smoking meth and getting spanked by PVC-clad gay hookers. I guess the good Christians of Alabama buy their ball gags, nipple clamps, and assorted other dungeon equipment online.
Not only that, why do the damn penalties have to be so stiff? Peddling butt plugs is worth ten grand and a year in jail? I know that religious people aren't supposed to enjoy sex and therefore have no need to try new things in the bedroom, and that this is probably why they're so gung ho about keeping vibrators out of the hands of sinful bitches trying to masturbate everywhere, but whoever came up with that penalty needs a sex toy in a BAD way. Someone buy the seersucker coat-wearing Southern gentleman state senator who authored this law a string of anal beads, STAT, because his prostate needs to be tickled before it atrophies. There's no reason to think that Jesus wouldn't be doing himself with some type of cyberskin stroker sleeve modeled after a porn star's vagina and/or colon, especially considering he was so fond of hanging with whores, and you know that they spent some of the wages of sin on items to enhance the experience for their clients. Jesus didn't recommend that they cough up ten thousand denarii and enjoy a year's worth of scourging and prison rape courtesy of the Julio-Claudians. In fact, in his two interactions with slutty bitches, he stopped one from getting stoned, and had the other give him a hair-and-perfume pedicure. Our Lord and Savior obviously had a foot fetish and loved him some whores, so I can't believe he would have frowned too heavily on anything they carry at the Decatur or Huntsville "Pleasures" stores. Since Jesus went ahead and took the punishment for everyone who has ever done anything wrong himself, one can make the argument that he died so that we might all profit from the dildo-and-vibrator trade and enjoy the products of this beloved industry sector. Unfortunately, these Bible belt fools aren't intellectually visionary enough to appreciate that Jesus rode the cross at Golgotha like a wild stallion so that we can all have kinky, mechanically assisted sex to our hearts' content, and their bullshit laws are going to ensure that the good folks of Alabama are having fewer orgasms as a result.
Since the dumb-stupid-dumb Supreme Court doesn't have it's priorities straight and isn't rectifying this situation this time around, I plan to say a prayer for Alabama every time I use modern technology to rub one out or bang some chick. When I do that, I'm in a heightened spiritual state so it seems like that's a good time to conversate with the Father-Son-Holy Spirit anyway. I might as well lobby for the end of discrimination against the awesome perverts of the Yellowhammer (SERIOUSLY, that is Alabama's state name?) State. It's the Christian thing to do.
Court Leaves Alabama Sex Toy Ban IntactIt is a sad day when you have to disguise a nice, garden variety vibrator as a "medical device" in order to sell it. Not to mention that it really takes some of the sexy out of it to give a sex toy such a clinical title. Granted, my favorite vibrator is technically a "body massager" but it's not like I operate under the pretense that I use it for massaging any part of my body apart from my clitoris. I refer to it as my vibrator. I would still be pissed if it were harder to buy any of the other sex toys populating my bedside table drawer along with my passport, condom stash, and Smith diploma--which were sold under product names like "strap-on dildo", "double-sided jelly dong", "bullet vibe", "jackrabbit vibrator", "G-spotter", etc.--in my state. Fortunately, you can go ahead and sell this kind of stuff in New York, and businesses in the Village are thriving doing so. Looks like I won't be moving to Bama anytime soon.
By Phillip Rawls
MONTGOMERY, Ala. (AP) - The U.S. Supreme Court declined Monday to hear a challenge to Alabama's ban on the sale of sex toys, ending a nine-year legal battle and sending a warning to store owners to clean off their shelves.
An adult-store owner had asked the justices to throw out the law as an unconstitutional intrusion into the privacy of the bedroom. But the Supreme Court declined to hear the appeal, leaving intact a lower court ruling that upheld the law.
Sherri Williams, owner of Pleasures stores in Huntsville and Decatur, said she was disappointed, but plans to sue again on First Amendment free speech grounds.
"My motto has been they are going to have to pry this vibrator from my cold, dead hand. I refuse to give up," she said.
Alabama's anti-obscenity law, enacted in 1998, bans the distribution of "any device designed or marketed as useful primarily for the stimulation of human genital organs for anything of pecuniary value."
The law does not ban the possession of sex toys, and it doesn't regulate other items, including condoms or virility drugs. Residents may legally purchase sex toys out of state for use in Alabama, or they may buy sexual devices in Alabama that have a "bona fide medical" purpose.
Similar laws have been upheld in Georgia, Mississippi, and Texas, but struck down in Louisiana, Kansas and Colorado, said Mark Lopez, a former American Civil Liberties Union attorney in New York who worked on the Alabama case until recently.
The Alabama attorney general's office immediately notified county district attorneys, who are responsible for enforcement. The attorney general planned to ask a federal judge to lift an injunction preventing the law from being enforced.
Removing the injunction should take a couple of days, said Chris Bence, spokesman for Attorney General Troy King.
Store owners should be aware that the law takes effect once the injunction is lifted, Bence said.
Williams had asked the Supreme Court to review a decision by the 11th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals that found Alabama's law was not affected by a U.S. Supreme Court decision knocking down Texas' sodomy law.
The Texas sodomy law involved private conduct, while the Alabama law regulated commercial activity, the appeals court judges said. Public morality was an insufficient government interest in the Texas case but was sufficient in the Alabama case, they said.
Williams called the Supreme Court's decision not to review the law "further evidence of religion in politics."
"The U.S. Supreme Court said states can legislate morality," she said. "I don't feel it is fair to the people who do not agree with the morality of the Legislature."
She also predicted future court battles over which sexual devices are legal to sell as medical devices.
Lopez said adult stores may be cautious about pushing the issue of what constitutes a medical device because the law has strong penalties: Up to a year in jail and a $10,000 fine for a first offense. A second offense carries a prison sentence of one to 10 years.
What the hell is up with these Southern states? They aren't into anything fun at all. No "sodomy" AKA any kind of hot same-sex action, no sex toys, no FUN! I don't get why these Bible belt people make things so difficult for themselves. All these Jesus people are secretly such big freaks that their private antics would make me blush, so I don't know why they go to the trouble of passing laws that make their secret dirty sex lives more difficult. They all are ranting and raving from the pulpit about how CHEESE-sauce Chrast hates them hommasekshuls and stuff like that, but behind closed doors they're smoking meth and getting spanked by PVC-clad gay hookers. I guess the good Christians of Alabama buy their ball gags, nipple clamps, and assorted other dungeon equipment online.
Not only that, why do the damn penalties have to be so stiff? Peddling butt plugs is worth ten grand and a year in jail? I know that religious people aren't supposed to enjoy sex and therefore have no need to try new things in the bedroom, and that this is probably why they're so gung ho about keeping vibrators out of the hands of sinful bitches trying to masturbate everywhere, but whoever came up with that penalty needs a sex toy in a BAD way. Someone buy the seersucker coat-wearing Southern gentleman state senator who authored this law a string of anal beads, STAT, because his prostate needs to be tickled before it atrophies. There's no reason to think that Jesus wouldn't be doing himself with some type of cyberskin stroker sleeve modeled after a porn star's vagina and/or colon, especially considering he was so fond of hanging with whores, and you know that they spent some of the wages of sin on items to enhance the experience for their clients. Jesus didn't recommend that they cough up ten thousand denarii and enjoy a year's worth of scourging and prison rape courtesy of the Julio-Claudians. In fact, in his two interactions with slutty bitches, he stopped one from getting stoned, and had the other give him a hair-and-perfume pedicure. Our Lord and Savior obviously had a foot fetish and loved him some whores, so I can't believe he would have frowned too heavily on anything they carry at the Decatur or Huntsville "Pleasures" stores. Since Jesus went ahead and took the punishment for everyone who has ever done anything wrong himself, one can make the argument that he died so that we might all profit from the dildo-and-vibrator trade and enjoy the products of this beloved industry sector. Unfortunately, these Bible belt fools aren't intellectually visionary enough to appreciate that Jesus rode the cross at Golgotha like a wild stallion so that we can all have kinky, mechanically assisted sex to our hearts' content, and their bullshit laws are going to ensure that the good folks of Alabama are having fewer orgasms as a result.
Since the dumb-stupid-dumb Supreme Court doesn't have it's priorities straight and isn't rectifying this situation this time around, I plan to say a prayer for Alabama every time I use modern technology to rub one out or bang some chick. When I do that, I'm in a heightened spiritual state so it seems like that's a good time to conversate with the Father-Son-Holy Spirit anyway. I might as well lobby for the end of discrimination against the awesome perverts of the Yellowhammer (SERIOUSLY, that is Alabama's state name?) State. It's the Christian thing to do.
Labels: crime and punishment, Dear God, Dirrty Dirrty, oh the horror, overcompensation, perversion, politics, ranting, Razzyphiles, sex
Daily Douchebag: Kids These Days
DOB: Late 1980s, early 1990s
Occupation: Writing penis-tucking acoustic love songs, going vegan
Hometown: Chicago, Illinois
Current residence: The “Wild Young Things” tour bus with fellow fecktarded “bands” Fall Out Boy, Cute Is What We Aim For and Gym Class Heroes. Headdesk!
Douchebaggery: Warning – this is me, shaking my old-lady cane at Kids These Days. I was driving around the burbs running errands last weekend and listening to my second-favorite weekend radio broadcast after “Wait! Wait! Don’t Tell Me!: The NPR News Quiz,” which is “Sunday Morning Slow Jams” on the local ’Nolia “urban music” station. During a commercial break, I switched over to Ryan Seacrest’s “American Top 40,” hoping to hear Brit Brit’s new single “Piece of Me,” and what I heard just about made me spray mouthfuls of iced coffee-and-chicory all over the inside of my windshield.
I’ve been vaguely aware that there’s a popular band out there the kids like called the Plain White T’s, mostly because I change the channel whenever their performances are announced at the awards shows I like to watch, since just the first few bars of plaintive acoustic strains heralding a mournful, sexless white-boy ballad are enough to provoke from my very recesses a guttural, disgusted howl of disdain. But there went Ryan Seacrest, announcing, “And at number (whatever), here’s Plain White T’s with, ‘Hey There Delilah.’” I should have stuck to my previous switching-channels policy, but I was stunned immobile by the pallid, limp-dicked lyrics that came fast, whiny and furious:
Hey there Delilah
What’s it like in New York City?
I’m a thousand miles away
But girl tonight you look so pretty
Yes you do
Times Square can’t shine as bright as you
I swear it's true
Hey there Delilah
Don't you worry about the distance
I'm right there if you get lonely
Give this song another listen
Close your eyes
Listen to my voice it's my disguise
I'm by your side
This is one of the most popular songs in America? There are kids out there really relating to this nursery-rhyme-set-to-acoustic-guitar bullshit? So wait, if Delilah’s in New York City and our narrator has obviously never been there since he thinks Times Square is flashy and romantic instead of a nightmarish tangle of traffic, tourists and Scientologists…wait…then that means he must be the clingy, loser boyfriend who’s in a band back home…no…it can’t be…
Hey there Delilah
I know times are getting hard
But just believe me girl
Someday I'll pay the bills with this guitar
We'll have it good
We'll have the life we knew we would
My word is good
Hey there Delilah
You be good and don't you miss me
Two more years and you'll be done with school
And I'll be making history like I do
You know it's all because of you
We can do whatever we want to
Hey there Delilah here's to you
This one’s for you
Oh my God, Delilah – mayday, mayday – dump his ass! Dump him! Even if he does make it in music, won’t you be embarrassed to tell people you’re dating that pussy from the Plain White T’s? You’ve already wasted two perfectly good years in college in a long-distance relationship with this simpering, pussified, chinless, pube-stachioed hipster who has been busy stinking up his mom’s basement with his loser bandmates while you pursue your fine arts degree at Pratt or your theatrical studies at the Tisch School or whatever! Even at those gay man magnets I am confident you could find a manlier boyfriend than this pansy you’ve got back home.
So what is wrong with Kids These Days? Why are they listening to this crap? Where’s their sense of youthful excess and rebellion? What happened to white rockers that jammed about screwing groupies and main-lining Jack Daniels and rocking all night long? This is why so many white kids listen to hip-hop – because rock music majorly sucks! The rappers are the only ones talking about money, hos and clothes! “In my day,” I listened to plenty of white rock – but it either kicked ass or it had a sense of humor. Morrissey, Liz Phair, the Pixies – whiny yes, but hilarious! L7 – two-chord metal, and a singer who threw used tampons at the audience – kickass, gross and hilarious! And the various hair bands I didn’t discover until college (thanks, Razzy) – they’re not whining about their girlfriends who went to art school, they’re chronicling their epic battles with Mr. Brownstone, livin’ on a prayer and rockin’ bitches like hurricanes! With bands like those on the “Wild Young Things” tour, if I had a kid I’d give him a Marilyn Manson playlist and a BB gun before I let him spend my money on the Plain White T’s.
[RAZZY EDIT: I listened to "Hey There Delilah" while I was looking for pictures of the Plain White T's for LL Cool Jew's entry, and it makes me want to punch wildly at the air and hope that somehow one blow miraculously connects with the simpering little bitch of a pussy-whipped, unemployed emo tool singing this asinine song.]
[RAZZY ASIDE DIRECTED SPECIFICALLY AT LL COOL JEW: While these dumb kids are all busy waxing their happy trails to the Plain White T's, we'll be listening to some real music, or should I say REAL TALK? See, girl. NINE DAYS UNTIL WE SEE KELLS LIVE ON LONG ISLAND! WOOOO HOOOOO!!!!!!!!]
Labels: aging, Daily Douchebag, destroy all children, LL Cool Jew, retard rage, small penises
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Ryan Murphy
DOB: ???
Occupation: TV producer, writer, director, creator of "Nip/Tuck," world's biggest "I Love New York" fan
Hometown: Indianapolis, Indiana
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Thanks to Ryan Murphy, Tiffany "New York" Pollard showed up to star as herself in an episode of "Nip/Tuck" which included memorable New York moments like her date, Wolf, farting on her in the green room, New York chasing Julian McMahon around the set until he surrendered and kissed her, and Ryan Murphy dryly providing the greatest review of New York's professional abilities ever ("she came, she saw, she acted, she smoked"). In addition to this moment of awesomeness on "I Love New York," I fucking LOVE "Nip/Tuck." It is one of the best shows on TV.
So far, this season's three episodes have included a chick shitting in a hot tub, hot Portia de Rossi lesbian sex, meth-addicted ex-Scientologist porn stars, an orgy with a gang of Marilyn Monroe impersonators, Dr. Christian Troy moonlighting as a gigolo for cougar divorcees, and lines like, "My ego is the only thing bigger than my cock" (be still my heart...I love assholes who say shit like that). This show is so fucking awesome I can't even begin to go into it. I don't care if I'm the only person I know who watches it. Last night, LL Cool Jew seemed a little crestfallen that I was only going to switch to "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila" during "Nip/Tuck" commercials (thus interrupting the flow of our TV-related text message exchanges), but I've got my priorities and she's got hers. Besides, I can catch Dani the lezzie firefighter earnestly processing with Tila about her feelings on a rerun any night this week, and it's not as important for me as it is for, say, LL Cool Jew and El Cyd and other bitches who like their ladies butch and rocking "Two-a-Days" hair, to see this as it unfolds. "Nip/Tuck" is always going to be my first jam, and I have Ryan Murphy to thank. And I like him even more now that I know he's got love for New York and I have her singular presence to look forward to in an upcoming episode. This is a silver lining considering that last night's scenes-from-the-next-"Nip/Tuck" implied that next week, Rosie O'Donnell is reprising her character (who paid my boyfriend Dr. Christian Troy $400K last season to fuck him) and will be graphically molested in the McNamara/Troy recovery room. **SHUDDER**
I'll need New York and her basketball tits to help me get over that. Thank you, Ryan Murphy, for knowing what I want. I'd fully hit his hot ass just for having a beautiful mind, at least if he weren't exclusively into dudes.
Labels: celebrities, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, I Love New York, Nip/Tuck, TV
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
The world's most ridiculous boobs
Every Monday, JerseyGirl and I get together to watch (the greatest show in the history of reality television) "I Love New York," sometimes with her neighbor HillsYes. I'm teaching JerseyGirl how to cook (and this bitch doesn't even have a KNIFE...her lack of domestic skills are appalling but partially compensated by her trove of guido-flavored adventure tales about things like getting disqualified in banana-eating contests at Jersey Shore clubs such as "the Trade Winds"), so we make some type of beginner's food (chicken strips, grilled cheese, etc.) and watch our trash TV. The last few weeks, we've been noticing something that becomes more and more obvious every week: New York had another tit job, and it's out of fucking control.
We began to notice that, even by New York's typically over-the-top busty standards, her breasts look like they're about to pop. I don't remember them being so severely overstuffed last season, but this time around, it's like the basketball-sized implants within are about to burst free at any moment.
They're so distracting. It's like her breasts are two medicine balls that have been bolted to her chest. Even more distracting is her choice in dresses, which emphasize that mile of preternatural cleavage between those two silicone saddlebags she's rocking. Her tits are more stuffed than the fucking deer head on my wall. I imagine that if you manage to get a feel of those cans, it's sort of like holding a set of giant, unyielding stress balls.
I swear, New York purchased those tits at Big Lots or something. I've never seen such an appalling breast aug. I'm not the world's biggest fan of fake tits, but I know they can be better than that. One of my friends has fake tits and you would never even know unless you REALLY felt them up. Hers are a reasonable size and she opted for the more natural submuscular implant procedure using the latest model of implants. Obviously, New York had a coupon for a surgeon who last earned CME credits in 1985, because she looks like someone jammed a honeydew melon into each boob and called it a fucking day. Those are the kind of tits I'd expect to see flanking a stripper pole off Washington state route 512 at Foxes in Parkland. Or on a ridiculous, twice-spurned-by-Flavor-Flav woman who responds to criticism with mooning and who thinks church is an appropriate venue for Newport smoking to rock for the second season of her own Vh1 reality show.
I've got mad love for New York, but PLEASE get those jugs deflated just a little. It's hard to pay attention to the silly things New York's absurd bevy of suitors do, like fight each other or suck on her toes, because those cans are so goddamned distracting. She needs to shrink them just enough so that I can clearly read the "Princess" tattoo on her left hooter, and then they'll be the perfect outlandishly fake breasts. If there's a need for "I Love New York 3" (there will be; she lost out on her one chance at true love when she booted the hot piece that was Midget Mac last week), then Vh1 needs to think about adding a budget for a decent surgeon. Last night she booted Wolf for being a "country bumpkin" (who farted on her in the "Nip/Tuck" green room...don't ask) who didn't fit with her "exciting Hollywood lifestyle." Well, New York, live that lifestyle and go see Dr. 90210!
We began to notice that, even by New York's typically over-the-top busty standards, her breasts look like they're about to pop. I don't remember them being so severely overstuffed last season, but this time around, it's like the basketball-sized implants within are about to burst free at any moment.
They're so distracting. It's like her breasts are two medicine balls that have been bolted to her chest. Even more distracting is her choice in dresses, which emphasize that mile of preternatural cleavage between those two silicone saddlebags she's rocking. Her tits are more stuffed than the fucking deer head on my wall. I imagine that if you manage to get a feel of those cans, it's sort of like holding a set of giant, unyielding stress balls.
I swear, New York purchased those tits at Big Lots or something. I've never seen such an appalling breast aug. I'm not the world's biggest fan of fake tits, but I know they can be better than that. One of my friends has fake tits and you would never even know unless you REALLY felt them up. Hers are a reasonable size and she opted for the more natural submuscular implant procedure using the latest model of implants. Obviously, New York had a coupon for a surgeon who last earned CME credits in 1985, because she looks like someone jammed a honeydew melon into each boob and called it a fucking day. Those are the kind of tits I'd expect to see flanking a stripper pole off Washington state route 512 at Foxes in Parkland. Or on a ridiculous, twice-spurned-by-Flavor-Flav woman who responds to criticism with mooning and who thinks church is an appropriate venue for Newport smoking to rock for the second season of her own Vh1 reality show.
I've got mad love for New York, but PLEASE get those jugs deflated just a little. It's hard to pay attention to the silly things New York's absurd bevy of suitors do, like fight each other or suck on her toes, because those cans are so goddamned distracting. She needs to shrink them just enough so that I can clearly read the "Princess" tattoo on her left hooter, and then they'll be the perfect outlandishly fake breasts. If there's a need for "I Love New York 3" (there will be; she lost out on her one chance at true love when she booted the hot piece that was Midget Mac last week), then Vh1 needs to think about adding a budget for a decent surgeon. Last night she booted Wolf for being a "country bumpkin" (who farted on her in the "Nip/Tuck" green room...don't ask) who didn't fit with her "exciting Hollywood lifestyle." Well, New York, live that lifestyle and go see Dr. 90210!
Labels: gross, I Love New York, oh the horror, overcompensation, plastic surgery, sluts, TV, Vh1
Daily Douchebag: Amy Winehouse
DOB: September 14, 1983
Occupation: junkie, neo-soul singer
Hometown: Southgate, London, England
Current residence: Camden, London, England
Douchebaggery: I'm well aware of Amy's triple negative response to the prospect of going to rehab, but I suspect Amy has also said "no, no, no" to showering and eating. This bitch is such a fucking unbelievable mess it's not even funny. For obvious reasons, the gossip internets are all over this trainwreck and I can't even see what's going on with my favorite piece of PWT (the legendary Ms. Britney Spears, of course) without getting a glimpse of this hooker's nappy bird's nest beehive, disgusting anorexic junkie figure, and blood-spattered ballet flats. I'm so sick of it! Amy Winehouse needs to end up dead, dead, dead from an overdose, overdose, overdose already, because I want to hear nothing more about her.
Every day, it's a new depressingly disturbing story about Amy Winehouse ingesting enough illegal substances to knock out a mastodon and causing some sort of trouble. However, Amy Winehouse trouble isn't entertaining trouble. It's not like when, say, Itneybray Earsspay starts rambling crazily at the paparazzi or runs over a cop's foot on her way out of the Malibu Starbucks parking lot or something. It's usually some sort of blood-spattered domestic brawl with her junkie justice-perverting (seriously, that's what the British courts call "witness tampering") husband, and it's sad rather than morbidly entertaining.
The other thing about Amy Winehouse is that she's supposedly so "talented." Everyone always laments that she's throwing her talent away with the substance abuse. So fine, her singing voice might be okay, but just because it sounds good doesn't mean she sings songs that don't annoy the hell out of me. Everything that has ever come out of this bitch's mouth drives me crazy. Even worse, Jay-Z remixed that annoying "Rehab" song and there was a grim period in August/September where it was on fucking Hot97 and Power105 ad nauseum. I listen to Hot97 and Power105 to hear songs about whips, ice, rims, kicks, hoes, R. Kelly's sexual prowess, blowfish sushi, and the like, not a British neo-soul singer with stupid hair and even more tremendously stupid eye makeup mewling along while Jay-Z raps about the Marcy Projects or whatever. Amy Winehouse might be talented, but talent doesn't necessarily exclude annoying, and nothing illustrates that better than this bitch's musical repertoire.
I can't think of anything admirable about her apart from the fact that I have to thank Amy Winehouse, along with Pete Doherty, for reminding me that all is not high tea and crumpets and proper manners over in England, and the Brits have white trash too. This girl could be stirring a fucking pot of anhydrous ammonia and pseudoephedrine in Spanaway, Washington as easily as she could be chasing the dragon in a London hotel room. And when the only attribute I can think of is that you look like you could be right at home in a P-N-Dub meth lab, things are grim indeed. When it comes to Amy Winehouse, I say no, no, no.
Labels: celebrities, Daily Douchebag, drugs, gross, oh the horror, PWT
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Maurice Morris
DOB: December 1, 1979
Occupation: Seattle Seahawks backup running back
Hometown: Chester, South Carolina
Current residence: Seattle, Washington
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: For starters, although he lost a fumble, Maurice Morris did great things for my Fantasy team last night. I picked up Maurice earlier in the season off the waiver wire and held onto him, because I had a feeling that Shaun Alexander's decline was going to become more precipitously obvious as the season went on, and it was only a matter of time before Jesus stopped smiling on him. Sure enough, Shaun's visits with Pat Robertson have been fruitless lately, because dude got injured. Although whether or not Alexander would play was a game-time decision, I took a chance and started Mo. This caused me great tredipation, as I was playing my friend Unicorn Dick this week, and he is one of the biggest shit-talkers in our league. Every week I get some sort of snarky email from him. This week he was actually singing the praises of his own quarterback ("Brett Favre....thirty-nine years young!"), but usually he likes to trash on the Seahawks. I feared that if Alexander did play, Unicorn Dick would be blowing up my inbox with e-mails along the lines of "Put Maurice in, Walrus!-Razzy" and things like that.
When I got to JerseyGirl's house for "I Love New York 2" and "The Hills" last night and forced the ladies to watch the Seahawks-Niners game during commercials (despite protests which were silenced when I retorted to JerseyGirl, "Never forget that you made me watch a fucking Yankees game once!"), I was relieved to see Alexander bundled up in his apostolic white Seahawks sweatsuit on the sidelines. Not only was Maurice Morris playing, he scored a touchdown and rushed for 87 yards. I not only smoked Unicorn Dick, but the Seahawks kicked some 49er ass and trounced them 24-0.
Oh, and even if he wasn't wearing the hallowed and much-beloved Seahawks uni and wasn't carrying Tha Razzies to Fantasy victory in the Columbia Ballers league, I'd hit Maurice Morris anyway because HE'S FUCKING FINE. He's got short hair, a handsome face, and one of those short little beard things that I like, and as a professional athlete, I'm sure his body is banging. Mo Morris could pretty much hit himself some Razzy whichever way he so desired. Hell, I'd grit my teeth and let him do me up the butt if he wanted. ON THE FIRST DATE ("date"=Razzy for "cross paths while drunk at a bar and stagger home together"). I've got mad love for Maurice.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Fantasia, hot dudes, JerseyGirl, NFL football
Monday, November 12, 2007
Hunger strike update: no dead hippies yet
Last week I scribed a nice, satisfying polemic about the annoying undergrads who were going to go on a "hunger strike" in order to force Columbia's administration into acquiescing to their vague and open-ended demands. I've since been deleting e-mail after e-mail updating me as to the "success" of this protest, "success" being defined as a whopping FIVE students decided to starve themselves for their poorly elucidated principles. Yesterday I received yet another action update, and almost deleted it until I realized that it was a trove of between-the-lines information all supporting the sole, inescapable conclusion that I AM RIGHT THAT THESE TYPES OF PROTESTS ARE A FUCKING WASTE OF EVERYONE'S TIME:
1. Include more Alice Walker and Rita Mae Brown books in freshman English classes at Columbia, because bitches are tired of Beowulf and its patriarchal, misogynistic, white supremacist themes.
2. More money for Ethnic Studies, since it's underfunded. I mean, never mind that academic disciplines are underfunded ACROSS THE BOARD in the current climate, because Bush isn't the world's biggest fan of funding any kind of research that's got to do with evolution, or stem cells, or any type of artfaggotry. Aretha, Bryan, Emilie, Sam, and Victoria want a bigger library to sit around and organize pointless hunger strikes in, and if you don't have the money, Columbia, then you're RACIST!
3. Okay, it was pretty fucked up that Columbia didn't cooperate with the police investigating the Teacher's College noose incident, but I think they learned their lesson the hard way. The Post was all over that, and Columbia looked like sneaky assholes because of it. Chances are, the next time they'll be better about it.
4. Given the tone of the rhetoric, I'm thinking they are AGAINST the Manhattanville expansion, but in fairness, all they say for their fourth demand is that this is being voted on in December.
With four points of light like those, I can't understand why every self-involved asshole walking past their campus tent doesn't drop his or her iPod and jump on the hunger train too. I mean, those are some galvanizing meandering and confused points these people are making!
From: Christina Chen (satori.at.sunrise@gmail.com)Wait, one of the hunger strikers ended up in the fucking hospital? Good riddance! One down, four to go! I love how they make it sound like this bitch was rushed to the ICU, when really she probably was given an IV and a PowerBar, told that if she didn't want to be hypoglycemic, she should fucking eat something, and shooed out of the St. Luke's ER. Somehow, I am sure she'll be okay, too, since it takes more than a low blood sugar-induced dizzy spell two days after giving up food to keep an overprivileged bitch at an Ivy League school from succumbing to her mortal fragility. What she won't recover from so quickly is the fact that there seem to be a lot of people who agree with me that these hunger strikers are a bunch of despicable, self-righteous morons.
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject:[sceg-body] Would your club like to take a support shift, sponsor a vigil, or sponsor a dormstorming session
Hello beautiful peoples,
Sorry for spamming you guys, I'll try to keep the flow of emails minimal! First of all, thank you for all your well wishes for Aretha's speedy recovery- we are very encouraged by the amount of progress that she has made since leaving St Luke's, and we are sure that she will be okay! And thank you for keeping Bryan, Emilie, Sam, and Victoria in your hearts - they are resilient, strong brother and sisters in the struggle, and your prayers and attendance at events are spiritually enriching to the souls of the hungry...your presence means more than words can convey!
That said...those who stand against us think that they can dampen our spirits by beating us down. We are getting attacked by bad press (and lacking press as well), drunk passerbys knocking stuff over at our tent sites, hecklers shouting egregious things like "mmm I want a nice juicy burger right now", Columbia administration officials giving negotiators blank stares at a meeting when we reported Aretha's rushing to St. Luke's Hospital because of low blood sugar, and perhaps the biggest blow to our our faith in our peers, and a terrible thing to see from our fellow students; anti-strikers websites that have propped up and counter-rallies with racist, homophobic, and xenophobic rhetoric being held right by our tents in public.Oh, boo hoo! You guys are so PERSECUTED! Drunk people are knocking over your bongo drums as they're staggering back to their dorms from the local bars, hecklers are making fun of you for thinking you're Gandhi, and the administration doesn't care that one of your number came down with a self-imposed and completely NON-LIFE THREATENING condition. Also, I wonder if my blog is one of the websites that has "propped up" to spew "racist, homophobic, and xenophobic rhetoric." I don't think I'm racist or xenophobic (although these people are the types who regard opinions contrary to theirs as "racist" regardless of whether or not they actually are), and any homophobic rhetoric I've used is allowable on account of the fact that I'm a Smith College graduate who licks snatch and can therefore say "fag" and "dyke" to my heart's content. I am not against the hunger strikers because I'm pro-racism or whatever else; I'm against the hunger strikers because they're morons, and I don't support stupidity even when it's cloaked in the trappings of patronizing social consciousness. Hey, maybe you'd have more supporters if you assholes could clearly articulate your demands...?
But as Bryan has said, we cannot confuse those who are simply weak-willed and prejudiced, with those who we can potentially reach and educate about our demands. That said, we ABSOLUTELY NEED folks to help us do outreach... there's a lot of misconceptions floating out there right now about what our demands are, and we need to address them.Okay...SO ADDRESS THEM, already!
And just to reiterate, our demands are rooted in a campus in which 1) our core education reinforces the norms of a system that marginalizes people of color, people of faith, queer folks and other groups; 2) Ethnic Studies programs in which we learn about the histories of our own communities (most of which was founded after the 1996 hunger strike led by Latino, Asian American, Black, and American students for Ethnic studies) are under-resourced and swept aside by this university; 3) the administrative organization of our university right now does not allow adequate/ prompt responses to hate crimes, such as t he noose that was hung on a black professor's door at TC; 4) an official expansion / eviction plan that will displace 5000 residents of West Harlem and will be voted on early December, a plan that bulldozes entire communities in Harlem and uproots real people.In other words, your demands are as follows:
1. Include more Alice Walker and Rita Mae Brown books in freshman English classes at Columbia, because bitches are tired of Beowulf and its patriarchal, misogynistic, white supremacist themes.
2. More money for Ethnic Studies, since it's underfunded. I mean, never mind that academic disciplines are underfunded ACROSS THE BOARD in the current climate, because Bush isn't the world's biggest fan of funding any kind of research that's got to do with evolution, or stem cells, or any type of artfaggotry. Aretha, Bryan, Emilie, Sam, and Victoria want a bigger library to sit around and organize pointless hunger strikes in, and if you don't have the money, Columbia, then you're RACIST!
3. Okay, it was pretty fucked up that Columbia didn't cooperate with the police investigating the Teacher's College noose incident, but I think they learned their lesson the hard way. The Post was all over that, and Columbia looked like sneaky assholes because of it. Chances are, the next time they'll be better about it.
4. Given the tone of the rhetoric, I'm thinking they are AGAINST the Manhattanville expansion, but in fairness, all they say for their fourth demand is that this is being voted on in December.
With four points of light like those, I can't understand why every self-involved asshole walking past their campus tent doesn't drop his or her iPod and jump on the hunger train too. I mean, those are some galvanizing meandering and confused points these people are making!
People who stand against us, people who are not conscious of the history of student and community struggle, think that they can dismiss us because they see a handful of people camped outside the tents and assume there's only a few of us who feel like shit needs to change. A lot of us are overextended right now and haven't been able to go into people's dorms, circulate petitions, and do support outside and we need to show that all of us, we who number in the hundreds, maybe even thousands, want to see change happen in this university. Nevermind the haters - we got people power and it's time for us to use it...and show folks that we're able to back shit up with concrete demands in their dorms, in their classes, and outside in the cold! We've been telling individuals what they can do to help, but hey! your club can ::I hate to tell you this, Christina, but nobody thinks they can dismiss you because they assume there's only a few who feel that "shit needs to change." People dismiss you because your cause is poorly articulated, you come across as a bunch of preachy, humorless assholes, and if people don't agree with you wholeheartedly then you either call them "weak-willed and prejudiced" or imply that they are ignorant and uncouth. The fact is, most people would agree that Columbia could benefit from expanding its curriculum, providing better funding to many departments including Ethnic Studies, SHOULD cooperate with the police in investigating campus hate crimes, and should be ethical and transparent with regard to the Manhattanville expansion. However, you do such a pathetic job of explaining your action items and such an impressive job alienating and marginalizing people who might not agree but would be open to a dialogue about it that nobody WANTS to ride your loser train, Christina. Nobody gives an inverted piledriver fuck that one of your attention whore hippie friends came down with the deadly and insidious condition known as low blood sugar from her half-assed attempt at protest by starvation, and chances are 99% of the "beautiful peoples" on your e-mail list delete your lame manifesto/newsletters the second they grace their inboxes. Congratulations. You've managed to make four reasonable and sound demands seem petty, retarded, pointless, and annoying. Keep up the good work...maybe you'll do us all a favor and STARVE TO DEATH!
1) Sponsor a vigil, like the wonderful folks at LUCHA are doing tomorrow by emailing sam.rennebohm@gmail.com
2) Take a support shift, in which representatives of your club can sign up for by emailing crystalktang@gmail.com
3) Sponsor a dormstorming session by emailing me at satori.at.sunrise@gmail.com
4) Join the solidarity listserve to get running updates on the conditions of the strikers and on what the support team needs - email heiroku@gmail.com
DO IT!!!!
love,
Christina
Labels: grad school bullshit, intentional buffoonery, overcompensation, ranting, Razzification, retard rage, ridiculous absurdity, scathing indictments
$hort Dog on Dog
While catching up on celebrity gossip occurring while I was on my deathbed, I was pleased to see that the incomparable Todd "Too $hort" Shaw, looking as dapper as always, took a breather from breakin' hoes, gettin' head, and otherwise dominating the East Bay's player-ass pimp scene to tell TMZ his thoughts on Duane "Dog" Chapman's career-ending racial tirade. In case you missed it, Chapman, star of the now-canceled "Dog the Bounty Hunter," went off on a "n-word"-laden rant about his son's black girlfriend. The son taped this rant, and sent it off to the National Enquirer. In spite of Dog coming up with some of the lamest excuses EVER ("I thought I was black because people called me white trash"...WHAT?) to cover his ass, A&E said "aloha" to him, his corpulent wife Beth, and his cadre of redneck Polynesian cousins and offspring who assist him in his bounty hunting and bail bond business. Never again will the American viewing audience get to see Beth clutching a pustule-covered meth addict prostitute who skipped on a $500 bond to her gargantuan breasts and praying for her well-being outside the Da Kine Bail Bonds office.
Too $hort does understand how offensive statements can be taken out of context, though, and I was surprised to see that he handled this with the diplomatic skill of the man employed in the oldest profession for going on twenty years. This is a man, after all, who once said chivalrous things like, "I know you're starvin', bitch, what you gon' eat? Just cause I picked you up I guess you waitin' on me. It ain't gonna be that, you shoulda ate or bought your ass a plate, cause on this date we just fuckin' till it's late." In fact, if you want to see some real tact in terms of interpersonal relations and the art of negotiation, you should just look up all the lyrics to "Coming Up $hort" and witness a master of political correctness working his magic.
Anyway, I can't embed the footage of Too $hort talking about Dog because TMZ is hardcore about hoarding their precious videos, so you'll have to click on this link and suffer through an annoying Pantene commercial before you can witness the legendary Mr. Shaw discussing Dog's mishaps, but it's worth it. Too $hort is a fucking font of wisdom.
"Gay bashin' and racial hatin' and all that stuff...it's just not good times for that in the media right now." You can say that again. Luckily for $hort Dog, there has yet to be a media backlash against calling a prostitute (or any woman, for that matter) a "beeyotch" if she gets out of line!
Too $hort continues, "It's like the word bitch or the word fuck...it has several meanings, one can be really, really negative and the other can be really, really positive. I fuckin' hate you or I fuckin' love you, you know." Is it possible for Too $hort to use the word "bitch" in a negative way? Because his career is built almost entirely on his distinctive use of that word, and I would say that any simple word which makes a man millions of dollars, earns him a spot as a mentor on "Celebrity Rap Superstar," and establishes him as THE quintessential East Oakland player-ass pimp is entirely positive.
While Too $hort does note that in Dog's case, "it was very derogatory the way he was spittin' that word out...REPEATEDLY," he says he isn't all that offended because it was just "hateful jokes" and "because I throw the word 'hoes' around a lot myself." And "beeyotch," and the "N-word", and "fuck," and virtually every other profanity one can imagine. Way not to throw stones, $hort Dog!
Can I just take a minute to say how awesome it is that Too $hort is popping up all over MTV and the internets these days? I hadn't heard so much as a feeble "beeyotch" out of him in the last five years, and all of a sudden he's teaching Girl Next Door #3 "oral exercises" and opining on F-list reality show stars' media gaffes! I have newfound faith in humanity. First, it seems that this year everyone and their mother finally realized how fucking unbelievably awesome Robert Sylvester Kelly is, and now they're rediscovering Too $hort as well. If this keeps up, I see civilization entering a damn Golden Age. Seriously, this blossoming appreciation for true art makes all those Renaissance dudes look like a bunch of posing, pathetic hacks. Leonardo, Michaelangelo, and all those other Ninja Turtle namesakes can open wide, because Too $hort is about to stick his dick in their talentless mouths! There is hope for our world yet.
Anyway, I can't embed the footage of Too $hort talking about Dog because TMZ is hardcore about hoarding their precious videos, so you'll have to click on this link and suffer through an annoying Pantene commercial before you can witness the legendary Mr. Shaw discussing Dog's mishaps, but it's worth it. Too $hort is a fucking font of wisdom.
"Gay bashin' and racial hatin' and all that stuff...it's just not good times for that in the media right now." You can say that again. Luckily for $hort Dog, there has yet to be a media backlash against calling a prostitute (or any woman, for that matter) a "beeyotch" if she gets out of line!
Too $hort continues, "It's like the word bitch or the word fuck...it has several meanings, one can be really, really negative and the other can be really, really positive. I fuckin' hate you or I fuckin' love you, you know." Is it possible for Too $hort to use the word "bitch" in a negative way? Because his career is built almost entirely on his distinctive use of that word, and I would say that any simple word which makes a man millions of dollars, earns him a spot as a mentor on "Celebrity Rap Superstar," and establishes him as THE quintessential East Oakland player-ass pimp is entirely positive.
While Too $hort does note that in Dog's case, "it was very derogatory the way he was spittin' that word out...REPEATEDLY," he says he isn't all that offended because it was just "hateful jokes" and "because I throw the word 'hoes' around a lot myself." And "beeyotch," and the "N-word", and "fuck," and virtually every other profanity one can imagine. Way not to throw stones, $hort Dog!
Can I just take a minute to say how awesome it is that Too $hort is popping up all over MTV and the internets these days? I hadn't heard so much as a feeble "beeyotch" out of him in the last five years, and all of a sudden he's teaching Girl Next Door #3 "oral exercises" and opining on F-list reality show stars' media gaffes! I have newfound faith in humanity. First, it seems that this year everyone and their mother finally realized how fucking unbelievably awesome Robert Sylvester Kelly is, and now they're rediscovering Too $hort as well. If this keeps up, I see civilization entering a damn Golden Age. Seriously, this blossoming appreciation for true art makes all those Renaissance dudes look like a bunch of posing, pathetic hacks. Leonardo, Michaelangelo, and all those other Ninja Turtle namesakes can open wide, because Too $hort is about to stick his dick in their talentless mouths! There is hope for our world yet.
Labels: celebrities, free fucking speech, intentional buffoonery, rap, Robert Sylvester Kelly, Too $hort, TV
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Team Britney
DOB: ???
Occupation: staging the most worthwhile, important, astonishingly courageous protests of all time
Hometown: ???
Current residence: Hollywood Walk of Fame circa the "Britney Spears" star, Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: These yokels are my new heroes. They might look like friendlier, poly-blend Jay Jacobs shirt-wearing versions of the mutant cannibals from The Hills Have Eyes, but they are out there--rain or shine--delivering their brave message of hope that some justice will be done for the mother of the year, the legendary Ms. Britney Spears. This is an epic struggle for all we hold dear as Americans: namely, the right to pop out a couple of brats in quick succession so that you can utilize them as cigarette AKA "lollipop" runners, hostages in high-speed red-light-running car chases with the paparazzi, and two great reasons to create a media circus at Los Angeles family court. It's the sacred institution of motherhood, y'all! Team Britney appreciates how seriously Brit-Brit takes her maternal responsibilities, and they're here to stop the gross injustices being unfairly committed against her by the evil, pro-Federline court system.
I mean, so what if, on the same night that these dedicated activists took to the street to right the wrongs in Britney's custody battle, Britney failed a drug test? It was a false positive! I'm sure she ate a poppyseed bagel or something the day of the test...everyone knows that shit can fuck up a piss test. It's not like that "I Got Five on It" song where one of the Luniz relates the tale of a knowingly failed drug test: "I got to take a whiz test to my PO, I know I failed, cuz I done smoked major weed, bro." In Brit's case, it was obviously a BIG MISTAKE! Similarly, all of her driving-related debacles--from traffic violations to hit-and-runs--aren't her fault. Surely she would be a better driver if she didn't have the paparazzi in her face every minute. Granted, she wouldn't have to deal with that if she didn't get on the phone with X17 or whatever to give them a heads up every time she goes on a Starbucks run, but STILL. None of this shit is Britney's fault. She's been Ms. American Dream since she was 17, don't matter if she step on the scene or sneak away to the Philippines...they're still going to put her derriere in a magazine. Well, that's what the lyrics to her magnum opus of the "woe is me"-themed song, "Piece of Me," state anyway. She's just Ms. Bad Media Karma coping with another day and another drama, simply because she don't see no harm in workin' and bein' a mama. I'm not certain Brit-Brit understands that "karma" implies you've somehow earned such media treatment by racking up a history of bad acts yourself, but her point gets through. How can you blame a hard-working, struggling, toiling single mom for being a victim of circumstance?
That's why I applaud these brave protestors for forgoing their jobs (and thus jeopardizing lucrative careers at establishments such as TGIFriday's, Wal-Mart, and Circuit City) to brave the frigid Hollywood weather to stand against the unjust and shabby disparaging of Britney's parenting skills, which along with her weave-choosing and manicure-maintaining skills, are beyond reproach. Children may be starving, the AIDS epidemic may be out of control, Chad and Sudan may be getting their genocide on, and the war in Iraq may be laying the groundwork for Armageddon, but those are all issues Team Britney can live with. However, don't expect them to just sit idly by when her ability to expose SPF and JJ to massive clouds of secondhand Marb Light and meth smoke is being threatened! These are true activists with a cause worth fighting for. Go wash down a 7-Layer Burrito with a venti caramel Frappuccino to show your solidarity!
Labels: Britney Spears, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, drugs, intentional buffoonery, media whores, PWT
Daily Douchebag: human rhinovirus
DOB: ???
Occupation: cause 60% of common colds, increase severity of asthma exacerbations, laying the smackdown on the lower respiratory tract of infants and the elderly, tricking inept physicians into overprescribing antibiotics, and generally being an unsung badass in the world of virology
Hometown: N/A; everywhere
Current residence: my respiratory tract
Family: Picornaviridae
Genome: + sense single-stranded RNA
Baltimore classification: IV
Douchebaggery: So I've been sick all weekend, and not just take-some-DayQuil-and-go-about-my-business sick. I've been bedridden and coughing my lungs out, and I was so ill that I didn't even go watch football yesterday. When I can't even be troubled to go watch football, you know I'm really sick.
I actually doubt that I have a rhinovirus, given that my symptoms are entirely lower tract and rhinovirus--as the name implies--is usually more of a nose problem than a lung problem. However, there are some rhinos that can get low(er in the respiratory tract), and my PI (boss) likes the idea that I'm suffering from the very disease my graduate studies aim to vanquish. My nose is a little stuffy, but my biggest problem I'm having is that my chest is full of phlegmy nastiness. I feel like I have a venti Frappuccino's worth of snot percolating down in there, and I've gone through a bottle and a half of guaifenisin expectorant syrup in the last three days. I am going to the doctor today, because this over-the-counter trash just isn't cutting it, and I don't fancy the idea of getting pneumonia right in time for Thanksgiving and the Kells concert. Therefore, hopefully Columbia Health Services will give me a bottle of what some Houston rappers refer to as "Southern Lean" or "purple drank"--aka codeine and promethazine cough syrup--so that I can cough out this crap and get back to that suboptimally healthy lifestyle that I live. Chances are I won't be mixing it with Sprite and a Jolly Rancher as I understand the fellas from Cloverland are fond of doing, but if slizzin on the sizzurp is what it takes to get back to my old, normally breathing self, then so be it.
Whether or not I have rhinovirus remains to be seen, but last week when I was complaining to my PI about being "impaled upon my own sword" with regard to my illness, he suggested I isolate it. "Maybe you'll find a novel rhinovirus that is more lower tract-tropic than usual. (Another PI at Columbia who is an asshole and who we don't like in my lab) got a Science paper that way, and all he did was some PCR and sequencing. You can name it after yourself and become famous." My PI is always telling me that this or that is going to make me famous. I remind him that famous among nerds for science stuff and really famous are two entirely different things, and I have yet to become either, but whatever. And I couldn't name the virus after myself; it's customary to name viruses after the geographical locations where they emerged. So my virus would have to be called Sugar Hill, or something like that, if I wanted to stick with convention. In any event, though, I did cough up a bunch of sputum into a 50 mL conical tube and I'm going to infect some HeLa cells with it today. So keep an eye out for a hot first-author Science paper about my chest cold. I should be able to crank that bitch out before Christmas, because writing Science papers is totally second nature to me at this point. And by "second nature" I mean in theory I'm sure I could write an awesome one.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, epidemic geekery, grad school bullshit, science, viruses rule
Friday, November 09, 2007
"Endangered" means the job isn't finished
I am currently so fucking sick that I feel like I should be living in those leper caves from Ben-Hur. Fortunately I'm not showing any symptoms of leprosy--or "Hansen's disease" as it's called now to mitigate the social stigma of "leprosy"--but I nonetheless feel like ass and I wouldn't get pissed if Jesus showed up to offer me some water or a quick cure. In the absence of my Lord and Savior, I am turning instead to DayQuil, but it only makes me feel marginally less shitty and also makes me slightly crazed. I attribute both illness and craziness to the fact that last night, I didn't feel like drinking at all. I had three beers in my fridge and I just sneered at them as I wolfed down my chicken noodle soup, drank some water, and went to bed at 10.
Anyway, to help facilitate my recovery, LL Cool Jew took over blogging responsibilities from me for today, thus allowing me to sleep in (until 7:30---so luxurious!). However, when I read her thing about Hayden Panettiere, I couldn't really stay completely silent today. The whole thing reminded me of how annoyed I get with endangered species. I mean, yeah, okay, it sucks if animals go extinct, but some endangered species are total assholes. Polar bears will straight maul and eat your ass to thank you for your conservation efforts. Talk about a bunch of fucking ingrates! If that's the attitude they're going to have, then I say fuck them! They'd make nice rugs for Lil' Kim to skankily crouch on.
Similarly, dolphins, who are ubiquitous enough in nature and at trashy resorts to be called "water dogs" by Chance from "I Love New York" while he tried to beat them away from New York's weave during their visit to "Playacar," Mexico, are more tourist attractions than anything else. I sincerely doubt that the odd Japanese fisherman spearing one with a long pole to make what is undoubtedly a delicious piece of cetacean sashimi is threatening their existence. Also, if my experience swimming with endangered sea creatures is any indication, they'd take a fucking bite out of your chunks at the first opportunity.
A couple years ago, LL Cool Jew, J-Sexy, Neo, and myself went to Belize for vacation. Belize has the second largest barrier reef in the world, so of course we went snorkeling to check out the local sea life. We had purchased underwater cameras to document the experience. Well, there were these turtles there that were endangered, and the snorkeling guide told us to avoid them. I had been told the same thing about the endangered turtles when I went scuba diving in Hawaii some years before, but those turtles were super friendly, and even if you tried to avoid them, they would swim up by you and you could pet them. I figured that when this turtle swam up to me in Belize, he just wanted to mug for the camera:
I should have known by that malevolent, determined expression on this turtle's face that he was actually in attack mode. He continued to swim at me aggressively, and I decided to turn tail and start swimming away. And do you know what that endangered asshole did? HE BIT ME IN THE ASS!
These unflattering pictures of me don't really do the bite justice. Within two days, I had a giant bruise that covered the whole of my ass cheek. It looked like I had suffered a serious spanking by a right-handed dominatrix. The guy running the snorkel boat told me I was lucky I hadn't lost a chunk of my ass. Apparently a tourist the week before had a piece taken out of his leg by one of these asshole turtles and had to be airlifted to a hospital for massive stitching and a blood transfusion. The reason for avoiding the turtles is not only their endangered status, but because they're haters who bite people and severely injure them for no good reason except to ruin some tropical vacations. The only reason I manage to save my (gorgeous) fat ass is that when the turtle bit down, I kicked it hard in the neck and it let go, enabling me to swim away. Luckily I could swim before I could ride a bike, and thus could outstrip that stupid asshole before he could get another beakful of my fine posterior.
No wonder they're endangered. They're fucking assholes! I was just swimming around, looking at the pretty fish and coral and whatnot, and this turtle bites me for taking its fucking picture. It's hard to feel bad about a species being threatened when they themselves are biting unwitting swimmers' asses unprovoked. I say chop that bitch up and stew it with some Japanese dolphin. Man, I bet that would make for a tasty soup. Good riddance, you bastard ass-biters.
Anyway, to help facilitate my recovery, LL Cool Jew took over blogging responsibilities from me for today, thus allowing me to sleep in (until 7:30---so luxurious!). However, when I read her thing about Hayden Panettiere, I couldn't really stay completely silent today. The whole thing reminded me of how annoyed I get with endangered species. I mean, yeah, okay, it sucks if animals go extinct, but some endangered species are total assholes. Polar bears will straight maul and eat your ass to thank you for your conservation efforts. Talk about a bunch of fucking ingrates! If that's the attitude they're going to have, then I say fuck them! They'd make nice rugs for Lil' Kim to skankily crouch on.
A couple years ago, LL Cool Jew, J-Sexy, Neo, and myself went to Belize for vacation. Belize has the second largest barrier reef in the world, so of course we went snorkeling to check out the local sea life. We had purchased underwater cameras to document the experience. Well, there were these turtles there that were endangered, and the snorkeling guide told us to avoid them. I had been told the same thing about the endangered turtles when I went scuba diving in Hawaii some years before, but those turtles were super friendly, and even if you tried to avoid them, they would swim up by you and you could pet them. I figured that when this turtle swam up to me in Belize, he just wanted to mug for the camera:
No wonder they're endangered. They're fucking assholes! I was just swimming around, looking at the pretty fish and coral and whatnot, and this turtle bites me for taking its fucking picture. It's hard to feel bad about a species being threatened when they themselves are biting unwitting swimmers' asses unprovoked. I say chop that bitch up and stew it with some Japanese dolphin. Man, I bet that would make for a tasty soup. Good riddance, you bastard ass-biters.
Labels: assholes, intentional buffoonery, sexy delicious animals
Daily Douchebag: Hayden Panettiere
DOB: Aug. 21, 1989
Occupation: Television actress, proto-cokewhore, outrageously young purveyor of environmentally moralizing condescension
Hometown: Palisades, New York
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: It’s bad enough that Hayden Panettiere isn’t really particularly cute. Sure, she just turned 18, but she’s got that disconcerting, blond-yet-vague-Jewess look to her, she has oddly short arms, and she always wears stubby, unflattering empire-waist dresses. I can’t care enough to watch “Heroes,” which I hear sucks this season. But my low-simmer distaste for Hayden Panettiere overboiled into full fledged disgust this week when her dumb, fugly, young ass got out there trying to keep Japanese fishermen from skewering them some delicious fishes (or marine mammals – whatever), and then got on camera to cry about it and scold Asians over their taste for blubber.
Really, Hayden Panettiere – really? Of all the earth’s scourges – of all the pestilence, hunger and despair – you want to call out exotic sushi as a major threat to our future? If dolphins are in so much trouble, how come they let me swim with some of them on my honeymoon? I don’t see a whole bunch of opportunities to cavort with endangered species like the manatee, Cerulean warbler, lynx, bald eagle, blue whale or snowy owl. Nobody’s offering hangouts with swift red foxes during their DisneyWorld vacation or giving chances to kick it intimately with gorillas on safari. But any stinking, chicken-pox-laden five-year-old can get his picture taken kissing a dolphin in Cancun. And aren’t we hearing all the time about how dolphins are smarter than humans or something? Well if that’s the case, surely the dolphins – yes, blond sniffles, even “the baby ones” – stand a good chance of outwitting an aged Japanese fisherman with nothing but a spear and a wooden kayak. As Razzy points out, there are only two dolphin species that are endangered – the Indus River dolphin of Pakistan and the Yellow River dolphin of China – and neither are ever threatened with Japanese Long Poles. Still, Hayden wants us to know that “these animals are being brutally and unnecessarily slaughtered – and who are we to say to they have less of a right to exist than we do?”
Ugh, Hayden, shut up! Get your ass to the Les Deux bathroom with your girlfriends, cell-phone-video yourselves shoving mounds of coke up your noses, flash your nana to the paparazzi, get arrested and entertain us like you’re supposed to! Either that or admit you’re a lesbian, because I know from experience that only honey-lovers dig on whales as much as you clearly do.
Labels: assholes, celebrities, Daily Douchebag, LL Cool Jew, retard rage, sexy delicious animals
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Dani from “A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila”
DOB: 1977 (pretty old for a dating reality show)
Occupation: Firefighter, paramedic, hot lesbian, dumb slut suitor
Hometown: ?
Current residence: Fort Lauderdale, FL (No. 1 U.S. gay vacation spot!)
Why I Want to Hit That Hotness: She may have “Two-A-Days” hair, but Dani is my type of lesbian. I know that’s pretty boring to most people who would hope that pretty girly girls like kissing others of their own kind, but me? Not so much. Still, even Razzy, lover of lipstick lezzies, sees it in Dani:
LL Cool Jew: she is soooooooooooooookewtSo yeah, here’s to Dani from Tila Tequila – getting her earnest hot lesbian swerve on.
LL Cool Jew: i have a totz krush on her
Razzy: she is totally your type of dyke
Razzy: butch but not tranny
LL Cool Jew: zackly
LL Cool Jew: with a really pretty face
LL Cool Jew: and narrow hips
LL Cool Jew: if she were around me
LL Cool Jew: i would act sooooo dum
Razzy: LOL
LL Cool Jew: i would be like HA HA HA AHHA HAA giggle HAHA
LL Cool Jew: i luv u
Razzy: oh, dani, tell me more about life at the firehouse!
LL Cool Jew: dani, wow, can you guys really cook??
LL Cool Jew: can i come cook for you?
LL Cool Jew: can i help you into your suit?
LL Cool Jew: hold your hose????
Razzy: like, can i make you some tuna tacos?
LL Cool Jew: ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww
Razzy: oh come on
LL Cool Jew: ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww
Razzy: or maybe your specialty
LL Cool Jew: uh oh....
Razzy: poached bearded clams?
LL Cool Jew: EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW
Razzy: hair pie for dessert!
Razzy: sorry
Razzy: i'm totally a 9-year-old boy inside
LL Cool Jew: it's ok
LL Cool Jew: you are qewt
LL Cool Jew: if dani met me - shit
LL Cool Jew: tila tequila would be HISTORY
Razzy: no shit!
Razzy: dude, you'd steal all tila tequila's suitors
Razzy: tila tequila is so busted
LL Cool Jew: i mean, me and tila tequila, side by side in red bikinis - NO COMPETITION.
LL Cool Jew: :) 8 I>
Razzy: well, for one thing, your head isn't freakishly large and you don't look like you just stepped out of a Pokemon cartoon
Razzy: for another, your breasts are real
LL Cool Jew: see the bikini
LL Cool Jew: up there
Razzy: i love it
Razzy: totz qewt
Razzy: yeah, back to tila tequila
Razzy: she is so annoying
Razzy: that show is unreal
LL Cool Jew: yeah there's boutz to be a big ole girlfight
LL Cool Jew: btw vanessa and brandi
LL Cool Jew: yawn
LL Cool Jew: did you see tila and dani makin out in the tent
LL Cool Jew: dani was spitting her lesbian feelings game
LL Cool Jew: HOTT
Razzy: i KNOW
Razzy: dani can play the feelings game like a pro
Razzy: you know she used it to score some quality boobmashing partners back in her smith days (RAZZY EDIT: Dani did not go to Smith, but we like to think she did).
Razzy: to the tune of a sarah maclachlan cd
LL Cool Jew: oh yeah
LL Cool Jew: but i bet she's a BDOC (BDOC=big dyke on campus)
LL Cool Jew: she's probz just fronting
Razzy: for sure
LL Cool Jew: she's probz humping legs with the other girls on the sly
LL Cool Jew: talking love
LL Cool Jew: screwin models
LL Cool Jew: shawty snappin!
Razzy: i said, godDAMN shawty snappin!
LL Cool Jew: OH YEAH
LL Cool Jew: i love those free swingin lesbians
LL Cool Jew: the hottness!
Razzy: you know dani fingerbanged her fair share of rugby bunnies back in her purple unicorn days ("purple unicorn"=Smith's school mascot until the early 70s when they changed it Pioneers...seriously)
LL Cool Jew: with their fryes
LL Cool Jew: and their caribeaners
LL Cool Jew: and their subarus
LL Cool Jew: LOVE IT
Razzy: totally
Razzy: it's like your dream girl
LL Cool Jew: she totz is
LL Cool Jew: and a firefighter too
LL Cool Jew: SWOOOOOOOOOOON
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot chicks, lezbollah, LL Cool Jew, sluts, TV
Thursday, November 08, 2007
I hope they starve
Those fun undergrads who are behind De-Colonization Day are at it again! I've been getting e-mails all week about the activism du jour going on at Columbia. Apparently candlelight vigils are out and hunger strikes are in for promoting a veritable smorgasboard of issues:
What is this fucking bullshit about the "canon of Western European thought?" I don't love the fact that white men make up most of the movers and shakers in history, but guess what? THEY DO! So cope. Also, you live in New York City, asshole; if you want multicultural, just walk the fuck outside. And what does the undergraduate core curriculum have to do with the Manhattanville expansion? I guess they're against this vaguely defined concept of "institutional racism" or whatever. Granted, I'm not for any kind of racism, much less that which is inherent to Columbia's administrators, but it's like they can't decide on the specifics of anything so they just serve up a bunch of vague talking points without clearly explaining the problem or proposing an adequate remedy. For example, why are they bitching about Ethnic Studies? Columbia HAS a Center for the Study of Ethnicity and Race, which houses their Ethnic Studies departments. How is Ethnic Studies getting shafted? What are these dumbasses exactly pissed off about, and what do they want to change? I have no idea. I'm not a subscriber to the pro-noose and swastika way of thinking, either, but I have news for these assholes: YOU AREN'T GANDHI! In my experience in student government in dealing with the Columbia administration, they aren't going to get right on the whole "institutional racism" problem because a bunch of whiny 19-year-olds skip a few helpings of fucking Top Ramen. In fact, they know that the cadre of socially conscious, self-righteous, faux socialist asses that show off their growly stomachs at the sundial today will be stuffing themselves with tofu and broccoli from Ollie's by sundown plotting their next worthless protesting strategy. These insincere, nonsensical baby activists have no conviction to last out a hunger strike, but even if they did and wound up becoming severely malnourished, Columbia will still be like "screw you, I do what I want!" and they won't have any strength to continue being a mild nuisance. It's a win-win for the Columbia administration, so I don't know why these assholes bother with annoying the rest of us. They should spend their time instead working on their Facebook profiles or purchasing Che Guevara shirts or playing drinking games or experimenting with their sexuality or WHATEVER it is the college kids are into these days. Because at noon, while these unwashed nineteen-year-old assholes are grouchily chanting "we shall overcome" at the sundial, I'll tell you where I'll be: HAVING LUNCH! If I weren't busy in lab, I'd go down there and flagrantly picnic at the sundial just to be a jerk.
On another note, I should add that I am on this e-mail list because during my rise to power as the Hugo Chavez of the Bolivarian Revolutionary Peoples Republic of the Uptown Campus Science Nerds AKA the Graduate Student Organization (GSO), I somehow got volunteered to liasion with these tards about Columbia's expansion campus. Columbia is using eminent domain laws to their advantage to displace a bunch of people from West Harlem, and they're all pissed, and I somehow wound up doing this "liaison" job with this anti-expansionist student group. I interpreted "liaison" to mean "deleting e-mails." It was just a political stepping stone on the path to my ascension to the lofty heights of power I achieved last year as president of the GSO, in which I got motherfuckers to respect my authority to throw keggers and pick bars to take the recruits to during interview season. Now that I've retired from GSO politics with the end of my presidential term (for which I did not seek re-election), there's really no need for them to continue providing me with fodder for blog abuse. I wonder if they'll take me off the list now that my presidency is over and I no longer have the authority to electively not distribute their Marxist-flavored hippie retardograms over the gradtalk e-mail listserv. I hope not; then I'd have to spend a lot more time reading my Smith Alumnae Quarterly to find stupid twats to make fun of.
From: Andrew Lyubarsky (columbiaction@googlegroups.com, columbia-solidarity@googlegroups.com, sceg-body@lists.riseup.net)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: [sceg-body] FIRST RALLY FOR HUNGER STRIKE DEMANDS!
We demand a Core Curriculum that is inclusive not only of the canon of Western European thought, but that seeks to build a deep understanding of the multicultural society that we live in and the power relations that constitute it.
We demand a sustainable expansion that does not displace 5,000 people and bulldoze a neighborhood in Harlem, one of the most important communities in the United States.
We demand an administration that is responsive to institutional racism, supports its students, and proactively works to create a climate in which nooses and swastikas are not the order of the day.
We demand support and autonomy for the Ethnic Studies program, which is crucial to a critical intellectual experience in a progressive university.
Join us on the SUNDIAL at 12 PM as the hunger strikers deliver their statements and allied student groups speak out in support of the demands that were presented to the administration.
The time for meetings and talk has ended. Now is the time for action. We need hundreds of people out there standing in support. Where will you be?
What is this fucking bullshit about the "canon of Western European thought?" I don't love the fact that white men make up most of the movers and shakers in history, but guess what? THEY DO! So cope. Also, you live in New York City, asshole; if you want multicultural, just walk the fuck outside. And what does the undergraduate core curriculum have to do with the Manhattanville expansion? I guess they're against this vaguely defined concept of "institutional racism" or whatever. Granted, I'm not for any kind of racism, much less that which is inherent to Columbia's administrators, but it's like they can't decide on the specifics of anything so they just serve up a bunch of vague talking points without clearly explaining the problem or proposing an adequate remedy. For example, why are they bitching about Ethnic Studies? Columbia HAS a Center for the Study of Ethnicity and Race, which houses their Ethnic Studies departments. How is Ethnic Studies getting shafted? What are these dumbasses exactly pissed off about, and what do they want to change? I have no idea. I'm not a subscriber to the pro-noose and swastika way of thinking, either, but I have news for these assholes: YOU AREN'T GANDHI! In my experience in student government in dealing with the Columbia administration, they aren't going to get right on the whole "institutional racism" problem because a bunch of whiny 19-year-olds skip a few helpings of fucking Top Ramen. In fact, they know that the cadre of socially conscious, self-righteous, faux socialist asses that show off their growly stomachs at the sundial today will be stuffing themselves with tofu and broccoli from Ollie's by sundown plotting their next worthless protesting strategy. These insincere, nonsensical baby activists have no conviction to last out a hunger strike, but even if they did and wound up becoming severely malnourished, Columbia will still be like "screw you, I do what I want!" and they won't have any strength to continue being a mild nuisance. It's a win-win for the Columbia administration, so I don't know why these assholes bother with annoying the rest of us. They should spend their time instead working on their Facebook profiles or purchasing Che Guevara shirts or playing drinking games or experimenting with their sexuality or WHATEVER it is the college kids are into these days. Because at noon, while these unwashed nineteen-year-old assholes are grouchily chanting "we shall overcome" at the sundial, I'll tell you where I'll be: HAVING LUNCH! If I weren't busy in lab, I'd go down there and flagrantly picnic at the sundial just to be a jerk.
On another note, I should add that I am on this e-mail list because during my rise to power as the Hugo Chavez of the Bolivarian Revolutionary Peoples Republic of the Uptown Campus Science Nerds AKA the Graduate Student Organization (GSO), I somehow got volunteered to liasion with these tards about Columbia's expansion campus. Columbia is using eminent domain laws to their advantage to displace a bunch of people from West Harlem, and they're all pissed, and I somehow wound up doing this "liaison" job with this anti-expansionist student group. I interpreted "liaison" to mean "deleting e-mails." It was just a political stepping stone on the path to my ascension to the lofty heights of power I achieved last year as president of the GSO, in which I got motherfuckers to respect my authority to throw keggers and pick bars to take the recruits to during interview season. Now that I've retired from GSO politics with the end of my presidential term (for which I did not seek re-election), there's really no need for them to continue providing me with fodder for blog abuse. I wonder if they'll take me off the list now that my presidency is over and I no longer have the authority to electively not distribute their Marxist-flavored hippie retardograms over the gradtalk e-mail listserv. I hope not; then I'd have to spend a lot more time reading my Smith Alumnae Quarterly to find stupid twats to make fun of.
Labels: assholes, Dumb Smith bitches, grad school bullshit, overcompensation, politics, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Bianca from "America's Next Top Model" Cycle 9
DOB: sometime in 1989
Occupation: wants to be on top, in the sense that she wants to be a "top model" AKA model who only gets work when it has something to do with reality whoring
Hometown: Queens, New York
Current residence: ???
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Now that "America's Next Top Model" is in it's ninth "cycle" and Tyra is more ridiculous and crazy than ever, the producers seem to really be scraping the bottom of the barrel in terms of American top model-fodder. Most of the bitches on this show now are kind of pretty, but nothing I would ever expect to see staring back at me from the cover of Vogue. Shit, I wouldn't even expect them to be staring sluttily at me from the hood of a car at some regional auto show. These girls are not really very hot, at least not supermodel hot.
However, there's one fierce bitch who I can't ignore because she's SUCH an unbelievable cunt to be around. Bianca is always rolling her eyes, arguing with people, and generally hating on the girls. Last night, she decided that henceforth she's going to torment Heather, the bitch who has Asperger's syndrome, a form of autism that keeps people from interacting normally with others. I don't blame her, because even though Heather looks like she could be the double of that ghost bitch who crawled out of the TV in The Ring, Tyra can't get enough of it. According to Tyra, Heather's awkward weirdness is "modelly." Meanwhile, Bianca is like, "Aw, HELL, no!" and is making it her life's mission to fuck with Heather. She doesn't give a damn, and has no problems taking shots at her autism. She is brutal. In previous episodes, Bianca has turned her wrath toward Lisa, the anorexic stripper with no boobs, and Ebony, the now-eliminated anorexic with the crazy shoulders. As J-Sexy says (usually with a disapproving "mmm mmm mmm"), "She is just a straight-up HATER." It is so entertaining. I could stare at the expression Bianca makes every time some other bitch wins a challenge instead of her for hours.
The other thing that's hot about Bianca is she is the one girl whose beauty wasn't completely ruined by the shiteous makeover Tyra always gives the models. This year, Tyra entrused Jessica Simpson's fag-along Ken Paves to give the girls his finest Home Shopping Network weaves. As always, she picked the most unflattering cut and colors posibble for most of the girls. She was going to try to make Bianca platinum blonde, but luckily, Bianca's hairstyle, which was akin to a magenta skunk, relied on cheap extensions and overtreating with caustic relaxants and bright red hair dye. This overprocessing damaged her hair to the point where it could not be bleached, or even salvaged. At first, "Mr. Jay" informed Bianca that she would have to shave her head and wear a "medical wig" (which as far as I could tell was a regular wig with a very unsexy name). However, all agreed that Bianca looked sexy bald, and I concur. A Top Model does not wear a fucking "medical wig."
I am totally rooting for Bianca to hate her way to a one hundred THOUSAND dollar contract with Cover Girl cosmetics, a fashion spread in Seventeen magazine, and the opportunity to be running around in Tyra's unbearably annoying shadow for a year. Bianca is America's Next Top Model, sending Jaslene into the obscurity where Adrienne, Yoanna, Eva, Naima, Nicole, Dani, and CariDee are wallowing in!
Labels: America's Next Top Model, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot chicks, overcompensation, sluts, TV
Daily Douchebag: Sean Penn
DOB: August 17, 1960
Occupation: actor who, per Wikipedia, is known for his ability to portray "often humorless and unsympathetic characters," because he's one in real life; political big mouth
Hometown: Santa Monica, California
Current residence: Ross, California; soon-to-be Caracas, Venezuela
Douchebaggery: I guess this week is Hate-on-the-Amigos-de-Hugo-Chavez Week here at RAZZY.org. Like Naomi Campbell's dumb ass before him, Sean Penn decided that he just had to go to Caracas and meet with the head of the Bolivarian People's Republic of Venezuela for a big sesh of Bush-bashing and presumably sucking one another off.
I've disliked Sean Penn for a very long time. Not only does he entirely lack a sense of humor about himself, but he thinks the world gives a rat's ass about his fucking political opinions. Nobody gives a damn whether the hilarious stoner dude from Fast Times at Ridgemont High is all grown up and preaching the gospel of radical leftism, or at least of radical leftism as it pertains to hating on George Bush. Hatred of George Bush is the only thing I can agree with Sean Penn about, but in my view there are more constructive ways to express this than flying to South America and letting a pinko despot squire you around the scenic Venezuelan countryside in his fly whip.
Anyway, back to Sean Penn. He has a thing for human rights-violating dictators, and he seems to think that this enables him to act as some sort of self-appointed peace negotiator. He sent Ahmadinejad a friendly letter and visited on the grounds that he doesn't want a war in Iran, and wants to show us how awesome Iran is. Well, I certainly don't want a war with Iran, but I also don't need fucking Spicoli doing detente with them either. Prior to him deciding to visit every shitshow of a country in the world (Iraq, Iran, Venezuela...I'm assuming North Korea's next on the Axis of Evil World Tour), his main credentials for doing international diplomacy consisted of his credits in the film Shanghai Surprise opposite his then-wife Madonna. Even Bono--whom I despise with every ounce of my being--is more qualified to lecture me about poverty from behind his rose-colored $800 goggles; at least Bono has probably toured the world extensively in the course of his being a shiteous rock star. Sean Penn just woke up one day and was like "I don't think enough people are listening to my blowhard political opinions" and "I don't think people realize EXACTLY how much I hate George Bush," and the natural solution to this was to stir up some publicity by sharing his fucking two cents from Iraq or wherever.
What Sean Penn doesn't realize, however, is that he's exactly the same as Bush. He's so busy obsessing over his Bush hatred, that he thinks a good solution is to drive around in Chavez's Marx mobile gushing about how fabulous Venezuela is compared to America's evil empire, much the same way that Bush thinks the solution to "terror" is to fight a series of pointless and unwinnable wars overseas. Both Sean Penn and Bush have a fundamentally flawed misunderstanding of the issues they are trying to address. In Bush's case, he has such a myopic view of how things like 9/11 happen that he's like "fuck y'all, international community!," and goes out and does shit which makes the world wish future greater acts of terror upon us. In Sean Penn's case, he has such a myopic view of how Bush managed to do the aforementioned that he thinks the solution is to hang out with a man known for rigging elections, jailing opponents, suppressing basic freedoms (speech, press, etc.), and generally spitting in the face of democracy. Just because Chavez likes to give press conferences where he calls Bush a lot of diabolically-themed names similar to Sean Penn doesn't mean that aligning oneself with his human rights-violating ass is going to solve any of the problems which are the root of that Bush-hatred in the first place.
Sean Penn needs to shut the fuck up and go back to playing retarded dudes, criminals, and stoners who order pizza in class, and quit making it apparent to all of us with a modicum of education that he's a moron and an asshole who would rather tell us that it's cool to consort with commie assholes like Hugo Chavez. I love it when Chavez insults Bush, too, but not enough to ride through the streets of Caracas trumpeting the glory of Venezuela's Bolivarian revolution. Supporting one tyrant over another is more idiotic and hypocritical than radical and productive.
Just like Naomi Campbell, though, Sean Penn decided to provide a few reasons why he thinks Chavez is the man. "He's done incredible things for the 80% of the people who are poor there," he told David Letterman. With regard to Chavez's sanity, he added, "I think if people have oil in the ground they are called wacky." I'm sure Venezuela looked like a tropical paradise full of happy people on his VIP tour, but how many fucking poor Venezuelans did he actually talk to as he was chauffeured about in Chavez's motorcade. And how many are going to complain in front of a president-for-life who will respond by jailing them for treason? SHUT THE FUCK UP, SEAN PENN! You are a fucking idiot, and the poor would be better off if your ignorant ass wasn't speaking for them. Sean Penn said that he was visiting as a journalist, and certainly showed the type of objectivity one would expect from a Hollywood actor's self-aggrandized assumption of that title when he bid Venezuela adieu with the words, "I came here looking for a great country. I found a great country."
You found a great country, eh? Well, STAY THERE, asshole!
Labels: assholes, celebrities, Daily Douchebag, international intrigue, politics, tyrannical rulers
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Js and Ps
DOB: June 15, 1977
Occupation: grad student, studly marathon runner, one of Germany's finest expats
Hometown: Hamburg, Germany
Current residence: Washington Heights, New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Well, I can't really hit Js and Ps's hotness because he's got a serious girlfriend who is also in grad school, and who I like quite a lot. She comes to my lab sometimes to use our analytical balance and tells me all sorts of stories about weird Drosophila mutations (gay flies, hypersexual flies, etc.) and fun tales of college debauchery in New Zealand. However, Js and Ps is nonetheless a fine fellow and my good Fantasy football buddy.
Every Sunday, without fail, Js and Ps is parked at the bar with me consuming large quantities of Bud Light. Over the years, Js and Ps has provided me with many hilarious catchphrases. In years past, his mantra was "Throw it to Alge!" Every year at the draft, I beg him to take Alge Crumpler so he can continue shouting that. Alas, Alge Crumpler is no longer involved with the Js and Ps's fortunes, but this year he won't shut up about "the mighty Lions." Here's a fun video of Js and Ps waxing poetic about the mighty Lions and the mighty Jon Kitna, the hot Tacoma, Washington native leading them both to touchdowns and to Jesus Christ.
There was one exception to Js and Ps's dedicated football watching and beer swilling: last Sunday, in which he ran the New York City marathon in 4 hours, 6 minutes, 59 seconds, finishing in 13,837th place. Not too shabby for a race that 39,000 people run every year! And to add to his accomplishment and general awesomeness, he showed up at the bar after running it! That is dedication.
Anyway, even though I smoked him in Fantasy football two weeks ago and I'm not sure he's forgiven me for taking his favorite running back in the world, LaDainian Tomlinson, in the draft this year for our keeper league, Js and Ps is a hot piece who is a wealth of knowledge about both the NFL and the now-defunct NFL Europe (and really, NFL Deutschland...the Germans love them some real football!) World Bowl champions the Hamburg Sea Devils. And he's a big old Razzyphile, and he has a Nature paper, too! Next to Beck's beer, he's Germany's finest export EVER.
Labels: alcoholism, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Fantasia, grad school bullshit, NFL football
Daily Douchebag: Naomi Campbell
DOB: May 22, 1970
Occupation: model, master of the Blackberry-based martial arts, peon-beater
Hometown: London, England
Current residence: London, England
Douchebaggery: Over the years, Naomi Campbell has gained fame as a supermodel diva notable for being beautiful, as well as a huge bitch prone to fits of violence. Those women unfortunate enough to accept employment as her assistant or housekeeper can more often than not find themselves on the receiving end of a beatdown applied via Swarovsky crystal-encrusted wireless handheld device. Or, not having her bedazzled cell phone handy, Naomi's not above just punching some bitches in the face and then blaming it all on abandonment issues.
Well, Naomi's taste for violently resolving personal spats apparently extends to her taste in socialist dictators. On Halloween, Naomi rolled into Caracas, Venezuela, gushing about the country's "tropical" climate and "beautiful waterfalls." However, she wasn't there to catch the scenery; apparently, she had an important economic summit with President Hugo Chavez. She declined to go into specifics about what their meeting concerned, but she did take the time to characterize Chavez's dedication to addressing social welfare issues with "love and encouragement." Because crack analysis of how Chavez is hooking up the poor are extremely meaningful coming from a woman famous for whoring luxury items and wearing what a Venezuelan paper called "a revolutionary and exquisite white dress from the prestigious Fendi fashion house."
Granted, I'm ALMOST poor enough to qualify for New York City's cheap Chavez energy subsidies, and I'm not above taking some free pinko oil to have more money for spending on hooch, but Naomi can shut her fucking fat mouth about it. She doesn't have shit to say about the "love and encouragement" Chavez has devoted to a cornucopia of tyrannical human rights violations like electoral fraud, subsequently changing the constitution to make himself a permanent dictator and suspend due process, suppression of free speech and expression, prosecution of his political opponents on bullshit treason charges, supplying illegal arms to Colombia's guerilla army FARC, sanctioning of police brutality and murder, general government corruption, and violence in the name of "revolution" AKA "commie authoritarianism." However, I guess a woman accustomed to beating her subordinates into submission probably has a lot of valuable insight to offer a dude like Hugo Chavez when it comes to keeping the masses of poor nobodies who can't afford "revolutionary" clothes from Fendi in line.
Then again, who am I to say that when she's not strutting around on a runway or starring in films such as Cool as Ice (yes, the 1991 masterpiece starring Rob "Vanilla Ice" Van Winkle), Naomi isn't bettering herself by reading famous texts about Bolivarian ideals and coming up with ideas on how Hugo Chavez can better execute his glorious revolution of the people? Except by "famous texts," I mean one of the twinks on her hair and makeup team wears a Che Guevara shirt sometimes. Naomi Campbell needs to keep herself busy acting as a human dress rack on which to sell overpriced trash to rich assholes and smacking her staff up, and shut the fuck up about how beautiful waterfalls have something to do with kicking it with a totalitarian asshole and being moronic enough to characterize him as full of "love and encouragement."
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, international intrigue, politics, sluts, tyrannical rulers
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Say hey to JerseyGirl, y'all
Okay, another one of my friends, JerseyGirl who for some odd reason has made her Blogger name "Annimal" has agreed to grace the internets with a little of her useless bullshit. As per the standard here at Razzy.org, her inaugural post is about her hatred of fat, duplicitous bitches with tongue rings who can't handle their business and want to fuck her boyfriend Kodiak. She has some other quality tales that I have begged her to relate here, so hopefully she'll be regularly bored enough at work to bless us with a post from time to time.
Anyway, leave her a comment to welcome her hilarious ass.
Anyway, leave her a comment to welcome her hilarious ass.
Labels: JerseyGirl, Razzyphiles
Fat Girl with a Lisp by Jersey Girl
This is a story about my boyfriend, Kodiak, and FatGirl with a Lisp, his former "work girlfriend," (a name she gave herself – he never actually called her that).
Kodiak and I started dating about nine months ago, and it was love at first sight. He's funny, handsome, and kind. Plus, we totally have the best sex ever (I hit that shit the first night we ever met, what what!).
However, there was always this one small (or should I say fat) problem looming in the background - FatGirl with a Lisp.
FatGirl, Kodiak and I all worked at America's Favorite News channel. I worked for Geraldo (forever the hotness), while FatGirl and Kodiak worked on whatever other show. All in all, they worked together for about two years and developed a friendship as most people do when working side-by-side with someone for 10+ hours a day.
There are many things I don't like about FatGirl, and it's difficult to even know where to begin. First of all, just from looking at her, I knew I could never trust her. Have you ever met a girl, and you just see something in her eyes, or just get a bad feeling – and you know you can never trust them. This was the immediate, overwhelming feeling I got upon first laying eyes on FatGirl.
Another huge fault of FatGirl was that she actually spoke with a lisp (hence the full name FatGirl with a Lisp). Now, I really don't want to be mean, but I hate this bitch, so I'm going to be. Who has a lisp past the age of seven? Said lisp may have been attributed to the fact that for a brief period she had a tongue-ring, which was completely revolting-looking on her fat tongue. But even after taking the tongue-ring out, she still had the lisp. And it's not like she's poor or unable to get access to a speech therapist - her father is a multi-millionaire, who also ran for Governor of Massachusetts in 1982. He didn't win - this may have something to do with the fact that he lied about medals he received from serving in Vietnam, in addition to lying about his educational background. Mitt Romney won that year, despite the fact that FatGirl's father tried to dissuade the public from voting for him by coining him "Mr. Mormon." Good one, FatGirl’s Father!
Oh, and then there's the fact that SHE'S FAT! Okay - I know this is mean. But, trust, this chick has the weirdest body you've ever seen. Skinny chicken legs, fat stomach complemented by humongous boobs (but not nice, big boobs - they just look like two extensions of her fat stomach) and a double chin. Picture that with a tongue-ring and a lisp - GROSS.
And did I mention the fact that she sweats my boyfriend?
Kodiak and FatGirl never hooked up - she had a boyfriend when they met, and that boyfriend is to become her husband this Saturday. So she and Kodiak were just “work friends.” At least this is what I thought, until I started dating Kodiak, and noticed that she would often far surpass the realm of normal for a "work friend."
ITEM: Late night phone calls (she actually once called him at 1:30 am on a Saturday night when we were together)
ITEM: Phone calls every single weekend
ITEM: Trying to only ever set him up with other fat girls
ITEM: Gushing, literally gushing about him to anyone who would listen (this includes her mother - make note of this for future).
ITEM: She would always refer to herself as "Kodiak's Work Girlfriend," a term that may seem harmless enough - if it's someone you trust. But I don't, so therefore it's not.
These deluded displays of affection continued even after Kodiak and I started dating. I threw Kodiak a birthday party, and of course FatGirl came. Despite the fact that there were plenty of people her age in attendance, she spent the entire evening strictly speaking to Kodiak's family or Kodiak himself. This was the first time I had met Kodiak's parents - and FatGirl was so up in their grill that she definitely spent about 95% more time talking to them than I did. She was literally cock-blocking me from his family. Bitch.
But, the most egregious and backhanded display of her feelings for Kodiak came in the form of snub. Not to Kodiak, she would never dare, but to me. One day her wedding invitation appeared in Kodiak’s mailbox. It read something like this:
Mr. Kodiak
1 Hipster Place
Brooklyn, NY 11211
Notice anything about this invitation? Look very closely.
It doesn't say "& Guest" or "& Ms. Jersey Girl." She didn't invite me. WHAT A BITCH!
Kodiak and I were dumbfounded. Could it really be that she sweats him so much that she would stoop so low as to not invite me to her wedding? Kodiak was convinced that it must be a mistake or an oversight. He sometimes has such a sweet innocence about him, always wanting to believe the best in people. Until then, he had furiously rebuffed my ideas that FatGirl had a thing for him. But at this moment, I saw a glimmer in his eye - it was the first time he started to believe that maybe I just might be onto something.
So, like a good boyfriend, Kodiak called up FatGirl and asked her what the fuck was up with not inviting his woman. She gave him some LAME excuse about how she couldn't "technically" invite me because she had exceeded the number of guests at the reception hall, but that "of course I was invited!" Yeah, right. Fucking bitch.
Kodiak and I decided that there was no way in hell we were going to attend this wedding. Shit, I wasn't even invited! Then we found out that we actually had a family function to attend the very same night as the wedding - saved! So, Kodiak called up FatGirl, and told her that we had a family function that we could not get out of. Her response: "So you're picking Jersey Girl over me?" Kodiak said she was kidding. I don’t think she was.
This should be where the story ends. Kodiak and FatGirl never speak again, and he and I live happily ever after. However, the wrath of FatGirl continued to brew, as she refused to accept the fact that her former work boyfriend was not going to see her in her wedding dress (And what? Think to himself, "Damn! This is what I passed up! A fat bride!).
The next day, Kodiak receives an email:
Kodiak - please don't tell me you aren't coming to FatGirl's wedding? Who will I dance with? This can't be!! Of all the friends we are inviting, you must come - MUST COME. If there is something going on that I don't know about do let me know but otherwise I will expect to see you and Jersey Girl on the l0th.
best ever - FatGirl's Mom
Yes, you read that correctly - FatGirl's MOM wrote Kodiak an email, begging him to come to her daughter's wedding. I mean, is this woman for real? Is her daughter for real? Who in their right mind solicits the help of her or his mother in a situation like this? And if so, what mother would actually agree to email the former "work boyfriend." Don’t the two of them have anything better to do, like, I don't know, PLAN A WEDDING, than try to convince some guy to show up at it? And furthermore, this action just so clearly and unequivocally confirms my suspicions that FatGirl definitely does in fact have a thing for my boyfriend. Like he would ever hook up with a fat girl! It also confirms that FatGirl is certifiably insane.
This post is getting long, and I wish that the story could end here. I wish I could tell you that Kodiak wrote back and reiterated the fact that we had a family function to attend, and it all ended amicably. But FatGirl's mom is terribly persistent. And she replied to Kodiak's email by saying something like this:
But Kodiak, you must come to the wedding! We will miss you so much! This doesn't have to do anything with Unimportant Guy, does it?
Please, ladies and gentlemen, be seated for this one. Unimportant Guy is someone who I briefly dated (like two or three dates) about two months before I met Kodiak. FatGirl and Kodiak used to work with him, and while we were dating, I made the mistake of telling FatGirl. She, of course, ran back to Kodiak and told him, EVEN THOUGH I ASKED HER NOT TO. She clearly does not know about the ethic of girl code, but I suppose a person such as herself wouldn’t. She obviously was willing to take whatever measures necessary to break me and Kodiak up, so she could have him all to herself (even though she was engaged. Sooo messed up).
Since FatGirl apparently doesn't have any real friends, she invited a bunch of old work colleague to fill in the "friends tables" at the wedding. And, if Kodiak and I were to attend, we'd most likely be sitting at a table with Unimportant Guy. Even though we only dated for the hottest of seconds, it would still be a somewhat awkward situation, but one that we most likely could have gotten through relatively painlessly. But, what I'm assuming happened is that FatGirl smelled our lie, and immediately concluded that the reasoning behind that was Unimportant Guy (even though it's really just that I don't like her).
And then she told her mother.
Really? Really? Did FatGirl really tell her mother about my sexual past? Did she really convince herself that the reason we weren't attending her wedding is because Unimportant Guy would be there? Did she really decide to have her mother bring it up in an email to Kodiak? Finally, did her mother really, really actually send that email, asking for personal details about Kodiak's love life, and actually expect for him to engage in an email exchange about his feelings towards another man who slept with his girlfriend?
In conclusion, I have a few thoughts:
1. FUCK FatGirl and her fat mother
2. I am so freaking happy that we're not going to this wedding.
3. If I ever see FatGirl I'm gonna punch her in her fat face and then say, "You suck" (with a lisp). The End.
Kodiak and I started dating about nine months ago, and it was love at first sight. He's funny, handsome, and kind. Plus, we totally have the best sex ever (I hit that shit the first night we ever met, what what!).
However, there was always this one small (or should I say fat) problem looming in the background - FatGirl with a Lisp.
FatGirl, Kodiak and I all worked at America's Favorite News channel. I worked for Geraldo (forever the hotness), while FatGirl and Kodiak worked on whatever other show. All in all, they worked together for about two years and developed a friendship as most people do when working side-by-side with someone for 10+ hours a day.
There are many things I don't like about FatGirl, and it's difficult to even know where to begin. First of all, just from looking at her, I knew I could never trust her. Have you ever met a girl, and you just see something in her eyes, or just get a bad feeling – and you know you can never trust them. This was the immediate, overwhelming feeling I got upon first laying eyes on FatGirl.
Another huge fault of FatGirl was that she actually spoke with a lisp (hence the full name FatGirl with a Lisp). Now, I really don't want to be mean, but I hate this bitch, so I'm going to be. Who has a lisp past the age of seven? Said lisp may have been attributed to the fact that for a brief period she had a tongue-ring, which was completely revolting-looking on her fat tongue. But even after taking the tongue-ring out, she still had the lisp. And it's not like she's poor or unable to get access to a speech therapist - her father is a multi-millionaire, who also ran for Governor of Massachusetts in 1982. He didn't win - this may have something to do with the fact that he lied about medals he received from serving in Vietnam, in addition to lying about his educational background. Mitt Romney won that year, despite the fact that FatGirl's father tried to dissuade the public from voting for him by coining him "Mr. Mormon." Good one, FatGirl’s Father!
Oh, and then there's the fact that SHE'S FAT! Okay - I know this is mean. But, trust, this chick has the weirdest body you've ever seen. Skinny chicken legs, fat stomach complemented by humongous boobs (but not nice, big boobs - they just look like two extensions of her fat stomach) and a double chin. Picture that with a tongue-ring and a lisp - GROSS.
And did I mention the fact that she sweats my boyfriend?
Kodiak and FatGirl never hooked up - she had a boyfriend when they met, and that boyfriend is to become her husband this Saturday. So she and Kodiak were just “work friends.” At least this is what I thought, until I started dating Kodiak, and noticed that she would often far surpass the realm of normal for a "work friend."
ITEM: Late night phone calls (she actually once called him at 1:30 am on a Saturday night when we were together)
ITEM: Phone calls every single weekend
ITEM: Trying to only ever set him up with other fat girls
ITEM: Gushing, literally gushing about him to anyone who would listen (this includes her mother - make note of this for future).
ITEM: She would always refer to herself as "Kodiak's Work Girlfriend," a term that may seem harmless enough - if it's someone you trust. But I don't, so therefore it's not.
These deluded displays of affection continued even after Kodiak and I started dating. I threw Kodiak a birthday party, and of course FatGirl came. Despite the fact that there were plenty of people her age in attendance, she spent the entire evening strictly speaking to Kodiak's family or Kodiak himself. This was the first time I had met Kodiak's parents - and FatGirl was so up in their grill that she definitely spent about 95% more time talking to them than I did. She was literally cock-blocking me from his family. Bitch.
But, the most egregious and backhanded display of her feelings for Kodiak came in the form of snub. Not to Kodiak, she would never dare, but to me. One day her wedding invitation appeared in Kodiak’s mailbox. It read something like this:
Mr. Kodiak
1 Hipster Place
Brooklyn, NY 11211
Notice anything about this invitation? Look very closely.
It doesn't say "& Guest" or "& Ms. Jersey Girl." She didn't invite me. WHAT A BITCH!
Kodiak and I were dumbfounded. Could it really be that she sweats him so much that she would stoop so low as to not invite me to her wedding? Kodiak was convinced that it must be a mistake or an oversight. He sometimes has such a sweet innocence about him, always wanting to believe the best in people. Until then, he had furiously rebuffed my ideas that FatGirl had a thing for him. But at this moment, I saw a glimmer in his eye - it was the first time he started to believe that maybe I just might be onto something.
So, like a good boyfriend, Kodiak called up FatGirl and asked her what the fuck was up with not inviting his woman. She gave him some LAME excuse about how she couldn't "technically" invite me because she had exceeded the number of guests at the reception hall, but that "of course I was invited!" Yeah, right. Fucking bitch.
Kodiak and I decided that there was no way in hell we were going to attend this wedding. Shit, I wasn't even invited! Then we found out that we actually had a family function to attend the very same night as the wedding - saved! So, Kodiak called up FatGirl, and told her that we had a family function that we could not get out of. Her response: "So you're picking Jersey Girl over me?" Kodiak said she was kidding. I don’t think she was.
This should be where the story ends. Kodiak and FatGirl never speak again, and he and I live happily ever after. However, the wrath of FatGirl continued to brew, as she refused to accept the fact that her former work boyfriend was not going to see her in her wedding dress (And what? Think to himself, "Damn! This is what I passed up! A fat bride!).
The next day, Kodiak receives an email:
Kodiak - please don't tell me you aren't coming to FatGirl's wedding? Who will I dance with? This can't be!! Of all the friends we are inviting, you must come - MUST COME. If there is something going on that I don't know about do let me know but otherwise I will expect to see you and Jersey Girl on the l0th.
best ever - FatGirl's Mom
Yes, you read that correctly - FatGirl's MOM wrote Kodiak an email, begging him to come to her daughter's wedding. I mean, is this woman for real? Is her daughter for real? Who in their right mind solicits the help of her or his mother in a situation like this? And if so, what mother would actually agree to email the former "work boyfriend." Don’t the two of them have anything better to do, like, I don't know, PLAN A WEDDING, than try to convince some guy to show up at it? And furthermore, this action just so clearly and unequivocally confirms my suspicions that FatGirl definitely does in fact have a thing for my boyfriend. Like he would ever hook up with a fat girl! It also confirms that FatGirl is certifiably insane.
This post is getting long, and I wish that the story could end here. I wish I could tell you that Kodiak wrote back and reiterated the fact that we had a family function to attend, and it all ended amicably. But FatGirl's mom is terribly persistent. And she replied to Kodiak's email by saying something like this:
But Kodiak, you must come to the wedding! We will miss you so much! This doesn't have to do anything with Unimportant Guy, does it?
Please, ladies and gentlemen, be seated for this one. Unimportant Guy is someone who I briefly dated (like two or three dates) about two months before I met Kodiak. FatGirl and Kodiak used to work with him, and while we were dating, I made the mistake of telling FatGirl. She, of course, ran back to Kodiak and told him, EVEN THOUGH I ASKED HER NOT TO. She clearly does not know about the ethic of girl code, but I suppose a person such as herself wouldn’t. She obviously was willing to take whatever measures necessary to break me and Kodiak up, so she could have him all to herself (even though she was engaged. Sooo messed up).
Since FatGirl apparently doesn't have any real friends, she invited a bunch of old work colleague to fill in the "friends tables" at the wedding. And, if Kodiak and I were to attend, we'd most likely be sitting at a table with Unimportant Guy. Even though we only dated for the hottest of seconds, it would still be a somewhat awkward situation, but one that we most likely could have gotten through relatively painlessly. But, what I'm assuming happened is that FatGirl smelled our lie, and immediately concluded that the reasoning behind that was Unimportant Guy (even though it's really just that I don't like her).
And then she told her mother.
Really? Really? Did FatGirl really tell her mother about my sexual past? Did she really convince herself that the reason we weren't attending her wedding is because Unimportant Guy would be there? Did she really decide to have her mother bring it up in an email to Kodiak? Finally, did her mother really, really actually send that email, asking for personal details about Kodiak's love life, and actually expect for him to engage in an email exchange about his feelings towards another man who slept with his girlfriend?
In conclusion, I have a few thoughts:
1. FUCK FatGirl and her fat mother
2. I am so freaking happy that we're not going to this wedding.
3. If I ever see FatGirl I'm gonna punch her in her fat face and then say, "You suck" (with a lisp). The End.
Labels: assholes, fat fucks, holy fucking matrimony, JerseyGirl, overcompensation, sluts
Not the best strategy for quelling those pesky gay rumors
I assumed the reason for the delay in releasing Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter's latest album had something to do with his epic criminal record. It seems like every day I'm getting a text from Morrissey'sHair, who for whatever reason is my primary source of Lil' Wayne-related tips, about Weezy F Baby running afoul of the law yet again, usually for either possessing weed and/or Vicodin and/or illegal firearms, or violation of probation for one of the aforementioned outstanding charges. I figured that he was spending so much time in jail and court and his lawyers' offices in various states that he didn't have time to get in the studio and finish laying down all the tracks for Tha Carter: Volume III.
I guess he finally got around to it, because the proposed cover is being leaked on the internets, and all I have to say is...whoa. I've had some questions about Lil' Wayne's sexuality in the past, particularly regarding his relationship with his adopted "daddy" Brian "Baby/Birdman" Williams, based on homoerotic XXL magazine covers and candid photos of them making out. This is not doing a damn thing to dispel my suspicions that Lil' Wayne knows his way around a boys' poker night:
I'm glad Tha Carter is experimenting with his look a little, but if he keeps up this gender bending stuff, people are going to suspect that he is indeed what he once characterized in "Go DJ" as "them homo niggas gettin' AIDS in the ass." I'm not sure why he fears God, unless he's concerned that Fred Phelps is right and God hates fags. In any event, I'm not sure the right way to cope with one's fear of God is to get one's Foxy Brown drag face on. I do know one thing for sure, though...I am SO buying Tha Carter: Volume III, if only to listen for hints about the special relationship Tha Carter shares with Birdman. I imagine Lil' Wayne gets his face made up all purty and Birdman makes those "brrrrrr" pigeon noises to get each other in the mood, and I hope there are some oblique references to this on his new album. Weezy Fuckin' Baby, indeed.
I guess he finally got around to it, because the proposed cover is being leaked on the internets, and all I have to say is...whoa. I've had some questions about Lil' Wayne's sexuality in the past, particularly regarding his relationship with his adopted "daddy" Brian "Baby/Birdman" Williams, based on homoerotic XXL magazine covers and candid photos of them making out. This is not doing a damn thing to dispel my suspicions that Lil' Wayne knows his way around a boys' poker night:
Labels: hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, Lil' Wayne, Morrissey'sHair, rap, vulgar display of faggotry
A retrospective
Last night, after "I Love New York 2" and "The Hills" were over, JerseyGirl and I got sucked into "Pageant Place." If you haven't seen "Pageant Place," it's the Donald Trump-produced reality show about the bitches who won the Trump family of beauty pageants, and how they all have to be roommates at Trump Plaza. Unfortunately, there's not any coke-fueled, boozed-up lesbian beauty queen orgies going on as past events would lead one to expect; I guess the Donald ruined that party when he shipped Tara Conner's skank ass off to rehab last year. The cast of characters include the porcine-faced lesbo cokehead Miss Teen USA who allegedly hooked up with and then betrayed former Miss USA Tara Conner, the current Miss USA Rachel Something-Or-Another, Miss Universe, and just for fun, Tara Conner, because she doesn't have anything better to do and she stirs up trouble. Miss USA was complaining about how the super bitchy Miss Teen USA was a total diva when they went to help out at the Gay Men's Health Crisis AIDS Meals-on-Wheels kitchen. Miss USA took issue with the fact that Miss Teen USA was unaccustomed to actual labor and was afraid of getting burned by manning the plate-warmer. While commenting on Miss Teen USA's work ethic, Miss USA, a woman best known for taking a header in the Miss Universe pageant, said, "She hasn't paid her dues in that retrospect."
Retrospect? Since when was that word interchangable with respect? Either she just read Jabberwocky and was so inspired by Lewis Carroll's invention of new words via linguistic recombination and decided to try it herself with "respect" and "perspective," or Miss USA's dumb ass simply has a lousy vocabulary and thought this was a fancier way of saying "respect." Needless to say, JerseyGirl and I assumed the latter and had a field day with it.
"R-E-T-R-O-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me!" I sang.
"Actually, that dumb ho should just find out what it means...PERIOD," said JerseyGirl. She was the editor of that finest of all college news publications, the Smith College Sophian, and shares my disdain for people who can't speak, spell, or punctuate proper English.
For the rest of the night, we kept saying shit like "show me some retrospect!" and "no disretrospect intended," and being perpetually amused by this. JerseyGirl wondered how many of the other TV junkie Americans watching "Pageant Place" noticed Miss USA's linguistic gaffe. We both imagined that, as "Pageant Place" is on MTV, the number of people with a sufficient grasp of the English language to differentiate "respect" from "retrospect" was probably depressingly low.
However, I figured that this was something I could answer empirically with a good old-fashioned experiment. From now on, I'm going to start replacing "respect" with "retrospect" and see not only who notices, but who actually points out the error. I am hypothesizing that of those who do notice, most won't actually bring it to my attention. I can't wait to see the looks on people's faces as they try to figure out whether or not they should be like, "Uhhh...do you mean 'respect?'" Then it's going to be even more awesome when I respond, "Nah, dude, I mean 'retrospect,' it's fancier!"
Good times ahead. I'll report my results in an upcoming issue of Science or Nature. Or, if for some reason those journals don't want to publish my groundbreaking study on the verbal stupidity of the average person (person=grad student, who the hell else am I usually around?), then I'll put it on the top-tier online science repository known as this blog.
Retrospect? Since when was that word interchangable with respect? Either she just read Jabberwocky and was so inspired by Lewis Carroll's invention of new words via linguistic recombination and decided to try it herself with "respect" and "perspective," or Miss USA's dumb ass simply has a lousy vocabulary and thought this was a fancier way of saying "respect." Needless to say, JerseyGirl and I assumed the latter and had a field day with it.
"R-E-T-R-O-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me!" I sang.
"Actually, that dumb ho should just find out what it means...PERIOD," said JerseyGirl. She was the editor of that finest of all college news publications, the Smith College Sophian, and shares my disdain for people who can't speak, spell, or punctuate proper English.
For the rest of the night, we kept saying shit like "show me some retrospect!" and "no disretrospect intended," and being perpetually amused by this. JerseyGirl wondered how many of the other TV junkie Americans watching "Pageant Place" noticed Miss USA's linguistic gaffe. We both imagined that, as "Pageant Place" is on MTV, the number of people with a sufficient grasp of the English language to differentiate "respect" from "retrospect" was probably depressingly low.
However, I figured that this was something I could answer empirically with a good old-fashioned experiment. From now on, I'm going to start replacing "respect" with "retrospect" and see not only who notices, but who actually points out the error. I am hypothesizing that of those who do notice, most won't actually bring it to my attention. I can't wait to see the looks on people's faces as they try to figure out whether or not they should be like, "Uhhh...do you mean 'respect?'" Then it's going to be even more awesome when I respond, "Nah, dude, I mean 'retrospect,' it's fancier!"
Good times ahead. I'll report my results in an upcoming issue of Science or Nature. Or, if for some reason those journals don't want to publish my groundbreaking study on the verbal stupidity of the average person (person=grad student, who the hell else am I usually around?), then I'll put it on the top-tier online science repository known as this blog.
Labels: beauty queens, grammar gestapo, JerseyGirl, retard rage, science, sluts, TV
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: DayQuil
Current residence: my medicine cabinet, purse, desk drawer, etc.
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I am faced with my greatest archnemesis, the diabolical son-of-a-bitch bastard known as human fucking rhinovirus. Occasionally rather than just infuriate me by not cooperating in lab and infecting mice so I can graduate, I meet a particularly asshole rhinovirus in nature that decides to add injury to insult and infect my fucking upper respiratory tract instead. It's not enough that I slave away routinely pulling twelve hour days in lab trying to make this unruly piece of shit virus my bitch; sometimes I get made the bitch instead. Last night, I noticed that my throat was a little scratchy and sore, but then JerseyGirl and I each killed a respectable number of what she refers to as "brew dogs" and I didn't notice. However, this morning I woke and realized it was official: I've got a fucking cold. My sinuses feel like they're full of wet cement, my throat hurts, and my tonsils--which have been unfortunately enlarged since I got mono my freshman year of college--are the size of golf balls. It's raining, I'm tired, I'm sick, I woke up with Chingy!'s ass in my face, and I'm therefore understandably cranky. So far it's shaping up to be one bitch of a Tuesday, and the only thing I want to do is stay snuggled up in my bed with some DayQuil, my d-o-double g's, some soup, and some trashy daytime TV. Unfortunately, even though it's election day and technically a holiday, there's no rest for the wicked grad student suffering from the very affliction which is the subject of her research. My life is awesome. I bet you all wish you could live this glamorous existence!
Labels: comeuppance, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, epidemic geekery, science, viruses rule
Daily Douchebag: New York
DOB: January 6, 1982
Occupation: reality ho, alleged former Newark, New Jersey stripper
Hometown: Utica, New York
Current residence: Los Angeles, California or wherever a trashtastic Vh1 reality dating competition is being filmed
Douchebaggery: While you know I've got love for New York, I was totally pissed last night when I saw that she denied this hot stud a chain and thus sent him packing:
I thought Midget Mac would have more of a chance, if only because he was hilarious and he had a badass attitude. Now we won't get to see more priceless commentary like "fuck all them supertall clowns," nor will we get to watch situations in which the producers force him to do challenging physical feats (ie: swimming with a leaky air mattress) that basically guarantee ensuing hilarity. At least Midget Mac isn't out of show business altogether. He's a hype man for rapper Young Cash, and assuming one of his tracks blows up, we can look forward to many more videos such as the one below for "Freeze" in which Midget Mac is running around in camouflage being the hot little piece that he is:
MORE MIDGET MAC! MORE MIDGET MAC!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, hot dudes, I Love New York, sluts, TV, Vh1
Monday, November 05, 2007
Over the hump
In my epic career of sluttiness, I've accrued a lot of extra-special and memorable notches in my belt. I've had sex with men, women, and men and women at the same time. I've had sex in cars, public parks, public restrooms, sleazy motels, fancy hotels, floors, stairs, counters, bathtubs, showers, swimming pools, hot tubs, couches, armchairs, desks, and once, the hood of a Ford Taurus. In the past, I've managed to get laid in unexpected places and/or ridiculous situations.
Some of my past exploits are tales of legend. Quoth Robert Sylvester Kelly, "I'm a player, homie, and that's a well-known factor." I got laid with some random DUDE (and an actual biological dude with a Y chromosome and everything, not a F2M tranny named Billy, Ethan, or Max) at my Smith College two-year reunion. Then the uptight bitches down the hall in reunion housing got pissed because I was having loud "male-female" breeder sex and they could hear it. After the Crab Feed (fundraiser at my high school I attend in the P-N-Dub each year) two years ago, I fucked the former quarterback of my high school football team on MillerTime's couch. Last year after the Crab Feed, I had a threesome. I fucked a seaman in the bathroom of baggage claim #4 at Bradley International Airport in Windsor Locks, Connecticut at 5 a.m. on Thanksgiving morning in 1997. At my old job prior to grad school, I carried on a torrid interoffice affair with one of the business development guys from the company on the floor above us, which consisted largely of us sneaking off to the vacant building next door to ours to bang on a desk in some empty office on the fifth floor. And that was after I broke up with the well-intentioned but unfortunately crazed shipping and receiving guy from my company after sorting out a duel for my affections between him and my former boss by going on a Seattle radio show and humping a glass door. No joke. I've been handcuffed to the radiator and fucked on the floor of my college newspaper's office. I made an amateur FFFM porn. My sex life is, needless to say, pretty active and FULL of drama sometimes. It's not exactly "Trapped in the Closet" crazy, but it's nonetheless rich with singular memories.
However, in spite of my colorful and storied sexual past, there was one notch in my bedpost I had not yet achieved: I never fucked a grad student. This was really starting to bother me, because I am going to graduate next year, and if I leave without managing to bed at least one of them, then it will psychologically have a most negative impact on my perceived pimp-hand strength. I mean, what kind of a skank-ass ho am I if I can't nail at least ONE science nerd? That should be like shooting fish in a fucking barrel! It's not like there's a lot of competition, and the desperation level is high. There are some decent looking people in grad school, but more than half of them are married or in a relationship, and the ones that aren't usually act like they have fucking Asberger's syndrome or some other form of autism that renders them socially dysfunctional. The cute ones who actually have normal social skills and are single are often either boring or annoying. I can't tell you how many times I've been at a party chatting up some honey and being surprised that (s)he's a good-looking grad student, only to have them start blabbing about their thesis project. I never want to bang anyone who won't shut the fuck up about their cloning vectors of choice or the technical problems they've been having with their western blots. SAVE IT FOR YOUR LAB MEETING OR DATA CLUB! And no, it doesn't turn me on to talk about my shitshow of a thesis project, either. The few remaining viable candidates for me to fuck based on being hot enough, tall enough, and interesting enough to even tolerate the kind of conversation that leads back to one of our respective bedrooms have not been the easy quarry I thought they would. Historically, my attempts to proactively acquire grad school ass have failed miserably.
Several years ago, I got to be friends with this guy who has since graduated, who I'll called MIke Sucks, because he did. He was very flirty with me, and we used to do stuff together. We'd smoke pot, go Christmas shopping, go vote, and get drunk together. I was certain that he was sweating me. One day, he strolled into Free Friday (grad student happy hour), and walked straight up to me, handed me a beer, and started massaging my shoulders. I made up my mind that later that night, as LL Cool Jew and I were having a housewarming party at the bar downstairs from the apartment we had just moved into, I was going to bang him. So when he showed up at the Soundz Lounge and made a beeline for me, I bought him a drink and got into flirting. Unfortunately, I got a little overconfident, and said, "So, at what point do you want to get out of here and fuck?" He got this look on his face that was an infuriating combination of pity and discomfort. "Uhhhh, sorry if I gave you the wrong idea, Razzy, but I don't hook up with people." I was mortified. "What do you mean?" If I were a Terminator, I'd see some kind of "SYSTEM ERROR: DOES NOT COMPUTE" flashing on my screen over and over. Who doesn't "hook up with people"? I was like, "So you'll sleep with me if we go out on a date or something?" I think then I asked him on a date. The whole experience was horrifying. Even worse, Mike Sucks continued to flirt with me. I am now convinced he was completely using me for ego inflation purposes, as I am sure it gives a bald neuroscientist a serious masculinity boost to have a fierce bitch like myself on his jock. Later, this so-called "friend" of mine who kept pestering me not to give up on Mike Sucks because she thought we'd make a cute couple was dogsitting for me and actually hooked up with him in my fucking apartment! Duplicitous bitch. When Mike Sucks graduated and convinced her to drop out of Columbia and move to California with him, I was not sorry to see them go. They are two assholes who assuredly deserve each other.
A little while after picking my bruised ego up after the Mike Sucks debacle, I decided to give pursuit of a grad student another shot. This dude who was famous for being a huge asshole (he actually lists "judging people" as an "interest" on his Friendster page) e-mailed me to say he'd discovered my blog and was in awe of me, as people tend to be once they get hit with a blast of hot Razzification. A bit of e-mail witty banter ensued, and I decided that he was sweating me and considered the possibility of fucking him. I tried to be a little smoother with him than I was with Mike Sucks, and invited him to go "drink scotch and make fun of people with me." Unfortunately, he declined on the grounds that I "intimidate the shit out of" him. Thanks, Strong Personality, for cockblocking me. Then this dude got together with another grad student, who is really a very nice girl, and who he has been with for a year now. I wish them well, but nonetheless am annoyed that I failed yet again to bag a grad student.
The closest I ever got was last summer at the party for the virology floor in our building. It got late, and the party dwindled to me and J-Sexy and two girls from the lab down the hall. One of these girls confessed that she had a crush on me, and the next thing I knew, we were doing enough hooking up to make J-Sexy say the next day, "You were practicolly going down on each other!" That wasn't true, but we were making out and groping each other's breasts. We probably would have progressed to hot lezzie crotch action if she didn't have a boyfriend who disapproved of her getting some pussy on the side. Oh well. I told her that anytime she wants to take a ride on my strap-on to holler at me, but I'm not holding my breath since she and the boyfriend seem pretty serious.
I was beginning to think that the ill-fated sex I almost had with the Ja-Fake-An who doesn't eat pussy during my recruiting weekend had cursed me with bad mojo and that I was destined never to score with any grad student honeys. I felt it would be a dreadful blow to my reputation as a player exuding mackadelic nightspot realness to never give so much as a lousy BJ to one of these fucking science nerds. By all rights, they should be beating my door down. I have big tits, I might not be a supermodel but I'm not ugly, I'm smart and funny, and I totally fuck on the first date. What's the problem, geeks?
Lucky for me, on Friday a posse of grad students happened to randomly stroll drunkenly into the bar where J-Sexy and I were kicking it with a couple other friends. I'd been drinking scotch and was feeling invincible, so I started chatting up this first year. And my mojo has adjusted itself, because this 23-year-old honey didn't stand a chance against a voracious cougar full of Johnnie Walker like myself. I totally made him take me to his crib and do me like I wanted to be done. YES! VICTORY IS MINE! I saw, I conquered, and I came. I can graduate now with a true sense of accomplishment, and not a worry in the world about not being able to score a science nerd. My slut credentials are still valid, I'm awesome, and all is right in Razzyville. I RULE!
Some of my past exploits are tales of legend. Quoth Robert Sylvester Kelly, "I'm a player, homie, and that's a well-known factor." I got laid with some random DUDE (and an actual biological dude with a Y chromosome and everything, not a F2M tranny named Billy, Ethan, or Max) at my Smith College two-year reunion. Then the uptight bitches down the hall in reunion housing got pissed because I was having loud "male-female" breeder sex and they could hear it. After the Crab Feed (fundraiser at my high school I attend in the P-N-Dub each year) two years ago, I fucked the former quarterback of my high school football team on MillerTime's couch. Last year after the Crab Feed, I had a threesome. I fucked a seaman in the bathroom of baggage claim #4 at Bradley International Airport in Windsor Locks, Connecticut at 5 a.m. on Thanksgiving morning in 1997. At my old job prior to grad school, I carried on a torrid interoffice affair with one of the business development guys from the company on the floor above us, which consisted largely of us sneaking off to the vacant building next door to ours to bang on a desk in some empty office on the fifth floor. And that was after I broke up with the well-intentioned but unfortunately crazed shipping and receiving guy from my company after sorting out a duel for my affections between him and my former boss by going on a Seattle radio show and humping a glass door. No joke. I've been handcuffed to the radiator and fucked on the floor of my college newspaper's office. I made an amateur FFFM porn. My sex life is, needless to say, pretty active and FULL of drama sometimes. It's not exactly "Trapped in the Closet" crazy, but it's nonetheless rich with singular memories.
However, in spite of my colorful and storied sexual past, there was one notch in my bedpost I had not yet achieved: I never fucked a grad student. This was really starting to bother me, because I am going to graduate next year, and if I leave without managing to bed at least one of them, then it will psychologically have a most negative impact on my perceived pimp-hand strength. I mean, what kind of a skank-ass ho am I if I can't nail at least ONE science nerd? That should be like shooting fish in a fucking barrel! It's not like there's a lot of competition, and the desperation level is high. There are some decent looking people in grad school, but more than half of them are married or in a relationship, and the ones that aren't usually act like they have fucking Asberger's syndrome or some other form of autism that renders them socially dysfunctional. The cute ones who actually have normal social skills and are single are often either boring or annoying. I can't tell you how many times I've been at a party chatting up some honey and being surprised that (s)he's a good-looking grad student, only to have them start blabbing about their thesis project. I never want to bang anyone who won't shut the fuck up about their cloning vectors of choice or the technical problems they've been having with their western blots. SAVE IT FOR YOUR LAB MEETING OR DATA CLUB! And no, it doesn't turn me on to talk about my shitshow of a thesis project, either. The few remaining viable candidates for me to fuck based on being hot enough, tall enough, and interesting enough to even tolerate the kind of conversation that leads back to one of our respective bedrooms have not been the easy quarry I thought they would. Historically, my attempts to proactively acquire grad school ass have failed miserably.
Several years ago, I got to be friends with this guy who has since graduated, who I'll called MIke Sucks, because he did. He was very flirty with me, and we used to do stuff together. We'd smoke pot, go Christmas shopping, go vote, and get drunk together. I was certain that he was sweating me. One day, he strolled into Free Friday (grad student happy hour), and walked straight up to me, handed me a beer, and started massaging my shoulders. I made up my mind that later that night, as LL Cool Jew and I were having a housewarming party at the bar downstairs from the apartment we had just moved into, I was going to bang him. So when he showed up at the Soundz Lounge and made a beeline for me, I bought him a drink and got into flirting. Unfortunately, I got a little overconfident, and said, "So, at what point do you want to get out of here and fuck?" He got this look on his face that was an infuriating combination of pity and discomfort. "Uhhhh, sorry if I gave you the wrong idea, Razzy, but I don't hook up with people." I was mortified. "What do you mean?" If I were a Terminator, I'd see some kind of "SYSTEM ERROR: DOES NOT COMPUTE" flashing on my screen over and over. Who doesn't "hook up with people"? I was like, "So you'll sleep with me if we go out on a date or something?" I think then I asked him on a date. The whole experience was horrifying. Even worse, Mike Sucks continued to flirt with me. I am now convinced he was completely using me for ego inflation purposes, as I am sure it gives a bald neuroscientist a serious masculinity boost to have a fierce bitch like myself on his jock. Later, this so-called "friend" of mine who kept pestering me not to give up on Mike Sucks because she thought we'd make a cute couple was dogsitting for me and actually hooked up with him in my fucking apartment! Duplicitous bitch. When Mike Sucks graduated and convinced her to drop out of Columbia and move to California with him, I was not sorry to see them go. They are two assholes who assuredly deserve each other.
A little while after picking my bruised ego up after the Mike Sucks debacle, I decided to give pursuit of a grad student another shot. This dude who was famous for being a huge asshole (he actually lists "judging people" as an "interest" on his Friendster page) e-mailed me to say he'd discovered my blog and was in awe of me, as people tend to be once they get hit with a blast of hot Razzification. A bit of e-mail witty banter ensued, and I decided that he was sweating me and considered the possibility of fucking him. I tried to be a little smoother with him than I was with Mike Sucks, and invited him to go "drink scotch and make fun of people with me." Unfortunately, he declined on the grounds that I "intimidate the shit out of" him. Thanks, Strong Personality, for cockblocking me. Then this dude got together with another grad student, who is really a very nice girl, and who he has been with for a year now. I wish them well, but nonetheless am annoyed that I failed yet again to bag a grad student.
The closest I ever got was last summer at the party for the virology floor in our building. It got late, and the party dwindled to me and J-Sexy and two girls from the lab down the hall. One of these girls confessed that she had a crush on me, and the next thing I knew, we were doing enough hooking up to make J-Sexy say the next day, "You were practicolly going down on each other!" That wasn't true, but we were making out and groping each other's breasts. We probably would have progressed to hot lezzie crotch action if she didn't have a boyfriend who disapproved of her getting some pussy on the side. Oh well. I told her that anytime she wants to take a ride on my strap-on to holler at me, but I'm not holding my breath since she and the boyfriend seem pretty serious.
I was beginning to think that the ill-fated sex I almost had with the Ja-Fake-An who doesn't eat pussy during my recruiting weekend had cursed me with bad mojo and that I was destined never to score with any grad student honeys. I felt it would be a dreadful blow to my reputation as a player exuding mackadelic nightspot realness to never give so much as a lousy BJ to one of these fucking science nerds. By all rights, they should be beating my door down. I have big tits, I might not be a supermodel but I'm not ugly, I'm smart and funny, and I totally fuck on the first date. What's the problem, geeks?
Lucky for me, on Friday a posse of grad students happened to randomly stroll drunkenly into the bar where J-Sexy and I were kicking it with a couple other friends. I'd been drinking scotch and was feeling invincible, so I started chatting up this first year. And my mojo has adjusted itself, because this 23-year-old honey didn't stand a chance against a voracious cougar full of Johnnie Walker like myself. I totally made him take me to his crib and do me like I wanted to be done. YES! VICTORY IS MINE! I saw, I conquered, and I came. I can graduate now with a true sense of accomplishment, and not a worry in the world about not being able to score a science nerd. My slut credentials are still valid, I'm awesome, and all is right in Razzyville. I RULE!
Labels: grad school bullshit, overcompensation, Razzification, sex, sluts
I TOLD you Kristeen Young sucked!
When I went to the Morrissey concert the week before last, my crew lingered at the German restaurant where we were indulging in pre-Morrissey sausages, schnitzel, and beer to ensure we missed the lame-ass opening act. Unfortunately, we still managed to catch the last few songs of the opening act, some chick named Kristeen Young. When we walked in, MIss Corbutt turned to me and goes, "Did we just walk into Olympia, Washington circa 1992?" I replied, "Got a pen? Because I need to write 'RIOT GRRL' on my knuckles." Seriously, this dumb slag might as well have asked 15-year-old feminazi poetry writing Razzy to decorate her keyboard for her:
We both rolled our eyes, and as if she could read our minds, Kristeen noted that she was about to play her last song. Thank GOD.
Morrissey'sHair was blowing up my spot via text all throughout the show, and I made a point to complain about this Kristeen snatch to him.
While I would be flattered if someone gave my oral sex skills a positive review, Morrissey was most certainly not. I don't blame him for being mad that this outdated hooker was dragging his good name through the mud by claiming that even though Morrissey is a vegan, he still eats the occasional bearded clam. I mean, I'm sure Morrissey can suck a mean dick, but to suggest that he'd hit that sack of Bikini Kill-influenced tits is just a straight-up insult. And thus, Kristeen Young was fired. HA!
If only her dismissal had taken effect immediately, and thus saved me the annoyance of hearing two and a half Kristeen Young jams. I think the only one who didn't mind her was J-Sexy, and that's only because while J-Sexy likes "Mahrissey", she isn't particularly familiar with his entire repertoire and was there mostly to have a novel experience. During the show, she kept saying, "I wish he would play that 'Playboy' song, I don't know these other songs." At that moment, he was playing "How Soon Is Now" and I said, "But J-Sexy, this is like the most famous Smiths song." She gave one of her typical imperious shrugs. Classic.
Morrissey'sHair was blowing up my spot via text all throughout the show, and I made a point to complain about this Kristeen snatch to him.
Razzy: U have no idea how bad this ho opening sux. Morrissey i'm sure hates her. Stupd generic lezbot.Well, as it turns out, Morrissey's love for Kristeen Young has run out. Apparently at the show a couple days before the one I attended, some audience member was sick of listening to her caterwaul and called out for Morrissey. Kristeen Young responded, "Morrissey gives great head...I mean, cunnilingus."
Morrissey'sHair: Kristeen Young? Moz loves her.
Razzy: Ugh. I guess he was also a pnw lez circa 92 then.
While I would be flattered if someone gave my oral sex skills a positive review, Morrissey was most certainly not. I don't blame him for being mad that this outdated hooker was dragging his good name through the mud by claiming that even though Morrissey is a vegan, he still eats the occasional bearded clam. I mean, I'm sure Morrissey can suck a mean dick, but to suggest that he'd hit that sack of Bikini Kill-influenced tits is just a straight-up insult. And thus, Kristeen Young was fired. HA!
If only her dismissal had taken effect immediately, and thus saved me the annoyance of hearing two and a half Kristeen Young jams. I think the only one who didn't mind her was J-Sexy, and that's only because while J-Sexy likes "Mahrissey", she isn't particularly familiar with his entire repertoire and was there mostly to have a novel experience. During the show, she kept saying, "I wish he would play that 'Playboy' song, I don't know these other songs." At that moment, he was playing "How Soon Is Now" and I said, "But J-Sexy, this is like the most famous Smiths song." She gave one of her typical imperious shrugs. Classic.
Labels: comeuppance, feminazism, J-Sexy, lezbollah, Miss Corbutt, Morrissey'sHair, overcompensation, sluts
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: my dogs
Name: Caesar and Chingy! Rasmussen
DOB: see below
Occupation: see below
Hometown: see below
Current residence: see below
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Okay, so I don't want to have sex with either of my dogs--who are both NEUTERED anyway--but as soon as I published today's Daily Douchebag busting on them, both of the monsters started acting extra sweet. Caesar came over and laid down at my feet, then looked up at me very sweetly with his milk chocolate eyes. Chingy!, meanwhile, came over and rubbed his face against my leg. While this was either a gesture of affection or an attempt to wipe his eye booger on my pants, I'm not sure, but I was touched enough to feel bad about calling my two most loyal Razzyphiles "Douchebags." So now I'm calling them my Daily Dudes I Want to Hit, and everything breaks even. It's like in football; the penalties offset.
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, doggity style
Daily Douchebag: my dogs
DOB: October 8, 2001 and June 10, 2002, respectively
Occupation: sleeping, disrupting my sleep, eating, barking, stinking, shitting, pissing on things, eating garbage off the street, chasing sticks and squirrels, wagging tails/question marks, panting, dogging it up
Hometown: Tacoma, Washington and Howard Beach, Queens, New York, respectively
Current residence: Sugar Hill, Harlem, New York, New York
Douchebaggery: In one of his greatest masterpieces, Robert Sylvester Kelly once described how on a typical night, he "walk up out the club with a dizzy head, I got two chicks both got dizzy legs, I'm bout to double up." If you replace "walk up out the club" with "climb into bed" and "two chicks" with "two stank, disruptive canines," then you have a relatively accurate account of my typical evening's efforts at retiring. Of course I love my dogs something serious, and to the point where it may just be unhealthy. However, just because I love them and they are cute dogs doesn't mean they make it easy for me to sleep. This morning, my alarm went off and, because I was a little hung over from watching football all day yesterday, I hit snooze. The dogs, who were flanking me on the bed, decided, however that they were ready to get up. Well, not get up, but readjust themselves to establish a more comfortable position on my bed.
Caesar started wagging his tail, and since his ass was facing me and his tail might as well be another limb, it was like having a large, brushy windshield wiper going back and forth on my face. Meanwhile, Chingy! did some of his usual recalcitrant sneezing on the other side of my face, then stepped on my right tit before deciding that he was too lazy to actually climb over me to Caesar's side. So he stepped on my tit again before curling up again on my side, yawning at me and treating me to a gust of Pug morning breath (which is slightly worse than Pug any-other-time-of-the-day breath). As my buddy Rack noted yesterday, "Bless his rancid little heart." Then Caesar heard one of my neighbors locking their apartment door outside in the hall, and decided to start barking furiously to advise me that as usual, he suspects that my neighbors are up to no good. At this point, I abandoned all hope of snoozing for another blissful nine minutes and hauled my sorry ass out of bed.
Like I said, I love my dogs, but sometimes when they double up with doggity shenanigans like those described above, I am like, "You assholes are lucky I don't sell your stank asses to Cruella DeVille for use as dogskin coat raw material." When R. Kelly talks about "doubling up," he means having threesomes with a pair of drunk cousins with enviable foot massage and hair braiding skills. For me, it means being rudely awoken by two goofy, furry, stinky quadripeds. Doubling up for me is like routine, player.
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, Daily Douchebag, doggity style, Razzification, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Life is a Pugsty
I'm really hung over, but I've been trying to be better about checking in here and there on weekends. It's my New Year's resolution. And the Razzy New Year falls on November 17th, AKA the awesomest day of the entire year because on that day in 1978, at St. Joseph's Hospital in Tacoma, Washington, the bawdy obstetrician Dr. Peter Kesling ("Dr. Peter at your cervix") vacuumed me out of my mother's birth canal and I blessed the world with my presence. Per the Razzyian calendar, the most celebrated holidays are Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Colonization/Columbus Day and it's always the year of the cock. Anyway, to get in the habit of trying to write at least one thing each weekend, I decided to start this up. Unfortunately, I drank too much scotch last night, my head hurts, and I'm tired and have to drag my protesting ass off to lab. So instead of writing something meaningful or interesting, I thought I'd just treat you all to some pictures of Chingy! looking disgusting, because everyone needs a Pug in their life. Well, assuming that everyone needs a stank, obese piglet shedding everywhere, producing ungodly smells, occasionally leaving ass-prints on the furniture, and turning his owner's apartment into an even more deplorable condition than it previously was to submit his protest about her staying over at the house of the random honey she bagged the night before. Okay, Caesar may have helped with the apartment trashing, but still...Chingy! is a fucking asshole of a dog. So while you sit here thinking "aw, so cute" thoughts about him, know if you were looking at him in person, he'd probably shower you in Pug snot via a contemptuous sneeze and yawn loudly, treating you to a gale of the sulphurous fumes of Hell that emanate from his snaggle-toothed maw. Seriously. Why I love this nefarious creature is beyond me.
CHONGAY CHONG, weekend blog posting with a hangover!
CHONGAY CHONG, weekend blog posting with a hangover!
Labels: alcoholism, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, fat fucks, Razzification
Friday, November 02, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Whoever writes Britney Spears songs
Occupation: should be POET LAUREATES!!!!!
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Another Britney Spears Friday dawns bright and beautiful! TGIBSF! And to celebrate, I'm totally listening to Blackout, which I'm not ashamed to say I actually BOUGHT. I paid $11.99 for it! I probably should have just gotten it illegally, but I'm too lazy to sift through P2P networks for a decent copy, and I like the idea that Britney is currently sucking down her cut of my iTunes profits in the form of a venti caramel Frap.
Anyway, I LOVE Blackout. Here's a quick rundown:
"Break the Ice": From what I can tell, this is a tale about how Britney simultaneously dispels the awkwardness between herself and the random stranger she's hooking up with while dealing with his erection problems. I'm serious. After a lot of talk about "rising to the occasion," Brit threatens her paramour: "I'm-a hit defrost on you." Translation: let's smoke some crystal, y'all!
"Everybody": Imagine if Britney huffed some glue with her favorite country cousins, grabbed a Eurhythmics "Sweet Dreams" CD, and tried to use Garage Band to make a dance jam about grinding. If Puyallup had clubs, this is what would be the DJ would be bumping.
"Freakshow": This is basically a summary of Britney's party philosophy. I love it when Brit-Brit appropriates rappish-sounding language into her songs. "Christian hot, Bugatti whips, hope the new designer fits," she notes. And when it doesn't, Brit-Brit will grab a hideous print mumu from her local Lane Bryant, glue in some hideous tracks, and hit the town. Methinks the VIP section at Hyde is going to need a delousing tomorrow.
"Get Back": This song starts with "The One and Only...BRITNEY!" AKA, the legendary Ms. Britney Spears! We know! "Eyes on my waist...Feel you better think fast. Got that kind of body make you wanna spend cash." WHAT? Spend cash on a Jenny Craig or Nutrisystem membership or tumescent liposuction, maybe. And speaking as someone who now has to lose the Britney bulge now that Halloween is over, I can't imagine my spare tire is going to make anyone want to spend any cash for anything except some pitying weight loss solutions for me.
"Get Naked (I Got a Plan)": Man, this entire CD involves Danja and Britney making a bunch of gross simulated sex noises that sound like a combination between belching and an asthma attack. I've gotta love any song, though, in which Britney sings, "I'm crazy as a motherfucker, bet on that, man." SO TRUE!
"Gimme More": we all know about this song. "It's Britney, bitch"...need I say more?
"Heaven on Earth": Britney's ode to her fantasy man/soul mate, a man who makes her "fall off the edge of my mind." That's putting it poetically.
"Hot as Ice": "To see your foolishness and fuckery, and handlin' my business, holler if you hear me, can I get a witness?" I don't know how this has anything to do with being "cold as fire" and "hot as ice," but it makes sense as a way of handling one's business in the face of foolishness and fuckery.
"Ooh Ooh Baby": "I can feel you deep inside"...EWWW! The idea of Britney feeling anything deep inside is pretty nast. I imagine her vadge looks like the inside of an old man's ear.
"Perfect Lover": Another gross one. "Every time you touch me there..." Brit croons. She omits the next logical verse, which is, "You get a killer case of warts." Even worse, she includes the musical money shot: "You're fillin' me up!" YUCK!
"Piece of Me": a tirade about the intrusions of the paparazzi on her arm. Includes classic lines such as "Don't matter if step on the scene or sneak away to the Philippines, they still gonna put pictures of my derriere in a magazine." Talk about a bunch of spin doctors. They replaced "hairless snatch" with "derriere" and "gas station bathroom and Starbucks" with "step on the scene" and "Philippines." This song has convinced me that Britney's public image is not so much because she's a crazy, cracked-out redneck lunatic with a meth problem and the spending habits of some trailer park welfare mama who just won the lottery, but that she's just misunderstood on account of being "Miss Bad Media Karma" provoked because the paparazzi are "hopin' I'll resort to some havoc" and "end up settlin' in court." Don't people usually settle OUT of court? Isn't the whole point of settling to avoid going to court? Britney's songwriters are not just expert reputation managers; they are legal geniuses, as well.
"Radar": Something about how she likes a man with "the Midas touch." Like K-Fed. Riiiiiight.
"Toy Soldier": No, it's not a remake of Martika's classic, although that would rule too.
Oh man, Blackout is such a hot piece of trash, it's truly worthy of the artist performing it. LOVE IT. Go get it and keep Brit-Brit stank tits-deep in frappucinos and Marb lights!
Labels: Britney Spears, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, PWT, sluts
Daily Douchebag: Rush Propst
DOB: ???
Occupation: high school football coach; jack of all illicit trades
Hometown: Ohatatchee, Alabama
Current residence: Hoover, Alabama
Douchebaggery: I had no idea who Rush Propst was until yesterday when I got this frantic e-mail from LL Cool Jew:
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@trotskyitepropagandists.org)I read the article and I still really had no idea why this Rush Propst dude was famous. As I get older, my MTV watching has waned over the years. In fact, the other day someone asserted that "TRL" had since been canceled, and I couldn't say for sure whether or not this was true. In fact, I'm so old that I'm still mentally living in the era where Carson Daly hosted that trash and "Bugaboo" by Destiny's Child was topping the countdown. I do watch some MTV trash every so often. "Laguna Beach" had its moments, and there have been some priceless fucking episodes of "True Life," and I'm torn between being proud and horrified of the fact that I watch "The Hills" from time to time. However, I feel almost too dated to really get into MTV like I used to, which is a shame, because apparently I miss things that I should by all accounts love. One of these things is "Two-a-Days: Hoover High."
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: PLEASE blog this. PLEASE?
http://www.mtv.com/news/articles/1573178/20071031/id_0.jhtml
Apparently this show follows the Hoover High Buccaneers and the ins and outs of playing for a crazy high school football team. LL Cool Jew was kind enough to give me the rundown, since she's so into MTV that she still watches those "Real World vs. Road Rules Challenge: The Inferno"-type shows:
LL Cool Jew: hayNeedless to say, I'm eagerly anticipating receipt of my "Two-a-Days" box set, if only because anything that's like "Varsity Blues: the Reality Series" has the potential to be the greatest TV show ever. In case you somehow missed the mind-blowing awesomeness that is Varsity Blues, you should know that it is not only the single finest demonstration of the craft by James Van Der Beek AKA Dawson of his eponymous creek, it's truly one of the finest cinematic offerings of ALL TIME, if only to listen to Jon "Coach Bud Kilmer" Voight shriek at Dawson's character Johnny "The Mox" Moxon stuff like "You are the GODDAMN DUMBEST SMART KID I KNOW!" The Mox's intelligence is demonstrated by him smuggling a copy of Slaughterhouse Five into his playbook for a little sideline reading. Apparently Coach Kilmer is not a Vonnegut fan, because he catches The Mox doing this and says, "Pull something like this again and I'll cut your ass, boy!" In West Canaan, Texas, the only reading players on the fabled Coyotes should be doing is of the Bible, so they can craft memorable variations on the 23rd Psalm like "yea, though I may walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no faggots from Bingville." Man, Varsity Blues rules so hard.
Razzy: haaaayyyy
LL Cool Jew: HAAAAY
LL Cool Jew: did you read about coach propst
LL Cool Jew: sorry to be a pest
LL Cool Jew: but it's so funny
Razzy: yes
Razzy: i love his look
Razzy: such a coach
LL Cool Jew: i know!
Razzy: he's like jon voight in varsity blues
Razzy: except worse!
LL Cool Jew: he SO DOES!
LL Cool Jew: it's so unsurprising that he forced the teachers to give his players good grades
Razzy: i know
Razzy: you know he just walked up to them and just got all beefy and up in their face
LL Cool Jew: and was like
LL Cool Jew: "you know everyone in hoover alabama wants to do what's right for the hoover buccaneers"
LL Cool Jew: god i loved that show
LL Cool Jew: guess what
Razzy: i never saw it!
Razzy: what?
LL Cool Jew: god hates fags
LL Cool Jew: :D
LL Cool Jew: oh
LL Cool Jew: my god
LL Cool Jew: angie
LL Cool Jew: you
LL Cool Jew: have
LL Cool Jew: to get with two-a-days
LL Cool Jew: it
LL Cool Jew: is the greatest
LL Cool Jew: show
LL Cool Jew: ever
Razzy: oh i know
Razzy: every time i go to church, jesus is like
Razzy: "get out, you fucking dyke"
LL Cool Jew: and you're like, "is that a new prayer? i don't know that one"
Razzy: "and i'm like, 'wait, i thought you only hated FAGS...you never said anything about slutty bisexuals'"
LL Cool Jew: hey
LL Cool Jew: send me the address where you receive packages
LL Cool Jew: i am sending you the two-a-days box set
LL Cool Jew: you have to watch it
LL Cool Jew: it's your birthday present
Razzy: are you serious?
LL Cool Jew: YES
LL Cool Jew: i think i might die if i can't share this moment in pop culture infamy with you
Razzy: aight i'll email it
LL Cool Jew: you don't understand dude
LL Cool Jew: you will love it
Razzy: i am sure
LL Cool Jew: the rush propst resignation is HUGE
Razzy: i bet
LL Cool Jew (5 minutes later after more discussion about how god hates fags): btw, two-a-days is en route
LL Cool Jew: you
LL Cool Jew: will
LL Cool Jew: DIE
Razzy: i can't wait!
LL Cool Jew: it will really grant you insight into my mississippi experience.
Razzy: i really can't wait!
LL Cool Jew: you know the premise right
Razzy: yeah, high school football
Razzy: right?
LL Cool Jew: it's the life of the hoover high school buccaneers
LL Cool Jew: the five-time-straight holder of the high school national championship
LL Cool Jew: the whole town is completely obsessed
LL Cool Jew: it's friday night lights on steroids
LL Cool Jew: and the show focuses on like five of the players and their girlfriends on the cheerleading squad and their insane families
LL Cool Jew: and, of course, rush propst
LL Cool Jew: the craziest, zaniest, most cartoonish high school football coach imaginable
Razzy: sweet, it's like "varsity blues" meets "laguna beach" by way of the deep dirrty
LL Cool Jew: who amassed a 108-15 record
Razzy: i can't wait
LL Cool Jew: YES!
LL Cool Jew: you will die at the haircuts
LL Cool Jew: if you haven't finished it already we'll watch some after kells
LL Cool Jew: (kells)
Razzy: TOTALLY
Razzy: (kells back atcha)
Anyway, I guess after tearing it up on "Two-a-Days," this Rush Propst character, much like Coach Kilmer, was found out for his less-than-savory Machiavellian efforts to win at all costs. While Coach Kilmer was sent slinking away in disgrace by The Mox for his teleological attitude toward unethical cortisone shots for temporarily repairing injured joints, Rush Propst, however, went out with a bang. After a 45-minute press conference/public apology delivered in full Buccaneers regalia, the public knew that Propst had spied on other teams a la Bill Belichick, played ineligible players in other games, forced teachers to change players' grades, pulled some dodgy financial shenanigans, and had an affair which resulted in a bastard child which resulted in him supporting a second family in another town. Okay, he denied everything except his bastard, but come on...the other stuff is probably true as well. And all the while, he was starring in a reality show on MTV and hubristically believing his ass wouldn't get caught. I'm actually not sure whether I should applaud or condemn him. One thing is for sure, though, and that is that I cannot fucking WAIT to get my "Two-a-Days" DVDs from LL Cool Jew.
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, correspondence, Daily Douchebag, intentional buffoonery, LL Cool Jew, movies, sportsmen, TV
Thursday, November 01, 2007
One tequila, two tequila, Tila Tequila...WHORE
I came across a typically elitist New York Times review of "Shot at Love with Tila Tequila," a reality show on MTV that makes me want to immolate myself while watching but that I oddly can't seem to turn off.
Only the NY Times can tackle Tila Tequila in such an erudite manner, for example describing how "her large head sits atop a pert pneumatic torso. Perhaps it is the way her wide-set eyes give her the look of a figure from an anime cartoon. Perhaps it is the steeliness of her will to succeed on whatever terms and the insistent sincerity she brings to the task"
The article includes other priceless gems such as those that follow:
On comparing Tila's career trajectory with those of other contemporary successful women:
Anyway, the Times article ends with this zinger of a quote in which Ms. Tequila demonstrates that, while she can do a mean job of splaying herself on the hood of a tricked-out car, she isn't very practiced at recognizing hypocrisy when she sees it: “The press and the media have glorified the celebrity thing and brainwashed people to live in that world,” Ms. Tequila said. “People try to stand out for nothing and they end up getting quote-unquote famous. I’m not into that at all. If you’re just into fame for fame, I’m like, ‘O.K., but what are you good at? What can you actually do?’”
Tila, what can you actually do...besides strip, upload bikini wank shots to MySpace, and generally be a big whore? I mean, prior to the abhorrence of "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila" appearing on MTV, Tila Tequila was mainly famous for being the skankiest slut on MySpace and for fucking the hipster clusterfuck of whiskers, eyeliner, black nail polish, and overcompensating vintage/Army-Navy store fashion choices known as Jared Leto. Okay, MAYBE she effed Jared Leto. Jared denied it. And not that his past beards (Cameron Diaz, Lindsay Lohan) were much to shout about, but they're galaxies away from Tila Tequila in terms of star power and celebrity. I mean, even when it comes to singing talent, Lindsay Lohan should be singing arias at the Met compared to Tila Tequila. Not that I can criticize, because if I were a MySpace celebretard, I would also drop a single called "I Love U" in which I claim to be "the crazy bitch who's running the game" and threaten "I WILL FUCK YOU UP!" Oh, pardon me, I meant "FUK U UP." And how are you going to do that, "crazy bitch"? Give me herpes?
Anyway, now this has helped this trollop claw a little further up the trashy whore fame ladder by landing her this "A Shot at Love" dating show monstrosity. The premise is that Tila is looking for love, but she's bisexual. That means that instead of 16 men or 16 women competing for her heart, she has 16 OF EACH competing for her heart. It also means she has a lot of insincere "coming out" drama and wonders how her life is so crazy. I would say that for starters, it's because she not only has 32 desperate fame whores competing for her affections and living in the same contrived reality house which offers unlimited hooch and pool parties 24/7, but they all have to share the same bed. Sadly, Tila isn't taking proper advantage of her situation. If I had 32 vapid, hungry ho-bags all shacked up in one bed and lusting after me, you bet your ass that I would be up in that bed with all of them! Because, as Kells would say, doublin' up for me is like routine, player. Instead of engaging in some mackadelic nightspot realness with her literal stable of hoes, however, Tila spends a lot of time hemming and hawing about why trying to date in this situation is challenging and deciding whether or not she likes boys or girls more. Because it's hard to be a MySpace friend whore starring in a trashtastic reality show in which hot yet abysmally stupid motherfuckers present themselves for romantic and storied courtship rituals like foam wrestling. I mean, this is probably where Tila will meet the love of her life! How will she ever choose? And furthermore, what if she chooses wrong?
Yes, I think that the only solution here is for Tila to bang every last person in the house so she can show us all what her talent is, because to use Tila's own words, we're like, "Okay, what are you good at?" when asked about why Tila is famous. I mean, if you're really the bisexual slag you're claiming to be, then I think it's only right for you to prove it. I want to see Tila sitting on some desperate wannabe male model dick, or sticking her face into some stank faux lesbian stripper cho-cha (hey, if you're really "bisexual" and not "bi-curious" AKA you kiss girls for attention, then ho up and lick some twat already). Come on, MTV! Give me a reason to believe that Tila's actually got some talent! Talent besides showing off her shitshow of a boob job, that is.
You know...TALENT!
The article includes other priceless gems such as those that follow:
On comparing Tila's career trajectory with those of other contemporary successful women:
It has been said many times of the Internet that it radically subverts the traditional relationship between high and low, in terms both of culture and class. Yet Meg Whitman, the chief executive of eBay, did not get her career start posing for the video game “Street Racing Syndicate” and, absent a miracle, Tila Tequila’s chances of taking the helm of eBay are nil.On Tila's childhood history:
With Ms. Tequila’s hardscrabble upbringing, her story certainly contains elements of the classic show-business redemption narrative. Her family emigrated from postwar Vietnam to Singapore and later moved to Houston, where they lived in public housing and where, as she once said in an interview with Import Tuner, a car magazine, she became deeply disoriented about her identity: “I was really confused then, because at first I thought I was black, then I thought I was Hispanic and joined a cholo gang.”Hilarious, NY Times. Only the Times can work an Emma Lazarus reference into the text to underscore the point that Tila is a big old ho rather than a legendary poet who left her indelible mark upon the American literary canon by summarizing the immigrant experience. That is some fit-to-print news right there. Bravo.
To judge from myriad Internet snapshots with captions like “Tila in Red Bikini,” though, it is not the Emma Lazarus dimension of her tale that made Tila Tequila a social-network-magnet on MySpace or, for that matter, impossible to look away from on even the tiniest of hand-held screens.
Anyway, the Times article ends with this zinger of a quote in which Ms. Tequila demonstrates that, while she can do a mean job of splaying herself on the hood of a tricked-out car, she isn't very practiced at recognizing hypocrisy when she sees it: “The press and the media have glorified the celebrity thing and brainwashed people to live in that world,” Ms. Tequila said. “People try to stand out for nothing and they end up getting quote-unquote famous. I’m not into that at all. If you’re just into fame for fame, I’m like, ‘O.K., but what are you good at? What can you actually do?’”
Tila, what can you actually do...besides strip, upload bikini wank shots to MySpace, and generally be a big whore? I mean, prior to the abhorrence of "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila" appearing on MTV, Tila Tequila was mainly famous for being the skankiest slut on MySpace and for fucking the hipster clusterfuck of whiskers, eyeliner, black nail polish, and overcompensating vintage/Army-Navy store fashion choices known as Jared Leto. Okay, MAYBE she effed Jared Leto. Jared denied it. And not that his past beards (Cameron Diaz, Lindsay Lohan) were much to shout about, but they're galaxies away from Tila Tequila in terms of star power and celebrity. I mean, even when it comes to singing talent, Lindsay Lohan should be singing arias at the Met compared to Tila Tequila. Not that I can criticize, because if I were a MySpace celebretard, I would also drop a single called "I Love U" in which I claim to be "the crazy bitch who's running the game" and threaten "I WILL FUCK YOU UP!" Oh, pardon me, I meant "FUK U UP." And how are you going to do that, "crazy bitch"? Give me herpes?
Replay video | Share video | Watch more videos |
Anyway, now this has helped this trollop claw a little further up the trashy whore fame ladder by landing her this "A Shot at Love" dating show monstrosity. The premise is that Tila is looking for love, but she's bisexual. That means that instead of 16 men or 16 women competing for her heart, she has 16 OF EACH competing for her heart. It also means she has a lot of insincere "coming out" drama and wonders how her life is so crazy. I would say that for starters, it's because she not only has 32 desperate fame whores competing for her affections and living in the same contrived reality house which offers unlimited hooch and pool parties 24/7, but they all have to share the same bed. Sadly, Tila isn't taking proper advantage of her situation. If I had 32 vapid, hungry ho-bags all shacked up in one bed and lusting after me, you bet your ass that I would be up in that bed with all of them! Because, as Kells would say, doublin' up for me is like routine, player. Instead of engaging in some mackadelic nightspot realness with her literal stable of hoes, however, Tila spends a lot of time hemming and hawing about why trying to date in this situation is challenging and deciding whether or not she likes boys or girls more. Because it's hard to be a MySpace friend whore starring in a trashtastic reality show in which hot yet abysmally stupid motherfuckers present themselves for romantic and storied courtship rituals like foam wrestling. I mean, this is probably where Tila will meet the love of her life! How will she ever choose? And furthermore, what if she chooses wrong?
Yes, I think that the only solution here is for Tila to bang every last person in the house so she can show us all what her talent is, because to use Tila's own words, we're like, "Okay, what are you good at?" when asked about why Tila is famous. I mean, if you're really the bisexual slag you're claiming to be, then I think it's only right for you to prove it. I want to see Tila sitting on some desperate wannabe male model dick, or sticking her face into some stank faux lesbian stripper cho-cha (hey, if you're really "bisexual" and not "bi-curious" AKA you kiss girls for attention, then ho up and lick some twat already). Come on, MTV! Give me a reason to believe that Tila's actually got some talent! Talent besides showing off her shitshow of a boob job, that is.
Labels: assholes, lezbollah, media whores, MySpace, sex, sluts, TV
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Jon Kitna
DOB: September 21, 1972
Occupation: starting quarterback for the mighty Detroit Lions, super Christian
Hometown: Tacoma, Washington--City of Destiny, bitches!
Current residence: T-town in the off-season
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Every Sunday at my football bar I have to listen to my buddy Js and Ps go off about "the mighty Lions" and "the vaunted Lions offense led by the mighty Jon Kitna." Kitna has had a surprisingly good season so far, and he is undoubtedly one of the most accomplished quarterbacks to emerge from the P-N-Dub. Not Ryan Leaf nor Billy Joe Hobert nor any of the brothers Huard can match Kitna's success. It recalls his glory days, like when he led the Central Washington University Wildcats to the championship of whatever conference they're in (the road to the Whatever Bowl goes through Ellensburg, bitches!) or when he ripped the Rhein Fire a new one as quarterback for the Barcelona Dragons in the late 90s. Js and Ps and I attribute his continued success at the helm of the Lions to his special relationship with the big JC upstairs. Apparently, Kitna is such a convincing Christian that he's converted half the team and the coaching staff.
Leading one's brethren to the light of their Lord and Savior Jesus Christ gets a little serious sometimes though. I mean, soul-saving is not anything to trifle with. Therefore, you can hardly blame Kitna for loosening up and having a little Halloween fun at the expense of a repentant member of his flock, specifically defensive line coach Joe Cullen. Joe Cullen got drunk last year and drove nude through a Wendy's drive-through, so Kitna and his wife thought they'd for sure win the Lions team costume contest with this ensemble:
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Dear God, Halloween, NFL football, P-N-Dub
Daily Douchebag: Rev. Fred Phelps and the Westboro Baptist Church
DOB: November 13, 1929 (hey, Fred, like me, is a Scorpio!)
Occupation: disbarred civil rights attorney (yes, you read that right...civil rights attorney), gay bashers, funeral disruptors, and general all-around haters
Hometown: Meridian, Mississippi
Current residence: Wherever there are gays being tolerated and/or American servicemen being buried, or Topeka, Kansas
Douchebaggery: Not content with their original infamous "God Hates Fags" campaign, Rev. Phelps and his congregation (a handful of crazies comprised mostly of his family members) got tired of just picketing funerals of gay folks who died of hate crimes or AIDS and decided to expand their "ministry" to the funerals of American servicemen killed in the line of duty. Because when I think "war in Iraq," the first thing that pops into my head regarding the assignment of blame is "fags." I guess Fred Phelps hates gay people SO much that basically, everything is their fault. The war in Iraq, the Indian Ocean tsunamis of 2004, Hurricane Katrina, and September 11th can all be attributed to the tolerated presence of the loathsome queers that Fred Phelps hates so much. Therefore, Fred Phelps asked himself, "What would Jesus do?" and came to the conclusion that Jesus would strive to be the biggest asshole imaginable.
For starters, Jesus gave Fred a special Bible in which Isaiah 1:9 reads "No fags in heaven" instead of "Except the LORD of hosts had left unto us a very small remnant, we should have been as Sodom, [and] we should have been like unto Gomorrah." Fred's paraphrasing of this cumbersome text from the King James Bible is a good idea from a marketing standpoint. "No fags in Heaven" has much the same sort of brief, snappy cache that the "No cats in America" song from An American Tale had. There are no cats in America, and the streets are made of cheese! Sadly, like Fievel when he found out that there were indeed cats in America and the streets were not constructed from delicious dairy products, the folks who fall for Fred's "No fags in Heaven" BS might just be disappointed to find that one or two gays wound up on God's good side in spite of their equaling anal sex equaling skull-and-crossbones.
And everyone knows that Jesus is a Buckeyes fan. Go fuck each other in the ass, you Michigan fags!
I'm also pretty sure that Jesus would have sent his granddaughter into the morally righteous fray with her awesome signage:
And surely Jesus, peacenik that he was, would have protested the war by saying something about the "Colorado Taliban" (whatever that is, but last I checked bitches in Denver were still burqa-free and not answering to mullahs or whatever) and tying on a yellow ribbon for our "fag troops." Boy, I'm going to think twice about the fate of the troops overseas before I lick another snatch.
Anyway, I am a Christian myself, but I don't subscribe to Fred's blame-it-all-on-the-gays-aka-fags theory or his means of practicing it. For one thing, I assume that anyone who hates gays SO much for no apparent reason is actually a homo themselves, and Fred Phelps doth "protest" a bit too much. I'm pretty sure his entire ministry is based on deep self-loathing of his own innate faggotry, and Fred would be a lot happier if he'd just lay off the invective and get buggered. And while people argue a lot about the kind of person Jesus was, I'm pretty sure he wasn't a hater asshole who crashed funerals just to ram the point home (so to speak) that he hates him some hommasekshuls. Because he's NOT gay! Not gay at all!
Apparently a court in Baltimore, Maryland decided that crashing funerals like those of 20-year-old Lance Corporal Matthew Snyder (killed in action in Iraq in 2006) was pretty fucking tacky, to the tune of $10.9 million. Granted, this probably will get thrown out on appeal because per the Bill of Rights, I'm pretty sure that Fred and his shallow gene pool of knuckle-dragging assholes can make offensive signs and display them wherever, but in the meantime, it's nice to see some douchebags be held accountable just for being douchebags. These assholes are embarrassments to Christians everywhere. I would have showed up with a sign saying "Hypocritical hatemongers stuck with massive punitive damages, God laughs," but that wouldn't fit on a normal-sized piece of posterboard. Oh well.
P.S. Fred Phelps is gay. GAY GAY GAY GAY GAY!
Labels: assholes, crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, Dear God, media whores, vulgar display of faggotry
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